“Stop that
right now,” Mary Darin’s high-pitched voice echoed throughout the caverns. In
every crevice, the children of the Servants paused in mid-action, all fearing that
Ms. Darin’s wrath was directed at them. “Willem! Gerick and Jocelyn! Put those
babies down!” She glared at the older children with vehemence. “Come!” she
ordered.
The twins,
Gerick and Jocelyn Motown, were the eldest of the children rescued by Sirios when
the town of Avalona had been destroyed two weeks earlier. Though Willem Slaughter
was only a year younger than them, his well-trimmed beard and thick build made him
appear much older. Being eldest and close in age, the trio had developed into
the group’s de facto leaders taking discipline unto themselves—a situation that
Ms. Darin simultaneously encouraged and carefully monitored—though, occasionally
they overstepped their bounds. Par for the course, considering the group was overwhelmed
by their immense losses. The youngest unintentionally added further stress to
the situation, since they did not yet comprehend their new lot as the first
orphans of the bitterest travesty in recent collective memory.
Willem sat the
toddler down, shook a finger at her, and then directed her towards the mini-corral
where the other babies had been herded. Simultaneously, Gerick and Jocelyn
returned to the ground the two toddlers that they’d captured. They repeated
Willem’s finger wagging and traffic directing before turning their attention to
Ms. Darin, who stood tapping her foot under one of the silver archways. The
trio called, “coming,” as they headed out of the caverns to Ms. Darin. When
they reached her, she spun around, purposefully striding down the torch lit,
grey marble walled tunnel. Silently, they followed her through two silver
archways into a nearly freezing antechamber where four Catahoula curs lounged
on folded up, oversized comforters. Upon entering the room, the dogs leapt off
their fluffy nests, flying at the three teenagers, who completely abandoned the
minor bit of decorum they’d retained in the hallway.
“Enough,” Ms.
Darin commanded the rolling pack of dogs and kids.
The beasts
froze, chanced a glance at one another, and then one-by-one carried themselves
back to their now chilled blankets. The teens also froze, each suppressing
wildly rebellious grins that threatened to corrupt their faces. “Yes, Ms.
Darin,” Willem said and was instantly parroted by the twins.
It was Ms.
Darin’s turn to suppress a smile, she said, “time for lessons.” The teenagers
all slumped when Ms. Darin indicated what had become their regular seats in her
impromptu underground schoolhouse. “Yesterday, we discussed the Tragedy of Rex
Gryphus. Who can explain the dilemma?”
“Dilemma?
Don’t you mean dilemmas?” Jocelyn asked.
“Good. Now,
explain them,” Ms. Darin replied.
“Well,” Gerick
began, “first off: don’t trust your wife!”
“Gerick!” Ms.
Darin hissed. “Jocelyn, your answer.”
“There’s the
obvious one: if the Last Gryphon King commits suicide, then his kingdom ends.”
Ms. Darin nodded approvingly as Jocelyn continued, “but…” she glanced up
uncertainly, “it never ended. Did it?”
“Willem, did
it?” Ms. Darin asked.
“Um. Well,” he
hesitated, “no.”
“Exactly,” Ms.
Darin clapped Willem on the shoulder. “Gerick, explain how that’s possible.”
“I don’t know.
You never told us,” he shot back.
“Think about
it. We’ll wait,” she sat down in her reclining chair which days earlier she’d forced
the teens to drag from the fireplace to the dining table.
“Ma’am,”
Bonnie ‘Shadow Blade’ Taylor raised his hand as he called out to Daphne Darin’s
daughter, who turned slowly toward the old mountain man.
“Mr. Blade,”
she said with fire in her tone, “I’ve consistently asked you to call me
‘Siriah.’”
“And, I’ve
repeatedly asked you to call me ‘Shadow.’”
The two simultaneously
huffed at each other, before smiling briefly.
With a
flourish and a feeble attempt to hide a great deal of pain, Bonnie Taylor bowed
deeply while waving a hand, “your mother requests your presence.”
All business,
Siriah Darin straightened up, “she’s awake?”
Grinning at
her, he nodded and barely moved out of her way before she plowed passed him.
“Mom?” Siriah
called out, entering the well-hidden hovel which had acted as their sanctuary
for the last two weeks.
“Martin,”
Daphne Darin croaked from the bed she’d remained in since the sailors from
Captain Decker’s barge, D’ble V’sion,
had carried her to it.
“Easy, Momma,”
Siriah muttered as she slipped into the bedside chair, “I’m here.”
“Martin?”
Daphne asked without turning her head.
For a moment,
Siriah said nothing. She didn’t know what those kidnapping bastards had done
with her father, nor what to tell her mother. Fearing that any reminder of
their recent ordeal would be the proverbial straw, she decided to delay the
inevitable, “he’s at the market, Momma.”
Patting the
bed, Daphne said, “I hope he’s picking up garlic and onions. I’ll make a stew
for dinner.” She struggled to sit up.
