Ella was an orphan. She had been left on the steps of the Marian Dole Orphanage as an infant where she had been christened Ella Eris. She was quite proud of her surname which came from Eris the goddess of chaos and discord. Marian Dole, the wizened old man who owned and ran the orphanage, had truly loved children and Ella’s earliest memories were quite happy ones. Life at the orphanage had never been extravagant, but she had never gone hungry either. But then when Ella had been about eight Marian Dole had fallen sick and died. His only surviving relative had been his sister who hated children almost as much as he had loved them. When she came to the orphanage, life for the children became a living hell. They were served thin and bitter gruel, barely enough to sustain them, and felt the lash of her cane for even the slightest offense. And so, Ella Eris had run away from the orphanage. Now, almost six years later, as she shivered in the cold she wondered for the thousandth time if she had made the right decision.
There were only two things at all remarkable about the thin shivering girl in the doorway. The first was her eyes. They seemed to shine almost as if lit from within, darting back and forth like two dancing points of light set in a grimy face. The blue pupils seemed to flash, as if answering the flashing lightening above. The other unusual thing about Ella was the ring she wore on the finger of her left hand. The band was silver, but it had faded through time and dirt to the dull gray finish of pewter. Ella fingered the ring absently while she gazed out almost hypnotized by the unbridled power of the storm. Ella had worn the ring for as long as she could remember, and even though the ring had fit her perfectly as a child it seemed to have grown with her and fit her now as well as it ever had. But this was only half as interesting as the fact that she had never once been able to remove the ring. Of course the ring was not too small for her finger. She could, if she wanted, spin the ring around her finger with ease, but if she ever grasped it with the intent of removing it the ring would suddenly, without appearing to change size, tighten on her finger as firmly as if it where glued there. Ella was fairly certain that this was not normal ring behavior. She had heard stories about magical rings that imbued their wearer with special powers, such as the ability to fly or to turn invisible, but as far as she could tell, her ring had never given her any powers at all. Nevertheless Ella kept the ring’s relatively mundane oddities to herself. She wished on this, of all nights, that her ring had truly magical powers that would take her away from the cold and the rain into a fantastic adventure filled with knights wizards and dragons. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself in front of a roaring fireplace, and although she could not drown out the roar of the thunder or the howling of the wind from her head Ella gradually fell asleep. She could never have imagined her wish was about to be granted in the most extraordinary of ways.
Only the cat with its eyes shining in the darkness saw the girl huddled in the doorway sleeping serenely in the midst of the roar of the storm. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the cat. There were thousands of feral cats in the city, their bony forms sulking through the shadows looking for the next scrap of food, and this one was no different. It’s fur was matted down from the rain. The cat might once have been white but the ever present grime of the alleyways had infused with its coat turning it to dishwater gray. The cat was unremarkable in every conceivable way, but it was the only one who saw. As it huddled into the doorway next to Ella, it saw the ring on her finger begin to glow. It watched with the intense fascination that only a cat can manage as tiny strands of white light emerged from the ring and danced in the air, wrapping themselves around the sleeping girl. The cat watched as they passed through the brick walls as if they weren’t even there, creating a cocoon of light that completely encompassed Ella. Then the light began to fade, the strands seeming to grow thinner and dimmer until all that was left behind was the idea of the web of light. And then, because there was nothing else to see, the cat curled up and went to sleep.
*****
Imagine, if you will, a stone dropped into a placid pond, sending out ripples that expand into greater and greater circles until they lap against the shore. Magic is nothing like this. However due the lack of any more acceptable metaphor, it may be said that the awakening of the ring sent out ripples into the aether, like nothing the world had ever seen, and like ripples in a pond it would end far bigger than it started.
*****
The acolyte stood before the closed doors cursing his luck. Waking the king in the middle of the night was an action which could significantly shorten one’s life expectancy. However disobeying a direct order from the priestess could be just as lethal. “Between a rock and a hard place,” he thought “doesn’t begin to describe it,” as he raised a trembling hand and rapped loudly on the massive oak door.
Delos, Prince of Riparia, Lord of the Western Sea, and guardian of the Sacred Temple, seethed with rage as he stormed through the palace corridors. In the distance, the screams of the Acolyte were cut short as the executioner removed his head from his body. “How dare she call for me in the middle of the night,” Delos growled under his breath. “Who does she think she is, to order me about like this?” But even as he fumed a quiet voice in the back of his head reminded him why he hadn’t done away with the priestess long ago, and the faintest sliver of fear began crowding into his angry thoughts. He tried to keep his growing fear from showing on his face as he stormed through the cathedral doors.
“Why have you summoned me at this hour?” he snarled at the black robed figure that stood with its back to him.
The figure stood still for a moment as if his words had not reached it, then it slowly turned and spoke.
“My deepest apologies for disturbing your majesty’s slumber, but it was not I who wished to speak with you,” the words were sinister, and sickly sweet, spoken in a way that made Delos shiver in spite of the warmness of room. The robe’s cowl partially hid the face of the priestess in shadow, a fact for which the king was grateful. He never again wanted to look into those horrible eyes that seemed to open into an endless void that seemed to want to suck the very soul from his body.
“You mean to say that He…?” Delos let the sentence trail off, unwilling to let himself complete the horrible thought.
“Yes,” replied the priestess slowly gliding toward him, “He wants to speak to you.”
“But why?” Delos, was visibly trembling now, having given up all effort to mask his fear. “I have done nothing to anger Him have I? I have done everything He has commanded. Why would he summon me?”
“I do not know. Perhaps he wishes to reward you for your faithful service,” the priestess replied, her words fairly dripping with venom. “Best not to keep him waiting.”
Delos felt as though his feet had glued to the floor. With a great effort of will he managed to follow the receding form of the priestess towards the raised stone altar at the other end of the cathedral. Delos tried to stop himself from looking at the dried brown blood caked on the altar, but his eyes betrayed him and drank in the scene with macabre fascination. He followed the priestess past the altar to the alcove at the back of the cathedral hidden behind a thick black curtain. Then she turned and faced him pushing the black cowl back off of her head.
