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| Damaris Kemp, "The Phoenix" |
Part 10
"Stolen"
The harbor was no place for children.
Thick
smoke clogged the air as the particles of pollution settled and
collected in the form of slag coating the ground. The massive storm with
its great quantities of rain should have been enough to wash any other
port clean, but here in the harbor, it only made the muck worse.
Wizened, reeking people of every shape and size, all discolored to a
uniform, pallid grey, shoved and shuffled their way up narrow alleys and
docks. Not even the wide, bold flounces of the nocturnal women could
rescue their lack of appeal—but it didn't stop them from trying.
A creaking ship pulled into the sloop, and its crew disembarked.
"Get
what ye can, lads," barked the captain. "We've a mighty haul and a long
voyage ahead of us. No tellin' how long it might be till the next
chance to enjoy ourselves."
The crew dispersed eagerly. A few
joined the crowd pressed around the booth where the Illusionist sat. She
said not a word as flashing images poured out of her fingertips,
twisting and galloping to vanish among the crowd.
Glinting
eyes regarded the scene from a high vantage point. A small body curled
in a crevice as the gaze found its mark. Slowly, the nimble feet
scurried down the side of the wall. Quick as a spark Damaris moved,
hovering here, only to vanish and reappear somewhere quite different.
Each movement brought him closer to his goal.
He slipped in
the empty spaces between people. They might skid a little on the slick
ground, but not he; his feet found the secure spots amid the muck.
Damaris glided among them like smoke, his eyes focused on hunting out
money belts or pouches. The ones who knew the harbor held their pouches
clutched in their hands; the ones hanging too low on the belts were also
not good to grab, because the mark would miss the weight. The chink of a
coin caught his ear. He glanced forward, and saw a large man just
digging coins out of his purse. Damaris scurried forward. As the hand
holding the purse came down toward the low-slung pocket, deft hands
intercepted it, subtly dropping a rock exactly the same size into the
sagging mouth, letting the pouch jingle as he did so.
The mark never suspected a thing. Damaris narrowed his body and prepared to waft backward the way he came.
"Oh my!" A voice squawked, as a soft thing impeded his movement.
The
mark turned at the noise, saw the tipsy old woman still tilting
precariously—and the shameless runt holding his own coin purse.
Damaris felt the coldness of dread wash over him. Of all the dandies in the audience, he had to pick the pirate as his mark!
The burly man scowled and snapped the boy up by his collar.
"Oy!" He snarled, tossing Damaris in the open before everyone. "Try to steal from me, you scurvy rat?"
Damaris
dropped the purse; riches be damned, the only thing he wanted in this
moment was to disappear with his skin and his life still intact. He
scrambled backward, but thick boots stepped out of the crowd, more crew
members advancing in defense of their mate.
Meanwhile, the
mark advanced on him, drawing the curved cutlass and brandishing it with
expert menace. "People think we pirates is lawless, but ye might be
interested to know there be pirate law, too."
Damaris trembled
as the boots behind him and the soft tone of the gravelly voice caused
him to lose the will to move. The pirate kicked him in the chest,
sending him sprawling, and before Damaris could react, the pirate
stepped on his arm, pinning him down.
The cutlass flashed in a direct line over his shoulder.
"D'ye know what the penalty is for STEALING?"
The blade swept down... Damaris cringed...
K-k-CRACK!
A
strange but deafening snap split the air—but Damaris felt no pain, only
that every hair on his body stood straight up. The pressure left his
shoulder and he heard the cutlass clatter to the ground at the same time
he smelled the pungent stench of burning flesh. A thud and a puff of
dust resounded beside him. Damaris opened his eyes to behold the glassy,
empty, terror-stricken visage of the pirate, arm still outstretched to
deliver the severing blow. Damaris scrambled back as the pirates surged
forward to inspect their fallen comrade.
One of them looked straight at the terrified boy.
"He's dead!" He announced.
"I didn't do it!" Damaris squealed the words before he could stop himself.
Denial only fueled the accusation.
"Sure ya did! Yer one o' Them, ain't ye!"
"Thief! Thief—and a MURDERER!"
Damaris
didn't know what they referred to—only that he needed to leave. He
jumped to his feet like a spooked rabbit and scurried off down the road,
hearing the shouts of the pirate crew behind him.
