Aya’s sleep was, rather blessedly, dream free. When she awoke for the second time that morning, she managed to sit up. Her body was consumed with a dull ache as she tried to piece together what fractured memories she could.
She had been on the rooftop, facing down a pale thing, and the ghost had appeared and she had touched it and- Fire, now that she remembered. Heat and light and blue and yellow flame, exploding into life, blowing away that icy fog. Then the rest was a blur.
She had obviously managed to get down somehow into the church, and the pale light that came in through the smaller windows told her it was morning. There was a small thrill when she realised that they’d survived the night, tempered by the remaining unnatural fear. The monsters had not left, then, but by the quiet, perhaps they’d stopped attacking for now.
Niche was by her side the moment she managed to raise herself, asking how she was, if she needed anything, a bandage, some water, a nurse. Aya looked bleary-eyed at the various people working in hushed tones around the church. When Niche had asked his sixth question, she turned back to him.
“Please be quiet,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “I can’t think.”
He fell silent, appropriately reprimanded for the time being.
“I’m fine,” she added quickly, “but sore.”
She quickly discovered that her arm and side had some ugly dark bruising, and remembered how one of the flying beasts had tackled her to the roof. Lillian had saved her from the gaping maws of the creature. With that, the last little bits of the night fell into place, save for the half-remembered dreams, which remained only impressions.
“What time is it?” she said, swinging her feet out from the furs that covered her.
It took her two tries to steady herself - her legs burned like she’d been hiking for hours. Niche helped her to her feet on the second, before answering:
“Sometime in the late morning, my lady,” he said, “it’s hard to tell with the lost damned fog around us.”
“Right,” she said, scanning through the church, finding only Frare as a familiar face. The boy was propped against one of the pillars, with both eyes closed. If he was sleeping or merely pretending to sleep, she couldn’t tell.
“Right,” she repeated, “where’s Sorore? And Lillian?”
“They…” Niche began, his face screwing up, “they went to see the mage.”
A bit absurdly, Aya felt a small amount of… jealousy? Pushing it down, she looked for any sight of them, but they were lost among the crowd.
“The mage? To do what?” she said, taking a few, heavy steps down from the dias.
“To learn how to create the blade. To unlock something in the church basement,” he said, “it needed to be done with magic, or so that miserable creature said.”
Aya looked back on him, seeing his face darken as he mentioned Efrain.
“Okay? So then, where are they?” she said, “the roof?”
“Why would they- Lady Aya, sit down. You can’t go wandering around after what you’ve been through. Least of not when those foul things could attack at any time.”
Aya wanted to tell him to his face that he had no idea what she’d been through, and that a walk was paltry compared to it. His expression however, told her that arguments would not work this time. They were clearly putting their foot down, at least in her case.
Though she resented it, she supposed running toward monsters during a fight was no small justification. So, instead, she sat on the steps, feeling the extent of her bruising every time she breathed. Frare was beside her before she even realised he’d awoken, and sniffed judiciously.
“You look like you’re hurting,” he said, eyes bright.
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling some of the furs around her shoulders.
“You don’t look fine,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
“I’ll live. Besides there are others who-”
Frare was already off toward a busy section of the church, arrayed behind a series of curtains. The moans and children rushing back and forth with bucketfuls of red bandages told her enough. He was off to find a nurse for her.
She grimaced as she pulled the robe tighter - she didn’t need another person to fawn over her. She’d had enough of that in her life, short as it may’ve been. In any case, Frare soon returned, with none other than Claralelle in tow. The woman had a different air about her, something more formal, more focused. The books and scrolls around her waist were gone, replaced by open cases with rungs of various steel and silver implements of different shapes.
“Frare told me that you needed help,” she said, cocking her head and looking down with a smile.
“No, really, I’m fi-” was all she managed before Frare had come up behind her and whisked the fur away from her shoulders.
“Mage,” Niche said, stepping in front of her.
“Paladin,” said Clara with another smile. This one was less easy and less comfortable, scrawled with some imaginary scratching tool rather than a brush stroke.
“I will attend her,” he said, “go back to your practice.”
“Okay,” she said, craning up and around his shoulder, a relatively easy task given her height, “where does it hurt?”
