V. H. King's Ink

“You can’t keep casting forever,” Sill said, spotting into her bubble.  “How low are you?”

“Fine—just don’t let them through.”

“They’re getting through, it’s just a matter of time.”  Sill’s eyes narrowed.  “Change of plans: hold the barrier here.  I’ll scout a place for us to spot.”

“What if you can’t get back?”

“Have a bit of faith,” Silly winked.  “It’s going to take more than an army to stop us.”

Their city was burning, and Silly was making jokes.  Of course zi was. 

“Go.”

Shadow closed her eyes for a moment, muttering a quick prayer for Lucille’s safe-keeping as zi looked for some place they could find sanctuary.  Then she turned her attention toward drawing up another measure of strength to keep the barrier in place. 

Doings bring due;

beware the day you face the truth.

Many gods will rise and fall,

Fate returns with wrath that scalds.

The electric zing arcs through her elbows and down to her wrists, shoots from fingers pressed into the broken stones of the Temple.  A sharp cry from the other side of the shadow-wall as the attackers stagger back, tremoring from the shock.  Moderate damage, just enough to steal their breath for a few seconds.  Enough to keep them scrambling.  Enough to keep them from mounting an attack—except hadn’t they already done that?

The Temple is in ruins.  The casting fields are ablaze, the ash of sweet-grass bitter on Shadow’s tongue.  Stav Arielle had been the last elder to perish, an arrow she hadn’t been able to sway off-course.  That had been three days ago.  When Shadow had asked what they would do without the elders, Silly’s answer had been simple. 

We’ll do what they taught us. 

Care for care,

You lay your snares

To overthrow each foe you see

Fist for fist

Receive the kiss

Of Death’s visit upon thee.

Spirits swirl from what’s left of the Temple walls, taking on faces of the ones the attackers have loved and lost.  The shrieks on the other side of the barrier sharpen.  The ghosts are malformed, misshapen—but all the better for that.  Guilt and fear for having killed their precious ones will stall, giving Shadow and Silly more time. 

Silly is a fast spotter—the fastest—but zi’s been at this just as long as Shadow has been.  Each body is made for its own magic, and endurance is proportional to the magic one yields.  They didn’t have to be one stronger than the other, they had to remember to protect themselves and each other. 

Any luck, Silly?

There’s a lock on the branches. 

All of them?

So far.  I’m spotting the Middle Reach and still haven’t found anything.

The Middle Reach?!

Hang tight.  I’m jumping to the Soft Spiral.  We can ascend later, once we’re—

We won’t be able to rise from there, our magic won’t work! 

Have a bit of faith.

The Soft Spiral were the smallest dimensions, axis on the lowest fronds of cosmos.  There were few, if any, portals to them—and most evaporated in a matter of seconds.  If they jumped there, they had to immediately find another—a higher—place to land.  The Middle Reach was a safer bet.  How could all of the dimension branches be locked?  That was the widest part of the cosmos—as wide as the roots of the Spiral Tree. 

Lucille had said they were fighting an army, but it would take more than that to cast and maintain so many locks at once.  Besides, if they jumped from here and this cornerstone was destroyed, they wouldn’t be able to get back to this dimension anyway.  They couldn’t return, wouldn’t be able to rebuild. 

Had it all been meant to come to this?

o-o-o

“You gave them an offering.”

Shadow’s voice is a hoarse croak.  The same way it had been when she had opened her eyes and asked Silly where they were.  She didn’t remember if she or the barrier had collapsed first.  Sill had told her that the blue glow around her wrists had been the only way Silly had been able to find her in the fog. 

The stadium is filled with that same smoky steam.  A singed something wafts on the air.  Shadow tries to sit up, but Silly pushes her back down.  Everything prickles, a thousand needles piercing her skin. 

“How could they take it away?” Shadow rasped.  “How could they steal your joy like that?”

“Is it really stealing, when I gave it willingly?”

“But—“

“It’s a lot to leave behind,” Lucille admitted.  “But the art wasn’t everything.”

“You promised.”  Her voice sounds like a moan, but the toll of casting is a high tide she can’t fight.  “Why?”

“I wanted to see if I still believed.  After so long—doubting, praying but not seeing, ages without seeking—I thought they would kill me.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

Lucille says nothing.  A cool cylinder presses to Shadow’s forehead, then her cheeks.  A frosty outline in Shadow’s peripheral vision as she struggles to keep her eyes open.  Less like an icicle and more like a sword.  She’d never crafted that before.  She hated weaponry.  Hated killing.  Her eyes slip closed, the chill of crushed ice soothing her into something like sleep.