“He’s waiting,” the priestess motioned with her hand, but made no further move toward the foreboding black curtain.
“I am to enter…alone?” Delos said with trembling lips.
“Yes,” she replied smiling with all the sweetness of a cup filled with hemlock. “A truly great honor.”
Delos looked at her silently begging for some respite from his fate, but out of those horrible eyes shined only the cold and empty void. Then he moved towards the door. He felt his arm extend towards the black curtain as if it belonged to someone else, and he was watching from a great distance. That other person that looked so much like him pulled back the curtain and stepped into the darkness beyond. For a moment he could see nothing. There was no source of light in the chamber and it took his eyes some time before he could make out his surroundings in the dim light that leaked around the curtain. The mirror covered the entire back wall of the small room, and in the dim light he saw his reflection as little more than a shadow in the glass. Then, in what seemed to take an eternity, while at the same time, happening very rapidly, the image in the glass changed. Delos watched as what had been his eyes glowed in the mirror as if lit by a blistering inner fire. He held his hand up in front of his face, as his reflection’s skin darkened into slimy black leather, to reassure himself the transformation was not happening to him. When the transformation was complete Delos gazed in horror at the terrible figure before him and dropped to his knees, to overwhelmed by fear now even to tremble.
“My lord,” he hear himself say.
“You have failed me, servant,” The voice that spoke made the priestess seem cheerful by comparison. It reverberated with deep tones, like the groan of the wind in the graveyard, accompanied by the menacing hiss of a thousand serpents. Delos felt as if his heart would stop from fear, and fervently wished that it would. Better to be dead than incur the wrath of the Destroyer.
“How have I failed you, my master?” he said almost in a whisper.
“The girl is alive,” the haunting voice replied.
“But, my lord, how could…”
“Silence maggot,” hissed the Destroyer. “How dare you question me? I have felt her this very night. Even as we speak her power grows without measure.”
“But that cannot be,” Delos whimpered. “I killed her myself. You yourself saw the body, my lord.”
“You’re lower than a fool Delos,” the Destoyer replied, “You’re an insect. You were taken in by a paltry trick like a peasant is conned by a medicine man, and now you must pay the price.”
Delos did not dare look up at the frightening visage that towered above his prostrate form. He silently wished that he might be killed, but he knew better than to expect such mercy from his master. Then he began to feel as if a thousand tiny needles were pricking against his skin. He held his hand up to his face and saw the skin begin to change. He watched in horrified fascination as it slowly turned from a healthy pink shade into a gray and flaking mass lined with with grotesque black veins. He put his hands to his head in horror, then shrieked as his hair came away in graying clumps in his hands.
The terrible voice spoke once more “This is how I reward failure. You may wish for death, but you will walk the earth as you are until the girl is destroyed.”
“I will do it, my master, but please don’t leave me like this,” Delos begged.
He was answered only by silence. He looked into the mirror and saw only his own visage, so twisted by the curse that he screamed at the sight. The Destroyer was gone. For now…
*****
Delos was not the only one to feel the effects of Ella’s newly awakened magic. Veronica Norelam, lay in her bed staring into the darkness, listening to the ponding rain and wondering what had awakened her. Of course at her age it could have been anything. Sleep was a thin veil, easily lifted by the slightest disturbance. But she could not shake the feeling something important had just happened, and she hadn’t got to the age of seventy three by ignoring feelings like that. She pulled herself upright in bed ignoring her protesting bones and the screech of the old bedsprings as she swung her feet down onto the floor. She slipped her feet into the pink bunny slippers that sat neatly beside the bed. The slippers had been a present from one of her many far flung grandchildren. She had been skeptical about the slippers at first. After all, ninety percent of being a witch was in the presentation, and fuzzy pink slippers with button eyes and floppy ears are not the kind of accessory that garner great respect. A witch was expected to wear black hobnail boots and a pointy black hat. People would feel insulted if you went around doing magic wearing Flopsy and Mopsy Cottontail on your feet. Nevertheless, when she had first tried them on she had been entranced with the fluffy softness that had enveloped her aching feet, and she wore them quite often now, as long as no one was watching. She sank into the chair that sat by the table in the corner and pulled off the black cloth that covered a lump in the middle of the table, unveiling the crystal ball beneath, glowing faintly in the darkness. She placed her hands on the glass orb and closed her eyes. Veronica Norelam knew as well as any witch that the crystal ball wasn’t entirely necessary. It was only tool to focus the mind, as well having the added bonus of being an impressive prop. Some people have given the name of “second sight” to the practice of reading the aether, but this could lead to the false assumption there is actually something to be seen. In reality second sight is more like a combination of feelings and something vaguely resembling a sense of smell. Its not something that can be taught. You either had the talent or you didn’t. There were even some witches that never got the hang of it. Veronica Norelam’s second sight had matured at age eight, and even then she had impressed her teacher, Goody Sempers, with her natural talent. Almost anyone with second sight could read what was going on in the aether with relative ease, but it was another thing entirely to be able to interpret the eddies and swirls that hadn’t happened yet, which is why most fortune tellers dole out that rubbish about big changes and tall dark strangers. Mrs. Norelam could read the real future, but she usually made something up anyway, partly because that’s what people expected but mostly because people don’t really want to hear that they are going to be run over by a milk cart tomorrow.
Mrs. Norelam reached out with her mind into the fabric of the aether*. She could feel there was something amiss as soon as she slipped into the aether. She could feel the tremendous build up of magical power surrounding Ella and the ring completely overwhelming the the usually background hiss of magic.
“Well now that’s interesting,” she thought to herself.
“Yes,” herself thought back, “Its been a long time since we’ve seen one of those.”**
“She’ll need help.”
“Veronica,” herself scolded, “you’re getting far too old for this kind of adventure.”
“Never to old to be a witch, Mrs. Norelam,” she replied. “Witches do what needs doin. Now don’t argue.”
