Chapter Fifteen

Wyrm may have been defeated, but nothing so evil ever really dies. Lord had cut him in two and left the pieces to rot in the UnderEarth. Each of those halves had a different fate.

From the first rose the Tellurians. Spawning like a host of maggots from his gargantuan corpse, this race of monsters was born. Creature of endless nightmare variety, they shunned the daylight and haunted the caverns of the UnderEarth. Enemies of both the remaining gods and of humanity, they were forced to remain below, living out their lives in blind hatred and savagery.

The second half was not given a chance to fester. Serpent, one of Wyrm’s chief allies, devoured it whole. Much of Wyrm’s power and all of his wicked hunger passed into her. She became sick and in the agonies of metamorphosis sought the farthest depths of the earth to be alone in her suffering. Years passed in wretched changing, and when it was finished, Serpent had grown ten times over, her form twisting and sharpening all the while.

She became Bolarian, the Dragon Mother, but was trapped by her newfound girth; buried beneath tunnels too small to accommodate her, unable to attain the surface world. The mountains trembled above her helpless fury.

The Tellurians, too, were changing in this time and flourishing in the lightless depths of their strongholds. Many of their breed worshipped the Dragon Mother and fed her their own flesh in her captivity. But one among them desired more.

Malviscis discovered a relic of the first age, an artifact powerful enough to bind Bolarian to him. He taught her the languages of soil and stone so that she could pass through the ground as easily as water. Finally, she was free of her prison, but Malviscis’ magic made her his servant.

So the age passed, and Bolarian was a tool of the Tellurians. The gods slept, and the third age began, the Age of Wizards. The Dragon Mother was the terror of her time, and none who lived could stand against her power. None save those who kept her bound. The enchantments that enforced Bolarian’s bondage were so tightly woven into her flesh that she could not escape them without losing herself.

Centuries fell away, and the realms of men underwent endless revolutions. It was a human sorcerer who showed her the way. The Dragon Mother became a woman.

She lived that way for many seasons, and without her, the Tellurians’ power waned. Bolarian forgot herself and took another name. She loved a man and carried a child; her soul split in two.

It was not until the child was born that the Shadow of her former existence reasserted itself. Shedding her soft flesh and softer humanity, Bolarian returned to the UnderEarth. She was armed with the knowledge of her freedom and eager to avenge the years of her abuse. She spared less than a thought to the family she left behind.

But the spurned husband cared deeply for his daughter. While Bolarian fought her bloody wars below, the girl grew strong and beautiful. She was human, but a dead god lived on in her blood.

This was the beginning of the line of Wyrm.

My head ached, and a drowsy numbness crept from my toes to my chest. I felt as if I had been pumped full of embalming fluid. I couldn’t read another page; the letters swam into angry, buzzing shapes, as if the book was frustrated by my retarded progress. It probably was, but I wasn’t going to drink any more Soma, and I didn’t plan on participating in many more lessons either.

The book could get over itself.

Timothy was watching me, his face unreadable. His eyes glanced casually over my untouched drink, as they had done several times since we arrived in the library. He made no comment.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said. “I need some fresh air.”

Both true, in their way. My headache was entirely due to mentally wrestling with Wyrm , but my fever had never abated like Timothy said it would. It didn’t make me sick or even feel feverish, but my temperature ran a steady one hundred degrees. I did need to go outside, but not for the healthful atmosphere. I needed to ask Bolton a few questions.

Timothy pondered this, and then gave his assent. “Do you need help finding your way?”

I shook my head. “I can make it.”

“Good.” He smiled. “You’ll be a sorcerer yet.” His eyes flickered directly back to the book he was reading; a mammoth, gray cloth thing, so he missed my grimace at those words. I would never become a sorcerer. I would never allow myself to become like them.

Thankfully though, I was having less trouble getting around the house. Ever since I had visited the garden, the enchantments that kept the place so confusing responded better to me. I had learned to stop focusing on where I was at the moment and instead think about where I wanted to go. It was the same premise as using the magic door. The firmer my concentration, the faster I reached my destination.

This time, it was only a minute or two before I was in the open. Under a stark blue sky, the mountains hemming in every side of the ranch seemed more forbidding than ever. It had been two days since the sorcerers returned, bringing the Pard with them. The creature itself was penned in a makeshift shed beside the golems’ barracks. The tin walls were only a screen; they could not have held her. It was the sigils painted and carved all over the structure that did the job of keeping her captive.

I had to contact Li, but I didn’t know how. I couldn’t maintain the illusion that everything was the same as before, even though the only thing to change was my perception. Before long, Timothy would realize what was different, and I didn’t know what would happen then.

Bolton was his usual amiably cantankerous self, giving his best horsey glower whenever he spotted one of the golems at work or on a patrol. However, he was pleased as ever to see me.

“Abby, dear Abby, always a delight,” he whinnied.

“Hey, Bolton.”

“You missed a very nearly exciting morning.”

