Deep magic second coll.., p.39
Deep Magic - Second Collection, page 39
part #2 of Deep Magic Collection Series
He hurried through the fields and reached the forest by morning. It took him most of the day, wandering through the trees, to find his way to the river. He followed the current until, just as the moon was cresting the treetops, he finally reached the pond where he had last seen the rusalka.
“Rusalka!” he called from the snowy bank. “I am here.”
The glade was perfectly silent aside from the slosh of water. Then the rusalka slowly floated up from the center of the pool to sit on the surface. The fox was in her arms, shivering and wide-eyed.
“You returned,” she said. “I did not believe that you would.”
“Well . . . I have.”
“Y-yes,” the fox said. “You c-can let me go, now.”
The rusalka tightened her grip on him. “Where are the waters?”
Vanya squared his shoulders. “I do not have them. I returned so that the fox would not have to die in my place.”
The fox’s eyes widened. The rusalka tilted her head. “You’re going to run as soon as I let him go.”
Vanya stepped out onto the ice that bordered the pond, feeling it crack beneath him, and then waded into the water. “I’m here. Please, let him go.”
The rusalka narrowed her eyes, but she drifted past Vanya to the bank and set the fox down. He scampered away, stopping at the tree line to watch them. The rusalka floated to Vanya, so close that he thought she might kiss him again.
“What sort of person gives up their life for a fox?” she asked.
Vanya sighed. Then he smiled ruefully. “A fool.”
The rusalka tilted her head, studying him. “A fool is good enough company for me.”
The sound of snapping branches echoed through the forest around them, growing louder until Vanya’s brothers burst out onto the riverbank, panting. The fox darted aside to hide beneath a bush.
“Come out of the water, Vanya,” Dima said.
The rusalka grabbed Vanya and pulled him off his feet, deeper into the river. “He is mine,” she hissed.
To Vanya’s dismay, Gregorii raised up the two waterskins that Vanya had left with them—both still full. “Here, rusalka—the waters of death and life, which he retrieved. Take them and return our brother.”
“No, please,” Vanya said, holding up a hand to stop them. “Those are for Father.”
“What father would want to live in place of his son?” Dima said. “You know that he would choose this.”
“It was my mistakes that caused his death!” Vanya pleaded. “Please. My foolishness would have gotten me killed eventually. Don’t let me be the cause of his death too.”
Gregorii and Dima shared a look. “You have always been too hard on yourself, Vanya,” Gregorii said.
Vanya bowed his head. “No, I’m not. I have no talent and have always been a weight on our family. At least this way, I can serve a useful purpose.”
“You are a hero who has saved many lives,” Dima replied. “You have courage and a better heart than the both of us.”
“Father was always proud of that,” Gregorii added. “He said that of all of us, you are most like our mother was. And there is no greater compliment than that.”
Vanya stared at them. He found himself blinking back tears as he realized that they really, truly meant it. But he shook his head.
“I won’t trade Father’s life for mine.”
Gregorii and Dima looked at each other again. “Well, then,” Gregorii said, setting the waterskins on the ground. “We shall have to fight a rusalka.”
Dima lifted his bow, and Gregorii stepped out onto the ice, sword ready. The rusalka sneered and pulled Vanya farther away. Gregorii lifted a foot over the water, when a gray blur suddenly burst out of the trees. The wolf grabbed Gregorii’s coat in her jaws and pulled him off the ice. He stumbled and fell onto the bank.
“Don’t touch the water, fool,” the wolf growled. “Or the rusalka will take you as well.”
Vanya almost despaired when he saw that the wolf was also carrying both of her waterskins. “The king would not take them,” she said. “He doesn’t even know where to find his daughter. You saved his brother and his nephew—now he wishes to save you. He said that once he finds the princess’s body, he will need you to retrieve the waters once again.”
Vanya groaned. “I can’t get any more of the waters! Please, take those back to Zalateen.”
“Zalateen?” the rusalka whispered.