No matter
how he tried, he knew he would never get anyone to believe the truth
about the pirate's death. In the briefest flutter of his eyelids,
Damaris (though he wondered if he imagined it, himself) had actually
seen the miracle that had killed the pirate and saved his life:
A bolt of lightning, out of a clear blue sky on a warm summer day.
Damaris shook his head and kept running. After all, the Harbor was no place for children.
~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~
Jaran
cradled the light-flare in his hand until the energy surge died. His
cuffs were just out of reach, and besides, they might be the wrong
material. He didn't want to risk doing damage to himself in the attempt
to escape.
The young boy in nothing but short
trousers and a loose vest—his fellow prisoner—stared at him wide-eyed.
Jaran wondered if he'd heard stories from the harbor-thief he'd saved
when he first arrived at the harbor, back before he'd really mastered
his ability.
Jaran closed his empty hand and leaned back against the cell wall.
He heard the boy's chains clink.
"It was you!" He choked. "You killed the pirate!"
Perhaps
he had heard of the incident, then. Jaran opened his eyes. "Killed?" He
frowned. "No, you must have heard wrong. The man was still standing
when I left; I only meant to make him drop the sword."
The boy shook his head. "No, he was dead, all right. All cooked up inside. You did that?"
Jaran
opened his hand, and a tiny spark hopped into the air and disappeared.
"Guilty as charged," he quipped, knowing how much his advisers would
have groaned at the terrible pun.
The boy stared at him with less awe and more fascination. "You saved my life!" he cried.
Jaran
frowned. "No, that can't be," he mused. "I saw the pirates leave the
port; they said they burnt the thief alive in his own house." He had
felt such remorse at the thought of an innocent boy dying because of
something he did, that Jaran nearly considered taking his own life—which
was how Erlis found him.
A shudder rippled through the
scrawny body. "They did burn my hut," the boy said softly. When he
looked up at Jaran, his eyes glowed like they held real tongues of flame
in them. "I couldn't get out, I thought I would die—but when I woke,
there were ashes all around me, and I had flame inside of me." He opened
his hand, and called forth a ball of fire. He grinned to see the older
boy flinch backward. "It has been within me ever since."
Jaran
tried to be grumpy, but the cuffs restrained his hands at an odd and
uncomfortable angle. "Born from the ashes, eh? Rather like a phoenix. What's your name, anyway?" He asked.
"Damaris," the boy answered. "What's yours?"
"Jaran;
tell me, Damaris—when they burnt your house, were your parents with
you?" The only thing that could make this worse is if the boy had to
also witness the demise of his family—not that Jaran knew what that felt
like.
Damaris shrugged. "Parents? I doubt if I ever knew them
at all. I live alone, picking pockets and stealing from merchants for
this half-hearted, mindless shuffle they call 'living.'" He smirked at
his cell mate. "How about you?"
Jaran shrugged. "I never knew my parents either. They both died the day after I was born."
Damaris
chuckled. "Was your father poisoned and your mother heartbroken?" He
shook his head. "Korsan told me that was how King Balwyn and Queen
Gracelle died, when the Lost Prince was born. He said the realm lost a
great leader that day, and we are left with the power-hungry Royal
Council, until the Crown Prince is found."
Jaran snorted. "Maybe it would happen faster if the Lost Prince hadn't managed to get himself thrown in his own dungeon!"
Damaris
flinched so hard that a small flame struck the floor and ignited some
straw wedged between the flagstones. He quickly stomped it out, but the
shock remained on his face. "Are you really the Lost Prince?" When Jaran
nodded, Damaris jumped to his feet. "Then what are we waiting for?
Wouldn't that make you the Crown Prince as well?"
Jaran shook
his head. "I am Prince Jaran Seramis, that is true; but I highly doubt I
am this legendary Crown Prince meant to overthrow the Twin Regents. I
can only guess that he might still be out there somewhere—It's funny,"
he mused.
"What is?" Damaris was still trying to wrap his head
around the idea that he could be unjustly arrested and imprisoned in a
dungeon WITH THE FABLED LOST PRINCE OF THE REALM.
Jaran gave a
wry grin. "I've lived my whole life thinking I was alone—and just now I
discover that I may yet have a brother I know nothing about—oh, and by
the way, he's destined to return and reclaim our father's throne!"
"Jaran?" A voice issued out of the emptiness beyond the cell.
The
night watch had taken up their posts some time ago. The two young men
fell silent and listened intently. The evening torches flickered dimly.