Niche began to start about how he’d already warned her and she should return to her post immediately. Aya understood that she had already taken an interest, and that she should merely let her do what she would. She stood up, and moved past Niche, just wanting to get this over with.
“I was tackled by one of… one of the beasts. I…”
Aya held up her arm to show Clara the bruising, to which the woman smiled wider. Rather odd, but given the perpetual nature of that smile, it seemed little out of the ordinary.
“Come with me. You too paladin. Your neck and shoulder needs to be looked at, and you have cuts on your arm that need stitching and binding,” she said, turning on her heel towards the medic bay.
“No,” said Niche.
Clara looked back, and the smile dropped from her lips. Her neutral expression had a strained quality, and the voice, while still cheerful, had an edge. It was almost as if she was trying to be angry, but was stopped half way by something.
“Then you can go into your next battle with infected wounds, barely able to lift your sword or turn your head. Your lady might have multiple fractured ribs that would pierce her lung. It would kill her almost as quickly as the monsters would. You can make the stupid choice, or the correct one, as my master used to say!”
Niche glowered at her, and then looked back at Aya who raised an eyebrow.
“She fixed Lillian’s arm, Niche. How well would she’ve fought with that injury?” she said, “I think she’s done enough to earn our trust. At least for now.”
“She would’ve managed,” Niche grumbled, but Aya didn’t bother to wait and see if he had a further argument. Instead she followed Claralelle to the station, finding beds full of injured men and women. At the back, near the wall, were two dozen mounds covered by sheets.
Aya’s heart sank as she saw the smallest.
“Pierced right through his centre line,” Clara said as her eyes flicked to the body, “he bled to death by the time they got him down the stairs.”
Her face had that lifeless flatness, still neutral, but underneath, Aya could see the sadness. She felt her heart take to the stranger a little more. Clara must’ve felt guilty that her skills were not enough to save the child.
Either way, she was led behind a narrow curtain where a small table, littered with parchment and an odd device, reminiscent of a quill, sat in an ink flask. There was another, larger table, with a sheet bundled under where the head must’ve been meant to rest. Candles were littered around, burning with a gentle orange light.
“Right then. Let’s get these off,” said Claralell, turning around to face the paladin and Frare, “if you don’t mind.”
Frare flushed slightly as he turned and went around the curtain. Niche sighed, not flushing, and turned his back to stare rigidly at the opposite wall. Claralelle was about to put her hands on his shoulders, presumably to push him out, when Aya shook her head. Claralelle’s smile returned as Aya haltingly pulled the robe over her head and removed the undershirt.
The air felt especially cold on her skin as she placed them on the cathedral ground. Immediately she longed for the warmth of her clothes as Clara took her wrist and raised her arm above her head. The woman leaned over and examined the skin so close that Aya could feel her breath on her side. She didn’t say a word as she bent and flexed her arm this way and that, save to order her to bend her torso this way and that, watching intently.
Finally, firm but with exceptional delicacy, Claralelle felt every inch of her exposed arm, collarbone and ribs. Aya could’ve sworn that Clara’s eyes subtly shifted hues as long fingers slid along the lengths of Aya’s ribs. Any sort of embarrassed consciousness about how meagre her body may or may not have been were pushed away by another sensation.
Little vibrations passed through her side, each one bringing a fresh surge of mild pain. She could feel her flesh ripple slightly, and an almost ticklish sensation as Clara conducted her examination. Finally the woman stood up with an almost toothy grin as she swept up the clothes from the floor and presented them to Aya.
“Just bruises, nothing else,” she said, “most of the impact you took with your arm.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Niche’s shoulders lower slightly.
“Now you’ll be sore for quite a few days, assuming we survive for quite a few days,” said Clara as Aya began to redress, “if anything changes, if it gets harder to breath, or if you feel sudden pain in your side that lasts, come see me. Now!”
She clapped her hands, leading Aya to fidget, much to the complaint of her arm and side.
“Your turn paladin!” she said, turning to spread her arms with an expectant quality to her smile.
Niche was not impressed but with cajoling from both Aya and Clara, the stubborn soldier finally sat down.
“Off with your armour, then,” she said, despite the sour look from Niche.