“Alright, I won’t, but I’m thinkin’ we’d better not get any closer to that girl.”
“Too late,” she thought and dived under the table, moving like a woman half her age. A moment later the crystal ball disintegrated sending tiny shards of glass flying through the room.
Mrs. Norelam waited a moment before poking her head back above the top of the table.
“Well now that was unusual, and no mistake.”
“Unusual? Unusual’s not the the word Veronica. That’s not witching magic, nor wizard neither. That was something deeper and more powerful than the world had seen in a great while.”
“No. Not since…”
“Don’t say it Veronica,” herself warned. “We agreed not to mention him, again remember?”
Veronica sighed. “Yes, Mrs. Norelam. I remember.”
“You know what, we have to do?”
“Yes,” replied Veronica, waving her hand and sending the slivers of glass skittering across the floor into a heap in the corner.
“I’m going to miss this town,” thought Mrs. Norelam, as she swept the glass into the dust pan and deposited it in the trash.
Veronica did not reply to herself. Instead she reached beneath the bed, retrieved the dusty steamer trunk, and started to pack.
*****
By the time Ella woke up the night’s rain had run itself dry and the gray morning sky was littered with fragile wisps of clouds left over from the towering thunderheads. Her dress was still faintly damp from the rain and the cool morning air gave her goosebumps, but the chill was more invigorating than unpleasant and Ella stretched herself up from her huddled position in the doorway. Something tugged at the edge of her mind, as if she had had a particularly unusual dream just before waking up, but the thought disappeared almost as soon as she had it. She ran over the day’s itinerary in her mind.
1. Find food
2. Stay alive
Same as yesterday, she thought to herself. Ella walked out of the alleyway and onto the main city street. Even though it was still early in the morning, the streets were already starting to fill. Mr. Gleck rode by in the milk cart returning to the stable after finishing the last of his mornings run. He slowed the cart and waved.
“Mornin’ Miss Eris,” he said.
Ella jogged to catch up with the cart and swung up beside Mr. Gleck. “Mornin’ yourself Mr. Gleck. Mind if I hitch a ride?”
“Well seein’ as you already are, I don’t reckon it’ll hurt nothin’,” Mr. Gleck replied with a smile. “Say, that were a nasty storm we had last night weren’t it?”
“It was comin’ down pretty fair,” Ella agreed “but I managed to stay mostly out of it.” Ella liked Mr. Gleck. Most people of the city would just as soon kick a beggar as help one, but Mr. Gleck had always been kind to her. And he always called her Miss Eris, which made Ella feel almost like a real lady, instead of the common beggar she knew she was. “How’s Maralyn been holding up lately?” she asked.
“She’s as spry now as ever. Took her to the blacksmith’s to get new shoes just last week. Knows the route so good by now that I almost forget what the reigns are for.”
Ella looked at the plain gray mare plodding along in front of the milk wagon. The mare looked downright shabby next to the sleek young horses pulling the cabs about the city, but Ella knew that Mr. Gleck loved that horse as if it were the finest on earth. As far as Ella knew Maralyn was the closest thing to family that Mr. Gleck had. She had once asked Mr. Gleck if he had ever been married, but he’d changed the subject without answering. Ella hadn’t pressed the matter.
“Well Mr. Gleck, this is were I get off. Thanks for the ride.”
“Wait, a minute. I almost forgot this.” Mr. Gleck reached into his overcoat and retrieved something from one of the inner pockets. “I’m hoping the pages didn’t get wet in last night’s rain,” he said.
Ella took the book from his hands, and ran her fingertips over the cover in awe.
“I remembered you said you wished you could read more, so I got this for you,” Mr. Gleck explained.
“But this must have cost…” Ella started but Mr. Gleck cut her off.
“You can’t put a price on knowledge, girl, and don’t argue with me. The knowin’ of things can be worth more’n all the gold in the world. It were a good thing Marian done, teachin’ you kids to read. Sure wish I had the learnin’ of readin’ when I was a child.”
“You could still learn Mr. Gleck,” Ella said.
“Oh no, Miss Eris. I be too old and set in my ways, jus’ like Miss Maralyn here. But you got the makins to be somethin’ better, I can feel it in my bones.”
“Thanks Mr. Gleck,” said Ella, giving him a quick hug. “You’re the best.” Then she jumped down from the milk wagon and waved goodbye.
“Take care now, you hear?” Mr. Gleck called and waved back at Ella before he disappeared around the corner.
Ella was almost overflowing with excitement. She wanted to sit down and read the book right there, but a rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she had more pressing issues to attend to first.
The persons responsible for naming Market Street, obviously had very little imagination. The street ran through one of the busiest parts of the city of Thence. During the busiest part of the day the street was so crowded with buyers and sellers that it was nearly useless for travel. The street was lined for almost a mile with all kinds of shops, as well as open air stalls where all kinds of fruit and vegetables were sold. At this time of morning Market street was still only a buzz of activity, rather than a roar. Ella jogged past the assortment of shops, until she came to the stall with a banner proclaiming “Fresh Produse: 100 Persent Organic all Nateral Fruits and Vegtables”. Bad spelling aside, Ella had often wondered how fruits and vegetables could possible anything besides organic. She asked Mr. Braun, the shop keeper about it once and he had said, “Don’t you know, no ask stupid question?” and that was that.
“Good morning Mr. Braun,” she addressed the fat man, bustling around the stall preparing for the morning rush.
The fat man turned and looked at her. “Ach,” he said gruffly and turned back to his work.
“Do you have, anything for me today?” asked Ella.
Without turning, the fat man pointed at a pail filled with half rotting fruit, in a corner of the stall.
“Thanks Mr. Braun,” said Ella brightly lifting the pail and walking away from the shop.
