OTHER LIVES

Copyright 2013 Silvia Moreno-Garcia

silviamoreno-garcia.com

***

INTRODUCTION

I do not usually write secondary world fantasies. Most of my stories are rooted in Latin American folklore and locations. Other Lives compiles three exceptions to this rule, three stories that take place in imaginary lands.

“Mirror Life,” the longest piece, was my first published story and it appeared in a now defunct e-zine called Deep Magic in 2006. It is difficult to find and has never been reprinted, until now. The story was originally trimmed for publication. It is reproduced at its original length, with some slight changes.

“King of Sand and Stormy Seas” was my second published story and originally appeared in Shimmer magazine.

“Salt” is the most recent tale. It was published in the e-magazine Expanded Horizons.

Other Lives is intended to show another side of me and some of the secondary worlds I have written about. I hope you’ll enjoy it.

MIRROR LIFE

1

She seemed suddenly aware of his presence and glanced around, staring back at him. Her eyes were of the oddest shade, the color of molten gold. She was very beautiful, might have easily been the princess in a fairy tale.

Nikolaos stepped back, startled by her gaze, by the intensity of it.

He retreated from the balcony and placed his attention back on her sour uncle, who was speaking again.

“As you can see she is young and lovely,” muttered the man. “Sit down.”

Nikolaos and Stefan complied.

“She would be a good wife,” the uncle said, handing them a glass of wine.

“That is precisely why I am here,” Nikolaos said.

“Yet you do not bring me a solid marriage proposal. I can’t let my niece wander off with a stranger.”

“I vouch for Nikolaos,” Stefan replied. “He is an honorable man.”

“Your cousin may be honorable, but what about this marquis? Will he be honorable too? How do I know I will not be rewarded with a ruined niece knocking at my door?”

Nikolaos shook his head. “Darius would not do that. He seeks a suitable wife.”

“Yes, yes. But why can’t we arrange it properly? Not just this parading of my niece in front of him.”

“If he likes Miranda wedding plans will be made. He will not marry before meeting the girl.”

The older man grumbled and downed his drink.

“Darius would provide well for her. He is handsome and well-spoken,” Nikolaos continued.

“But she does not have time to prepare. No suitable clothes, nothing. My Miranda cannot leave looking like a pauper.”

Nikolaos smiled, understanding the bend the conversation was taking. “I would provide anything she may need. If she wishes to purchases some dresses before parting, I can arrange for a generous amount to be at her disposal.”

“That could be, that could be,” nodded the uncle. “You must understand my hesitation. She is my late sister’s only daughter.”

“Of course,” Nikolaos agreed.

***

Miranda watched with rising panic as the maid packed her trunk. Suddenly it was clear this was really happening. Not that she had not known another match would be arranged. Her uncle was keen to remind her she was an unwanted expense.

But the quick succession of events had left her breathless. Less than a week had passed since she’d seen the man. A stranger from the east with fine clothes and even finer words. And a fat purse.

“You must impress him,” her aunt said, flicking away a stray lock of hair from Miranda’s face. “All gentle courtesies and soft words, remember that.”

“Could you come?” Miranda asked.

“Sir Nikolaos will watch over you. You’ll also have Ella.”

Miranda, who did not feel very comforted by the idea of a perfect stranger and her maid as the only sources of assistance in another land, shook her head.

“Don’t make me go.”

“Nonsense,” her aunt said. “This is your chance. You are not going to be young all your life.”

“But …”

“Look at yourself,” her aunt’s strict face showed little emotion. “You are too pale. Try to smile. It’s not an execution. You’ll be back home soon if he is not pleased with you. A few weeks away won’t kill you. I hope you’ll please him. Chin up.”

Miranda wished to cry. Unwilling to give her family the pleasure of pointless tears she held back and tilted her chin up, as she’d been ordered.

***

Miranda had kept to her quarters for the past four days. Which was good. He’d rather not see much of her.

Still, if things were to go smoothly Nikolaos needed to talk to her. Aside from a dozen words and their names exchanged at the docks, he had yet to hold a real conversation with the woman. She needed to make a good impression with Darius.

On the morning of the fifth day at sea Nikolaos paid her a visit.

Up close he was surprised to discover Miranda was even more beautiful than he’d first thought, a hard feat, that. But her gaze was sad, and it was this, not the strange amber shade of her eyes that caused him to fumble with his words and pause.

“I hope the cabin is to your liking,” he said, looking around the cramped quarters

Miranda sat in a crimson chair, her maid fiddling with her hair as the girl sat very still and proper. She said nothing and a painful silence filled the room.

“I know this must all seem strange to you. But a marriage to Darius is a match desired by many women. It would be a lucky alliance,” he said.

“What will you obtain from such a lucky alliance?”

“The gratitude of Darius and the money that comes with it.”

“You strike me as an unusual matchmaker.”

“I am a fellow who looks for opportunities. There’s an opportunity, now, to find an old friend of mine a bride.”

“And you couldn’t find any suitable girl at Asenat?”

“My cousin told me about you. He said you were an unusual beauty. Darius is a demanding man.”

Miranda motioned to the maid and the maid stepped back, drifting to a corner, looking bored.

“That sounds refreshing,” she said.

“Your family could profit from this union.”

“You think so?”

“After your failed nuptials this is a golden opportunity.”

Through the corner of his eye Nikolaos thought the maid’s face had gone pale. Miranda leveled her gaze with him, her lips tightly curled in a mocking smile.

“Did your cousin also tell you about that?”

“Bits and pieces.”

“Bits and pieces,” she repeated. “If you want the plain truth the groom was a drunken sod that died three days before the wedding. Fell of his horse and broke his neck. He was so full of wine I doubt he felt anything at all.”

“Tragic. You must have been crushed.”

“My uncle was crushed. He spent money on needless preparations,” the girl’s tone was openly bold now, almost angry. But as she looked at him, it softened a bit. “Golden opportunities seldom are as golden as they appear Sir Lessar.”

“Nikolaos,” he ventured.

“Women just don’t go from living in an impoverished household to becoming the wives of sweet, kind men who lavish jewels upon them. That fairy tale you spun for my uncle is just that: a fairy tale.”

“I never said Darius was sweet nor kind. He is rich and willing to purchase the wife that pleases him the most. And nothing pleases Darius more than beautiful objects, beautiful jewels, beautiful women.

“By helping me you’ll help yourself. I know you are not happy with the present situation, but it would be best for both of us if you actually spoke to Darius once you arrive. You’ve made no attempts of conversation or even the slightest hint of a sympathetic smile with me. While I do not care, he will.”

Nikolaos paused. She did not seem convinced, ever so slightly twisting the cuffs of her gown.

“The point is you can become a marchioness,” he continued. “Or you can go back home and find yourself some other drunkard. Hopefully one who does not like to go riding.”

Miranda looked away now, sighing.

“Then?” he pressed on.

She gave him a determined, hard look. “My uncle must have mentioned I do not have a dowry. It’s a sad situation for any woman. If Darius does not wed me I’d like a dowry upon my return home. And the coins you gave my uncle as a bribe do not count.”

“Well,” Nikolaos said, chuckling. “If you help me you can have your dowry. You’ll be charming, you’ll be sweet, you’ll be talkative. Do you agree?”

“I’ll do my best,” she said.

***

In the dream, for it must be a dream, the world was burning. As the walls around Miranda were consumed, she stood perfectly still admiring the raging inferno.

The flames licked at her dress but she felt no fear. In fact, she felt no heat. The chamber was strangely cold and she rubbed her arms, shivering.

How odd, she thought as a tapestry went up in flames and dark smoke clouded her gaze.

She noticed that her left hand had grown black and her fingers when she moved them collapsed into ashes. It was only then that she felt the searing heat and rushed towards the window. She jumped in a vain attempt of escape from the conflagration.

It was a long fall and through it she kept burning, her hair now a crown of fire.

Miranda woke up and stared at the ceiling. For a moment she did not remember where she was, and then it returned like the tide. The ship. The trip. Everything.

The folly, she thought.

It was still three days until they reached port and Miranda pulled the covers over her head.

2

The ornate mirror reflected the full length figure of the woman, her fingers running over the pearl necklace.

“I don’t like it.”

“It belonged to my grandmother. These are black pearls,” Nikolaos said.

“No, it’s lovely,” Miranda removed the necklace. “I meant meeting him. We just arrived yesterday.”

“And he invited me to attend the salon today. You don’t refuse Darius.”

“I’m not used to it. In Nortre, our household is small. It’ll be so different. Besides, I’ll stand out in that dress.”

Nikolaos had to agree. Miranda’s dresses were pitiful and worn gowns. They would not do. He made a mental note to commission some appropriate garments.

“I’m surprised Lord Stesh lets you be seen like this,” he said, glancing at the yellow outfit the maid was now holding up for Miranda to inspect.

“What do you know about him?” she asked, her voice turning unkind.

“I know he is very proud and very concerned about the way his family is perceived.”

“I’ve never met my grandfather. My mother’s family … he said it wasn’t a suitable match. He doesn’t speak to us.”

Miranda shook her head and the maid sighed, turning to put away the ugly yellow rags in favor of something else.

“Don’t mention that to Darius,” he said. “Those messy little details…I’d leave them until the wedding date is set.”

“You really think I’m going to marry that man?”

“When my cousin told me about you I knew you were the perfect bride for Darius.”

“Poor, desperate and pretty?” she inquired.

Miranda looked at Nikolaos without turning around, instead gazing at his reflection.

The maid had now picked a serious black velvet. It was too simple a dress for Darius who preferred much more elaborate gowns, but Nikolaos figured it an efficient solution.

“That,” he decided quickly. “And the pearls.”

Miranda, busy putting a couple of delicate silver hair combs in place, frowned.

