Thanks, DivisionHead, for reminding me that I had an in-progress rewrite waiting for me to come back and finish it.
Chapter 7:
Something Silver
The library that Alys found herself in seemed gargantuan to her wide-eyed gaze. To be fair, she'd never actually seen a library before this point, so her judgment may have been off. Shelves were scattered about haphazardly, creating a labyrinth of random passages and dead ends. As if this wasn't strange enough, the ceiling and walls radiated an unearthly silver luminescence, creating the illusion that the whole room was bathed in moonlight. It was entirely unlike any place she'd ever seen, and she couldn't imagine how on earth her subconscious mind had conjured it up.
An attempt to see beyond her current limited perspective was stymied when Alys realized that she couldn't move—she was stuck where in place as though glued there, though, come to think of it, she didn't actually appear to have a corporeal form to move about with anyway—like she was there only in spirit.
She was pondering whether it was the appropriate time to become very frustrated or rather frightened when she heard a voice:
"I am afraid, Dastar."
A woman was speaking, though Alys couldn't discern where from. Sound echoed strangely through the dusty corridors of books, making it impossible to judge where the voice originated from.
"Are you?" a male voice, this time—sounding genuinely curious as to the answer to his question. "Why?"
A sigh. "Trust you to have to ask that. It's . . . Well, I suppose that I'm afraid of what I will become. I won't be just Liadan anymore . . . I will be the Mahyt. What if . . . what if I lose who I am? You know, I don't even know my own grandmother's name. Even when I was a child I never addressed her as anything other than Mahyt—as though she were nothing more than a title, with no personality underneath. Will I . . . become like that, after the Changeover?"
Alys could only listen in growing confusion as the second voice snorted indignantly. "Well. That's a terribly silly thing to be worried about. If you weren't you, then you wouldn't be you, would you? If you are the Mahyt, then you shall be the Mahyt. If the Mahyt is not you, then you will not be the Mahyt. What is there to fear?"
A pause—then a quiet huff of amusement. "You know . . . that's not comforting at all."
"I was supposed to be comforting you?" He sounded utterly confused—
—And Alys woke to the fading echoes of incredulous laughter.
"Are you sure you're alright?" inquired Drusilla in an undertone as she passed by Alys table, absently passing a cleaning cloth over the smooth wooden surface.
Alys nodded automatically, hardly listening anymore. "Of course," she assured her host.
It wasn't the first time the question had been asked. It wasn't even the third. To be honest, Alys had stopped keeping track after the count had reached past one. One would think that Drusilla would get the idea, after awhile, that Alys' replies weren't going to adjust their content with repetition. Of course, one would also think that after awhile, Alys would get the idea that staring broodily at her bowl of stew, stirring it around and sighing unhappily at regular intervals, wasn't going to make her responses more believable.
To be fair, her conscious mind was occupied with other things. Like the hint of spice in the stew, which burned faintly at the back of her mouth, or the mysterious tapping noise that seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Important things. Certainly not small, insignificant nothings like dragons and magical bonds and foreknowledge and the possibility of never seeing the person she loved again.
No. Nothing like that.
Tap-tap-pop!-tap-tap-tap-pop!-tap . . .
To Alys' ears, the repetitive sound was loud and irritating, but she knew that in all likelihood she was the only one who could pick up the noise at all from all the way out in the dining room. Her recent 'enhancements' made sure of that. She was surrounded by humans—ordinary, unassuming, unsuspecting humanity—but she was no longer one of them . . . thanks to Selendrile. Really, she thought irritably, everything was his fault. Even the annoying noise in the kitchen. After all, if it weren't for his influence she would never have come in to possession of her heightened senses; if she were still human, the sound would have never registered. Therefore, it was completely logical to blame the dragon-youth. It was his fey magic, after all, that had made her into what she had become.
. . . Whatever that was.
She frowned down at her bowl of stew, wishing that it was something that would be more satisfying to bite viciously into. As it was, she could only sigh and swallow another spoonful.
