Chapter Text
There was peace in his head. Finally, he thought, though he didn’t know why.
It might’ve helped that he was busy. He was working all the time. Farming, gathering and chopping firewood, and teaching, strangely enough. He was one of the few who could still read and write. Why that had stayed with him, he had no idea.
The soil on the island was rocky and poor. There wasn’t much to eat. They were only allowed to eat what they grew or caught, or sometimes hunted on the mountain; the occasional myrphon or seabird. It made sense to him, in a dull, settled way, the way everything made sense to him here. They’d all done something to deserve it, hadn’t they?
Even Vim, his bunkmate and probably his closest companion. Shuffling, gentle Vim had done something awful to land himself here. The prospect kept Vim up at night, had him tossing and moaning and rattling the bed, almost in tune with the unremittent, wailing winds, the crashing of the waves against the cliffs.
Not him. No, he’d wake and shiver every now and then, but he’d soon fall again into a flat, dreamless sleep. Surely it had to do with being so busy. He was exhausted from another long day’s work, and his body knew it had to do it all again in just a few clock marks. A nice routine, in its way.
Truthfully, he hadn’t much to worry about. He was grateful for this. He had work, he had food, he had a bed, he had a friend. Quite a few friends in fact, fellow criminals and guards alike. A few of the guards were in his classes, learning their letters, and on occasion they’d sneak him bread and beer from the elusive cargo ship, from someplace way out there on the mainland, on Zozah. Everybody seemed to like him.
“You’re smart,” they’d tell him. “You’re just a good guy. Y’know? It’s hard to believe you got sentenced to ten years…”
He didn’t know how to respond to that. Sure, he wondered…
Vim would press him, between heaving swings of their axes. He’d wipe his face with his fraying tunic, one of only three they got, and fix him with his haggard, miserable gaze.
“I don’t know what I did,” he’d say, voice low, strained, aggrieved. “What if what I did was something really horrible? You know?” Entreating, “Don’t you wonder what you did?”
He’d always tell Vim some version of the same thing. “Sure I do, but…” He’d glance behind them, minding the guards, the length of their break. “We can never know, right? It’s gone.”
He’d tap his head in indication. Vim would nod at the ground, sagging, despairing.
“We’re here to get ourselves right, aren’t we? We have to do the best we can.”
He believed that. Doubts didn’t plague him about that.
“It’s a fresh start.” He’d pat Vim on his tense, heavy shoulder. “It’s a mercy they’re showing us.”
“Have you done enough chatting?” a guard would call out, and they’d step apart, hoist their axes and begin again.
No…not a single doubt about that. That feeling, that word—finally—persisted. He’d look into the past and find nothing. Finally. He’d awake from a sleep without dreams. Finally. At last.
He knew it was banishment, prison, a sentence. But he felt like he was finally free.
Well, to tell the truth…his only doubts arose around a certain thing.
He was fine with his body. He had a slight build, clearly not a man who’d done much labor, but he took to it fine, readily enough. He wasn’t too young or too old. All they’d given him was the name Brant, not his age or anything else. But there was a pool of rainwater they’d bathe in, and Brant would sometimes take a little longer, studying himself, turning his hands and forearms in the shifting light.
He had a lot of scars. Burn scars, by the looks of them. It might explain why he was not afraid of handling fire. His body remembered what his mind couldn’t, and it would lead him toward fires; he’d build and stoke and tend them everywhere, in the dining hall, near the huts where they slept, in the schoolhouse. Whether he was asked to or not. Fire, its light, its heat, was the only thing that stirred him…the only thing that pressed upon his peace, tipping it, tilting it toward a hint of wild fear, of grasping longing.
Somehow he felt both complete and bereft, by the fire.
He knew he was observant. Clever, all that. He’d get bored. For all the peace he had, he craved a good amount of mental stimulation. So he’d count and catalog everything. He’d remember details about every prisoner and guard he encountered. He’d find patterns and trace them until he could draw them from memory, and he’d memorize snippets of books and encourage his students to do the same.