***

She stepped into the room hanging on to Nikolaos like a woman afraid of drowning. Miranda felt silly with her hair pinned up and her expensive pearls, walking through a crowd of loud strangers.

In Nortre she stayed at home as much as possible. Salons, even if she had been invited – which was never the case – were strictly forbidden. Her aunt advocated piousness and needlework instead.

She wondered what her aunt would say now, her hand linked to the arm of a man she barely knew. Why, she had been furious about Giustian and he’d known her almost all her life. Poor Giustian. She couldn’t really afford to think about him now since Nikolaos was talking again.

“He likes happy people,” Nikolaos muttered. “Smiles and entertainment and wittiness.”

She wondered if she could be any of those things.

“Stop fretting. He’s right there,” Nikolaos warned. “Do not bore him.”

As they moved closer she saw him. He was younger and better looking than she’d expected. Miranda shuddered remembering her fiancé. Hadrian’s repulsive breath still lingered dangerously close in her memory. She had placed her hands against the cool surface of the mirror and…

She shook her head. No need to think of him.

Hadrian was mercifully dead while Darius seemed very much alive.

A pretty woman, standing by Darius’ side, caught sight of them first and smiled.

“Nikolaos. You have returned,” she said loudly. “You bring a friend too.”

“I do. Lady Miranda, this is my liege, the marquis Darius Lerae. And of course, the Lady Retha.”

“I told Darius you were up to something,” said the woman, playfully tapping his shoulder with a fan. “Here you are appearing out of nowhere with a girl. What have you been up to Nikolaos?”

“Nothing exciting. Meeting with relatives.”

“Are you family?”

“No,” Miranda said quickly. “No, I’m just visiting with Nikolaos for the winter.”

“Nikolaos, is she joking? She’ll be bored to death. The winter is dreadful at Asenat.”

“My uncle thinks it would to do me well to meet with some more people my age and Nikolaos is a friend of the family. I live in Nortre and since my cousin married, it’s a little lonely in our household,” she said, as they’d rehearsed. Saying her uncle basically sold her off to a stranger did not sound adequate, but the lines she had spouted were spoken with an utter lack of conviction, the words strained and listless.

“Well, Nortre, no wonder. I stopped there once on my way to Lenevo. The whole place has more sheep than people,” Retha quipped. “If it weren’t for the port I assure you it would have been deserted decades ago and left for the sheep.”

The woman chuckled and Darius was grinning. Miranda glanced at Nikolaos feeling lost.

“I’m glad to see you are safely back,” Darius said to Nikolaos, but his face lacked any mirth. “You should have dinner with me and tell me about your trip.”

“Of course.”

Darius nodded and turned away. He had barely glanced at her. Miranda wasn’t sure if he’d known she was even there.

3

It was all very different from home. Asenat was a relatively new fortress built over the remains of a previous much smaller castle. But what it lacked in age it made up in grace. Decorated wooden panels, painted ceilings, colored glass windows enhanced the edifice.

Most notorious was the garden. In the summer Miranda had been told carved fountains filled with the murmur of water and flowers bloomed all around. For now the ground was cold and dead.

Sitting next to a stone lion, Miranda shoved some twigs aside with her foot while contemplating the bare soil. In their house at Nortre there had been an interior courtyard with two flower beds. She’d always envied the richer families who could have real gardens with exotic plants instead of a few sad daisies.

Miranda tried to imagine the garden as it would look in the spring. She didn’t think she’d remain around long enough to see it.

“You’ll freeze,” said Darius. “It’ll snow soon.”

She hadn’t noticed him approaching and was startled when he appeared by her side. She managed to compose herself, nodding at him.

“How do you know?” Miranda asked, looking at the sky.

“It’s in the air. Like a smell. I’ll walk you inside.”

Miranda followed him. He didn’t speak to her, just kept walking with his eyes squarely focused ahead of them.

“I know you are at the Widow’s Tower. Do you like your room?” he asked, as though he remembered conversation would be a polite gesture.

“Yes, I like it.”

“I didn’t know if it would suit you. I like it there and my guests stay at the Widow’s, but some find it a little chilly. It’s one of the older parts of the castle and the weather seems to get the best of it. It’s a little worn, too.”

“I really like it. I like everything here. It’s all so beautiful.”

“I take it you are enjoying your stay, then?”

“It’s very nice. I always wanted to get away from my home…and they say you’ve got peacocks,” she blurted.

“Too many sheep, not enough peacocks?”

His voice was deadpan serious and she had trouble knowing how to react. “Among other things.”

“The peacocks make the most horrible shrill screams.”

“I’d still like to see one.”

“In the spring we let them roam around the gardens.”

And now he was smiling, a sliver of a grin creeping upon his face.

“This conversation is difficult” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You are pretty and your eyes are quite remarkable. It would be rude if I stared, so I try not to and talk about nonsense instead. It’s not working.”

She blushed. Miranda was unused to compliments. More often than not what had been hurled at her were insults.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t be shy. Every time I see you, you are hiding behind Nikolaos or your hair, or Nikolaos and your hair. Like now, you do it already. It’s not becoming.”

“Habits die hard,” she muttered.

“You’ll need some new habits.”

She liked that idea.

***

Roses. So many roses around her. Spinning, Miranda laughed as she looked at the crimson petals between her hands. It was a blur of red all around.

She held up a flower. Strangely, the flower shifted and it was no longer a rose. She was holding a ball of fire in her hands.

Miranda let out a loud shriek, dropping it quickly and spun around as the rose bushes burned. Her dress had caught on fire too.

She was burning when she woke up and rushing from her bed, down the stairs and into the chilly night air, she felt her skin smolder like in the dream.

Miranda closed her eyes. Her heart pounded loudly. For a moment it hurt to breath as she pressed her palms against her temples.

“What’s wrong?” asked Nikolaos.

She opened her eyes and he was standing in front of her.

“What’s wrong?” he asked again and Miranda realized she’d been crying.

“A nightmare,” she said.

A snowflake lodged in Miranda’s hair and she shivered. More flakes started falling around them as Nikolaos put an arm around her shoulders.

4

Suspended above them a sun of solid gold and a moon made of silver drifted slowly across a jewel encrusted sky. Miranda spun and her reflection whirled in the tall mirrors that filled the walls of the chamber.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said.

“I suppose, for someone’s who’s not used to it. To me it’s boring and predictable,” Darius muttered.

“You are arrogant,” she chided.

“I’m honest,” he corrected her. “Do you like it?”

Miranda looked at the mechanical peacocks and nodded her appreciation. At the same time she felt a little cheated. Everything was a bit artificial in Darius’ life so she should have imagined this would be too. Yet she had believed they would see real, live peacocks. Darius said these were better.

“It’s all very nice.”

“It’s called the Summer Room. It’s always summer here, even when the weather outside might say the contrary.”

No windows, only mirrors and painted nature scenes served to maintain the illusion of an eternal season. A large fountain in the center of the chamber was surrounded by tiny mechanical birds that cooed and flapped their wings.

“The King has a similar chamber, only much larger. In it there is an artificial lake with tiny boats. Golden statues of nymphs are placed all around and beautiful women dressed as mermaids play musical instruments.”

“You know him? The King?”

“His eldest son was a friend of mine. When we were children I was his constant playmate at court and in later years we sparred more than once during sword practice.”

Her uncle would have been impressed. He always said Miranda should go to court, that she belonged somewhere else. Fervent letters were sent to her grandfather, begging him to install Miranda in “her proper place”, her uncle’s exact words. Lord Stesh never responded. A position at court might have assured her a good marriage. In Nortre she was doomed to an unworthy alliance.

“Why aren’t you at court then?”

He did not seem pleased by the question, his eyebrows furrowed, but this was only for a second, and then he relaxed.

“Because I have been there already and have no need of it. And because you are here instead of there,” Darius said. It was almost chivalrous, except that teasing little smirk of his contradicted his polite words.

His compliments still tended to catch her by surprise even though she was no stranger to them by now. Darius always speaking of her beauty and her grace and such. In contrast Nikolaos spoke little and never praised her, always courteous without being gallant.

At the thought of this, Nikolaos and his charming politeness, she smiled.

***

Her life had fallen into a pleasant pattern. She would have breakfast early and then, usually by noon, she would be greeted by Darius or asked to meet with him for a salon, or a walk, or to eat, or anything he could come up with.

She had discovered Darius was quick tempered, vain, witty, and oddly sweet at times. She liked him because it was hard not to like Darius even if he had a cruel side.

Nikolaos, the other stable force in her life, could never be cruel. He behaved properly at all times, like a true nobleman.

She was meeting Nikolaos for dinner that night and as she smoothed her new crimson dress and glanced at her reflection she thought it might be him at the door.

But then her maid walked in and explained it was a lady Retha and Miranda frowned.

“Let her in,” she said.

She didn’t know Retha well enough except to understand she was refined and beautiful and showed little interested in Miranda.

Retha smiled and kissed Miranda on the cheek as was customary and then the two women sat across from each other, a tiny black table between them.

***

Miranda clasped her hands tightly as hushed words strained to escape her throat.

“It is…she said she will tell him about my grandfather. About my parents’ marriage and how lord Stesh disowned my father and does not recognize me as his grandchild. She said I must leave quickly or she will tell him everything.”

Nikolaos merely glanced at the fire burning next to them. “Retha wants Darius for herself. She fears you.”

“I think I ought to fear her, seeing what she plans to say about me. I cannot stay anymore Nikolaos. I must go home before she speaks to him.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I must go,” the girl insisted.

Nikolaos had observed enough blackmailing and backstabbing to render him immune to petty little threats but she was not used to this.

“Let her talk then. Your lineage is a little murky, so what?” he said. “Bastard children have wed full-blooded nobles, and you are not a bastard girl. A humble family and lack of dowry never killed anyone.”

“It is not only that. She said she’d also tell him some other things.”

Nikolaos paused, concerned. “What other things?”