He had stripped down to his chain mail, revealing a powerful if rather stocky frame. He attempted to remove that too, only to stop with a hiss.
“You silly man,” Clara said, already laying out tools, “the chain mail has been partly driven into the wound. You’re lucky to come to me. You would’ve had a very unpleasant time if it’d started to heal over.”
Aya had turned away and was preparing to go when Niche called out.
“No. You stay, lady Aya,” he said.
“But-”
“Of you three, lord Frare is the only one that has proven that he won’t wander off. You stay.”
She couldn’t argue with that really, so she stayed as Claralelle carefully extracted the broken chainmail from his wounds. After that, off came the mail and off came the shirt, at which point Aya turned away in shame. This was quite different from swimming with friends in the lakes she’d grown up by.
“You’re lucky you didn’t rupture a tendon,” said Clara, working away as she sewed and bound his wounds, “you’re swinging a sword of that weight around like it’s a switch. Your body’s not reinforced enough to take that.”
At this there was a long silence from Niche, which prompted Aya to look back at him. On his face was an expression of abject surprise at the statement, which was quickly suppressed into annoyance as she plucked at another wound.
It took another few minutes before he was cleared by Claralelle, with a standard set of instructions for wound care and to come see her if anything changed. He redressed and stood, taking his leave as Aya followed behind him to the altar.
“See?” she said, “not so bad.”
Niche murmured a vague assent, but seemed lost in thought as he moved on to the altar. Lillian was there to greet them, along with Sorore, lying in her brother’s lap. She seemed exhausted, but happy, leading Aya to wonder what exactly she’d done with Efrain. Again the jealousy leaped, and again, she pressed it down into the abyss.
“Aya!” she said, a little breathlessly as both paladins talked in hushed tones, “I did it. I did magic!”
“You did?” she said.
The girl excitedly reported the morning’s results as a bell rang. The signal for breakfast, or so Aya gathered as men began to appear with bowls of soup and chunks of bread. Their own fare was about as good, and Aya found that she was quite hungry herself. As the three children sat in parallel, speaking about their night and morning, there was almost a sense of peace. That is, there would be, if there was no lingering chill in the base of their hearts, or the smothering sense of cold around them.
The paladins for the most part were glum as they took their rations, mostly sharing short clipped words between them. Whatever humiliation or reticence they felt about the mage and magic seems to be thrust aside in favour of sheer pragmatism. When Aya relayed that he’d accepted treatment from Claralelle, Lillian’s eyes widened.
“It’s true,” he said, grudging every word, “she may be a mage, but she works quickly.”
“She knows what she’s doing,” said Aya, with no small amount of satisfaction, “you have to admit that.”
Niche’s nostrils flared, but he nodded at last, before taking another gulp of soup.
“We are dependent on him, somewhat,” Lillian said heavily, “I don’t like it. Neither of us do or should. But war makes strange fellows. When this is over, he will be dealt with, one way or another.”
Aya didn’t much like the sound of that, but decided that she’d pushed them far enough. At the very least they weren’t actively trying to kill him now. The three finished their lunch and Sorore clambered into the furs, professing that she had the need for a short nap. Aya elected to join her, despite the long sleep, she felt the toll of her injuries. The two girls giggled as they slipped into the warmth of the furs, and Sorore shared further stories of Erratz. Aya could almost see that sea-side city and its bustling canyon as she drifted away into sleep.
This time, however, the sleep was not dreamless.
She was in a hall, a great hall, larger than any she’d ever been before. Pillars of jet black stone reached into the darkness above, stretching out into interminable mist. The floor was cold, but she barely noticed as she made her way silently along it. Red-yellow light began to taint the mists on either side, growing brighter as she made her way along.
As she approached, she heard a distant clang!, and then another, each accompanied by a light so bright it flung the pillars into harsh relief. It was in the direction she was heading she realised. The brightness to either side and ahead only grew, until she could see the details of the grain of the stone in the red wash.
As she moved further and further, she heard the sound of bubbling and rushing, and to either side were the source of the red glow. Rivers of molten metal and stone, moving through deep stone channels. Through their vapours, she could see other channels, all converging towards the centre point.