She glanced up as she heard the distinctive clunk of Drusilla's wooden clogs. The older woman was coming back in her direction, but this time she was accompanied. The man trailing behind her was short—of a height with Drusilla, who wasn't a tall woman. Where her hair was a pale auburn, this man possessed a soft green cap, concealing his bald spot, and bushy red sideburns. A round potbelly and bright green jacket, matching his hat, completed the picture. Alys could only eye him curiously and wonder if there was a leprechaun somewhere in his ancestry. Then the two stopped at her table and she ducked her head abruptly, realizing that she'd been rudely staring. Neither of them seemed to take offense, however.
"Alright, Julie?" Drusilla asked once more, but this time she didn't wait for a response before going on: "Never mind. Have you met my cousin?" At Alys' quiet denial, the plump woman smiled. "Well, then! This is Diggory Longfellow, my cousin; he's here visiting. Diggory, this is Julie . . ." she hesitated for a moment, perhaps realizing that Selendrile hadn't actually provided a last name, then continued a bit more slowly, ". . . Well, she's staying here with us while her brother is away. She misses him terribly, though, the poor dear." She offered a comforting pat on the shoulder while Mr. Longfellow nodded sympathetically, his dimpled smile morphing into an expression of sympathy.
Alys' polite smile grew a bit strained. Had it really been necessary for Drusilla to share that little tidbit? Was it really any of this Diggory fellow's business whether she was blissfully happy or wallowing in abject misery? She didn't even know him!
Then Drusilla suggested, her voice hopeful, "Why don't you two chat for a bit?" and Alys understood. Either the redheaded woman was trying to set them up (unlikely—she didn't really strike Alys as the type), or she just thought that Alys could do with a sympathetic ear, and since she hadn't seemed willing to confide in Drusilla, the woman had sought other options.
"Um—" Alys began awkwardly, not wishing to be trapped into polite niceties with a near-stranger, "—actually, I was just about to head out for a walk."
Drusilla opened her mouth to speak.
"Alone," said Alys.
Drusilla closed her mouth, frowning slightly. "Well—alright, then. It might be good for you to get out for a bit. It's getting late, though," she warned. "Make sure you're back before it gets dark."
"I will," Alys murmured reassuringly, already rising to her feet and leaving her half-eaten bowl of stew on the table. "It was nice to meet you," she added to Diggory as an afterthought.
Moments later she was out the door, on her way to no place in particular.
The street looked drab and gray to Alys' uninterested eyes. Winter sunlight filtered down through thick clouds, giving everything a cold, somber appearance. The town was completely unremarkable; virtually identical to countless others that she and Selendrile had flown over or passed through, but the events that had transpired here marked the place as different; significant. Harperton would always remain in her memory as the place where she had first discovered her prescience . . . and where Selendrile had left her.
Not long after Alys was out of view, a short man in a green suit peered out of The Laughing Loon. When the coast appeared to be clear, he cautiously made his way down the steps and across the street, approaching a tall, worried-looking man in a suit who loitered in the alley there.
"She's the one?" the other queried under his breath, glancing nervously out at the empty street.
"She's the one," confirmed the man in green. "She's perfect. No one knows her; she's all alone. Besides, people are always all too ready to suspect the pretty ones."
The taller man nodded, but still looked a little uncertain. "Are you . . . Are you sure that going through with this is the best plan? I mean, petty thieving is one thing—but this is murder we're talking about, for pity's sake! What if we get caught?"
"Keep your voice down,"the short man hissed, glaring at his compatriot. "If you're not careful, we'll be caught before we've even done anything!" He narrowed his eyes. "You know as well as I do that this is necessary. I couldn't pay off this debt I owe in two lifetimes—and you're just as bad off. Remember, half of whatever I inherit goes to you for your assistance in this matter."