Vanya twisted to look at her. Her face bore a look of confusion, like she was trying to remember something she hadn’t realized had been forgotten.
“You know that name?”
The rusalka nodded absently.
Vanya stared at her and then closed his eyes. “Oh, I am a fool,” he whispered. “You’re the princess—of course you are.”
The rusalka frowned, eyes suspicious.
“Where is your body?” Vanya asked. “Your true body. We can return you to life.”
She squeezed his throat. “Why should I believe that those are actually the magical waters?”
“He speaks the truth, spirit,” the wolf growled. “I have . . . seen these waters work their wonders.”
“As have we,” Vanya’s brothers echoed.
The rusalka hesitated. Finally, she pulled Vanya downriver. His brothers and the wolf followed on the bank; Vanya noticed that the fox came too.
The rusalka led them to a shallow frozen pool in a thicket beside the river. There, through the cloudy ice, Vanya could see the body. The girl looked just like the rusalka, except that her features lacked a certain hardness, a cold anger that pervaded the rusalka’s every movement.
“We will need to break away the ice,” Vanya said, “so that I can pour the waters on her. On you.”
The rusalka held out a hand, and the ice melted. The body floated up to the surface of the pond, which then froze again beneath it.
She glared at him. “If you have lied, then I will drown all of you.”
Vanya examined the body—it was blue with cold and dressed in a torn summer riding dress. He spied several black wounds in the body, which looked like they were from arrows.
He took the waterskins from the wolf’s back. Carefully, he poured the ruby water of death over the corpse. The arrow wounds sealed themselves, and her skin warmed to a rosy hue.
The rusalka gasped and dropped to her knees beside the body. The fox came forward, wide-eyed, to crouch beneath the wolf.
“Those are actually the waters of death and life?” he whispered.
“Indeed.” The wolf bent down to look him in the eye. “It would seem that you owe us a favor, wouldn’t it?”
The rusalka paid them no mind. Her hands moved over the body, never quite touching it. “You weren’t lying.”
“No, I wasn’t.” Vanya uncapped the second waterskin. “Are you ready?”
The rusalka nodded. Vanya poured the water of life out over the body. As the water’s glow illuminated the rusalka, she faded away. A moment later, the girl on the ice opened her eyes.
“Do you . . . remember what happened?” Vanya asked, offering her his hand.
Blinking, the girl allowed him to pull her to her feet. Then, to his surprise, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. When she pulled away, she was smiling.
“Of course I remember. It worked! It actually worked!” She laughed and kissed him again, longer this time. Finally, she stepped back, blushing. “I’m sorry.”
Vanya shrugged, aware that he was also blushing. He could see his brothers grinning out of the corner of his eye. “I, um . . . didn’t mind.”
The girl smiled. “It’s just . . . I can’t describe how awful it was, being a rusalka. Everything was cold and dark and hateful. So . . . thank you.” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh! We have to go to my father!” She grabbed Vanya by the hand and pulled him toward the trees.
Vanya smiled. “So you are the king’s daughter.”
“I should have known,” the wolf said, shaking her head. “Come, both of you climb on my back. I will take you to the king.”
Vanya helped the girl—the princess—climb up, and then jumped up himself.
“I just realized that I don’t even know your name,” she said.
“It’s Ivan; everyone calls me Vanya.”
“Vanya.” The princess grinned. “My name is Vasilisa.”
Vanya’s brothers went to retrieve their horses, and Vasilisa beckoned for the fox to climb into her lap. The fox hesitated.
“Oh, come, fox,” Vanya said. “You cannot believe that we bear you any ill will at this point.”
Warily, the fox allowed the princess to lift him into her lap. Once Vanya’s brothers rejoined them, the wolf started running, and the princess laughed as the trees flew by. They were surprised to find that she did not grow cold as the night wore on, just as Vanya did not. The fox did, however, and climbed back to huddle for warmth between Vanya and the princess.
