Frank Tuttle - All the Paths of Shadow

From the flat, a series of spokes shot out, parallel to the ground. At the end of each spoke, a dark mass formed, and then the spokes began to turn.

Mug turned eyes upon Meralda. “You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

“Briefly,” she answered. “In the park, when my first latch collapsed.”

“Yes,” said the Tower. In the glass, Meralda saw her latch and refractors form, watched as the latch was chewed in half by the turning spokes, saw it fall away and vanish.

“I allowed your shadow moving spell to latch,” said the Tower. “I thought it harmless. I was wrong.”

The spokes began to wobble as they turned, and the steady flight of the dark masses took on a bobbing quality. “The instability is growing,” it said. “Soon, the binding will fail.”

In the glass, the spokes jerked and flailed. Some lost speed, some began to turn faster. Then they collided and tangled and tore each other apart.

The dark masses broke free, one by one, and were hurtled out and away, vanishing from the glass.

Meralda shivered. Like falcons tethered to a pol e, she’d thought, upon glimpsing them in the park.

“Curseworks,” she said, aloud. “Aren’t they?”

“They are,” replied the Tower. “Fire. Pestilence. Decay. Madness.” The Tower paused. “And others, more subtle, yet no less destructive. There are twelve. Master was vengeful, at the end.”

The image in the glass flashed, and the spokes and the masses were gone, replaced by the flat and the staves.

“How long?” asked Meralda.

“I may be able to maintain the binding for another two hundred and forty hours,” replied the Tower. “Perhaps less. But certainly no more. After that, Master’s curses will fall, and Tirlin will be consumed.”

Even Phillitrep’s Engine seemed to halt, as if listening.

“Two hundred and forty hours is ten days,” said Mug.

“Consumed,” said Meralda. “Are you speaking figuratively, perhaps?”

“Burned, razed, broken, ground to dust,” replied the Tower. “Employ what euphemism you will. Master designed the destruction to be complete. ‘Utter and thorough,’ he said. ‘Let us visit upon them what they have brought to me’.”

Meralda met Mug’s wide and staring eyes. He’s dying to ask the Tower why it isn’t just keeping quiet and letting the curseworks fall, she thought. And that isn’t a bad question.

“If that was your master’s plan,” she said, slowly, “why aren’t you just letting it happen?”

The Tower image flickered. “At the end, Master seemed confused,” it replied. “He was dying. His works were lost. His lands were aflame. But he looked upon the curseworks, and he was saddened, and I believe he tried to dispel them.”

Meralda nodded. Nothing was known about Otrinvion’s final hours. Perhaps he wasn’t the heartless villain of legend, after all.

“Did your master perhaps leave records concerning these curseworks behind?”

“He did not. They were crafted in a place beyond my senses. I know almost nothing of their basic natures.”

“And yet you believe I can render them harmless.”

The Tower hesitated.

“My knowledge of the kingdoms and the mages they employ is extensive,” it said. Meralda thought of Goboy’s glass, hanging in the laboratory for the last four hundred years. Had the Tower been watching and listening, all that time? Before that time, even? “You are the most skilled mage in all the Realms. If you do not try, then doom will befall Tirlin. I believe Master would find this event undesirable. Thus, I am bound to make every effort to forestall it.”

Mug swapped eyes between Meralda and the mirror.

“Are those your master’s staves?”

“They are.”

“Mistress,” said Mug. “If that’s true, and friend Tower is telling the truth-”

“I am.”

“-they would certainly be able to handle a Vonat or two, wouldn’t they? What about it, Tower? We help you with your little doom problem, you let the mage here borrow Nameless and Faceless?”

“Mug!”

“The staves are not under my control,” said the Tower. “They obey me when it suits them, but only then. I have already directed them to assist the mage in her efforts. If the mage is in danger, then I believe they will act to protect her.”

“You believe?” Mug tossed his leaves. “How about it, kindling wood? Do we have a deal?”

Meralda nearly shoved Mug in a drawer.

The staves stood still.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Mug, be silent.” Meralda pulled back her chair and sat.

It could be lying, she thought. Or it could be a Vonat trick. Or a trap left by Otrinvion. Or any number of other nefarious schemes brought to life by who knows who. It could be the Hang, the Vonats, or rogue members of Tirlin’s own court.

Or it could be exactly what it says it is, and it could be telling a terrible, terrible truth.

“Tower. You said you knew nearly nothing of the curseworks and their natures.”

“Correct.”

Meralda shoved aside a heap of papers, found a fresh sheet and her pencil. “So tell me everything you do know. In as much detail as you can provide, please.”

Mug shook his leaves and brought all his eyes together in a multi-colored blinking clump.

The Tower began to speak, filling the glass with diagrams and symbols, and Meralda wrote long into the night.

Even exhausted, Meralda could not bring herself to sleep in the laboratory. Not with Goboy’s mirror and whatever lay within looking out at her all night.

So she put Mug in his birdcage and roused the Bellringers and headed for home. She was sure she heard something very much like the flutter of wings overhead, but she did not lift her gaze.

After all, she mused as the cab rolled homeward, there is precious little I could do against them, if they are indeed the Nameless and the Faceless of legend.

Mug didn’t speak at all. His eyes remained upturned, staring at the cloudy, starless sky.

It was two of the clock by the time Meralda tip-toed over her threshold. Mug kept all but two of his eyes shut against the swaying of the cage, and didn’t stop shaking until he was once again safe on the kitchen table.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me all that was just a bad dream, mistress,” he whispered.

Meralda shook off her boots on the rug. “I’m afraid not, Mug.”

“Do you think they’re here? The you-know-whats?”

“I don’t know. Probably. But if they are, I expect them to behave. This is my home, and they are guests within it.”

“And if they wake Mrs. Whitlonk she’ll shave them down to toothpicks,” added Mug.

Meralda gazed about her kitchen. If the staves were present, they were quiet and remaining out of sight.

I don’t suppose I can hope for more than that, thought Meralda.

“You should get some sleep,” said Mug. “I’ll keep watch, if you like.”

Meralda smiled. “No need. We’re as safe as we can possibly be, I suppose.”

Mug tossed his leaves wearily. “At least move me into the bedroom.” He clenched his eyes shut. “Quickly, please.”

Meralda rose and caught Mug up, before he could change his mind.

The five-twenty trolley roused Meralda from a troubled, restless sleep. She moaned and fought her way out of her tangled bedclothes and stumbled toward her bathroom.

Mug tossed as she passed, but none of his eyes opened. Meralda paused to draw back her curtains, so the dandyleaf plant would have the first rays of the sunrise, and then set about bathing and dressing.

That done, she sought out breakfast, remembering too late that her cupboards were bare. So she sat and combed her hair while Mug spread his leaves to the bright morning sun.