The other man's worried frown only deepened, but he nodded in resignation. "I still don't like it . . . but you're right," he conceded. "Tomorrow, then."
That night Alys cocooned herself in blankets and curled into a tight ball, feeling achingly lonely and inexplicably cold at the constant reminder that hers was the only breathing echoing through the small inn room.
Alys dreamt of silver. Floods of it—great, rushing torrents: a river. Or was it a tree, the branches full to bursting with flowing vitality? She was swept up in the current, pulled along in the wild cascade of movement, tumbling down the branches and tributaries until she reached the very edge, the very tip of a branch, where the river-turned-stream trickled to a stop. She lingered there, almost ready to make the leap; almost ready to fall, like a dewdrop slides languidly from the edge of a leaf. Then she slipped over the brink, and she was falling, falling into a sea of molten silver . . .
When Alys woke her heart was racing and there was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. The silver blood pumped frantically in her veins as though barely contained by the delicate veneer of skin, and she took deep, harsh breaths, trying to soothe the wild energy that the dream had brought; trying to calm herself down. It didn't really work. This dream had been . . . Peculiar. More so than usual, even.
She rolled over onto her stomach and reached up one arm to nudge the curtain away from the window above her bed, noting that it was just before dawn; the grey eastern skyline grew brighter even as she watched. Groaning, she began to rise, realizing that there was no way she was getting back to sleep at this point—but was struck suddenly with a jolt of extreme pain, accompanied by nausea; she barely managed to refrain from throwing up, gasping and collapsing back onto the mattress. She could only wonder frantically what was wrong with her, unable to muster up even the strength to call out for help. Instead, she lay there helplessly, writhing in pain and drenched in her own sweat as the eastern sky grew brighter, the agony in her abdomen growing in intensity with every moment that passed.
Then the sun finally crested the hilltops—and brought with it blessed oblivion.
"Poor girl . . . Her brother leaves and her body chooses now to become ill. Wouldn't be surprised at all to learn that it was stress that brought it on . . ."
Alys opened her eyes to a blurry round figure beside her bed, muttering to itself. When she blinked, the pale blob solidified into Drusilla.
". . . Mrs. Hampton?" she murmured in confusion, noting the bright sunlight outside of the window and wondering why on earth she was still in bed at this hour. "What's going on?"
The addressed woman turned to face her immediately. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You're awake! I was so worried when you couldn't seem to wake up no matter what I did, but you didn't have a fever or anything, so I didn't—Oh, wait, I'm sorry. You must be awfully confused, mustn't you?"
Alys' expression confirmed this.
"Ah." Drusilla seemed to settle down a bit. "Well, early this morning, around dawn, I heard this awful scream coming from your room. Of course I came right up, fast as I could, thinking that something terrible must have happened, but when I got here you were just lying here next to the bed, all mussed up like you'd been tossing about. So, next I thought that maybe you'd had a nightmare—but I couldn't wake you for anything. You've been out cold for these—" she glanced out the window, "—close to four hours. I was about to go fetch a healer when you woke up. How are you feeling? Do you have any idea what happened?"
As Drusilla was speaking Alys' memory of the morning trickled back to her: the inundation of silver and then agony, agony—always increasing; growing past the limit of her endurance. She shuddered involuntarily and looked back up at Mrs. Hampton, her mouth opening to speak—but something halted the words in her throat. "I'm fine," she replied instead. "I don't remember what happened, but you're probably right—it must have been just a terrible nightmare."
It wasn't a very good excuse, and didn't explain the long hours of unconsciousness, but Drusilla's worried expression faded slightly. "Alright, I won't make you see a healer," she agreed, "but make sure to take it easy for the rest of the day, just in case. If you feel even the least bit poorly make sure to come to me straight away, alright?"
Alys nodded. "I will."
. . . 203 . . . 204 . . . 205 . . . 206 . . . Okay, this isn't working. I don't even like sheep.