Miranda stared at him. Her eyes were pretty and full of guilt.

“Stories about my family and…about me.”

“Tell me then.”

“I don’t want to. I just want to go.”

“Tell me,” he pressed on, his voice growing gruff.

For an instant he thought she would refuse but she started speaking, first just a whisper so that he had to struggle to catch every word.

“One of my ancestors was Karion, a warrior-lord back in the days when the emperor still ruled. Karion was one of many commanders waging wars in the emperor’s name and in those days their strongest enemies were the Azeians, who controlled the Archipelagos.

“There was a fortress in the Archiepelagos and it was the home of a wizard-king. The king had acquired the services of a demon which resided in an enchanted mirror. My ancestor laid siege to the magician’s fortress until his men swept in.

“The wizard-king had an only daughter. During the struggle she had locked herself inside her chambers. But it did her no good. Karion and his men broke the door down.

“He violated the wizard’s daughter and gave her to his men afterwards. He killed the wizard yet spared her life because she would make a pretty slave. But the girl, being the wizard’s daughter, had some knowledge of her father’s magic. When Karion arrived with a golden collar to place around her neck as befit a slave she spoke a curse.

“She invoked the demon in the mirror and swore it would plague his family. Bad luck would befall his children. But the women, she reserved a special punishment for them. Any daughter of his blood would be damned. Every man that attempted to get close to a female of his lineage would be in peril and any man who loved one would die, killed by the demon.

“Karion executed the woman. He did not believe in curses but in a fit of superstition, he destroyed the wizard’s mirror. No ill luck befell Karion and he amassed riches and lands and in time had two daughters and a son.

“All was well. When his oldest child, his daughter, turned thirteen his luck changed. He fell from the emperor’s favour and felt ill, a lingering malady that wouldn’t leave him. His son was killed by brigands. Debts started to mount.

“He managed to wed his daughter to a young nobleman of a good house. Two months later the groom was dead. Because his daughter was still young and pretty another match was arranged. This second groom died, having lasted less than a season.

“Rumours of Karion’s curse spread quickly. It is a story that is still told in my town, and it is the reason why no man dared come near me.”

Her story finished, Miranda glanced down. “My father died,” she said. “And then my mother went mad. She would…she would say terrible things about me and she’d hurt me … she tried to burn down our home. I am cursed. It is the truth.”

“You shouldn’t think about morbid wives’ tales,” Nikolaos said.

“It’s the truth. My fiancé died days before our wedding.”

“The drunkard who fell off a horse?”

“Don’t make fun of me. It is real. The demon knew ... It does wicked things.”

“Aside from murder, can it do some mending? I’ve some shirts that…”

“Don’t joke about it. It could be here. I’m sure it’s here,” she said, pressing a hand against his mouth.

With Miranda so close to him it made thinking of demons rather difficult. As if reaching the same conclusion she drew away.

“There’s no one here except you and me,” he assured her with a smile. “There’s nothing supernatural in this room. Retha won’t say a word because I know some stories about her that she wouldn’t like told either. So everything will continue as normal.”

“I’m not sure I know the meaning of normal,” she whispered.

There was something heartbreakingly lovely in Miranda. It tugged at his heartstrings and without really wanting to he circled her shoulders with his arm and she rested her head against him.

He felt rather guilty. After all, she was nothing but a piece of bait. At the same time she was a very sad and lonely girl.

***

He was sick and he had asked her to visit him for a game of cards. He played all kinds of board and card games and fancied intricate puzzles. Miranda, having spent a lifetime trapped inside her uncle’s household  had also become adept at puzzles and card games.

This pleased him.

“There, on the table,” he said as a greeting. “I’ve placed all the pieces already.”

Miranda nodded, glancing at the beautiful gold and silver board. Darius lay in the center of a massive bed, propped up by crimson cushions.

“This is lovely,” she said.

“It’s not so much when you have a cold.”

She walked around his spacious chamber in awe. There was too much of everything, excess as natural to Darius as breathing. Miranda paused before a small portrait of a young woman, half hidden behind an ornamental silver box.

“She’s pretty” she said turning towards him. “Who is she?”

When she showed him the little painting, Darius shifted irritably.

“That is an unpleasant memory that I keep tucked away,” Darius grimaced. “Only the idiotic maids must have been dusting and fidgeting with my things again.”

“Who is she?”

“She was my wife. She died three years ago. I would rather not discuss her,” he replied.

“Oh,” Miranda mumbled. “I didn’t know you’d been married. How did she die?”

“I said I did not want to discuss it.”

“I am curious, that is all. No one ever told—”

“She died, does it matter?,” he said, his voice growing harsh and loud. “Dead and buried.”

“I’m sorry,” was her response.

It was not enough. She had stirred the darkness in him. Now the darkness blazed back at her. Uncertain, she felt herself flush, mortified.

“Out,” he ordered.

She took a first weak step.

“Out!” he yelled.

For a brief moment she recalled the chorus of boys gathered outside their home at night. ‘Witch spawn’ they’d taunt and say other things she couldn’t make out. Sometimes, even in broad daylight on their way to the butcher’s or the shrine of Our Lady of Lilies she would catch hushed words.

Their smug faces, the same face Darius now sported, made her quiver with fury. She wanted them all to choke on their fat tongues.

For a second she wished Darius would choke and it was that thought that sent her spinning away. It was that thought which frightened her.

He spoke again, as she reached the door.

“Wait,” he said, and his voice was different.

She stopped and turned around. His bitterness was still there, although it seemed to have diluted a little.

“Sit down,” he muttered.

She edged closer to him but decided not to sit, instead stopping at the foot of his bed.

“She was unhappy. She killed herself. It’s a simple story,” he said.

Miranda looked down, her hands neatly hidden against the folds of her dress.

“When I was a child,” she said, hesitating for the briefest instant, “my mother jumped from a high window and killed herself. She was very unhappy, too.”

He did not say anything and she glanced up. He was staring at her in an odd way.

“When I met you, I knew there was something different about you. I guess I recognize in you the same tragedy in me.”

It was her turn to struggle for words, but thankfully he filled the void.

“Let’s play,” he suggested.

***

Outside it was a bitter winter that slashed at the windows and nipped the flesh. But inside there was fantasy and make-believe and it was any season they desired and any land that pleased them.

Darius showed her a pet leopard with a jeweled collar that he kept in an ornate cage. He organized a dinner where all the dishes were red and all guests wore crimson. He gave her a grand tour of the library and they peered over ancient tomes and he allowed her to look at some old books of magic incantations. Then he showed her an old book, a hidden treasure.

“It was my grandfather’s grimoire“, he told her. “He was a warlock. But you must keep that little tidbit to yourself.”

“Do you know any magic?” she asked as a jest.

“A little. Not enough to stop me from being charmed by the likes of you, fair nymph” he responded.

“You never take anything seriously.”

“I am serious. Would you like to know a dark secret of mine?”

“What?’ she asked.

He rolled his sleeve up, showing her a series of tiny dark symbol upon his skin in a row, the dark shapes alien to her.

“It’s a talisman. These words are magic,” he said. “They ward off evil.”

The writing was like nothing she had seen before and, unthinking, Miranda reached towards his arm, meaning to touch the odd letters before she realized exactly what she was attempting and stepping back.

“Forgive me,” she said, blushing.

“I think I’d be a fool if I were offended by that gesture.”

He chuckled and then she chuckled, and he showed her another book. A beautiful illustrated tome with beasts from exotic lands. He pointed out a unicorn and told her he could find one for her.

5

In the dream it was him, not her mother, falling from the tower while everything burned. The tapestries and the armoire went up in flames and Miranda woke up, a whimper escaping her lips.

The mirror across the room reflected her pale figure. Only it did not look like her, the shape alien and deformed and then…

She blinked. There was nothing in its clear reflection except a scared young woman.

***

“What was she like, his wife?”

“She was sweet,” muttered Nikolaos. “She was beautiful.”

“He loved her very much, didn’t he? I could see the deep loss in his eyes … I like him and I cannot remain here. I was dishonest Nikolaos. I did not tell you everything.”

She was standing by the window while the snow fell outside, a hand lightly splayed against the glass. Under the dim light of his chamber, with the snow framing her, she seemed ghostly.

“There was a boy I knew, Giustan. He was one of the few people who were not afraid of me. All the other boys would hurl rocks at my window shutters during the night. But he wouldn’t. He was sweet. My uncle said he was also unworthy of attention because he didn’t have much money.

“Still, he’d come around with excuses to see me or we’d meet by chance on my way to the market. I liked him very much. One night…he was attacked by someone, some thief my uncle said. It was a vicious thing. They burnt the body, it was so badly mangled.

“He was fifteen when he died.”

Nikolaos moved closer to her. From that angle, her eyes seemed almost burning yellow, like a candle flame.

“You think it was your fault. It is a coincidence.”

“Is it?” she asked, tossing the question back at him.

He picked his words carefully. “You should be thinking of other things. Happy things. You should be smiling and forgetting about old stories.”

“Every time I look in the mirror I feel like it’s there. Like I’m being watched,” she whispered and glanced at her reflection. He glanced too and there was nothing strange in the glass…and yet.

An unintentional shiver ran down his spine and for a moment Nikolaos was revolted by the sight of her. Then she turned towards him, wiping stray tears from her eyes and there was only a sad woman there, no storybook monster.

“It’s a tale,” he said. “Just some old tale.”

“An old tale,” she whispered. “What if it isn’t? I don’t want Darius to be hurt.”

“Fallen in love, have we?” he muttered.

Miranda shrugged as she twisted a strand of hair around her finger.

“At first I thought you’d fetched me off for some repulsive pig, but he’s not. He’s actually charming. I fear that he’d be harmed. Or you.”

“Yes, yes, we know this evil demon will kill us all.”