“Don’t forget you bring back bucket,” he growled after her in his thick accent. Ella just smiled back at him over her shoulder. Every morning she came by to pick up the bruised and rotted fruit that wouldn’t sell, and every day Mr. Braun said “Don’t forget you bring back bucket,” as if it were some treasured family heirloom, instead of just and old and dented tin pail. Despite his rough exterior Ella was grateful that Mr. Braun allowed her to pick through the refuse of the previous day, in exchange for her taking what she couldn’t use to the large garbage cart in one of the alleys, where most of the trash from Market Street went. More often than not some of the fruit was only half rotted through, and on a good day she might find an apple with nothing worse than a bad bruise. Ella ducked into a quiet side street, and sat down on the curb. She picked a squishy tomato off of the top and set it beside her on the curb. Below it she uncovered an apple whose top had turned brown but the bottom still felt relatively firm. She reached into one of the pockets of her dress, and retrieved the old folding knife she had found in a gutter one day. The blade was rusty and dull, but the knife was probably the most valuable thing she owned next to the ring. The old blade sliced easily through the rotted top of the apple easily, and Ella gulped down the bottom half hungrily. After she had sifted through the contents of the pail, she piled the leftovers back in and picked herself up off the curb. She continued her walk toward the that garbage cart with the pail swinging in one hand and feeling the square, flat, heaviness of the book in her left dress pocket with the other. Ella walked the rest of the way to the garbage cart and dumped the remains of the fruit into, on top of the other refuse from the market, which had already half filled the cart. Then she headed back towards Market Street with the empty pail. In the short time it had taken her to eat her breakfast, the market had turned into a bustling hive of activity. Ella had to weave through the thickening crowd of shoppers. She was about halfway back to Mr. Braun’s vegetable stand when she heard the sound of a child’s cry. She looked around and spotted a little girl in a blue dress, sitting in the middle of the street with tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t have been more than four years old but no one had responded to her wails. Ella walked over to where the girl was sitting and crouched down in front of her. “Hello,” she said with a smile.
The little girl stopped mid sob and looked up at Ella with wide eyes. ” ‘lo” she said quietly.
“Are you lost?” Ella asked sweetly.
“‘es,” came the girl’s whispered reply.
Ella extended her hand and said, “Come on, we can find your mommy.”
The little girl reached up with both hands, gripped Ella’s fingers and Ella pulled her to her feet.
“What’s your name?” asked Ella.
“Sarah,” replied the girl, down at her feet shyly.
“Sarah’s a beautiful name,” Ella told her.
The girl didn’t reply as she continued doing her impression of a midget coble stone inspector.
Ella scanned the crowd for anything resembling a mother missing a child. There didn’t seem to be anyone who fit the bill but Ella wasn’t sure what a mother who had lost her child was supposed to look like. She led the Sarah through the crowd by the hand. She noticed that the girl’s dress, although dirty from her sitting in the muddy street, was obviously expensive and well tailored. Ella scanned the street again for a woman dressed in particularly fine clothes. Then she saw, emerging from one of the shops, a woman with sharp features wearing a stunning green dress and a hat the making of which had probably obliterated several species of rare birds. Ella pointed at the woman and asked, “Is that your mommy?”
Sarah looked at the woman, then nodded, “Uh-huh”
Ella led her over the where the woman was rummaging distractedly through her purse.
“Excuse me ma’am.” Ella said to her.
The looked the woman gave her was pure poison. Then her eyes shifted to the little girl still gripping Ella’s hand. “Sarah, how many times do I have to tell you not to run off?” she said angrily grabbing the girls hand out of Ella’s. She stormed away towing the girl behind her pausing only to look back over her shoulder to give Ella a venomous glare that plainly said she was offended by the fact the someone as low as her even had the gall to exist. Ella turned and continued down the street, until she reached Mr. Braun’s vegetable stand.
“What take so long?” he demanded as she put pail back.
“I’m sorry Mr. Braun…” she started, then trailed off as she realized he wasn’t paying attention any more. She turned and walked away from the busy marketplace, looking down at the dirty street. She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She was used to people looking down on her because of her position in life, but something about seeing that woman with her daughter, storming away and glaring back over her shoulder had awakened a deep seated sadness in Ella. She found herself wondering what it must be like to have a real mother, even one that wasn’t particularly nice. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. She found herself imagining what her parents might have been like. She had nothing to build her fantasy on but her own imagination, but even so she felt she could almost see a smiling man holding her up above his head, with the radiantly beautiful woman standing beside him with her arm circling his waist beaming up at her giggling baby. The image came upon so suddenly, and with such force she could almost believe it had been real. She leaned her head back against the grimy gray stone wall, looking up, past the despair that surrounded her, into a achingly blue sky as her eyes filled up with tears.
*****
The curse’s roots dug far deeper than the gray flaking skin and empty black eyes. Delos was changing, dying inside as the Destroyer’s curse obliterated every trace of humanity from his soul. The men around the table in the great hall eyed the king warily. One of them had actually dared to question whether the creature at the head of the table was actually Delos, and now he lay crumpled against a wall where he had been thrown, with his neck as well as few other bones broken. This was a language all of the men at the table spoke fluently and whether they believed the gray monster was Delos or not he had their undivided attention.
“Gentlemen, we have a problem.” The voice was low and rattling like the sound of a wheel rolling over gravel.
There was an awkward silence as the men around the table wondered whether their king expected an answer to this statement. Delos stood with his hands against the table looking down at the wood grain as if he had forgotten there where anyone else in the room. Then he spoke again. “She must be killed.”
“Who, my lord?” asked a young looking noble.
Delos did not answer, and one of the brighter minds at the circular table, sensing an opportunity said “If you wish someone dead sire, there are individuals who can be hired to do such deed.”
Delos stood for a moment as still and as silent as a statue, then said, “Who would you recommend?”
*****
Delos sat upon the throne and watched the new arrival with unblinking eyes. Even in his altered state he was impressed. The woman moved so fluidly and gracefully, that she almost seemed to float into the room. She was dressed in a dull black that seemed to absorb the light around her. Her long overcoat rippled with each step she took towards the king. She knelt on one knee in front of the throne, and Delos noted with detachment her statuesque beauty, raven black hair and skin almost as white as milk.