Alys sat up from her bed with a sigh, wondering doubtfully if pacing back and forth across her room would be—even marginally—less boring than laying prone on her bed, counting sheep in a futile attempt to coax her reluctant body into falling asleep. A great deal of the problem, she suspected, lay with the fact that she wasn't yet tired in the slightest: used to an active life, first helping her father in his tin shop in St. Toby's and then, later, traveling through the rough, untamed wilderness with Selendrile, the newly-minted fey found herself restless at Mrs. Hampton's insistence that she take it easy and rest after her 'difficult morning'. Feeling dreadfully out of place, she'd even offered to assist in the kitchen—but Drusilla wouldn't hear of it. The plump woman was still a bit spooked from the incident that morning, though the day had passed them by with nothing else untoward occurring.
I suppose I could take another walk, Alys considered. It did sound better than the alternative (staying there and doing nothing), and Drusilla, however much she might want to, couldn't actually stop Alys from leaving the inn to get some exercise. Alys had developed the habit of going out periodically, whenever the edgy, impatient feeling became too much to allow her to hold still any longer. She never went too far: with her luck, if she was gone too long Mrs. Hampton would panic and send out search parties or something. Her usual pattern involved exiting the front door of the inn, turning right, and walking down the cold, muddy street until she reached Harperton's outskirts—right by a shop dubbed The Tinker's. From there she would make her way back to the inn, usually using the alleys behind the shops, this time, rather than the main street. It got monotonous after awhile, but it beat pacing her room hands down.
She tugged a warm woolen shawl around her shoulders (it was getting more and more chilly outside as winter set in), quickly made her way down the stairs, and called out to Drusilla on her way out the door, not wanting the paranoid woman to worry—or send out the aforementioned search parties. "I'm going for another walk, Mrs. Hampton! Be back soon!"
Drusilla poked her head around the kitchen doorframe, looking slightly disapproving, but resigned. "Alright, Julie. If you happen to spot Mrs. Hampton, tell him to hurry along home, will you? He's been gone for hours!" The head vanished back into the kitchen, but Alys' keen ears could still pick up on the sound of her voice as she muttered uncomplimentary things about her husband under her breath.
And Alys meandered. She drifted along the sparsely populated street, hardly watching the path her feet took in favor of peering through windows and down alleyways, watching the world around her. A filthy but grinning child made mud pies at the edge of the road while his (or her—with the amount of mud, it was impossible to tell) mother looked on, her expression mildly disapproving of her offspring's choice of entertainment. Inside a stable a large man berated a younger one, perhaps his son, who cringed and made excuses for whatever offense he had committed. By the time Alys had reached The Tinker's, her mood was lest restless and more . . . wistful; sort of wondering. These people who surrounded her were human in a way that she would never again be. But the bitterness and regret she expected to accompany the thought never came.
She couldn't regret Selendrile. Even—no, especially—if it turned out that the time they had already spent together was all there would be. Honestly, she had no clue: her new ability was frustratingly silent on the subject. She would survive if he never returned—she would make her way slowly forward, forging a path through life without him by her side—but somehow she couldn't shake the conviction that, without him, she would never again feel truly whole.
Alys' body automatically navigated the shadowed alleys behind the shops while her mind was occupied. If she had been paying closer attention, perhaps she would have noticed the body which lay slumped across the alley in front of her before she literally stumbled across it.
"What the—?" she exclaimed as she leapt back, startled out of her contemplations. Then a frown tugged down at the corners of her mouth; someone collapsed from drunkenness this early in the day? With a huff, she gripped the man's shoulder and tugged at it, turning him until his face was visible—then gasped aloud.
Mr. Hampton's pale features met her shocked gaze; a dark, wet stain soaked his shirt over his belly, where the handle of a knife protruded. But—her finger's darted to his neck, and a faint pulse fluttered there still. His heart still beat; he still lived.
"Help! Somebody help! Somebody get a healer!"