“Yes, and I must leave,” she said. “I must leave before you are hurt. It knows what I’m thinking, I can feel it. It’s in my dreams. Every night, when I go to bed. It knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Everything. Every single secret I keep. And it is inching closer. Oh, it’s closer and closer. It slips behind me at nights and whispers in my ear,” she said, her face distant and strange.

He did not want to, would not have her speaking like that. It was too dreadful, her vacant expression. Like a porcelain doll with glass eyes. So he embraced her instead, pressing her tight against him just to get those terrible doll eyes to leave him.

She cried freely and it didn’t help the situation at all. He was bad with weeping women and found himself mumbling silly words of comfort, smoothing her hair as she held on to him.

The sobs diminished and when those eyes did look up at him again she seemed better, a trembling smile fluttering on her face.

“Thank you,” she said in a whisper.

Nikolaos grunted a muffled sound that did not amount to a real word, feeling absolutely awkward and misplaced. Thank you for what? He was no friend of hers and if she could see into his heart she would do well to recoil.

But it was evident she was oblivious to his true nature the moment he felt a hesitant kiss.

A bit shocked Nikolaos did not react at first, then kissed her back because he wanted to, had wanted it for a long time now.

A splinter of jealousy dug into his soul every time he saw her with Darius. He pushed that jealousy aside, ignored the itching pressure inside his throat because she was for Darius.

But thoughts about Darius were quickly stripped aside. He kissed Miranda and she wrapped her arms around him, pressed herself into his body.

A flicker of sanity reaching his muddled mind, Nikolaos pulled back and stared at her.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Never.”

She seemed hurt and ashamed as she rushed out. He was tempted to stop her for a moment. But he could not. Would not.

6

Miranda carefully avoided Nikolaos for the next few days. It had been a rather silly thing to do. Because if it the story was true, and she’d thought it was, then she was placing his life in danger with that kiss. She wasn’t even sure why she’d kissed him. Perhaps she was being bold, trying to prove the stories false. Maybe she was feeling lonely. Or perhaps she’d merely needed it.

She closed her book and glanced at Darius who lay on a regal looking chair, his feet propped up on another chair.

“Do you think spells can be broken?” she asked.

“What kind of spells?” he muttered.

“A curse.”

“My grandfather said a curse can be bent, tamed, if you will.”

“I wish your grandfather was here.”

“He’s been dead for the past five years. But if it’s magic you want I’ll take you to Trivek. There are small dragons there that swim in the rivers and cry pearls.”

“That’s a lie,” she said sadly.

She saw her face reflected in the glass windows of the library and looked away. The silver surface of the cups they had been drinking with also reflected her. The library was growing darker and she didn’t want to be there anymore.

Darius walked up to her, abandoning his book.

“If you don’t want to go to Trivek I’ll take you somewhere else.”

“Take me to Nortre,” she said, afraid of his nearness, of the window that so close and her reflection there.

“Back to that sheep infested hole you despise?”

“I need to go home. I belong somewhere else.”

“Surely not in the middle of nowhere herding along a flock.”

Darius chuckled. She did not laugh, turning to leave. He caught her arm, his face growing composed and serious.

“Stay,” he said. “We can get you those dragon pearls and sail on a barge. I’ll make you Queen…”

“I don’t want pearls, I don’t want a barge. You can’t make me queen of anything. You are always offering things you do not have, all these fancy tales and lies. Nothing is real.”

“Who needs real?” he said with disdain. “It isn’t all fancy tales either. But stay for the tales if you wish. I do my best to entertain you.”

“I’d like to go,” she said.

“You are not a prisoner. You may leave any time you want. But if you’ve come all this way just to give me up before I solemnly ask for your hand in marriage, then you are a bit of a fool.”

He was smiling again. It was a different kind of smile though. It had an edge.

“It’s the whole reason Nikolaos has dragged you here, isn’t it? Don’t feel bad. Many other men have piled their nieces, daughters and even mistresses at my feet hoping I’d pick one of them. To tell you the truth I think marriage doesn’t suit me, but what do I know?” he chuckled. “I like you, though.”

She thought she saw movement in the silver surface of the cups. She backed away from him and felt her back press against a bookcase. He frowned.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I’ll bring you bad luck and shame and—”

“I’ve had plenty of both since the King barred me from court.”

“Barred you?”

“For being a wicked, ambitious man. I can vouch it is true, that my ambitions are indeed quite high and I intend to wed you and place a crown upon that pretty head of yours. For you are my talisman, Miranda, and with you I shall have the whole world in the palm of my hand.”

“You are joking and it’s not funny,” she said, for he was talking treason and insanity.

He laughed and she could not help it, despite all her misgivings and her fear, and the reflection upon the cups, and despite it all she smiled at him. And she thought perhaps he was mad, but she liked his madness, his pretty lies, the stories he spun for her.

But she thought of Nikolaos with his solemn face and her smile died on her lips.

***

She tried to appear dignified. Instead, she succeeded in looking like a flustered child and stammered, forgetting her well-rehearsed speech.

Worse, Nikolaos stared at her without uttering a word for what seemed forever until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Well?” she blabbered.

“I’m extremely pleased,” he said.

His face, drawn and stark, displayed little joy.

“It’s what you wanted,” Miranda said. “All this time you’ve been telling me how I must marry the man. Now the man wants to marry me and I do not know what I should say.”

“Say yes. It’s simple.”

“Yes, I guess it’s simple.”

“We discussed it. We talked about it at length.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like this? As though you didn’t know this would be the natural conclusion.”

“It is all very easy for you.”

“Could we spare each other the melodrama?” Nikolaos asked. “It is not as if this is some terrible bargain.”

“No, it’s not a terrible bargain. I’m sure you will also obtain some nice trinkets. A new title, some jewels. The little things one gets when he sells a woman.”

“If you want to act the part of the victim you may. I know you are happy.”

The room seemed very small and cramped. Suffocating. She exhaled.

“Of course I’m happy. You brought me here and for the first time in my life I’m not alone,” she said. “Everything is different. I want to be different. I want to pretend I’m not a monster. And it’s your fault. You’ve made me want this.”

The few paces between them seemed like an endless void and Miranda’s heart flinched in pain. She moved towards the opposite side of the room because she had to do something to prevent the pain from tearing her apart and she could think of nothing more.

“I should tell him yes then, is that what I should do?” she asked.

“Of course,” he grunted.

“I could still…why, I,” Miranda said, feeling bold. “You could take me anywhere. I’d go.”

Such a thing to say. Shameful. Flinging herself before a man.

Nikolaos’ eyes held nothing.

“No,” he said.

7

Miranda defied the winter in a gown of pale yellow. She sparkled, sitting next to her summer lord, while the others chattered. And she did not look at him. Her gaze seemed to skip him, evading his seat, although he was in plain sight.

Nikolaos drank and simmered. A scant few meters from him Darius was holding her hand, whispering something to her ear.

He thought of another party, another occasion when the marquis had asked them to lift their cups for the woman he would marry. He downed his wine. It’s sweet taste lingered in his mouth.

This was no proper, official engagement. But Darius, impulsive as always, had decided he must have a small celebration to show his choice of a bride. Later they would go through the drudgery of customary announcements and plans. Today was a feast of Darius’ ego, for he must show her off, like a man a parading a prize horse.

“We should toast to Nikolaos,” Darius said, a little drunk by now. “For finding this unique woman, the best bride there can be.”

Unique. Of course she was unique. Such a pretty deadly thing.

“Thank you, dear Nikolaos.”

Nikolaos smirked. Darius thought she was his, when Nikolaos knew she’d wanted him instead. The problem was, despite the lingering dread in his heart every time he glanced at Miranda, Nikolaos wanted her too.

***

Her maid had asked permission to toast to her engagement with some of the other servants and Miranda agreed. Her aunt would have disapproved of this decision, but Miranda didn’t care anymore.

After her maid left, she tossed a blanket over the mirror, blocking her reflection from sight.

Miranda brushed her hair, running the comb through a knot and glanced at the hidden mirror.

She shivered and extended her hand, ready to pull the covering off. She stilled herself, letting the blanket in its place, shielding herself from the reflection.

***

She woke up with a start, the nightmare still clinging to her. In the dream she had seen him fall, tumble towards a never ending abyss.

There was another knock at the door and Miranda rose, still confused from her dreams, her bare feet making no sound.

Miranda opened the door and Nikolaos was there, safe and sound. She felt herself smile.

8

She was lighting more candles. The dim glow of the room created odd shadows as she drifted, her hair unbound.

“Stop that,” he ordered, uncomfortable with all her nervous pacing. “I can see fine.”

“Well then?” she asked, going back to his side. “What is it?”

“You have some wine?”

“No,” she said, folding her arms. “What is it?”

He found his voice, and it was calm. It all came out easily.

“In three nights’ time I will be leaving this place. You must be ready to come with me then.”

Miranda stared at him in disbelief and shook her head. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“Everything is as you wanted. I am marrying him, and now you want me to leave?”

“It is complicated. I’ve done something wrong Miranda, something very wrong.”

“What?” she whispered.

His eyes darted towards the shadows, away from her. He couldn’t make himself look at her.

“Darius, his wife…I did know his wife, I knew her well. We were in love … only he wanted her. There was nothing she could do; her family agreed to the marriage and they were wed.

“She did not love him. She loved me, and I loved her back. She feared Darius. She told me he could be a terrible man. Darius and I fought together during the campaign at Lavart. He was cruel in battle, but isn’t that natural when facing your enemy?

“There had been a prostitute at Lavart. Darius decked her in jewels, made her his official mistress. Eventually they quarreled. He was displeased with her and wanted her gone. He didn’t have to worry about her much longer since she died suddenly.

“I never thought much about the incident. Many people died during the campaign, what was one prostitute? I thought about it later. I thought about it when Darius’ wife died too.”