Jaran almost wished they had glowlamps down here instead of flame.
"Who's there?" He asked the growing shadows.
The door to their cell creaked open slowly. Damaris could barely make out a roughly human-shaped shadow behind the door.
"We don't have much time," the voice continued softly. "You should probably run while you have the chance."
~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~
One Mage and three women gathered in the back of the small dispensary. None of them looked very happy.
Velora
swore. "They must have grabbed the kid while we were all fighting; I
should have suspected something when the fire stopped coming!"
"It
is I who should have been paying attention," Erlis replied mournfully.
"I swore to protect Jaran, and then I go and allow sanctuary to the very
person hunting him down!" She scowled at her foolishness. "He warned me
not to trust her, but like a noble idiot I ignored him—if I had
listened, we would have escaped long before the ambush!"
"Her?" Aurelle tilted her head. "You mean the Hunter?"
Erlis
nodded. "She appeared in my courtyard, badly wounded; Jaran wanted to
leave her unconscious or at most merely set and bandage her wounds," she
looked down at her palms, glowing faintly in the daylight. "But in my
arrogance I convinced myself that I could heal her instead of bandage
her, and that maybe she could be turned to our cause."
Korsan dropped his talisman with a clink. "Instead, she became the beacon to bring all these soldiers to your location!"
"And," Velora added, "she got away!"
Aurelle
was still lost in thought. "The peacekeepers know our faces now," she
murmured. "There won't be any of us able to get into that castle to
stage a rescue."
Erlis looked up. "We may not have to," she
mused. "I can use my position as apothecary to make contact with the
other healer in the castle; she serves as the bodyguard for the
Council's Queen." She glanced at Korsan. "She is Gifted, that much I
know. I can only imagine that they must not know of her Gift, or surely
she would fall under the Ordinance."
Aurelle snorted. "The Golden Goose? I've heard of her; she's crazy."
"But
this healer might be our only chance, since she is Gifted as we are,"
Korsan pointed out. "And perhaps the..." He faltered, "deranged queen
might be just insane enough to become our diversion."
Velora's eyes lit up. "Wait," she said slowly, "what about Harlock?"
Korsan frowned. "Whom?"
Erlis gasped. "You've met Harlock? When? Where?"
Aurelle
nodded. "He was—Velora and I met him in the woods, after ambushing a
detachment of soldiers. He warned us that the Hunter was coming."
Erlis smoothed the scales on her arm. "He must have seen her in the early hours; that's why he left without saying anything."
Korsan waved his arms impatiently. "Who is Harlock?" He demanded.
"Another
Gifted," Velora answered. "He had water manipulation—but the last we
saw of him, he didn't seem interested in helping anybody but himself."
"Not
to mention that we have no idea where he is now or how to find him,
even if he were willing to help us rescue the boys!" Aurelle grumbled.
Erlis glanced at her old friend from the palace. "Korsan, what is it?"
The
white-haired Mage had gone very pale and rigid, gaping at Velora with
wide eyes. His voice trembled as he asked, "Did—did you just say this
young man you met could manipulate water?"
~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~<>~
Harlock jerked awake with a snort as the wagon rocked to a stop. He poked his head out from under the tarp.
"Trees?"
He cried in confusion. "What—" He twisted this way and that, but there
were only trees as far as the eye could see. They were not in the town,
but down in the deepest, thickest part of the forest. "Where have you
taken me?" He demanded.
The wagoner shrugged. "It's where you needed to go, wasn't it?"
Harlock swore. "I told you I needed a ride into the city!"
The
wagoner crossed his arms and stuck out his chin. "Did not either! You
said you needed to find something in the forest! I remember it clear as
day! 'Sides, what would the likes of me do in a high-faultin' Capitol
city? Simple folk like me don't belong in a place like that!" He
squinted down his nose at the man. "Now if you don't mind, stranger, I
have other business to tend to—business called 'getting home to my
family'—and I'll thank you to get your ungrateful arse off my wagon!" He
dropped the reins into his lap and crossed his arms like a petulant
child. He lifted not a finger until Harlock—with many oaths muttered
under his breath—slumped off the back and sauntered to the side.
The driver grinned, snapped up the reins and waved. "Be seeing you!"