And then, she was on a vast open floor, with the pillars vanishing behind her. A great spiralling inlay guided the various metals and rock into gargantuan pools and moulds. Its scale alone would be astonishing, but more awesome still was the figure at the centre. She struggled to see any detail, wrapped as they were in vapour and the glow of the area.
Around them, rivers of molten metal lifted from the channels below into concentric white hot ribbons. She watched as they raised some great tool and slammed it down. The explosion of sparks made the whole room shudder, the ribbons of metal blurring as they vibrated, hanging in the air.
The tones they produced echoed out into air, tones and overtones, harmonies, and with another crash of their tool, rhythm. The metal leapt, some of the ribbons flowing in, some out, some assuming different shapes. The tones changed, the harmonies moved, and with a final blinding explosion of sparks, Aya smiled.
A song, sung by steel.
Aya awoke from the dream, noting immediately that the outside light had faded somewhat and that the ache was lessened. Sorore’s eyes opened in the exact same moment and stared into hers. The understanding popped into Aya’s head that the two had dreamt the exact same dream.
Before they could say anything about the shared experience, they found Lillian standing over them. Her expression was less than pleased, but she did look more rested than before. Perhaps she’d gotten some sleep as they did.
“Lady Sorore, it’s time,” she said, “we must resume the lesson. Or so the mage says.”
Sorore got up, yawned and stretched, pulling the furs off her as she did so. She allowed herself to be led away, pulling back her hair into something resembling neatness. Aya didn’t even bother to follow, rather looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
More than anything right now, she wished she could hear her mother’s stories again. But her mother was hundreds of leagues away, high in the mountains, and she was stranded here, possibly about to die. It was with no small amount of bitterness that she huddled deeper into the blanket and looked out on the church with all its people businging around.
It wasn’t like the afternoon before, when they’d been nervous certainly, but still not fully drenched in the hunger of those things from the fog. She reflected on the fact that she still didn’t know the name of the things. Maybe no one knew, and she’d have to name them. It was a joke without much humour.
Why? What was the point? Was it her or the other children or both? Was it some ancient mountain spirit, bringing down its wroth on the church. The alderman, although careful, had implied that in his infrequent conversations with her. The church was foreign, maybe even an invader to these lands, he’d said, and while they might accept them, the older residents of the valley might not.
Her thoughts turned to the red-eyed man who’d saved her that first night, which felt like ages ago now. He wasn’t a denizen of the valley, she was sure, but he’d mentioned the master of the frozen vale. Maybe they had sent the creatures to chase the church out his valley. Maybe the invading force was the group of knights, and she’d merely been caught up in it all. The thoughts had almost left her head when she sat bolt upright.
‘Efrain’.
The man with the crimson eyes had said that hadn’t he?
“The person you’re looking for is named ‘Efrain’.” The one who might help her out of ‘curiosity alone’.
The thoughts rang like a bell in her head as the shadowy figure she’d heard about all her life was confronted with a black coated man. After the initial shock, she sat there for a moment, and chuckled. Then she laughed.
Niche turned to her with confusion, Frare, a questioning look. She waved them away, covering her smile.
“Nothing,” she said, “just something my mother said to me a long time ago.”
The master of the frozen vale, who’d send terrible creatures out over the centuries to steal maidens for his larder. Efrain, a stuffy, old mage who seemed fascinated with the children, constantly bickering with the paladins. And he had helped them twice, and he was teaching them magic.
No, Aya thought, he didn’t send the beasts. He’s as trapped as we are in here, and now he has to help us, even if he doesn’t want to.
Maybe this was all some complex scheme to get the church out of his lands. Or maybe it had started that way and had completely fallen apart when he’d meet them. Either way, they were stuck with him, as much as he was stuck with them.
And now, she thought, without malice, I know at least one of his secrets.
With that little nugget of knowledge stored away in her head, she pulled the covers back over herself. Informing Niche that she would sleep until Sorore came back, she lay her head down with a smile. Soon enough, she was lost between bizarre shapes, sounds and smells as she wandered through her dreams.