Miranda drew her breath in sharply. “Are you saying Darius killed them?”

“She committed suicide. Elara would have never committed suicide,” Nikoalos said. “She told me she was afraid of him. Then she kills herself? No. No, she wouldn’t have.”

“You are making it up.”

“They said she cut her wrists, but I know he did it. He was jealous. He was mad.”

“You’ve made it up.”

“I knew the story you told me, about the curse. It’s the reason why I wanted to meet you,” Nikolaos said. “It’s the real reason why I brought you here. I couldn’t kill him myself without endangering my family so I had to use you to kill him. I knew the story was true. He would just die a mysterious death and it would be over.”

“Stop lying!”

“It is the truth”

“It is a lie!”

She let out a low, angry shriek and whirled away from him, holding on to one of the bedposts. He expected her to weep. She clung to the post instead.

“You made me believe it was just a story. I never believed it until you came along…that I could just be like everyone else,” her words were low and harsh in the semi-darkness, her back turned towards him. “You were afraid, weren’t you? That’s why.”

“Why what?”

“That day you wouldn’t kiss me. You were afraid of the curse.”

“Yes, I was afraid,” he admitted.

She chuckled releasing the bedpost and sliding away.

“It was wrong of me to deceive you. But I though it wouldn’t matter. I didn’t know you then. I thought you were just a weapon for me to use.”

“What now? You try to buy your redemption? Darius lives, the creature is sent back to its cage?”

“I have friends in Kire. I thought I could take you there, as a start. After that, I am not sure.”

She broke down crying and he held her as she rocked against him like a grieving child.

9

The fire crackled, startling her. She looked down at her cards.

She kept making mistakes. Stupid little mistakes. She was nervous, thoughts of Kire blurring the drawings in the card.

Miranda knew she must be cold and composed. Nikolaos said the trip would remain their secret. Darius should not know or he might try to stop them.

So she plaid cards with the marquis in the Summer Room, accompanied by the mechanical peacocks.

“I win again,” Darius said with a sly smile.

She pressed her cards down and smiled back. “Only because you cheat.”

“Only because you are distracted.”

Miranda laced her hands together. “I’m thirsty,” she said.

“Well, then we’d better have some more wine,” he suggested, filling her glass.

She’d already had too much to drink but felt no desire to refuse him.

“Your face Miranda, it’s such an honest face,” Darius said as he handed her the glass. Her reflection danced on the surface of the glass and she felt the urge to press a hand over it, to block it from sight.

“Is it?” she said softly.

“It can hold few secrets. Do you think I have not guessed it?”

Miranda stared at him, the glass precariously balanced between her fingers.

He leaned closer to her. “There will be no escape tomorrow night,” he said.

She scrambled to her feet, a tangled, terrified mass of nerves. He appeared amused, his characteristic little grin extending and growing into an authentic smile.

“It is rather annoying, you know? Nikolaos always seems to be trying to steal my women. My first wife, now the second one too. I wonder what the hell they see in him. Do sit down and finish that.”

Miranda clutched the forgotten glass but took a step away instead.

“You killed her.”

“My adored wife was a fool who liked to kiss her Nikolaos in damp, dark corners. However, I didn’t lay a finger on her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Technically, it is true. I live by technicalities. They are very much appreciated," he said moving to her side and plucking the glass from her hands. “If anything it’s Nikolaos and you who are guilty of playing me false. Fortunately I have known from the start exactly what you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Retha told me some tales. Meaningless gossip most of it. Except for a tiny part. An old story. It made me think. It reminded me of some other stories. I told you my grandfather was interested in magic, didn’t I? He knew all kinds of stories about many types of demons.”

He took a sip from the glass, offering it back to her. Miranda recoiled.

“Demons can be very useful friends. You are lucky.”

“Lucky,” she scoffed.

“Yes, to have met me. You thought I was jesting when I said I know magic, but it’s true. My grandfather controlled several demons. I cannot say I have the same skills, though I know some small magic and the mixing, the creation, of certain poisons, certain talismans.”

“Did you kill your wife with poisons or talismans?”

He gave her a bored look and shrugged. “I hastened an inevitable ending.”

"Nikolaos was right.”

“Don’t be a hypocrite,” Darius said with a sigh. “How many people have you killed?”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” she said.

“That fiancé, no? Did you wish it very badly? Did you stay awake at nights and ask your little friend to take his life? It listened, didn’t it?”

She had hated him. The pig, always trying to touch her. That night she had wished Hadrian would break his neck and she had placed her hands against the cool surface of the mirror and prayed for it.

I wish you would die.

A muffled sob escaped her throat. Miranda pressed a hand against her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to will away the memory but it was etched inside her head.

“Who else? Another suitor.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Giustan,” she said, her eyes snapping open. Surely he was a sorcerer for the word seemed to be pulled from her rather than uttered voluntarily.

He stared at her, curious and despite the desire to say no more she found herself speaking.

“He was my friend. He was kind.”

“You killed him.”

“No. It killed him.”

“But it is you. Unintentional, undeserved perhaps, but still you.”

“Oh, what do you know?”

“I know you,” Darius said. “I recognized you.”

“We are not the same,” she muttered.

“You’ve run your whole life from the simple truths but here I am, ready to teach you.”

“Teach me some wicked spell? Some sorcery and devilry? Is that why the King cast you off?” she asked.

“Devilry? I am offering you the chance to become mistress of your own destiny. Or shall you be a cowering maiden for the rest of your life? Will you avoid every man, every embrace, for fear the demon shall kill them? You have power, but no idea how to wield it. I know how to. A crown upon your head and the world at your feet. That is what I can give you.”

“It’s a trick. If you truly had such power you’d have a crown already, but you are not received in court anymore. You said so yourself.”

“Two is better than one. The two of us together, why…we could have anything we wanted.”

He was proposing an evil, wicked thing. And yet…oh, she’d longed for a different life. A place where she did not have to cower and hide, always alone and unhappy. Where they would not taunt her, calling her cruel names and shunning her as though she carried the plague.

“Nikolaos…”

“Knows nothing at all.”

He held her chin up, as if to have a better look at her and Miranda slapped the hand away. He answered by seizing her wrist and pulling her closer to him, their foreheads touching and his breath upon her face.

“Let me go,” she blurted.

“Where? With dear Nikolaos? He’s a little bland.” Darius smirked. “He’s terrified of you and yet he is consumed with desire. Unable to make a choice, whether to kill or take you, he’s resorted to abandoning you in some far off shore. What is his plan? Are you being delivered to a nunnery? He’s a coward, no chances of him breaking the spell with a chaste kiss.”

She trembled and inhaled slowly, trying to steady her racing heart.

“I would kill you or I would lay with you, but I wouldn’t stand in between. You pick a road Miranda, and you follow it,” he said, and then whispering as though it were an afterthought. “We need each other.”

“I don’t want what you can teach me,” she said. But it was a lie and they both knew it.

10

He waited, the snow drifting in a mad dance. Then he saw her slipping towards him, face tucked under the folds of a black hood.

“Hello,” she said, shivering.

“You are late,” he motioned towards their horses.

The weather was deteriorating quickly and he feared they would be found in the morning dead and frozen if they didn’t leave now. He hurried towards his own mount only to discover Miranda was standing in the same spot.

“Come on,” he urged her.

“I can’t,” she said quickly.

“Miranda, you have to come.”

“I can’t,” she repeated.

Dumbfounded he stared at her, the reins hanging from his hand.

“You should go very far, as far as you can,” she said, with an odd calmness. “Never come back. Do you understand?”

“Miranda,” he said. “What is this?”

“A wedding gift. But he will not show you such kindness again. If you are wise, head beyond Kire. Some place where magic is long gone.”

He shook his head, a small, mute gesture of denial.

She slid her arms around him, pressing her lips on to his. Her fingers were digging painfully into his shoulders, but he didn’t protest. He kissed her back instead.

It didn’t last and she was gone, her retreating footsteps quickly erased by the snow.

***

She walked into her room and knelt before the fire, which was burning low. The snow that flecked her hair and clothes melted and puddled at her feet. She turned her head to stare at the mirror, its naked surface reflecting her.

He’d been, he was, in her room, sitting upon a chair in a darkened corner, looking bored.

“You removed the cover,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you afraid of it?”

“That is what charms and talismans are for,” he said, standing behind her.

She rose, looking at their reflections. He’d taken off his jacket and his shirt was half open. She could see a word, a mark, imprinted on his chest.

“Charms and talismans could fail you one day,” she said.

“Luckily, my wits never fail me. I do not make false movements.”

His face was smug. Her own was guarded.

“Then I will truly be crowned queen?”

“Yes.”

“And you say this, it can be controlled? No need to fear it?”

“Never again. Touch the glass.”

Miranda hesitated, biting her lip, and extending her hand. Her fingers pressed against the cool smooth surface. The mirror beat, like the pulse of a great beast.

“Feel that?” he asked

She nodded. His hand grazed her shoulder.

“Power.”

The mirror reflected her tentative smile. Her eyes were of the oddest shade, the color of molten gold. She was very beautiful, might have easily been the princess in a fairy tale. But she was not. She was something entirely different.

KING OF SAND AND STORMY SEAS

He stood at the edge of the beach and leaned forward trying to spy beneath the water a kraken or a two-tailed mermaid. Only there were no mermaids today, no terrible krakens or glimmering serpents. Just Lysander, alone, under a light drizzle.

He swung his arm in a mighty arc, ready to throw the sword into the water, ready to say goodbye. And then he couldn’t and instead the sword landed against a rock. It fell with a loud clank while the seagulls watched.

Lysander sat down. Small crabs scuttled by.

“If you don’t want it, you can give it to me,” someone said behind him. “It’s a waste of a good sword.”

He turned. It was a young man — barely a man actually — lean and tanned and smiling.

“I could sell it,” said the young fellow eagerly.