I patted his nose. “How could it be very nearly exciting? Was it or wasn’t it?”

“There’s a trick to it,” he whispered conspiratorially, though of course there was no one around to hear. “I very nearly clouted one of the golems while it was mucking out my stall.”

“That would have been exciting. What had it done?”

He snorted, causing me to back step. “It is not what it did, it’s what it is . Every day I think I am coming closer to trying. If I could only be sure the others wouldn’t circle in to save their compatriot, I would be certain of victory.”

“I don’t like them either,” I said, “but they can’t help what they are.”

He squinted at me with rheumy but intent eyes. “I sense a fallacy,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“If they cannot help but be the worthless, detestable clay pots that they are,” he paused as if reaching for a punch line, “then I cannot help but hate them.”

“At least, be careful,” I sighed.

“I am old, Abby, but oh, that they would test me.”

As we made our trek around the fence my eyes were constantly scanning the tree line for any sign of Li. Timothy had made it clear we were not allowed to take our rides as close to the wards as we had once before. Now that I had seen the Pard, he said, I should better understand the dangers that lurked outside.

I did. I understood the dangers within the boundary better as well. I understood what was more important than a little danger. I understood what I needed to do.

“Have you had any midnight visitors?” I asked Bolton on a quiet curve.

“Not the one you are hoping for. The golems have kept a very active watch of late.”

That could be because of the woman who was after me, or they could be looking for Li. Did they suspect? What if he had come and Milton had been waiting for him? I might never know that he had been captured. I could be hoping to catch sight of someone who I would never see again.

Shut up.

I hate secrets. I’m bad at conspiracies. Fretting over them wasn’t going to make anything succeed where it wouldn’t have otherwise, and it wasn’t going to prevent any catastrophes. If I didn’t see Li soon, I would just have to leave some kind of message for him in the woods. Something Timothy wouldn’t understand, if it was found, but something that would let Li know I believed him. Maybe I would draw a unicorn.

Yeah, like that would make sense to anyone.

There was nothing suspicious about my spending time with Bolton, nothing Timothy could read from it. He was, after all, their horse. Their livestock like the Fae. They wouldn’t care whether his loyalties no longer lay with them. He was below their notice. They would not care what had turned him bitter.

My back was to the pond now, to the copse where I had met with Li and he had performed his disappearing act. There was no more expectation of a sighting today. That meant one more lesson at least, one more day of lies. He had said he was going to rescue me. Well then, where was he now, when it was the Fae who needed rescuing?

“Bolton, if I was running away, would you come with me?”

The horse released a long and heavy breath. “I would do everything I could to help you, Abby, but I could not leave this place.”

“Why? What’s keeping you here? Timothy said you had a mare that…” I clasped a hand over my mouth. I was intruding on what he had plainly said was none of my business, but this time, he didn’t clam up.

“So, he spoke of her, did he? That ignoble mouth could never keep its peace.” He gave a low, acidic chuckle. “I will tell you then, rather than have you believe whatever lies he spoke. It will answer your other question as well--why I cannot leave.”

After this, for a stretch so prolonged I began to think he had changed his mind; there was only the sound of his hooves clapping on the soil. He had been gathering his memories, drawing up images of roads now paved or forgotten by all but him, dredging up the years. Then, using his best fireside address voice, Bolton spoke.

“When Milton made me what I am, he was still young. His heart was young. He was a new wizard, and we travelled to places that men no longer know. The world was different then.

Magic was dying and had been dying for centuries. The wizards knew it, and they knew the cause. Milton, in his arrogance, proposed to bring it back. The elders refused. The Council, as they call it, forbade him from pursuing the matter. It might have ended there had not Milton pushed and pushed until his fellows cast him out.

He was a sorcerer then, a wild wizard no more bound by the laws of men or magic. They allowed him to go his own path because it is against their laws to bring first harm.”

“Wizards have laws?”

“Yes, listen!”

I shushed.

“Milton went his own path to places that others dared not go. He made bargains with those that were remnants of an earlier age, and from them he learned power. He spoke of his aims to me; dreaming grand schemes, plotting to renew the world to its bygone glories, not caring if a thing was wise as long as it was great.

He collected relics and found ways to store his energy against future use, rather than let it mingle freely with what wizards call the World Soul. He gathered so much to himself that if the Council had discovered how far he had gone, they could not have stymied him. He had grown too strong.

As the world changed and magic continued its gradual decline, he took an apprentice. Timothy, a waif with talent, adapted well to Milton’s wandering ways. For him they made another like me. Her name was Nessa, but by this time horses were no longer the fashion. We were antiquated and out of place. It mattered little to the sorcerers. They care nothing for this age of machines, but more significantly, their travels were done. We settled here and began what Milton had once told me would be his great work.

Nessa and I were not necessary to their plots any longer, but they kept us close out of what I believed to be sentimentality. Seasons passed. Nessa and I were two of a kind, the only two to live in this late age I think. There is no need for me to speak of how much that meant.”