“Your majesty, my name is Daphne Farshorth,” she said. “I understand you have need of my services.” The voice was low and flowing with an almost hypnotic quality to it.
“Yes,” Delos rasped, “there is someone I need you to kill.”
“I have been known to eliminate certain individuals,” the assassin replied. “For a price.”
“Name your price. Money is of no concern to me in this matter as long as she is destroyed.”
“Who, your majesty?”
The gray monstrosity leaned forward in his raised throne sending cracked flecks of dried skin floating down like dirty snowflakes. “That,” he rasped, “is the question of the hour.”
He rose slowly from his throne and descended to where Daphne stood.
“Come with me,” he said leading her out of the throne room. They walked through the castle in complete silence. Daphne noticed at one point as they came to a place where sunlight shone down from above that Delos staid to one side, well out of the spots of light on the floor as if he were afraid he would be burned by the sunlight. At last they came to a door more than twice the height of a man, which Delos opened with an ominous creak. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light inside the cavernous room. Aside from the sputtering candles lining the walls and the raised stone structure at the end of the room which appeared to be some sort of altar the room was bare. But they were not alone in the room. She sensed someone behind them being very quiet. She turned and saw a black robed figure walking towards them as quietly as a cat.
“Is this the one?” the Priestess asked Delos as he turned to face her.
“Yes,” replied Delos.
“And you are..?”
“I am Sora, high priestess of Dei Exitium,” replied the priestess pulling the black cowl back off of her face. “And you are Daphne, an assassin if I am not mistaken?”
“Yes.”
“You come with high recommendations, you know.”
“I’m the best there is,” Daphne said. Her voice was flat, devoid of pride or vanity, simply stating a fact.
“Good. You’ll need to be,” Sora said. Daphne noted that Delos was unusually silent for a noble. Her experience with royalty taught her they were usually loud and self important eager to interject their generally inconsequential opinions into the conversation. She hadn’t asked any questions about Delos’ odd condition. An assassin never asked questions not related to her assignment, especially questions like “Why are you all gray like that, and what happened to your eyes?” Still she found the gray king’s silence disquieting.
“Why have you called me here?” she asked.
“To kill someone of course,” Sora answered with a smile. Daphne noted that the priestess could convey with a smile what most men couldn’t convey in a years worth of threats and insults.
“Who?”
Sora’s smile flickered for a moment. “We’re not sure what her name is. We tried to kill her once when she was a infant but apparently she slipped through our grasp. She could be almost anyone now. There were some very powerful forces behind her first escape from us, and I have no doubt they’ve done a quite thorough job of hiding her.”
“What do you know about the target?” Daphne asked.
“She has the ring,” Delos rasped, breaking his silence.
“What ring?” asked Daphne.
“Actually the ring may not be all that significant,” Sora cut in, “although it may serve useful as an identifier.”
“How can you be sure she’ll be wearing it?”
“Trust me, she’ll be wearing it,” the priestess assured her.
Daphne didn’t trust the priestess any farther than she could throw her, which was, by her estimation about ten and a half feet, slightly less with her left arm, but she continued her inquiry. “What else can you tell me?” she asked.
“Her family line is noted for their striking blue eyes, which we know for a fact that the girl has inherited. It doesn’t sound like much to go on but they really are quite distinctive.”
“And how old is she?”
“Fourteen years, three months and seven days old,” said Delos. Daphne and the priestess both looked at him in masked surprise, but neither commented on Delos precise calculation.
Daphne Farshorth looked at Delos with a perfect poker face that seemed to say “I eat things weirder than you for breakfast.” But her mouth said, “Are you trying to tell me that you want me to kill someone, who’s name you don’t know with only the description that she’s fourteen years old, wearing a silver ring and has blue eyes?”
“Yes.” Simple, short, to the point. At least she could respect that.
“I’m sure there are a great many people in the world who match the description you just gave me your majesty,” Daphne explained as patiently as possible. “I can’t kill someone if I don’t even know where to look for them.”
“She’s in Thence.” said Sora.
“How can you be certain?” Daphne asked.
“Cartomancy is a simple enough trick,” explained the priestess. “Come, I’ll show you. She led them into a room that adjoined the cathedral filled with all kinds of magical memorabilia. There was a table in the center of the room with a large map spread out on top of it. What looked like grains of sand where scattered over the map where the had formed a pattern of lines curving around and intersecting the city of Thence.
“This is the pattern that emerged when I did a locater spell on the girl earlier today.”
Daphne didn’t concern herself with magic, so she assumed Sora’s information was accurate.
“And what about the the people you mentioned who might be protecting the girl?” asked Daphne.
“You’re on your own there. Thence is too far out of our influence to gather any meaningful information about them.”
“And why is she worth protecting?”
There was a brief pause before Sora said, “That isn’t important to your mission. Just kill her.”
Daphne shrugged, and didn’t press the matter. If a fourteen year old girl is worth killing she might be worth protecting as well. Details didn’t concern her.
The priestess handed her a silver amulet set with a blue stone. “This will guide you to her thaumatic signature. As you get closer to it the stone will turn from blue to red.”
Daphne turned the amulet over in her hands before slipping it into her pocket. “Useful trinket,” she mused aloud.
“Is there anything else?”
“The ring,” Delos rasped.
The priestess glanced at the king then nodded. “We’ll pay extra if you can bring back the ring she wears. It may prove,” she paused, “useful.”
Daphne brought the amulet out of her pocket again. “Could this be used to find anyone?”
“Yes, with the proper calibration.”
“Such a device could prove invaluable in my line of work. I will return the ring to you if you will allow me to keep this, and teach me how to use it.”
“Very well, assassin, but remember the ring is nothing compared to the girl. She must be killed.”
Daphne ice blue eyes bored into the priestess for a moment. “She will be.”
*****
Delos stood before the dark mirror once again, this time without fear. Fear was a human thing and whatever he was now, it was far from human. “The die has been cast my Lord,” he said to the figure in the mirror.
“Are you certain this assassin will be able to finally eliminate the girl from the picture?”