“I can’t believe that you actually found the waters,” he said to Vanya. “Or that you even tried.”
“I couldn’t leave you to die,” Vanya replied. “You saved my life.”
“Yes, but you had already saved mine.”
“Well, I think that now we can consider all of our debts repaid. Do you agree?”
The fox shrugged and burrowed deeper against the wolf’s back. “If you say it is so, then who am I to argue?”
“I do not agree,” the wolf said. “At the very least, the fox owes me a favor.”
They reached the palace of King Zalateen well past midnight. The wolf charged past the guards at the gate without slowing, starting an uproar that quickly roused the king from his bed. He came down to the entry hall still blinking bleary sleep from his eyes. Vasilisa leaped up and threw her arms around his neck before he’d even realized she was there. Once he recognized her, he simply stared, dazed, for a long while. Then he fell to his knees, clinging to her, and wept.
The next morning, King Zalateen offered Vanya anything that he desired, even the entire kingdom. Vanya graciously declined; but when Vasilisa told her father that her hand in marriage would be an excellent reward, he didn’t protest.
Vanya and his brothers returned to Drubina that day and used the last of the waters of death and life to bring their father back. Restored and healthy, he accompanied them to the palace, where Vanya and Vasilisa were married. They soon became known throughout the land as the Lord and Lady of Winter, whom the cold could not touch.
And so Vanya and his brothers became princes and eventually kings, ruling justly beside their noble wives. Their father lived out his days in comfort and happiness in the care of his loving sons, while the wolf returned to her home in the forest. She and Vanya often visited one another.
The fox made himself a new home in the garden of King Zalateen and gradually became fast friends with the firebird. One day, years later, he freed the bird from its cage.
But that is another story, for another day.
ABOUT CHRISTOPHER BAXTER
Christopher Baxter got in trouble for reading novels in class from kindergarten through high school. To stop his teachers from getting upset, he began writing stories instead (since it looked like he was taking notes). He works as an editor and a writer, offers tips on common writing errors and composing better prose on his blog "The Story Polisher" (storypolisher.blogspot.com), and critiques video games in his spare time. His first short story with Deep Magic, "The Wizard's Granddaughter," appeared in the October 2016 issue. He is blessed with the best wife and two adorable little boys.
Facebook: chris.baxter.56
Twitter: @itinerantbaxter
DRAGON BOND
By T.E. Bradford | 8,200 Words
1
“TOMORROW I WILL kill a dragon!”
Aria’s body tensed. The thoughtless brutality of it disturbed her, as did the smugness in her twin brother’s voice. Even without being able to see him fully in the dark room, she knew Arsen was smiling like a jeckyl. She didn’t know whether to root for the poor beast that would die if Arsen won, or for her sibling who would face a lifetime of shame if he lost.
“Aren’t you worried at all?” She aimed her words at his shape on the bed.
Arsen snorted. “I’m not afraid.”
He should be. His fighting skills were no match for his pride.
“Dragons have magic. And fire! How will you protect yourself?”
“They bleed, same as any other creature.” Arsen’s growl was harsh and cruel. “I will spill its blood and its magic all over the arena floor.”
Aria’s stomach clenched. The violence and wastefulness of it made her mouth dry. She hated seeing any animal killed, but a dragon . . . there was something so regal about the creature. There was power in every muscle and sinew, grace in the sweeping arch of its neck, pride in those intelligent eyes. Molten fire glowed between dark, shimmering scales. The fierce beast filled Aria with awe.
“The most powerful dragon is no match for me,” Arsen boasted.
“Pah,” Shep scoffed from the other side of the room. “I’ve seen the beastie. It’s naught but a hatchling. You fail to kill that, and even the women will laugh at you.”
“The same ones that laugh at you?” Arsen’s cutting remark left silence in its wake.
Shep, their senior by three years, had failed his New Day trial.
“You know nothing.” Shep’s voice was a harsh whisper.