He’d often listen in on others’ conversations. He’d join in when he could, of course, but some of the guards didn’t care for any criminal’s company. They were bored, too, stationed out on this sparse and blustery island, and they’d gossip and gripe and pine over home. The subject that piqued Brant’s interest the most would only come up on occasion: the second set of guards, the ones he never saw. The Knights. They were witches.
His fellow criminals were fine to chat with, but like him, no one knew a thing. No one had a single memory of their prior life. Brant pieced so many things together from their meager library, from the guards’ anecdotes, from all he could observe. That this world contained magic, he’d learned early on in the months he’d spent here. He was not a witch, he was sure of it…else he’d feel the magic in him, that power they were born with.
He wanted to meet a witch, though. He wanted to witness their magic.
One cold, fast-falling night, after their work was done, Brant brought a book to the fire he’d built outside his hut, around which Vim and a handful of others slouched in weary silence. They liked it when he read to them, especially the fairy tales—tales of witches, beasts, kings and knights, lovers and magic. Tonight he read to them about the stars.
The stars remained hidden in real life; an impenetrable cover of cloud hung over the island. Brant could not remember ever seeing stars, but he tried to picture them as he described them aloud. They all did, rubbing their callused hands, leaning in.
“Think the sky will ever clear here?” murmured Vim between passages, soothed by the story. “Like it does in the book?”
They all looked up, acknowledging the gloom.
“How long has it been…?” another wondered, sighing with familiar confusion.
“Eventually it will, I’m sure,” insisted another. “Surely it will one day.”
“I wish for that! Won’t it be something!”
“I look forward to it.”
While they made their wishes, Brant lowered his head. He folded the book closed in his lap, took up a branch and tended the fire. It popped and sizzled, spraying his arm with bright heat.
It had been eight months, for him, anyway, and the clouds hadn’t lifted. They hadn’t grown heavy with rain; they hadn’t changed at all. They had a constancy that nature didn’t have…a reputation that the guards, in fouler moods and furtive tones, would blame on those Knights and their magic.
He prodded the charred wood. Flames licked the branch. Maybe he was too observant for his own good. What difference did it make? Sure if he was a witch, he’d use magic to seal away criminals. Instead, he was the criminal. He didn’t know what he’d done, but…what difference did it make? What had he been telling Vim, over and over? This second chance was a mercy. This exile…not seeing the stars—or the sun, beyond a filmy mist—well, what difference did it make? If he worked hard and kept his head down, in ten years, maybe…
The fire curled up the branch, begging to have it, to burn it. Straining to fuel itself, to keep itself alive. He couldn’t deny it the chance. He gave in and let the branch fall.
Tomorrow, so he’d overheard, the cargo ship would come. Maybe he’d venture down to the bay…listen in on the crew. See what he could learn.
Brant noticed at once: There was a child on board. He’d never seen a child. He kept watch from his spot under the docks, washing the nets from the morning’s catch.
The child followed along behind a shipmate whom they appeared to know, taking the occasional, clipped order, hauling some of the smaller deliveries, struggling with their footing on the creaking ramp. They glanced every which way, pulling their hooded cloak tight. They seemed anxious. Of course they’d be anxious! Brant worried for them. How irresponsible, to bring a child here, to this inhospitable island, rife with convicts!
At one point, the child tugged at their master’s shirt, muttering something. Then they wandered up the strand, toward an isolated crop of rocks where myrphons gathered, looking quite small and battered by the winds. They looked lost, like they were about to slip and fall upon the rocks, to vanish into the sea.
Brant gathered the nets in haste, tossed them into the nearest vessel and sloshed ashore. What were they doing? Didn’t they know it was dangerous here?!
As soon as he was in earshot, he hollered, “Hey!”
The child jumped. They stumbled back and drew their arms toward their face. He felt his empty stomach twist. Damn it, too harsh. It’s a child. He tried again.
“Hey. Hullo,” he said, striving for gentleness. He kept his distance, kept his dirty hands outstretched and open. “Where’re you headed? You oughta stay with the ship.”