He paused. We had reached the barn, and it was time for me to brush him down.

“Not much more,” he said. “Do as you would any other day.”

So I went about the grooming ritual as he finished.

“It was twenty years ago,” he slowly intoned, “perhaps a shade less. My reckonings are limited to the seasons. In any case, there was a sort of drought. For reasons I never understood, the World Soul briefly ran dry, like a dam breaking to release a reservoir. They could not catch the power.

In order to keep up their work and their enchantments, they were forced to draw from their personal reserves. They had kept magical energy stored away against such a crisis in a variety of containers. One subject of this kind you see before you. Another was Nessa. Living vessels for their work are better I suppose, but we can still be used up. We can be drained.

The crisis passed as inexplicably as it came, but with its passing, I was alone.”

I hugged Bolton’s neck. I hugged it tightly, having no words to ease his pain.

“I am tied into their webs, Abby. I cannot leave. I cannot die. I hope that you do escape, and I hope I never meet another like you, because that one would surely become theirs. If you find a way, take it. I will help you if I can.”

I said nothing. If I had it would have been muffled by his mane. A minute passed in silence, and I wiped my eyes. I thought of the Fae being ground into powder and feared the same being done to Bolton or something worse.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

The horse went through a complicated motion that would pass as a shrug. “Never be sorry for what is not your fault.”

That is the last thing he said to me.

Before I returned to the house and to an evening that promised to be rife with fruitless worrying, my eyes locked onto the recently erected shed. I knew she was inside. I knew I couldn’t help her even if I should, which I wasn’t sure of either, but I had to go. I had to see.

No one was near, not even the golems, so when I reached the shed I was alone with the Pard. Gaps between the slats allowed me to catch glimpses of her as she shifted within. If she looked, she could see me as well.

The Pard was as dark as I remembered, but the stars had faded from her coat. Skin hung loosely over her shoulders but clung tightly to her ribs, accentuating every hollow. A low keening emanated from her throat. It filled me with a sense of bereavement, reverberating in my chest and making me remember every sadness I knew--my displacement, my loneliness, my dad. They rose and rose until I choked on them.

The Pard’s ears twitched, freezing me in place.

She is in chains; she is in chains, and she can’t get you.

Slowly, the feline creature twisted, fetters clinking, until it could see me. I flinched under her implacable gaze; not eyes at all but roiling orbs of molten jade. Trails of fiery tears had carved their way down her protruding cheekbones. Did cats cry? The fury of the other day had vanished. It had all been drained away.

“What are they doing to you?” I whispered to myself, but the Pard answered.

“They are eating me.”

I didn’t stumble or falter backward. I leaned closer to the slats. Where had my fear gone? Her voice was the same smoky contralto I had heard only once before, and it evinced no sign of the deterioration of her body. It was matter of fact. I had the oddest sensation that we had known each other forever, known each other as players in the same insuperable game. It was the opposite of the impression that I had received from Li upon first meeting him. He was in the game as well, but he played for the other team. That was insane. It was impossible. The Pard was a monster, yet a deep and unfamiliar voice was telling me that we were one and the same.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want them to do this to you.”

The Pard made a sound like sandpaper scraping concrete. It was chuckling.

“You know better than that. This is the way of the Hunger. They hunt us, predators like you and I. They caught me, so I am theirs. Unless,” the emerald eyes flared briefly with old wrath, “no, I cannot take them. They have won.” The fires dimmed; the chains hung limply with resignation.

“It’s not right,” I said, “to do this to anyone.”

She looked startled, an unusual expression for a demon panther, and then bemused.

“You really don’t know?” The raspy chuckle came again. “Silly child, I would eat you if I could. I would bite out your heart if I had the chance.”

“That doesn’t make torture OK.” It was impossible to interpret the expression she made.

“You are a very strange girl.”

“I’m in a strange story,” I replied. Li, too, had called me strange, but I don’t accept character assessments from magic tigers or strangers in general.

The rasp came a third time. “You will learn. When your Shadow wakes, you will learn.”

“My shadow? What are you talking about?”

The Pard didn’t answer. She looked exhausted, and the fires were barely coals in her eyes. She turned her back to me, laying her head between her paws.

“What shadow?” I repeated, but was met with silence.

As I walked away from the shed, I heard the sandpaper grating of her quiet laughter. I ignored it. This wasn’t right. Whether the Pard was an innocent, or a hunter of humans, or just evil; caging her like that was wrong. They were draining her of magic, as if it were blood. She had to feel herself dying either way. If I had never seen the Fae I might never have tried talking to her and wouldn’t have felt this way. Timothy’s explanation would have been enough--the Pard was deadly; she was terrifying. Better she be confined for any reason than be allowed to roam free.

But the Fae had changed me, woken me up. Li or no Li, I would find a way to stop this; to stop the sorcerers from treating others this way.

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