“Yes, my Lord. All my research indicates that she has never failed.”
“I’m afraid I am not as confident as you in this matter. The girl doesn’t know her own power yet, but if she should learn to harness it she will be virtually invincible.”
“Perhaps so my Lord, but my sources tell me that this Daphne was the one who killed the Dragon of Darthemal. She is no ordinary mortal.”
“That is impressive,” commented the Destoyer. “Did you tell her about the prophecy?”
“No my Lord.”
“It would appear that you have done well in this matter. Nevertheless we must be vigilant. Other measures may become necessary.”
“Yes my Lord.”
*****
It was late in the summer, but by noon the sun was baking down on the city of Thence drying out the city from the previous nights rain. Ella sat in the same doorway that had sheltered her from the rain, taking advantage of the shelter from the sun’s rays. The door had been boarded up and walled over from within so she never had to worry about blocking anyone’s path. She slept in the doorway more often than not although she could never afford to be too territorial.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the book Mr. Gleck had given her. She ran her fingers over the faded lettering of the title Tales of the Gods and Heros. Ella fanned through the pages, letting the scent of the paper and ink waft into her nostrils. It was a dry subtle smell that reminded her faintly of the sea. Then she turned to the first page and began to read.
In the beginning there was darkness. And out of the darkness was born Selus. And out of Selus was born the gods. And the gods fashioned the earth out of the darkness and man came forth from the earth. And behold it was dark and Profanus, god of swearing spake and said some things not repeatable in polite conversation and Selus sapke and said “We could really use some light around here”. And Selus created the sun and moon to light the day and night and threw in some stars and comety things for good measure. And the light overcame the darkness, and the darkness fled away to its own place. And for a time men and gods lived in peace on the earth. And Selus ruled over all, and took unto him the goddess Tara to wife. And the god Dariul lusted after Tara the wife of Selus. And Selus heard of it and cast Dariul out of the mountain of the gods into the world of men. But Bellorum, god of wars, took council with Dariul. And Dariul and Bellorum conspired to war against the gods for Bellorum envied the power of Selus. And Bellorum made giants from clay and brought them to life and gave to them swords and shields of iron. And Dariul called to the sea and the sea brought forth dragons and wyverns. And Bellorum and Dariul gathered many men to their cause, but the men of Riparia stood against them. And in the days of the war against Selus were a third of all people killed. And it came to pass that Bellorum and Dariul prevaled against Selus and wounded him grievously. And Delos bled fire from his veins as he died. And with his last breath he called to the darkness from which he had come, and the darkness brought forth the great destroyer who had not a name to destroy the world, and avenge his death. And the destroyer stood in the mountain of the gods and behold the darkness went out from him into the world and devoured the light that it had created. And Dariul and the gods fought against the darkness for seven days. And behold at the end of the seventh day the darkness began to wane and the light prevailed against the darkness and the destroyer. And the god Portarum made a door of glass, and the gods cast the destroyer through the the door which Portarum had made. And Bellorum became king of the gods and gave Tara unto Dariul to wife.
On the opposite page was a woodcut of a being with horns and too many teeth being thrown down into a door by a man with wings on his back. The caption beneath it said “The Destroyer is cast into the Shadow Land”.
Ella closed the book and thought about the things she had read. Life on the streets left little time for much of anything other than survival. She was aware of the myriad temples to various gods scattered around the city but she’d never thought much about their involvement in the real world. The idea of real wars between the gods where real people had died was far removed from the dutiful and mundane worship she had observed in the temples. She had never realized the gods could be so, well human. Fighting over a woman wasn’t something you expected out of a divine being. Suddenly Ella saw, out of the corner of her eye a movement just above her. She looked up and was shocked to see a spider, sliding down a gossemer thread towards the book on her lap. Ella was suddenly paralyzed with fear. Her mind screamed at her to swat it away or to get up and run but the muscles in her legs and arms were unresponsive. The spider landed on the page, stood still for a moment, then began to scuttle towards her hand. Time seemed to slow and Ella watched with horror at each scratching step the spider took. It reached her hand and crawled onto her fingers. For a moment she felt the picking of the spiders legs on her skin, and then everything seemed to go black.
She opened her eyes and knew instantly where she was. The old attic in the orphanage was dark and scary but Ella’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. She was five years old again, climbing those stairs into the dark attic. No, this isn’t real, Ella thought to herself. I don’t want to remember this, not now. But she was helpless, a prisoner of the past. The door at the top of the stair opened with a creak and the little girl stepped inside. Daylight poured into the room from a window at one end, casting long shadows off of the trunks and assorted oddities assembled there. Ella felt herself tiptoeing as if in reverence of a holy place towards the light of the window. Then she saw it. The small box was innocuous enough at first glance, but its dark wood was covered in ornate carvings that seemed to draw the girl closer. No, no, no! Ella screamed in her mind, don’t open it. She wanted to close her eyes to keep from watching that little hand reach toward the latch, they were not hers to close. The lid opened and the box almost seemed to explode. Thousands of tiny spiders swarmed over her fingers and up her arm as the little girl scream in fear and fell back accidentally pulling the box over her and sending an army of spiders washing over her. The memory exploded into a flash of white and for a moment Ella was unsure what was real and what was memory. Then the light faded, and the real world came back into focus. Ella shook her head as if she could shake away the memory of the experience. She clasped her hands together and then pulled them apart again as she felt something burning against her fingers. She looked down at her ring and was astonished to see it glowing white, as though it had been heated to fantastic temperatures. Strangely enough, it didn’t feel uncomfortable on her finger, but an experimental brush of the fingertips of the opposite hand against the ring, confirmed that the ring was indeed quite hot. Ella looked down at her hand, wondering what had caused the change in the ring. Then she saw on the floor of the doorway, blowing dryly in the slight breeze, the blackened husk of the spider’s body.