The child stared at him. He could hardly see their face beneath the hood.
“It’s not safe here,” he went on. “I don’t want to…”
Their cloak flapped with harsh snaps. They seemed frozen to the spot. Afraid. Of him. Of course. He cursed himself.
“I won’t get any closer,” he said, lowering his hands. He rubbed his neck. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be…I should get a guard.”
“No!” cried the child.
Brant faltered, confused. No? Why not? Weren’t they…?
“Where are all the guards?” asked the child, in a stressed but determined voice.
“They’re…” He felt strange. “Most of ’em are over by your ship, I reckon. They trust me a little more. They shouldn’t, but…”
The child lunged forward. They seized his wrist with a gloved hand and pulled, dragging him over the jutting rocks with startling speed.
“Stop—what’re you—?!”
The moment they were well and hidden, the child threw a heavy cloak over his head. “Put this on!”
He struggled, both with the cloak and with his fear, giving in to their demand out of habit. Some blend of scale and pelt and cloth. The child donned one, too, removing their hood in the process.
They seemed to be a young girl, with vivid pink curls tied back at her neck. Brant’s heart lurched at the sight of her. Like with fire—his heart seemed to shout, and nothing but emptiness received it in his mind, and so it echoed and faded into consternation. He resented this shock, this disruption of his peace. This awareness of his emptiness. Who was she?
The girl returned his look with one of startling sadness. But she was in a hurry; she turned and clambered up the rocks, toward the myrphons, who were somehow unphased. She crept up on the nearest one and nabbed it.
“How did you—”
She slid off the steep rock and hit the packed sand hard. She held out her free hand.
“Follow me,” she said. “Stay close.”
They skirted back around to the docks, marching quickly toward the cargo ship, which teemed with guards and sailors. Brant stumbled and clutched at the cloak. It was vaguely nice to have the extra warmth, for a chill had swept in these past weeks and had settled into his thin frame. He must not have realized. He was so racked with fear that his mind cast about to focus on anything else. The tide was rising, steadily rocking the ship and foaming over the rocks. It made a scrabbling sound as it receded, like a rake over coals. The myrphon in the girl’s arms was so calm. How did it stay so calm? Wasn’t it terrified?
He flinched away from the impending crowd, awaiting the shouts of the guards, the swift promise of punishment. He shuddered. He didn’t want to lose his memories again. The strength of that desire overwhelmed him. He’d worked so hard, tried so hard not to do anything wrong. He had friends, Vim and the rest—he could still read and write—please, not again—
They staggered to a halt. The girl whispered, “I’ve got him!”
Brant risked a look. They were right in the fray, jostled by sailors and guards, none of whom appeared the wiser. A sailor stood before them, a woman—the one the girl had been following before. At the sight of them, her eyes widened. Brant’s heart had yet to settle. It hammered in his heaving chest.
“Well done,” she whispered back. With a smooth sweep of her arm, she ushered them up the ramp. And no one was stopping them—not one of the guards seemed to notice—how?! As soon as they climbed onto the deck, a sailor punched the woman in the shoulder.
“First you bring your kid, now you’re smuggling myrphons? I oughta report you!”
Brant flinched again, collapsing with guilt, with fear, but the girl squeezed his hand. He glanced at her.
It’s okay, she mouthed, and tilted her head. This way.
The woman laughed. “I’ve got a permit,” she said breezily. “You know the lord and his fancies! Wants a pet myrphon—said I’d get him three!”
“Ha! Sounds like another lark of his. Adanlee myrphons, too—little criminals!”
“Thought he’d get a kick out of that!”
“They’re gettin’ away from you. Better keep an eye on ’em!”
The girl tugged him down into the cargo hold, struggling for purchase on the ladder. It was dark and cramped, humid and stinking of fish. A sailor emerged from the shadows, touting a crate; he spotted them.
“Huh? What’re a bunch of myrphons doin’ down here—”
“They’re mine!” The woman had followed them. “For His Lordship. I’ll take care of them.”
“All right, then.”