“What would you buy?”

“Pair of shoes,” he replied, wriggling his toes.

“A pair of shoes,” Lysander grumbled. “A pair of shoes for a fine sword.”

“Well, if you don’t want it, I could use it. What are you doing with something like that, anyway?”

“I’m a knight.”

The boy snorted. “You’re no knight. You stole it.”

“I didn’t steal it,” Lysander muttered as he rose and moved towards the rocks, towards his sword.

“You’re keeping it, then?”

He didn’t answer, placing the weapon in its scabbard once more.

“Can I look at it?” asked the boy, edging closer to him.

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“There,” he said pointing towards a smudge that might have been a hut.

“Well, go back there then.”

“This is my beach. You go back home.”

“Your beach?”

“Mine,” said the kid.

Somehow he liked his insolence, the way the words came out. “King of sand and stormy seas, are you?” Lysander muttered.

“Can I look at it?”

“If I let you hold the sword, will you go home?”

The boy nodded. Lysander unsheathed the sword and handed it over to the young man. The blade was blue with fine letters spelling conjures of protection. Once Lysander had taken the sword to a magician. He had told Lysander the writing on the sword predicted that the man who wielded the weapon would become a hero. The magician, it turned out, had been a charlatan.

The kid held the sword with both hands, clearly impressed.

“Now I know you stole it,” the boy said, handing it back. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m a knight.”

He began to walk away from the boy. But it was of no use.

“I’m Endric,” said the kid, jumping to his side, his bonny shoulders peaking underneath his worn shirt. “If you’re really a knight how come you’re not wearing your armour?”

“Knights don’t wear armour all the time.”

“I guess. But they always say they do, in the stories. They ride black stallions and the ladies throw roses at them when they walk by so they might wear them as favours. But I’ve never met a knight before. What’s your name?”

“Would you mind leaving now?”

“Why, you’re going to throw the sword away again?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is if I could get myself some shoes.”

Lysander stopped and stared at the annoying kid with the large, eager eyes. But Lysander would have been eager too if a knight had appeared all of a sudden, turning a dull and grey day into an exciting encounter, perhaps the start of some adventure. Didn’t all boys want to be knights anyway? Lysander thought so.

“So?” pressed the boy.

He sighed and rolled his eyes. “My name is Lysander and no, you can’t have the sword.”

The boy shifted his feet and looked down. “If you give me five coppers I’ll take you to an old pirate cave. Authentic, I swear.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Isn’t that why you’re here? The pirates? Look, you go around people here will show you whale bones and tell you it’s a sea monster. But I’m honest. I swear, it’s a real pirate’s lair. Everyone’s interested in pirates. And it’s cheap, I’d charge double but you’re a knight,” the kid stood in front of him, barring his way. “It’s the least you can do, you know, seeing as you’re cheating me of a good pair of shoes.”

Lysander had to laugh at that. The wind was picking up a bit, flapping his torn cape around him. Lysander knew if he agreed the kid would try to sell him a mermaid next, but somehow he felt like taking a peek at the lair. He pretended he was a pirate when he was a child, wishing for a ship with black sails to take him far from home. In the end Lysander had left, but he was not to become a pirate king or a hero or any of the other things he’d once fancied.

“Very well,” Lysander said.

“It’s close,” Endric replied.

***

The pirate’s lair was in fact a rather small, damp cave. Endric lit a lamp that lay next to the entrance and then took him on a tour of the meagre quarters. Some sleeping mats on the floor, a couple of tin cups and a pile of dirty clothes made the magnificent pirate’s den Endric had boasted about all the way. At the back of the cave was a stone with several drawings on it.

“This used to be where they came after their raids,” explained Endric, tiptoeing around the sleeping mats. “And that, it was their altar to the god of thieves. They used to place gold coins and necklaces in front it. But the gold’s gone now.”

“It looks like a rock,” Lysander said. “Some scuff marks on it.”

“Well, that’s how much you know about pirate altars. Iraerson made those marks, he was a mighty water-wizard and the companion of a great pirate, Sheadril. Iraerson, he was a priest you see, and had a statue made all of gold to his god. Put it on a pedestal, on that very stone. But they took the statue along with the rest.”

“Who?”

Endric shrugged. “Fish folk, thieves, other pirates. It was a long time ago this I’m telling you. Before I was born. There’s no pirates here anymore.”

“No, there’s not,” muttered Lysander, looking closer at the marks. They extended to the wall and in fact seemed to be letters and drawings. Most of them images of fish and fantastical animals; a mermaid swimming next to a dolphin.

“I have a collection of pirate things. Things that I’ve found. Even a knife and a skull. It’s only half a skull, but good as new. The jaw only,” Endric touched his own jaw to illustrate his point. “But it’s in great shape. I can show you, but you’d have to pay double.”

“This is fine,” he moved towards the entrance.

“I thought you like pirate stuff.”

“Not really.”

“Why are you here then? Nobody comes here except for the pirates. I’ll show you another pirate lair, come on.”

“It’s fake,” he glanced outside at the relentless drizzle and the sun hiding behind thick clouds.

“What?” the boy blinked.

“Your pirate lair, it’s fake,” he muttered, tired of it all, the conversation and the bleak sky grinning at him. “It’s a fisherman’s cove. They would keep their boats here, their nets and sometimes they’d salt their fish.”

“How would you know that?”

“I grew up here.”

The boy leaned against the cave’s entrance and wiped his nose with a bony hand. He was thin from watered fish broth and stale bread. Probably half a dozen brothers and sisters as skinny as him hovering around the table. Meagre food, only a pair of shoes for them all and plenty of blows to quiet them down. Lysander used to hate the fish broth more than the blows.

Lysander shook his head, unsettled. He no longer wanted to think of pirates or fish folk.

“Why, you don’t say, the fisherman’s son became a gent?” said the kid in open mockery. “I’ve never hear of a fish-boy being no knight.”

“Mercenary,” he grumbled under his breath.

“What?”

“A mercenary,” he said loudly and stepped out, heading back the way they’d come, hoping to lose the boy.

But he was not an easy one this kid. Sticking to him, matching his pace.

“That’s true?”

“Yes, it is,” said Lysander.

“You’re from here? Were born here?”

“I played in that damn cave myself.”

“A real sword-brother,” said Edric in awe, looking him up and down. “Then you can do tricks and such, and have a horse. My uncle’s got a mule, but no horse. Have you been in a big city?”

“Some.”

“Which ones?”

“Some.”

“Did you work for a great lord of a city?”

“Will you leave me alone?” he bellowed, unable to contain himself any longer.

It was the kid’s fault. He’d been pestering him, hanging behind him like a shadow. He wasn’t used to it, to people like that. It was too much. The damn smell of fish, the rain and the sand clinging to his clothes.

The boy chewed his lower lip for a moment, then threw his head back defiantly.

“A mercenary doesn’t have a weapon like that. That’s a noble man’s weapon, it’s got an inscription. Mercenaries are not allowed to inscribe them. I know that. You’re a thief and a liar.”

“Then I’d better bash your head against a rock and get rid of you.”

“You’d have to catch me first, and I’m fast,” Endric did not move but his body was tense as a wire. “You’ve got to be fast when you’re a fish-boy. You’d know that.”

Lysander let out his breath slowly. “I know that.”

They looked at each other, the kid flexible as a deer and the older man a mass of iron, a sculpted giant. Finally, he reached between the fold of his cloak, pulling out a small bag.

“Five coppers,” he said, handing him the coins. “Get lost.”

The kid took them, sticking his hands in his pockets and shifting restlessly. He continued to look at him, finally turning around and walking away.

Something itched inside, something he didn’t understand and he wasn’t sure why. But the words were slipping out quickly, too quickly for him to stop.

“You’re right, it’s a nobleman’s sword,” Lysander said. “But I didn’t steal it.”

The boy stopped, and blinking started walking back.

“It was a gift. From the sea if you can believe that,” Lysander muttered. “I used to come here. Pretend there were sirens and monsters in the water. Just at the edge of my vision, just waiting, hiding beneath the waves. I told myself they were real, not just tall tales fishermen tell.”

Lysander let the waves lick his boots and crushed a sea shell as he moved towards the water, the tide pushing brown seaweed in his direction.

“I ran around making up stories about heroes and monsters. I always expected something to happen. I knew I was destined to be a hero. It must have been like that. All the heroes must have felt what I felt, must have known they were destined for greatness. I knew.”

Now the boy was at his side and the wind in his face. The ocean like a mirror, gulls above in a cacophony.

“And one day, I must have been younger than you, there it was. On the beach. A sword. Meant just for me. A magic sword. I knew it. Clear as water, a magic sword. I took off my shirt and wrapped it around the sword and I left. I didn’t doubt my destiny for a minute. I knew it must have always been like this.”

There was only the gulls and the splash of the water. The boy opened his mouth weakly, like a fish, words finally pouring out.

“What happened?” he whispered.

Life happened and it turns out it is seldom a fairy tale. Killing men for a living and following a nobleman for some cause you can’t recall, that happened. Scars upon scars and restless nightmares and an empty feeling in your gut. Blood, your own and blood of others, the dead buried or sometimes left to rot in the open. All of this and more and suddenly too much had happened. Forgotten wounds ached and the sword was too heavy to carry and he was old.

This he thought and might have tried to explain to the boy. Only it was too difficult to explain how it is to feel caged and lost and crumbling.

“There are no krakens and no mermaids, and certainly no magic swords, and fisher-boys never become heroes,” muttered Lysander, placing his palm on the hilt of the weapon.

Endric rubbed his hands, eyes fixed on the sea. “There are krakens. My grandfather almost killed one once.”

“So did my father after some drinks,” Lysander snickered. “So did everyone.”

“There are krakens,” repeated Endric defensively. “I don’t know about magic swords or knights, but there are krakens.”