*****
And behold there was in the land of Riparia a woman named Veronica of unsurpassed beauty. And the god Dariul looked down from the mountain of the gods and and saw her and loved her. And he transformed himself into the form of a raven and flew down to the field where she labored and lay with her. And behold the woman conceived and brought forth a son, and called his name Vosgran. But the goddess Tara was sore jealous of her husband Dariul, and she cursed Vosgran so that his skin turned green and his ears grew, and his face was horrible to look upon. And Vosgran became the father of the goblins.
-Excerpt from: Tales of the Gods and Heroes, by T. R. Chubbins
*****
The wooden wheels of the coach clattered over the rocky roads of the mountain and the sun baked down on the coachman’s head unrelentingly but he was glad he would rather be out here than in there. He was only carrying two passengers but he was having a hard time deciding which one of the scared him more. He had picked the first one up at the beginning of the run near the border with Riparia. Her style of dress was simple but elegant, and at first he had thought she was a noble woman. She had brought comparatively little luggage for the trip, but one of the cases the coachman had loaded felt unusually heavy. When he had sneaked an innocent peek latter in the day the ebony case revealed an extremely high quality crossbow as well as an assortment of knives, and he had no doubt that the woman knew how to use them. The second passenger was a witch. He could tell she was a witch because of the tall pointy hat and the wart* on her nose. Her luggage consisted of a huge trunk that apparently contained everything the witch owned, but the coachman had heard that witches could see through walls so he hadn’t looked inside of it lest she turn him into something unpleasant. Everyone knew witches could turn someone into a toad just by looking at them. He himself had hear from a passenger who had a sister, who knew a man, that said he had seen a witch turn a peddler into a pig for overcharging her for a bolt of wool** and he knew he didn’t want to end up like that. He eyed the thick wood on the horizon, and felt the smallest twinge of pity for the thieves that lay in wait in the shadows of the forest.
Daphne sat in the rocking carriage with her eyes lightly closed and her head resting against the back of the seat. She looked as if she might have been asleep except that no sleeping person could be so completely motionless. Daphne had been completely still now for five hours, six minutes and thirteen seconds, which was seventeen hours, 42 minutes and 35 seconds shy of her personal record. Though her eyes were closed she was acutely aware of her surroundings. The sound of the coach’s wheels rattling changed subtly with the varying terrain. She estimated that they would be reaching Seldom Forest within the hour. There was also the “click click click” of the witch’s knitting. Since she had gotten on the coach yesterday the witch who had introduced herself as Mrs. R had knitted six socks and was working on the seventh. She was also humming a song which seemed almost intentionally tuneless. Just when Daphne thought she could pick up the melody the tune would shift into something completely different. Daphne had a healthy respect for those who had the talent to wield magic, but she had found that most of them leaned to heavily on magic to present much of a challenge to her. Eleven of the one hundred and thirty six people Daphne had assassinated in her career had been wizards, and Daphne had found them just as vulnerable to a knife to the throat as seventy two government officials she had killed. Daphne had never killed a witch before, simply because there was no money in killing half crazy old ladies, although she had noticed that most of them acted crazier than they really were, which isn’t much of a sacrifice to pay for a life uninterrupted by a crossbow bolt through the heart. She had learned in her course of work that appearances could be incredibly deceptive. Often the man who looked as if he were in charge of the country was being manipulated so skillfully, that he would never realize his decisions were being made for him by people who’s qualifications came from their intelligence rather than their bloodline. Politics were a necessary part of her work, but she had no stomach for the duplicity of the world of power. Killing people was simple and straightforward, and that was the only thing she was good at.
Mrs. R sat on the hard seat of the coach, knitting a sock out of a particularly putrid shade of yellow yarn. She rarely wore the socks that she knitted, especially in such warm weather. Knitting was something she did to focus herself. She had heard of monks in foreign parts emptying their minds through the repetition of a mantra, but she had learned that an empty mind one of the most useless things in the world. Instead the click of the needles and the feeling of the yarn in her hands helped her see things world more clearly. Despite this the young woman sitting across from her was a puzzle that she was, as of yet, unable to solve. Mrs. R had been humming the Squiggly Song for nearly for hours now and the woman across from her hadn’t even cracked. Most people would have run screaming from the coach after fifteen minutes of it, and would probably take several days to completely recover their sanity. Sanity, that was the key. The woman across from her was completely sane, which is usually quite a bit worse than being totally crazy.
Daphne heard the witch stop humming her incessant tune and felt the coach gradually rattle to a stop. It was far too early in the day for their arrival at the inn where they would stay the night. There was a brief pause before the coach door swung open and Daphne caught a whiff of the unmistakable stench of goblin breath wafting into the coach accompanied by a voice saying, “Hate to interrupt your beauty sleep princess but this be a robbery, get it?.” Daphne’s eyes never opened but her hand blurred through the air, striking through the goblin’s throat with a knife she hadn’t been holding a second earlier. She heard the glass of the window opposite the goblin shatter as the crossbow he was holding discharged. The foul smelling black blood from the goblin’s neck, fountained into the coach spattering the interior. She opened her eyes just in time to see a second goblin peering through the window broken by the crossbow bolt but before she could think of moving, the witch stabbed one of her knitting needles into the goblin’s eye and he staggered back, screaming in pain. Daphne reached inside of her overcoat pulled the compact pistol crossbow from its hiding place and thumbed off the safety. She ducked out of the still open door and stood with one foot on the still gurgling goblin scanning for the rest of the gang. Daphne knew goblins always traveled in groups of five, mostly because no one goblin was bright enough to think more than two thoughts in a row without four others helping him along. The goblin on the other side of the coach was now curled into a ball on the ground clutching his injured eye letting out screams of agony. The witch opened the door of the coach and stepped out into the open. Daphne heard the sound of a bow string being pulled back and she ducked instinctively to one side a moment before a goblin arrow chewed through the air and embeded itself in the side of the coach. She leveled her pistol crossbow in the direction of the shot and squeezed off a shot at a slightly uglier patch of green in the foliage. The dart found its mark in the upper arm of the hiding goblin who wrenched it out with a look of disgust, gathered it’s reverse jointed legs underneath it and jumped at her flying nearly thirty feet through the air. The goblin was dead before he hit the ground as the poison from the dart reached its heart. There was a ferocious roar from the other side of the carriage and Daphne turned to see a fourth goblin charging with raised sword to where the witch stood leaning against her walking stick. Daphne reached for a throwing knife but before she could let it fly the charging goblin was very suddenly replaced by a surprised looking green mushroom. The sword clattered harmlessly to the ground beside it. The witch looked back over her shoulder at Daphne and said “Behind you dear”. Daphne whirled around but there was nothing there. She was about to turn back to the witch when something struck the side of her head and the world went white.
