Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

Thrace uncovered a beautiful mirror that was shattered and struggled to free a jagged piece when Arista saw a glint of gold and pointed saying, “There’s something under the mirror.”

Thrace pushed the glass aside and reaching down grabbed hold and drew forth the hilt half of a broken sword. Elaborately decorated in silver and gold encrusted in fine sparkling gems, the pommel caught the starlight and sparkled.

Thrace took the sword by the grip and held it up. “It’s light,” she said.

“It’s broken,” Arista replied, “but I suppose it’s better than a piece of glass.”

Thrace stowed the hilt in the lining pocket of the cloak and went on digging. She came across the head of an axe and a fork, both of which she discarded. Then pulling back a bit of cloth, she stopped suddenly.

Arista hated to look, but once more felt compelled.

It was a woman’s face-eyes closed, mouth open.

Thrace placed the cloth back over the hole she had made. She retreated to the far edge and sat down, squeezing her knees while resting her head. Arista could see her shaking and Thrace did not dig anymore after that. The two sat in silence.

Thrump. Thrump.

Arista heard the sound and her heart raced. Every muscle in her body tightened and she dared not look. A great gust of air struck from above as she closed her eyes, waiting for death. She heard it land and waited to die. Arista could hear it breathing and still she waited.

“Soon,” she heard it say.

Arista opened her eyes.

The beast rested on the pile, panting from the effort of its flight. It shook its head, spraying the platform with loose saliva from its lips that failed to hide the forest of jagged teeth. Its eyes were larger than Arista’s hand, with tall narrow pupils on a marbled orange and brown lens that reflected her own image.

“Soon?” She didn’t know where she found the courage to speak.

The massive eye blinked and the pupil dilated as it focused on her. It would kill her now, but at least it would be over.

“You understand mine speech?” the voice was large and so deep she felt it vibrating her chest.

She both nodded and said, “Yes.”

Across from her, the princess could see Thrace with her head up off her knees staring.

The beast looked at Arista. “Thou art regal.”

“I am a princess.”

“The best bait,” the Gilarabrywn said but Arista was not sure she heard that right. It might also have said ‘the greatest gift,’ the phrase was difficult to translate.

She asked, “Wilt thou honor thine trade or kill us?”

“The bait stays alive until I catch the thief.”

“Thief?”

“The taker of the sword. It comes. I crossed the moon to show it the way twas clear, but hath returned flying low. The thief comes now.”

“What’s it saying?” Thrace asked.

“It said we are bait to catch a thief that stole a sword.”

“Royce,” Thrace said.

Arista stared at her. “What did you say?”

“I hired two men to steal a sword from this tower.”

“You hired Royce Melborn and Hadrian Blackwater?” Arista asked, stunned.

“Yes.”

“How did you-” she gave that thought up. “It knows Royce is coming,” Arista told her. “It pretended to fly away, letting him see it leave.”

The Gilarabrywn’s ears perked up suddenly tilting forward toward the false door. Abruptly, but quietly, it stood and with a gentle flap of its wings lifted off. Catching the thermals, the beast soared upward above the tower. Thrace and Arista heard movement somewhere below, footsteps on stone.

A figure appeared in a black cloak. It stepped forward, passing through the solid stone of the false door, like a man surfacing from below a still pond.

“It’s a trap, Royce!” Arista and Thrace shouted together.

The figure did not move.

Arista heard the whispered sound of air rushing across leathery wings. Then a brilliant light abruptly burst forth from the figure. Without a sound or movement, it was as if a star appeared in place of the man, the light so bright, it blinded everyone. Arista closed her eyes in pain and heard the Gilarabrywn screech overhead. She felt frantic puffs of air beat down on her as the beast flapped its wings, breaking its dive.

The light was short-lived. It faded abruptly though not entirely and soon they could all see the man in the shimmering robe before them.

“YOU!” The beast cursed at him, shaking the tower with its voice. It hovered above them, its great wings flapping.

“Escaped thy cage beast of Erivan, hunter of Nareion!” Esrahaddon shouted in Old Speech. “I shalt cage thee again!”

The wizard raised his arms, but before he made another move, the Gilarabrywn screeched and fluttered back in horror. It beat its great wings and rose up, but in that last second, it reached down with one talon snatching Thrace off the tower. It dove over the side vanishing from sight. Arista raced to the railing looking down in horror. The beast and Thrace were gone.

“We can do nothing for her,” the wizard said sadly.

She turned to see Esrahaddon and Royce Melborn beside her, both looking over the edge into the dark roar of the river below. “Her fate lies with Hadrian and her father now.”

Arista’s hands squeezed the railing stiffly. She felt the drowning sensation again. Royce grabbed her by the wrist. “Are you alright, Your Highness? It’s a long way down, you know.”

“Let’s get her downstairs,” Esrahaddon said. “The door, Royce. The door.”

“Oh right,” the thief replied. “Grant entry to Arista Essendon Princess of Melengar.”

The archway became a real door that stood open. They all entered into a small room. Off the pile, safe behind walls, Arista felt the impact at last and she was forced to sit before she fell.

She buried her face in her hands and wailed, “Oh god, dear Maribor. Poor Thrace!”

“She may yet be all right,” the wizard told her. “Hadrian and her father are waiting with the broken sword.”

She rocked as she cried but she did not cry only for Thrace. The tears were the bursting of a dam that could resist the flood no longer. In her mind flashed images of Hilfred and that last unspoken word; of Bernice and the cruel way she had treated her; and of Fanen and Mauvin, their happy faces lost. All of this could not be put into words, instead the emotions exploded out of her as she shouted, “The sword, what sword? What is all of this about a sword? I don’t understand!”

“You explain,” Royce said. “I need to find the other half.”

“It’s not there,” Arista told him.

“What?”

“You said the sword was broken?” Arista asked.

“In two parts. I stole the blade half yesterday, now I need to get the hilt half. I’m pretty certain it is in that pile up there.”

“No it isn’t,” Arista said, shocked that her brain was still working enough to connect the dots. “Not anymore.”

The wizard led the way down the long crystalline steps, pausing from time to time to peer down a corridor, or at a staircase. He would think for a moment then shake his head and push on, or mutter, “Ah, yes!” and turn.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Avempartha,” the wizard replied.

“I got that much already. What is Avempartha, and don’t say it’s a tower.”

“It is an elven construction, built several millenniums ago. More recently it has been a trap that has held the Gilarabrywn, and more recently still, it has apparently been its nest. Does that help?”

“Not really.”

Although perplexed, Arista did feel better. It surprised her how easy it was to forget. It felt wrong. She should be thinking about the ones lost. She should be grieving, but her mind fought against it. Like a broken limb that refused to support any more weight, her heart and mind were hungry for relief. She needed a rest, something else to think about, something that did not involve death and misery. The tower of Avempartha provided the remedy. It was astounding.