Not even aware of it, behind her, uncountable eyes of every shape and size watched, each glowing a luminous blue
Aya’s sleep was, rather blessedly, dream free. When she awoke for the second time that morning, she managed to sit up. Her body was consumed with a dull ache as she tried to piece together what fractured memories she could.
She had been on the rooftop, facing down a pale thing, and the ghost had appeared and she had touched it and- Fire, now that she remembered. Heat and light and blue and yellow flame, exploding into life, blowing away that icy fog. Then the rest was a blur.
She had obviously managed to get down somehow into the church, and the pale light that came in through the smaller windows told her it was morning. There was a small thrill when she realised that they’d survived the night, tempered by the remaining unnatural fear. The monsters had not left, then, but by the quiet, perhaps they’d stopped attacking for now.
Niche was by her side the moment she managed to raise herself, asking how she was, if she needed anything, a bandage, some water, a nurse. Aya looked bleary-eyed at the various people working in hushed tones around the church. When Niche had asked his sixth question, she turned back to him.
“Please be quiet,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “I can’t think.”
He fell silent, appropriately reprimanded for the time being.
“I’m fine,” she added quickly, “but sore.”
She quickly discovered that her arm and side had some ugly dark bruising, and remembered how one of the flying beasts had tackled her to the roof. Lillian had saved her from the gaping maws of the creature. With that, the last little bits of the night fell into place, save for the half-remembered dreams, which remained only impressions.
“What time is it?” she said, swinging her feet out from the furs that covered her.
It took her two tries to steady herself - her legs burned like she’d been hiking for hours. Niche helped her to her feet on the second, before answering:
“Sometime in the late morning, my lady,” he said, “it’s hard to tell with the lost damned fog around us.”
“Right,” she said, scanning through the church, finding only Frare as a familiar face. The boy was propped against one of the pillars, with both eyes closed. If he was sleeping or merely pretending to sleep, she couldn’t tell.
“Right,” she repeated, “where’s Sorore? And Lillian?”
“They…” Niche began, his face screwing up, “they went to see the mage.”
A bit absurdly, Aya felt a small amount of… jealousy? Pushing it down, she looked for any sight of them, but they were lost among the crowd.
“The mage? To do what?” she said, taking a few, heavy steps down from the dias.
“To learn how to create the blade. To unlock something in the church basement,” he said, “it needed to be done with magic, or so that miserable creature said.”
Aya looked back on him, seeing his face darken as he mentioned Efrain.
“Okay? So then, where are they?” she said, “the roof?”
“Why would they- Lady Aya, sit down. You can’t go wandering around after what you’ve been through. Least of not when those foul things could attack at any time.”
Aya wanted to tell him to his face that he had no idea what she’d been through, and that a walk was paltry compared to it. His expression however, told her that arguments would not work this time. They were clearly putting their foot down, at least in her case.
Though she resented it, she supposed running toward monsters during a fight was no small justification. So, instead, she sat on the steps, feeling the extent of her bruising every time she breathed. Frare was beside her before she even realised he’d awoken, and sniffed judiciously.
“You look like you’re hurting,” he said, eyes bright.
“I’m fine,” she said, pulling some of the furs around her shoulders.
“You don’t look fine,” he said, clearly unconvinced.
“I’ll live. Besides there are others who-”
Frare was already off toward a busy section of the church, arrayed behind a series of curtains. The moans and children rushing back and forth with bucketfuls of red bandages told her enough. He was off to find a nurse for her.
She grimaced as she pulled the robe tighter - she didn’t need another person to fawn over her. She’d had enough of that in her life, short as it may’ve been. In any case, Frare soon returned, with none other than Claralelle in tow. The woman had a different air about her, something more formal, more focused. The books and scrolls around her waist were gone, replaced by open cases with rungs of various steel and silver implements of different shapes.
“Frare told me that you needed help,” she said, cocking her head and looking down with a smile.
“No, really, I’m fi-” was all she managed before Frare had come up behind her and whisked the fur away from her shoulders.
“Mage,” Niche said, stepping in front of her.
“Paladin,” said Clara with another smile. This one was less easy and less comfortable, scrawled with some imaginary scratching tool rather than a brush stroke.
“I will attend her,” he said, “go back to your practice.”
“Okay,” she said, craning up and around his shoulder, a relatively easy task given her height, “where does it hurt?”