They hastened to a corner sectioned off by dozens of towering crates, built up like miniature ramparts. The girl dropped them into a crouch. She cradled the restless myrphon. She was trembling.
“That was easier than I thought,” she whispered. “But my nerves are fried!”
“We’re not out of the mist yet,” whispered the woman, keeping watch at the edge of the crates. “We’ll need to time it just right.”
“I didn’t see the ship’s Knights. They must still be asleep.”
“That concoction of Tartah’s is strong stuff.”
“Do you think we’ll be able to—”
“Who—who are you?”
The pair of them fell silent. They looked at Brant with that same, heart-wrenching intensity. He gripped his arms, desperate to get ahold of himself.
“I’m sorry, I just—I don’t understand. What’s going on? Where are you taking me?”
“I’m sure it’s him,” the girl insisted to the woman. She fretted between them. “He looks different, but…”
The woman scrutinized him. “...Take off the cloak, if you don’t mind?”
Brant hesitated. He didn’t know what difference that would make, but he didn’t know what else to do. He released his arms and pulled off the cloak, and he balled it into a tight embrace, just for something to hold. He felt so small. He was at the mercy of everyone.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, nonsensically.
The woman’s sharp expression crumpled briefly into one of pain. “It’s you,” she said.
He met her eyes. They shone with tears.
Just then, shouts rang out overhead. Brant heard and felt the slow, rumbling drag of the anchor being raised. The ship creaked and shifted.
“All right,” said the woman. She swiped her arm across her face, wiping herself back into focus, and addressed the girl. “Remember the plan?”
The girl nodded, straightening up, fighting to gather her courage, too. “First, we get through the mist.”
“Why?”
“The mist detects all conjuring ink that’s been applied to any surface, and wipes it,” recited the girl.
The woman gave a thumbs-up. “Right. Then what?”
“We re-draw the seals on our cloaks,” the girl said. She glowed with growing confidence. “Quick as we can. We put them back on…run up to the deck…”
“And then?”
“As soon as we reach the end,” she said, “we fly!”
The boat lurched. It was leaving port. Brant couldn’t understand any of this. He drew his knees to his chest. He smoothed a portion of the cloak over them. He studied the scars on his hands, their pale patterns.
A gloved hand settled over them.
“It will be okay,” said the girl, with such care that he looked up at her. She tried to smile for him through her trepidation, a fragile, wobbly offering. “I know you’re scared, but we’ll explain everything as soon as we get somewhere safe. Okay? Just, um…” She blinked out a few tears. She sniffled. “Just know that we love you, okay?”
Brant held back his own tears. He couldn’t manage a nod. He had the sudden urge to ask them what he’d done. Who were they? Love him? How could they love him? He was a criminal. What had he done?
“Give me your cloak,” said the woman, too focused to fuss over rudeness. He handed it over. “Get ready, kid. We’re close.”
“Will you hold the myrphon?” asked the girl, holding it out to him. It squirmed in his arms, bunching his tunic with its four, flailing feet.
Over the grimy floor, the girl and the woman spread the three cloaks; and through the shadows, Brant could see some sort of markings on them. Yet right as he noticed, the ship groaned and stuttered. A deep chill trickled in, soon pouring through the hold; it seeped into the cloaks, and the markings leeched out into nothing.
“It’s scary.” The girl shivered. “Having no spells…”
“It’s not for long,” the woman assured her. “Ready your wand.”
Wand? Spells? Brant stared. Did that mean—?
“Are you witches?” he murmured.
“We are,” the woman said, and she locked eyes with him. “Like you.”
What?
The mist began to dissipate. The myrphon twisted and grunted. The woman raised her hand, in which she grasped a pen.
“On three!” she cried. “One…two…”
“Wait—” Brant gasped.
“Three!”
The pair of witches lowered their wands and began to—to draw. Dark ink bled into the fabric, right where the markings had been. They were copying those markings, drawing them from memory. A larger symbol in the middle, then surrounding little ones—they drew in tandem, with practiced, steady strokes, despite the rough ground and churning sea. Incredible. Incredible…!