An uncomfortable silence wrapped them. It would be getting dark soon and Lysander wanted to leave. He’d spent enough time in this place. It was clear there was nothing left, whatever magic he’d once imagined erased by the tide.

He unsheathed the sword.

“Are you really throwing it away?” asked Endric.

“I’m giving it back,” he answered. “Giving it all back.”

Lysander flung the weapon as hard he could. The sword shone like a star, catching the light of the sinking sun, then splashed loudly into the water. Endric just stared. The boy was frozen, watching the place where the sword had disappeared.

“I’m sorry about your shoes,” Lysander said.

He produced two more coins and placed them in the boy’s hand, then walked away.

Perhaps beneath the sea a kraken coiled a tentacle around the sword. Perhaps one day the tide would carry the weapon towards a deserving hero. Perhaps there were still mysteries hidden within the waves.

But if the sea had any secrets Lysander did not care for them.

SALT

The edge of the arid salt plain was dotted with shadscale and black sage, but once you stepped into the playa there was nothing but a white, shiny emptiness. They said the salt plain had once been a lake. Squinting against the fierce sun, Leocadia could not imagine all that water.

She wished there was a lake again. Then there wouldn’t be any need for rain-priestesses, and the recrimination in her mother’s eyes would disappear.

Leocadia shook her head, then grabbed her pick and shovel.

There had been no need for this when she cast rain spells. She could stay inside her room and watch as the miners went to harvest the salt.

No matter. There was the lonely business of salt now. The rain spells were but a memory, bitter as the sap of the aloe.

She worked for three hours. By then it was getting very hot, and Leocadia retreated towards the crumbling stone temple where she had left the mule, safely under the shade of its tall roof.

The temple was pretty, but not very practical. Dragging stones across the playa seemed stupid to her.

Leocadia’s own home was made of salt, white bricks neatly piled on top of each other.

Leocadia sat on the back of a stone lion that guarded the temple’s steps, and ate her lunch, humming a tune to herself. Across the desert a solitary figure, waving with the heat, was heading her way. Leocadia ignored it. It was a trick of the light.

The figure kept moving, growing bigger. Leocadia took a better look. Someone was riding across the salt flat.

“What kind of idiot,” she muttered.

It was a man, all in white, on a horse, with a llama behind. He waved from afar. Leocadia jumped down from the lion, and was clutching her knife when he reined his horse.

“I’m heading for Caravaike,” he said, in a thick accent she could not place. His brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He had narrow eyes, a slight stubble, and a brilliant smile.

“That’s that way,” she said turning her head slightly in the direction of the town. “But you’re still far.”

“How far?”

“Two days’ ride.”

He dismounted and thrust a piece of paper in her direction. “Can you point out my location?”

Leocadia only clutched her knife tighter and took a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he said shaking his head and extending his hand instead of the map. “What am I thinking? I’m Abelardo.”

Leocadia frowned. “You’re near Comba.”

“Comba?” He untied a little brown bag around his neck and took out a black case, tapping his finger against it. Then he glanced up, in the direction of the shadscale and black sage. “Well, that’s not too bad. I was hoping to pass through Comba. Someone said it was around here, but you never know. The map I have is outdated and poorly made, I…”

“Are you some sort of bandit?” she asked.

“No,” he said with a chuckle. “Why do you ask that?”

“Who else’s is going to be crossing the salt plain except a bandit?”

“I’m not a thief. I chase mountains.”

Leocadia scratched her head, itchy from the scarf she was wearing.

“You’re a lunatic,” she said.

“Cartographer,” he said. “In the service of the Empress. I’m updating some maps.”

“Alone?”

“Aha.”

Maybe he was a spy sent by an enemy king and was trying to trick his way into their midst. She had read about such things when she was in the temple; forbidden storybooks which often included a brave young hero saving a young woman from the bandit-king.

Stupid stuff, illustrated with images of lovers holding hands and speaking passionate vows. Such things, just like the rain, had passed her by.

“Do you come from Comba?” he asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m heading there. These maps are so old that I might get lost without some guidance.”

“Not my problem.”

“I’ve got money,” he said and showed her a pouch filled with coins.

“Then you shouldn’t flaunt it so stupidly. I could rob you blind and let you rot here,” she said.

“I hope you don’t.”

She shook her head hard and put away the knife.

He tried to talk to her while they rode across the smooth salt plain, noisily telling her answers she did not ask.

She asked him to part ways at the outskirts of the town, and he waved goodbye to her with a wide smile on his face. Leocadia tried not to look at him, fearing someone inside the salt huts was watching.

She dragged her tools back to her house. Her mother was stirring the goat stew, sweat beading her forehead. She could hear a baby crying nearby. Rosaura must be visiting.

“Hello mother,” she said and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Is Rosaura here?”

“For a short while,” her mother muttered.

Leocadia could already picture Rosaura’s purple eye. Bastian beat her, but their mother had little sympathy for Rosaura’s plight. If Rosaura had been a rain-priestess she might have amassed a nice dowry. The priestess, however, had seen little aptitude in Rosaura and did not care for her. So she married Bastian. Leocadia had done even worse. Their mother’s hopes had been dashed by her useless children.

“I’m going to talk to her,” Leocadia said.

Her mother nodded. Her eyes were fixed on the large pot sitting over the fire.

***

That evening they went to walk through the town square, with its squat trees and its precious beds of flowers. Rosaura did not have a purple eye. He had hit her in the back. The sisters walked together, as cheerfully as they had before Rosaura had married, back when the boys flocked to court her. Now Rosaura had a spouse and Leocadia had lost her gift for casting rain, and her reputation. There were no more admiring boys for them.

Leocadia watched a flock of young priestesses in their white dresses stream across the square and into the temple. There was a pang of longing in her, and of loss. She looked away and found herself face to face with the cartographer.

“I’m glad to see you again,” he said, giving her another one of his big smiles. “I couldn’t even thank you earlier. You ran off too quickly.”

“I got work to do,” she muttered.

“Well thank you.”

“He was lost today,” Leocadia explained because she could feel her sister’s eyes on her. “He asked me for directions.”

She tried to pull Rosaura away when she noticed Rolan, her former lover, approaching her, but Abelardo smiled and motioned to him.

“This is the lady I told you about,” Abelardo said. “She wouldn’t even give me her name.”

Rolan looked down at her, white teeth flashing a sharp grin, and oh, how she had loved that smile when she was younger. “I’m not surprised by the lack of manners. Leocadia, this is Abelardo Anma. The imperial envoy in our little province.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Leocadia said coldly.

“Come with me now,” Rolan said. “There’s more interesting people to be met.”

Rolan clasped his shoulder. Abelardo looked back at Leocadia in confusion. Leocadia pulled her black shawl over her head. Night was falling and it was very cold after the sun set.

“You talked to a stranger,” Rosaura said, rubbing her hands nervously.

“He talked to me.”

“What will they say?”

Leocadia watched Abelardo and Rolan as they disappeared from sight. Four years before, when she had been a great deal more naive, she had taken Rolan as her lover. She knew the loss of her virginity would also mean the loss of her rain spells. Purity was the tinder to a priestess’s magic, and the sisters of her order valued innocence in gold, paying a stipend to the families of the girls who studied in their temple.

Leocadia had been loved and cherished by the sisters, by the town and the important families that lived in it. Rolan’s father, the mayor, placed a garland of flowers upon her head the summer she turned fourteen, when she was able to conjure a light rain which lasted a full fifteen minutes. It had been the season of her glory.

Her mother whispered excitedly about the money from the temple, which she was diligently saving for her dowry. A former priestess could make such a good match.

But fifteen years was a long time to serve for Leocadia, especially after Rolan had smiled at her on her way from the temple, when she went to visit her mother and her sister. He romanced Leocadia, dropping sweet notes in her path and promising he would wed her.

The sisters discovered her transgression and Leocadia was tossed from the temple. The townspeople sneered at her. When Leocadia went to work in the salt plains, the men spoke lewd words. One of them tried to touch her breasts. At first Leocadia took a knife with her, then she simply picked salt alone, far from the others.

“You must not talk to him again,” Rosaura said. “It would be very bad.”

Leocadia looked down, thinking of the droplets of rain against her hair, the pretty water spells she used to cast.

“You hear me? You understand?”

“I do,” Leocadia said, looking ahead. Her mouth felt dry, it tasted of salt and desert winds.

***

She saw Abelardo in the middle of the street two days later. He was standing behind a bronze apparatus, which was set on a three-footed stand. Abelardo squinted and bent down near the apparatus, then opened a large case with tiny drawers. A multitude of dirty children, and a stray dog, observed him. Leocadia, too, stopped to watch, even though the sun was slowly rising and moving across the sky. Abelardo sketched and wrote and mumbled to himself for a good half hour.

Then he closed his case and folded away the apparatus until it was snugly roped against a piece of canvas.

The children wandered away. Leocadia and the dog, now sleeping next to her feet, remained. Leocadia leaned against the salt walls of a house and crossed her arms.

“What’s that thing you got?” she asked.

“That’s a dioptra.”

“What does it to do?”

“It measures angles.”

“That’s the big deal? You’re measuring stuff?”

“Well, you can’t just draw a good map out of thin air.”

“I don’t see why anyone would need to find Comba on a map,” she said.

“It might be useful.”

Leocadia doubted the Empress was going to ride across the desert to buy some salt from them, and that was the only thing Comba had to offer. There were crude signs that said “salt for sale” hanging from the doors, salt piled in backyards and inside homes, and salt caked against boots and clothes when an anaemic rain chanced to slide down the sky.

“Would you mind doing me a favour?”

“What?”

“Can you take me back to that temple where I found you?”

“What for?”

“I’d like to draw it.”