“Easy, Momma,”
Siriah said as she attempted to help her mother into the sitting position.
Blowing out
her cheeks, Daphne forced herself to accept Siriah’s assistance. “I must be
coming down with something,” the elder woman grumbled.
Biting her
lower lip, Siriah put a hand to her mom’s forehead, “you are a bit warm.” With
Daphne situated, Siriah sat back down in the chair. She closed her eyes and
exhaled through her nose. “I can get you a cool cloth, if you’d like.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all,
Mom,” Siriah said as she used the chair arms to push herself up. “Just a
minute, okay?”
“Martin?”
Daphne croaked again.
“He’s at the
market,” Siriah reassured her. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
As Siriah
vacated the bedroom, she heard her mom say, “I hope he’s picking up garlic and
onions. I’ll make a stew for dinner.” Siriah froze just outside of the bedroom,
grabbed the wall for support and struggled to keep her breathing even and
steady. It might have been better if
they’d killed…SHUT UP! Don’t you think it! Don’t! Mercury, please. Give me the
strength to find that crazy sonofabitch! He should have killed me. I swear to
all things holy, I ever get my hands on him… Wringing her hands, she
inhaled deeply, wiped the tears from her eyes, and then quickly walked out of
the house. She found Bonnie Taylor sitting on a stump cleaning his fingernails
with a splinter. “How’re the other girls?”
“Best as they
can be,” he shrugged, “all things considered. Like you, they’ve had their worlds
turned upside down.” It was all he could do. He still wasn’t certain how he’d
been dragged into this mess, let alone shot for the trouble. The bullet wound
below his left shoulder blade was healing nicely, but certain movements—like
breathing—caused intense pain. He ground his teeth as he turned his torso to
face her, “Captain’ll be back tomorrow. Do you think your mom’ll be ready to
travel?”
Siriah took
her turn to shrug, “ready or not, we do what has to be done.”
“I hear that,”
he snorted. Unconsciously, he caressed his crystal pendant.
Balin held his
breath as he struggled to maintain a grip on the convulsing and squawking Bard.
The Mercury’s Elite Guardsman with the misfortunate watch, held on as tightly
as he could to keep himself as a buffer between the flailing Bard and the
Phoenix Rose. The two men avoided eye contact with each other while they fought
with Kent whose hand had gripped the golden fence as if fused to it. The
Phoenix Rose emitted a jubilant symphony which the two Merc’s barely heard over
their own heavy breathing and panicked thoughts.
“Who are you?”
Kent asked the fiery Phoenix who flew circles round his head.
“Iphigenia,”
she answered.
“Where are
we?”
“In your
mind,” she cooed.
“WHAT!”
“He’s right,”
she replied cryptically.
“Who’s right?”
“Fulco.”
“Fuck that
bird,” Kent growled
“He said you’d
say that.”
“What is it
with you birds?”
“What is it
with you bards?”
Kent stared at
her without responding. A full minute later he realized he was seeing her with
both his eyes, and that her brilliance had forced them to well up. Looking
around, he saw they had somehow been transported to the creek where his dad—foster dad—Rick had taught him to fish. “Why
are we here?” he asked her as he motioned with one hand palm up.
“This is where
you hide,” she replied.
“Oh,” he said,
his head drooping.
“You can’t
hide forever,” the Phoenix whispered as she landed on his shoulder. She nuzzled
his head behind his left ear, and then said, “the time has come for you to
learn what Fintan was unable to teach you.”
“I don’t want
to be a bard,” he mumbled.
“Sucks to be
you, doesn’t it?” she mocked.
He dropped his
shoulder, pushed at her with one hand, and groaned, “get off me.”
For his
trouble, she bit his hand in the tender flesh between the thumb and forefinger,
holding on as he hopped around hopelessly attempting to dislodge her. At last,
she released him, and then flew just out of his reach, “you can’t fight
destiny, child.”
“I’m not a
child,” he insisted, while shaking his injured hand at her.
“Well, you’re
not a man, are you? Whining like an infant in need of the teat.”
He said
nothing, but glared at her with a hatred born from infinite bad luck.
“Good. You’ll
need to embrace your anger, if you want to succeed.”
“What does
that mean?” he asked.
“It means sit
down. Shut up. And, for once in your life, listen.”
A few retorts
came to mind, but for some odd reason, he held them back, sat down, and waited.
When the
Phoenix was convinced that she had his full attention, she said, “you are the
Bard of Poterit Don, Mercury’s Bard, Keeper of the Gryphon King’s songs. As
such, it is your responsibility to memorize the Historiae, to sing the Songs of
Now, and to prophesize about the days to come.”
“Prophesize?”
He stood up, and then spun away only to find himself facing everything he’d
just spun away from. “Do I look like a prophet?” he yelled.
“You look like
a fool. Which is close enough for our purposes,” Iphigenia, the Phoenix laughed
as she flew figure eights around his head.
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