The woman finished first, closing a clean, perfect ring around the symbols. They glowed briefly and settled back into place. A magic spell!
She pushed the cloak toward him as she spun on her heel and immediately sketched out the third.
“Yours! Put it on!”
He hurried to obey, struggling with the myrphon, who by now was full-on agitated. It tilted its head back and raised an alarm call, snorting, blaring, honking. Shit—he tried to wrap his arm around its beak, to no avail. The bird protested with renewed vigor. Far from helping, he was hindering—he was useless!
“Shit, I’m sorry!”
The witches just kept drawing. The girl finished next. She yanked the cloak over her head.
Voices and movement nearby. Someone coming down. “What’s that ruckus?!”
“Hurry!”
The woman drew with all her might, and the finishing ring, which she closed in a flash, was the cleanest penwork Brant had ever beheld. The spell activated as she pulled on the cloak, as heavy footfalls rounded the corner and two rough-looking sailors bore down on them.
Brant cowered, heart sinking, opening his mouth to beg for mercy—but the girl silenced him. Shh!
“What the hell…myrphons? Who brought these aboard?!”
Myrphons, plural? There was only one myrphon. Brant’s mind raced to catch up. The spells they’d drawn—the cloaks…perhaps they were cloaks of illusion?
“I ain’t listenin’ to this squawking all the way back,” said the larger sailor. He pushed up a sleeve. “I’m throwin’ ’em overboard. Give me a hand, will ya?”
The men knelt, preparing to grab what they thought were four birds. Brant thought back to the plan that the girl had described. Past the mist, put the cloaks on—
The woman caught his eye. The girl took his hand. He remembered: Put the cloaks on and RUN!
They ran, shoving past the bewildered men, hauling ass up the ladder. They sprinted down the deck and straight to the stern, earning startled looks and cries of annoyance. As soon as they reached it, the witches each hooked an arm under his elbows.
“Don’t cry out,” whispered the woman. “On three, we’re going to fly. Ready, Tetia?”
“Ready!”
Brant braced himself, screwing his eyes shut. The myrphon writhed in his grasp. A few more sailors approached them, more curious than anything. To everyone, they looked like myrphons. But they weren’t. They were—
“One—two—three!”
The burst of cold wind knocked the breath out of him.
“There they go! Strange creatures…” A distant voice from below. Wind rushed in his ears, consuming the sounds of the ship. Soon it was all he could hear.
He fought to breathe. He didn’t want to open his eyes. They seemed to burn. Maybe this was a dream; his first dream, one of witches. He’d been reading to Vim and the others of the stars. Perhaps if he opened his eyes, he’d see them now. But he just couldn’t bring himself…if instead he awoke and had to endure another day of his sentence, his looming, gray life…
To his left, the woman spoke, raising her voice over the winds. “All right…we’re out of range! You can drop the myrphon! Let him get back home.”
Brant remembered the weight of the beast in his arms. It was calmer in the air; feeling more in its element, maybe. A lot closer to its element than the cargo hold, anyway. It worked to calm him, too.
“It’s safe,” said the girl to his right. “You can open your eyes!”
And despite his dread, her reassurance reached his heart. He nodded, forced an exhale and obeyed.
It was so bright!
He winced, squeezed his eyes shut briefly, tried again. It had to be the sun, right? They dipped low to the water, close enough to feel the spray; the myrphon slipped from his arms and splashed into the sea, sending up a shower of glittering white and gold. He couldn’t bear to look, it pained him, but he wanted to behold the sight forever.
Hair whipping in his face, he squinted toward the girl, then toward the woman, whose arms so firmly supported him, whose triumph was apparent. Their rescue of him was a success. He didn’t deserve it. He longed to ask so many questions, but here in the air, soaring over the brilliant ocean, he couldn’t manage but one thought.
“Thanks,” he said to them. “Thank you.” With breathless fervor, “Thank you.”
The woman, free now with her tears and beaming at him, said, “You owe me one, Olruggio!”