One of the houses across the street had many salt cakes sitting near its door, waiting to be taken to the market. An old man in a rickety cart and two strong, younger fellows arrived to pick the cargo. They stared at Leocadia, and she wiped her hands against her clothes, the salt glistening and clinging to the dark fabric.

“I got to go,” she said.

“I’d really appreciate it,” he insisted.

“What do you want to draw it for?”

“It’s my job. Listen,” he said patting his long, flowing coat. “I can pay you. A gold piece this time.”

“You’re going to take your dioptra with you?” she asked, eyeing the bundle.

“Yes.”

Leocadia thought about it for a moment. Curiosity. It was her greatest fault and the cause of her downfall. Curiosity had driven her to a man’s arms, into a man’s bed. Curiosity had left her dry as the playa, tough as the salt bricks.

She nodded curtly. “Tomorrow. Before the dawn. You meet me here again, alright?”

***

Leocadia touched the shiny metal apparatus while he hummed and scribbled. She did not recognize the melody.

“Why do you even care about drawing this place?” she asked him. “It’s nowhere.”

“Actually it’s somewhere. It’ll serve as a landmark. When people come by they can look for it.”

“Mmm,” Leocadia said and she bent down, looking at his toolbox with all its compartments. There were pigments and brushes and pencils neatly arranged in rows. He was drawing the temple, neatly capturing her stone lion.

“Your town will appear on maps and more people can come through. It’s good for commerce.”

Leocadia fingered a lens, holding it up towards the sun.

“There’s nothing to trade except salt,” she said. “Who will come across the plain for that?”

“I did.”

“Seems like a waste of time.”

“You don’t like the salt flat? I think it looks pretty.”

“Oh, I love the salt,” Leocadia said. “When it rains over the salt plain – once or twice every year – the salt reflects the sky like a great white mirror and it seems like you are walking through clouds. The salt, the desert, those I love. But I don’t like Comba much.”

“How come?’

Leocadia raised her head and stared at the arid wasteland. She thought of the flowers in her hair, the praise and then the dishonour. She shook her head.

“The wind is picking up,” she said pulling her black shawl against her face. “We need to go inside.”

They guided the horse and the llama up the temple steps and sat before the feet of a large headless idol. The walls around them were carved with images of frogs and slender trees.

“It’s a curious place, isn’t it?” Abelardo said. “I wouldn’t have expected such imagery.”

“There was an oasis here, once. It belonged to the water priestess. Their magic allowed beautiful gardens to blossom. Their magic is weaker now and the water doesn’t flow the same way it did, so they’ve gone to better grounds and let the desert salt have their stone palace.”

“I think I’ve seen one of their priestesses.”

Leocadia had been looking inside her leather bag for a piece of dried meat. She stopped when he spoke, glancing up at him.

“Rolan pointed her out when he was showing me town. White robes, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“A virginity cult of some sort, I’m given to understand.”

“Purity of thought is required to bring forth the rain,” Leocadia said, almost automatically.

She thought of the time when water had poured from her hands. How it ached, as though blood was being drained from her veins. And yet how wonderful it was, and how much praise was heaped on her.

“Water is a valuable commodity,” she said as she continued to rummage inside her bag, her shoulders tense. “So are the priestesses who bring it.”

“In Hellekierna they adore an alligator-god who sits upon a golden throne, and youths in golden robes feed it fish from silver dishes.”

Leocadia raised an eyebrow at him. He laughed.

“I swear it’s true,” he said and opened one of the drawers in his wooden box to reveal a little notebook. He flipped the pages and pointed at an illustration, all pretty pale watercolours. “See there.”

“You painted this?”

“Yes. I record everything I see. For maps, for the Empress.”

The eyes of the crocodile were golden and it had a great jewelled collar around its neck. It seemed heavy and cumbersome. Leocadia thought it might like to swim in a river better than padding through the throne room.

“It looks ferocious.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything. I went on the back of an elephant three years ago. It had tusks twice the size of a man. Here, see.”

“That’s odd-looking.”

“Just beyond the mountains that encircle your desert there are pink birds with the longest necks you’ve ever seen. They’re so pretty in flight.”

He flipped the page and Leocadia leaned over his shoulder. His hand brushed her arm, the slightest touch; a gesture with no great meaning. Yet Leocadia jumped to hear feet, as if startled.

“I’ll go look out,” she said clutching the shawl.

“I thought you said to wait inside.”

“You wait. I have to see what’s happening. We’ll have to head back to town soon.”

On the temple steps she held onto her lion and glanced at the windswept plain, the sun scorching the sky. Not a drop of moisture, nothing but the harsh wind, tossing salt in her face.

***

Her mother was stirring the stew like she did every day. However, there was a piercing silence in the kitchen. Rosaura sat in a corner with the baby in her arms. Even the child was quiet, no cooing coming from her.

Leocadia rested her shovel and pick against the wall.

“Rosaura says you’re running with some stranger.”

Leocadia did not answer. She nodded.

“I did not hear you,” her mother said, without looking at her.

“Yes,” Leocadia said finally.

“You have no shame.”

“He asked me for help.”

The slap did not take her by surprise. Leocadia merely bit her lips and went towards the little dinning room strewn with a few cushions, a low table and a rug. Rosaura followed her and placed the baby in a crib. Then she turned towards Leocadia.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Rosaura said. “Somebody else told her. I couldn’t lie.”

“What did you say?”

“You can’t go off with a man like that. Don’t you remember what happened with Rolan?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she muttered.

“That’s not what it looks like.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter? They’ll gossip.”

“Nothing they haven’t said before.”

Rosaura was upset. She pressed a hand against her chest. “If you don’t care about your reputation, think about us. How much more muck can you pour upon our family? Do you know what they call you in town?”

Leocadia did not want to discuss nicknames. She looked at the pattern of the rug, red and yellow and blue. Rosaura huffed at her.

“You want to live the rest of your life like a pariah? Keep it up. They’ll never forgive you.”

Leocadia went out of the house and stood in their backyard. There were piles of salt sitting there, like an eternal snowdrift. Leocadia grabbed a stick and drew an elephant, like in the pictures she had seen. She drew a monkey and an alligator and even a mermaid. Finally, she scrawled the cartographer’s name, the gesture of some love-sick child instead of a woman.

“Hello Leocadia,” said Bastian.

“Hello,” she said.

“I’ve come to take my wife back. Go tell her I’m here,” he said.

Leocadia did not move for a few moments. Finally, noticing the impatient look in his face, she rubbed off the letters in the salt and slowly walked back inside.

***

“I said I’m not going.”

“I can’t return alone.”

“Who cares? You already have your drawings and measurements and things,” she said.

“I’m not done yet. I need to go back today.”

“It’s not like you can’t find your way there,” she said.

“I’d like it if you accompanied me.”

Leocadia frowned and crossed her arms tight against her chest. She shouldn’t go. But he’d leave soon, taking all the pretty pictures and the nice smile away.

“We’ve got to come back quick,” she said. “And you’ll have to let me look at your other drawings.”

“Fine,” he said. “It’s a deal.”

Once inside the temple she spread his maps around her and looked at all the coasts, mountains and rivers. They surrounded her with their odd names and different topographies. She saw the white salt desert that was her land and Abelardo helped her find her home on it.

“There,” he said.

It was not even on the map. His finger fell over an empty space.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“From far, far away. Across the other corner of the empire,” he said and shuffled through some papers until he found the right one. There he tapped against a little dot. “That’s me.”

“Where were you before Comba?”

“A meandering trajectory. A little haphazard,” he said pointing at another map and tracing a serpentine route over it. “Until I crossed the mountains on a whim and here I sit with you.”

Leocadia looked at the inked locations, traced the same path he had traced with his hands over the parchment. Then her hands flew up, over his face and across his cheeks, plotting a route of a different sort.

“I’m glad you did,” she said and kissed him, first on the cheek, then on the mouth.

He smiled at her and Leocadia painted a new map on his skin using her fingers.

***

Dusk was near. She could feel it. It was terribly late. Leocadia glanced at Abelardo, asleep near the statue’s feet, before grabbing her shawl and slipping outside. She stood barefoot on the steps of the temple, observing the sky and feeling the wind.

She ought to have been more concerned about her reception at home, the town, the words used to describe her. Instead she walked all the way down the steps and stood on the salt plain, enjoying the very blue skies. It would be perfect if it rained. She wanted to show him the desert when it turned into a great mirror. It was a stupid thought: Leocadia could not cast any more spells.

She brushed the hair from her face and wished for rain.

It was not like when she had been a young priestess and cast water spells. Those spells had been difficult, piercing stabs of power that prickled her skin and made her hands ache. She did not ache now, as she threw her head back and smiled at the sky.

There was a single drop of water. It hit her cheek.

Leocadia stared at the sky in wonder and watched clouds gathering in the horizon, rolling closer like the tide. Thunder boomed so loud she pressed her hands against her ears. Heavy rain fell and turned into a full-blown storm, water splattering against the ground, water flowing as freely as in the carvings inside the temple.

Leocadia laughed and clapped her hands. Lightning streaked the sky, following her pattern. Her legs were caked in salt up to their knees and the shawl had blown away, stolen by the wind.

By then Abelardo had woken up and was watching her from the temple. He went down the steps and met her in the salt plain where the clouds reflected on the water, and it was impossible to tell where the sky began or ended.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mexican by birth, Canadian by inclination. Silvia lives in beautiful British Columbia with her family and two cats. She writes speculative fiction (from magic realism to horror). Her short stories have appeared in places such as Shimmer, The Book of Cthulhu, Imaginarium 2013: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing and Shine: An Anthology of Optimistic Science Fiction. Her first collection, This Strange Way of Dying, was released in 2013.

Table of Contents

Other Lives

Introduction

Mirror Life

King of Sand and Stormy Seas

Salt

About the Author

Table of Contents

Other Lives

Introduction

Mirror Life

King of Sand and Stormy Seas

Salt

About the Author