Niche began to start about how he’d already warned her and she should return to her post immediately. Aya understood that she had already taken an interest, and that she should merely let her do what she would. She stood up, and moved past Niche, just wanting to get this over with.
“I was tackled by one of… one of the beasts. I…”
Aya held up her arm to show Clara the bruising, to which the woman smiled wider. Rather odd, but given the perpetual nature of that smile, it seemed little out of the ordinary.
“Come with me. You too paladin. Your neck and shoulder needs to be looked at, and you have cuts on your arm that need stitching and binding,” she said, turning on her heel towards the medic bay.
“No,” said Niche.
Clara looked back, and the smile dropped from her lips. Her neutral expression had a strained quality, and the voice, while still cheerful, had an edge. It was almost as if she was trying to be angry, but was stopped half way by something.
“Then you can go into your next battle with infected wounds, barely able to lift your sword or turn your head. Your lady might have multiple fractured ribs that would pierce her lung. It would kill her almost as quickly as the monsters would. You can make the stupid choice, or the correct one, as my master used to say!”
Niche glowered at her, and then looked back at Aya who raised an eyebrow.
“She fixed Lillian’s arm, Niche. How well would she’ve fought with that injury?” she said, “I think she’s done enough to earn our trust. At least for now.”
“She would’ve managed,” Niche grumbled, but Aya didn’t bother to wait and see if he had a further argument. Instead she followed Claralelle to the station, finding beds full of injured men and women. At the back, near the wall, were two dozen mounds covered by sheets.
Aya’s heart sank as she saw the smallest.
“Pierced right through his centre line,” Clara said as her eyes flicked to the body, “he bled to death by the time they got him down the stairs.”
Her face had that lifeless flatness, still neutral, but underneath, Aya could see the sadness. She felt her heart take to the stranger a little more. Clara must’ve felt guilty that her skills were not enough to save the child.
Either way, she was led behind a narrow curtain where a small table, littered with parchment and an odd device, reminiscent of a quill, sat in an ink flask. There was another, larger table, with a sheet bundled under where the head must’ve been meant to rest. Candles were littered around, burning with a gentle orange light.
“Right then. Let’s get these off,” said Claralell, turning around to face the paladin and Frare, “if you don’t mind.”
Frare flushed slightly as he turned and went around the curtain. Niche sighed, not flushing, and turned his back to stare rigidly at the opposite wall. Claralelle was about to put her hands on his shoulders, presumably to push him out, when Aya shook her head. Claralelle’s smile returned as Aya haltingly pulled the robe over her head and removed the undershirt.
The air felt especially cold on her skin as she placed them on the cathedral ground. Immediately she longed for the warmth of her clothes as Clara took her wrist and raised her arm above her head. The woman leaned over and examined the skin so close that Aya could feel her breath on her side. She didn’t say a word as she bent and flexed her arm this way and that, save to order her to bend her torso this way and that, watching intently.
Finally, firm but with exceptional delicacy, Claralelle felt every inch of her exposed arm, collarbone and ribs. Aya could’ve sworn that Clara’s eyes subtly shifted hues as long fingers slid along the lengths of Aya’s ribs. Any sort of embarrassed consciousness about how meagre her body may or may not have been were pushed away by another sensation.
Little vibrations passed through her side, each one bringing a fresh surge of mild pain. She could feel her flesh ripple slightly, and an almost ticklish sensation as Clara conducted her examination. Finally the woman stood up with an almost toothy grin as she swept up the clothes from the floor and presented them to Aya.
“Just bruises, nothing else,” she said, “most of the impact you took with your arm.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Niche’s shoulders lower slightly.
“Now you’ll be sore for quite a few days, assuming we survive for quite a few days,” said Clara as Aya began to redress, “if anything changes, if it gets harder to breath, or if you feel sudden pain in your side that lasts, come see me. Now!”
She clapped her hands, leading Aya to fidget, much to the complaint of her arm and side.
“Your turn paladin!” she said, turning to spread her arms with an expectant quality to her smile.
Niche was not impressed but with cajoling from both Aya and Clara, the stubborn soldier finally sat down.
“Off with your armour, then,” she said, despite the sour look from Niche.