She had spent most of her life trying to tame it, but now she understood that it would never conform. The beast was too wild to ever be tamed. So she had caged it. She had shut it away in the darkest corners of her mind and tried to forget about the wild beauty of the beast’s power. She was an assassin. There was nothing pleasurable in killing, no other reward than the money and that satisfaction of a job well done. But the beast loved to kill. It reveled in the power it held over life and death and its strength was virtually limitless. Daphne feared the beast so she had kept it locked away in her mind instead choosing to lead a life defined by structure and order. And so the beast had languished in her mind its hunger for blood becoming unimaginable, and when the goblin club struck the side of her head, it saw its chance and leaped.
*****
The whiteness faded to green speckled blue and Daphne realized she was looking through the forest canopy into the sky. She sat up slowly holding the side of her head, where the goblin’s club had connected. “What happened?” she groaned.
“Well as near as I can figure that goblin whacked you in the ‘ead with his club, which you didn’t like too much apparently cause then you jumped on ‘is back and ripped ‘is ‘ead off.”
“But that’s not possible. Goblin neck muscles are so dense it’s nearly impossible to decapitate them even with a sword.”
The witch shrugged and pointed to the headless corpse laying on the ground some twenty feet away and then to the severed goblin head, lying on the forest floor and trailing muscle, sinew, and tendons from the neck in a bloody mass. “I know I shore didn’t do that,” she said.
Daphne sat up and rubbed her head gingerly, “I never saw what hit me.”
Mrs. R held up a silver shimmering piece of cloth. ” ‘e was wearing an invisibility cloak. I could sense ‘im standin’ there, but I weren’t fast enough to stop ‘im clubbin’ you. I reckon you took care of yourself pretty well though.”
Daphne held up her hands in front of her face looking in disbelief at the black goblin blood dried on them. She was momentarily struck speechless by the realization of what had happened.
“Come on then, we’d better get a move on. Thence is still two days out. No sense wasting any more time.” Mrs R extended a hand and Daphne took it numbly pulling letting the older woman pull her to her feet. The coachman was eying her as if he would rather take his chances with the goblins. Daphne’s head throbbed unbearably, but she made her face as hard and expressionless as stone. She had to stay in control of herself at all costs. “What did you do with the goblin that you stabbed in the eye Mrs. R?” Daphne asked trying to bring her reeling mind back into the present.
“Oh I let ‘im go.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Daphne asked.
“Well I don’t think I need any lessons in wisdom from a young squirt like you but since you ask, yes I do. It can’t ‘urt us none if ‘e runs and tells all ‘is friends to stay clear of us. Reputation is a powerful thing.”
Daphne nodded. Even through the slowly lifting fog of confusion she remembered that an assassin’s bread and butter were based more on reputation than anything else. Killing the Dragon of Darthemal accomplished nothing if no one knew you had done it, and when telling the story it was best not to mention the fact that the dragon was old and feeble and had only put up a token resistance. An impressive reputation was as good as money in the bank. She climbed into the coach and leaned back in the seat. Mrs. R clambered in the other side and then slammed the coach door shut. The coach began to move with a creak and Daphne breathed in the cool forest air breezing in from the open window. She sat with her eyes closed head head leaned back against the soft cushion of the seat, and this time she slept.
*****
Ella Eris sat in the door way with no sense of the passage of time, her mind barely registering the outside world through its dazed state. She shivered despite the heat as the memory of the spiders’ attack washed over her. The most horrible part of the memory was the feeling of thousands of tiny legs crawling over her body, the prickling on the back of her neck and on her face paralyzing her with…NO! She had to stop thinking about it. She couldn’t go through life paralyzed with fear. She looked down once again at the dry husk of the spider’s body, and then again at the ring on her finger, still faintly glowing. It had cooled down substantially and was now only slightly warm to the touch. Tales of the Gods and Heroes still lay open on her lap but she couldn’t focus her mind enough to even think about reading now. She closed the book and stood up sliding it into her dress pocket. She leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes taking a moment to gather her thoughts. After a moment she stepped into the sunlight. She let her feet carry her without thinking much about where she was going. The incident with the spider had brought up a thousand questions, most of them centered around the ring. She wondered if the spider flashback had triggered something new in the ring or if there was another trigger. To be certain, she had had spider related nightmares in the past which had not affected the ring in any visible way, so why the change now? Questions about the ring caused thoughts about her origins to resurface in her mind. She felt as if she were facing an impenetrable wall which stood between her and her past. All she knew was that she had been left on the step of the orphanage, which could mean that one or both of her parents were still in the city somewhere. Of course she had nowhere to start. The only clue she had to her past was the very thing which drove her curiosity even more. If the ring had some strange inscriptions in eldritch characters inscribed in the silver it would have presented a mystery with at least some clue which could be pursued to find its origin, but even after the ring had killed the spider no new details had been revealed in the white hot glow. Instead the ring’s surface remained stubbornly blank. She knew she had to get her mind off of the ring for a little while. After all she had exhausted every possible avenue of thought about the ring at least a hundred times before now and the problem remained an impossible nut to crack. Although the sun was shining brightly the sky above was inhabited by mountainous cumulous clouds which brought with them the threat of rain later in the evening. Ella shuddered involuntarily at the prospect of another rain soaked night.
“Miss Eris?” The sound of the voice was strangely startling. She looked up to see the towering figure of Mr. Bartlett.