Harlock
managed to keep from losing his temper until the wagon reached the top
of the hill. Just before the driver and his ridiculous hat disappeared, a
sudden deluge drenched him right through, though there didn't seem to
be a cloud in the sky. Then the wagon was gone, and Harlock stood alone.
"All right, Jay!" He growled. "Come on out!"
The
fairy slowly crawled her way out of his pocket. By the way she flew in
reluctant squiggles, he knew that his suspicions were not mislaid.
"You
did this to me!" He jabbed a finger at her. "To us! You messed with the
driver's head and convinced him to go south to the forest instead of
keeping to the north road toward the city!" He was so angry, he stomped
his foot and a wellspring of water erupted from the base of the tree he
stood under. "Why?" He roared at her. "Why would you do that? Is there
something you're not telling me?"
"I have never lied to you, Harlock," Jay tried to defend herself.
"Not
to me!" Harlock exploded. "But why are you keeping me from going to the
city? Why did we have to leave those Outcasts? Velora said that one of
them was a Mage—he might have been able to help me! Those two Outcasts
the driver mentioned? One of them had to be Jaran! I could have been
there to save them!"
"I am trying to save you, Harlock!"
"That's what you keep saying, but so far, I can't tell!"
"There is something you need," Jay insisted. "Here in the forest."
Harlock
folded his arms over his bare chest and shivered. "What I need is a
shirt, maybe even a jacket! But no, I have to chase you all over the
realm, and you won't ever tell me anything!"
"Please, Harlock; you must trust me!"
"I don't think I can, Jay. You've done enough."
"Harlock."
With the one heartfelt knell, Jay flew up to his face, close enough for
him to actually make out some of her features. "You must come with me to
find the answers you seek. Just this one last time, and I promise to
hide nothing from you."
Harlock tried to scowl and stay mad,
but she stared at him with such purity and penitence that he couldn't.
In one explosive sigh, his anger dissipated. "All right; just this once,
and then we are going to the castle to rescue the kid and you will not
stop me again!"
"Of course," Jay responded. "Follow me."
She zipped off into the underbrush. Harlock followed her easily—just like he had for as long as he could remember.
Not
far from where they had fought, Jay came to stop in a wide clearing
that bore the remains of a small village—now heaps of ash and blackened
stone. She wandered among them, and Harlock followed.
"What happened to this place?" He mused as she searched various piles of rubble.
"Fire;
what else does it look like?" Jay replied. "One building caught and then
the rest of them went up in flames." She paused to survey two skeletons,
entwined with one another where they died. "While their residents cowered
inside the burning rooms," she finished. Finally, she moved to a heap of
ash. "Here it is; you'll have to dig for it."
"Here what is?" Harlock grumbled, brushing away the hash to the hard-packed mud below. "How do I know when I've found it?"
"Believe me, you'll know."
As
he dug, a slow realization began unfolding in Harlock's mind. He could
clearly picture the village as it must have looked before the fire—but
at the same time, he could think of no reason on earth why he would
visit such a remote place. Was this his childhood home, perhaps? Would
he find something that pertained to his life before the boat?
What in the blue blazes would such a thing be doing buried under a heap of ash in the middle of a forest?
Finally,
his fingers connected with something hard and slippery. It felt wooden,
so it could not be just another rock. He finally dug deep enough to
loosen it and pull it out.
In the light of Jay's wings,
Harlock could see that the object was a small oaken chest. Being buried
had done it no favors, but at least the outside being intact assured him
that the chest had done its job of protecting whatever was inside it.
Carefully,
Harlock reached inside the locking mechanism and pressed the prongs to
release it. The chest flipped open, and the first thing Harlock saw was a
thin piece of parchment. It wasn't even really aged; whatever this was,
it hadn't been there for long. He opened it to read the message inside.
"Korsan—
Keep this safe for my return.
-Beren S."
Again,
his memory clicked and spluttered, but Harlock could not place it; had
he known a man named Beren, once upon a time? The name Korsan sounded
familiar—but why?
He reached into the chest and felt something hard and thin. Harlock pulled it out to look at it in the moonlight.
It was a tall circlet, set with jewels. A crown fit for a prince.
"Whose is it?" He asked Jay.
She wavered carefully.
"It belongs to the Crown Prince," she answered.
Harlock
smirked. He'd seen the reward posters, he'd heard the rumors. "Well
then," he said, dropping the crown into his knapsack, "we'd better head
up to the city to return it to him!"
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