It was all she could do—and she felt so helpless, knowing with a single glance at the wound that it couldn't be nearly enough. Perhaps it was a good sign that he'd survived as long as he had (who knew how long he'd been like this before she found him), but internal injuries of this sort were notorious for the slow, lingering deaths they caused, and he'd already lost so much blood . . .
A face appeared around the corner, responding to her cries, and the owner of said face, realizing the situation at a glance, turned immediately and ran to fetch help. Alys sank to her knees, staring at the innkeeper's pale, horse-like face. If she listened closely, she could hear his shallow breathing.
"Please don't die," she whispered. "Drusilla doesn't deserve that. I don't know you, but I know that she still needs you. Please . . ."
And— she knew suddenly that she had the ability to save him. Or, more specifically—her blood did. She remembered a dream—it seemed so long ago . . .
She ignored the yells; the pounding of running feet as people got wind of what was going on and hurried in hopes of either helping or witnessing a spectacle. She blocked out every outside distraction—everything but the fact that if she did nothing now, the man in front of her would die. Trembling hands grasped the dagger's handle and drew the slick, bloody metal out of the man's stomach, then cast the item aside with disgust. One sharp fingernail came down on her forearm, causing silver blood to swell—and Alys realized belatedly that there wasn't even a scar left to denote that she had performed a similar action merely days before.
Lifting Mr. Hampton's head, she held her bleeding arm to his lips. "Drink," she told him quietly. "Drink. Live."
For a long, breathless moment, nothing happened. (She distantly registered a shouted query of, "What's she doing?" but this was ignored as she kept her eyes fixed firmly on the face in front of her. This was quite literally a matter of life and death.) Then Mr. Hampton's Adam's apple bobbed in a swallowing motion—again, and again as he gulped greedily the life-giving liquid, but the moment his eyes opened Alys pulled her arm back and looked away, feeling faintly nauseous. At the same moment she suddenly became aware again of what was happening around her—and that she had an audience of two: the man she had seen earlier, in the stable, and the young man—just a boy, really—that he'd been shouting at. They stared at her with wide eyes, though those of the older were quickly narrowing.
Just then, more people rounded the corner and came into view.
"There she is!" cried Diggory shrilly, pointing. "Caught red-handed! Look, she's killed my cousin's husband! Murdured him!"
Alys leapt to her feet, too stunned at the accusation to notice Mr. Hampton's pained grunt when his head smacked the ground. "I didn't kill him!" she protested vehemently. "I never harmed him, but I can't have killed him! He's alive!" One arm gestured frantically to the prone—but now conscious—innkeeper.
Diggory stopped in his tracks. "What? That is—I mean, how is that possible? It's plain as day that he's been gutted!" he argued, indicating the knife, which was still red with slowly-drying blood.
But before Alys could reply, someone else did: the man from the stable, trembling with fear or anger—she couldn't have ventured a guess as to which. "She did it! She's a witch, see? She fed him her witch-blood—who knows what else it's done to him! Look at her arm; look at her blood! It's silver!" Mr. Hampton's eyes widened at the words; he wiped his lips unobtrusively.
When Alys took stock of the ten-odd people now crowding the alleyway, she was met with only hostile faces. The only exceptions were Mr. Hampton, who still seemed to be more shocked than anything, and the stable-boy—who was alternating his gaze between his older companion and Mr. Hampton, looking torn. After all, hadn't he just seen the 'witch' save Mr. Hampton's life?
Alys, of course, knew the routine. It had happened to her before, after all. The only difference was that this time she actually had done something supernatural—albeit it still hadn't hurt anyone, and had, in fact, saved a man's life. But she knew from experience that it would make no difference to her accusers, who were blinded by fear (and, she suspected, looking suspiciously at Diggory, greed). She knew this story—it ended with a witch burning at the stake. Only this time there would be no dragon flying in to save her.
AN: Cliffhanger! :D . . . Ahem. Anyway, don't forget to review before you go! C:
~Killer Zebra