He had stripped down to his chain mail, revealing a powerful if rather stocky frame. He attempted to remove that too, only to stop with a hiss.
“You silly man,” Clara said, already laying out tools, “the chain mail has been partly driven into the wound. You’re lucky to come to me. You would’ve had a very unpleasant time if it’d started to heal over.”
Aya had turned away and was preparing to go when Niche called out.
“No. You stay, lady Aya,” he said.
“But-”
“Of you three, lord Frare is the only one that has proven that he won’t wander off. You stay.”
She couldn’t argue with that really, so she stayed as Claralelle carefully extracted the broken chainmail from his wounds. After that, off came the mail and off came the shirt, at which point Aya turned away in shame. This was quite different from swimming with friends in the lakes she’d grown up by.
“You’re lucky you didn’t rupture a tendon,” said Clara, working away as she sewed and bound his wounds, “you’re swinging a sword of that weight around like it’s a switch. Your body’s not reinforced enough to take that.”
At this there was a long silence from Niche, which prompted Aya to look back at him. On his face was an expression of abject surprise at the statement, which was quickly suppressed into annoyance as she plucked at another wound.
It took another few minutes before he was cleared by Claralelle, with a standard set of instructions for wound care and to come see her if anything changed. He redressed and stood, taking his leave as Aya followed behind him to the altar.
“See?” she said, “not so bad.”
Niche murmured a vague assent, but seemed lost in thought as he moved on to the altar. Lillian was there to greet them, along with Sorore, lying in her brother’s lap. She seemed exhausted, but happy, leading Aya to wonder what exactly she’d done with Efrain. Again the jealousy leaped, and again, she pressed it down into the abyss.
“Aya!” she said, a little breathlessly as both paladins talked in hushed tones, “I did it. I did magic!”
“You did?” she said.
The girl excitedly reported the morning’s results as a bell rang. The signal for breakfast, or so Aya gathered as men began to appear with bowls of soup and chunks of bread. Their own fare was about as good, and Aya found that she was quite hungry herself. As the three children sat in parallel, speaking about their night and morning, there was almost a sense of peace. That is, there would be, if there was no lingering chill in the base of their hearts, or the smothering sense of cold around them.
The paladins for the most part were glum as they took their rations, mostly sharing short clipped words between them. Whatever humiliation or reticence they felt about the mage and magic seems to be thrust aside in favour of sheer pragmatism. When Aya relayed that he’d accepted treatment from Claralelle, Lillian’s eyes widened.
“It’s true,” he said, grudging every word, “she may be a mage, but she works quickly.”
“She knows what she’s doing,” said Aya, with no small amount of satisfaction, “you have to admit that.”
Niche’s nostrils flared, but he nodded at last, before taking another gulp of soup.
“We are dependent on him, somewhat,” Lillian said heavily, “I don’t like it. Neither of us do or should. But war makes strange fellows. When this is over, he will be dealt with, one way or another.”
Aya didn’t much like the sound of that, but decided that she’d pushed them far enough. At the very least they weren’t actively trying to kill him now. The three finished their lunch and Sorore clambered into the furs, professing that she had the need for a short nap. Aya elected to join her, despite the long sleep, she felt the toll of her injuries. The two girls giggled as they slipped into the warmth of the furs, and Sorore shared further stories of Erratz. Aya could almost see that sea-side city and its bustling canyon as she drifted away into sleep.
This time, however, the sleep was not dreamless.
She was in a hall, a great hall, larger than any she’d ever been before. Pillars of jet black stone reached into the darkness above, stretching out into interminable mist. The floor was cold, but she barely noticed as she made her way silently along it. Red-yellow light began to taint the mists on either side, growing brighter as she made her way along.
As she approached, she heard a distant clang!, and then another, each accompanied by a light so bright it flung the pillars into harsh relief. It was in the direction she was heading she realised. The brightness to either side and ahead only grew, until she could see the details of the grain of the stone in the red wash.
As she moved further and further, she heard the sound of bubbling and rushing, and to either side were the source of the red glow. Rivers of molten metal and stone, moving through deep stone channels. Through their vapours, she could see other channels, all converging towards the centre point.
And then, she was on a vast open floor, with the pillars vanishing behind her. A great spiralling inlay guided the various metals and rock into gargantuan pools and moulds. Its scale alone would be astonishing, but more awesome still was the figure at the centre. She struggled to see any detail, wrapped as they were in vapour and the glow of the area.
Around them, rivers of molten metal lifted from the channels below into concentric white hot ribbons. She watched as they raised some great tool and slammed it down. The explosion of sparks made the whole room shudder, the ribbons of metal blurring as they vibrated, hanging in the air.
The tones they produced echoed out into air, tones and overtones, harmonies, and with another crash of their tool, rhythm. The metal leapt, some of the ribbons flowing in, some out, some assuming different shapes. The tones changed, the harmonies moved, and with a final blinding explosion of sparks, Aya smiled.
A song, sung by steel.
Aya awoke from the dream, noting immediately that the outside light had faded somewhat and that the ache was lessened. Sorore’s eyes opened in the exact same moment and stared into hers. The understanding popped into Aya’s head that the two had dreamt the exact same dream.
Before they could say anything about the shared experience, they found Lillian standing over them. Her expression was less than pleased, but she did look more rested than before. Perhaps she’d gotten some sleep as they did.
“Lady Sorore, it’s time,” she said, “we must resume the lesson. Or so the mage says.”
Sorore got up, yawned and stretched, pulling the furs off her as she did so. She allowed herself to be led away, pulling back her hair into something resembling neatness. Aya didn’t even bother to follow, rather looked up at the ceiling and sighed.
More than anything right now, she wished she could hear her mother’s stories again. But her mother was hundreds of leagues away, high in the mountains, and she was stranded here, possibly about to die. It was with no small amount of bitterness that she huddled deeper into the blanket and looked out on the church with all its people businging around.
It wasn’t like the afternoon before, when they’d been nervous certainly, but still not fully drenched in the hunger of those things from the fog. She reflected on the fact that she still didn’t know the name of the things. Maybe no one knew, and she’d have to name them. It was a joke without much humour.
Why? What was the point? Was it her or the other children or both? Was it some ancient mountain spirit, bringing down its wroth on the church. The alderman, although careful, had implied that in his infrequent conversations with her. The church was foreign, maybe even an invader to these lands, he’d said, and while they might accept them, the older residents of the valley might not.
Her thoughts turned to the red-eyed man who’d saved her that first night, which felt like ages ago now. He wasn’t a denizen of the valley, she was sure, but he’d mentioned the master of the frozen vale. Maybe they had sent the creatures to chase the church out his valley. Maybe the invading force was the group of knights, and she’d merely been caught up in it all. The thoughts had almost left her head when she sat bolt upright.
‘Efrain’.
The man with the crimson eyes had said that hadn’t he?
“The person you’re looking for is named ‘Efrain’.” The one who might help her out of ‘curiosity alone’.
The thoughts rang like a bell in her head as the shadowy figure she’d heard about all her life was confronted with a black coated man. After the initial shock, she sat there for a moment, and chuckled. Then she laughed.
Niche turned to her with confusion, Frare, a questioning look. She waved them away, covering her smile.
“Nothing,” she said, “just something my mother said to me a long time ago.”
The master of the frozen vale, who’d send terrible creatures out over the centuries to steal maidens for his larder. Efrain, a stuffy, old mage who seemed fascinated with the children, constantly bickering with the paladins. And he had helped them twice, and he was teaching them magic.
No, Aya thought, he didn’t send the beasts. He’s as trapped as we are in here, and now he has to help us, even if he doesn’t want to.
Maybe this was all some complex scheme to get the church out of his lands. Or maybe it had started that way and had completely fallen apart when he’d meet them. Either way, they were stuck with him, as much as he was stuck with them.
And now, she thought, without malice, I know at least one of his secrets.
With that little nugget of knowledge stored away in her head, she pulled the covers back over herself. Informing Niche that she would sleep until Sorore came back, she lay her head down with a smile. Soon enough, she was lost between bizarre shapes, sounds and smells as she wandered through her dreams.
Not even aware of it, behind her, uncountable eyes of every shape and size watched, each glowing a luminous blue