“I know you couldn’t kill an ogre.” There was malicious glee in Arsen’s voice. It made Aria cold inside. He was her sibling. Her twin. How could he be so hateful?
“It was a shifter,” Shep snapped, “pretending to be an ogre. Its magic was unbound. I could barely move!”
“Yes,” Arsen’s sympathetic sigh was thick with sarcasm. “So you claimed. Strange that they could never prove it.”
“Of course they couldn’t! They slaughtered it before anyone could even try!” Shep’s strangled cry clutched at Aria’s heart, squeezing it.
“Stop it, both of you!”
“The guard said you told them to kill it.” Arsen fanned the flames of Shep’s frustration and embarrassment.
“You think it was coincidence that the ogre ripped that guard apart? How could he even speak at all, let alone place blame? It makes no sense!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Arsen agreed, but it was plain that he meant something different.
“That’s enough,” Aria whispered at them fiercely. “Arsen, leave him alone.”
Just having to share a room with his youngest siblings was punishment for Shep, let alone the scoffing, stares, and scorn rained down on him from every side. Worst of all was the fact that even here, in their family home, he could not escape it. He saw it every time Father looked at him, which mercifully wasn’t often. It pierced Aria’s soul to see the hurt on Shep’s face, and the lack of caring on their father’s. Every day she wondered if she would wake up to find Shep’s bed empty. Better to face the dangers of a life in the halflands than to live in disgrace.
“You don’t need to fight my battles for me, little sister.” Shep’s words were soft, but tight with bitterness.
“Even she could beat you in a fair fight,” Arsen goaded.
Aria was glad the darkness hid her face as it stained red. Arsen’s words were horrible, but they were also true. Arsen had no idea how true.
Aria should have been born a boy. Her mother kept her busy with chores, but Aria found time to sneak into the woods and practice with sword, staff, and arrow as often as she could. While she was perhaps not as good as Joren, who had bested a griffon, Aria could split a chestnut at fifty paces with the longbow and swing the heavy wooden practice swords until sweat ran from her face in streams.
When she bathed in the river, she could see how her arms had grown hard and lean, and how her shoulders and legs were thicker than before. She was her twin’s equal in every way but the one that truly mattered.
“She’ll make some poor man afraid for the safety of his jewels when he beds her.” Arsen’s laughter echoed through the room.
Shep was silent.
She wished Arsen would be.
“Don’t worry, Sister.” He continued. “If you don’t find a man brave enough to bed you, there’s always the convent.”
Aria wanted to hate him, but there was too much truth in his awful words. She had only one hope to escape her fate for having been born a girl. She held it in her heart like a secret flame, cupped in her hands to keep the blustering wind from blowing it out.
“I hear they let you see the sun at least once a year.”
Why? Why was her own flesh and blood so cruel to her? How could he say such things to the person he had shared their mother’s womb with?
She knew the answer, of course.
“You may be Father’s seventh born,” she rasped, “but you are not invincible, Arsen.”
“You’re wrong, Aria.” She could sense the fierce look on his face and feel the searing from his burning eyes.
He was like a fever, her twin. His heat was enough to scorch a person to death.
“Tomorrow, I will show you. Tomorrow I will show everyone. And when I kill the dragon”—Arsen’s voice swirled through the air of the dark room like poison—“I will use its magic to make myself a king!”
Aria pressed her eyes closed and tried to quiet the moan that rose in her chest and leaked from her lips. The cold that surrounded her was from more than the old stones and crumbling mud that held the walls together. It came from inside, seeping out from frigid hearts. To slaughter only to steal the magic, wielding it like a drunken man with a knight’s sword, cutting down anything in one’s path only to build oneself up on a pedestal of bones—it was beyond wretched.
It was vile.
It was—
Without honor.
Aria’s eyes went wide. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stop a cry from escaping. The words, like the vibration of a bowstring, resonated inside her head, but they had not come from her.
“When it pulls out your guts with its claws,” Shep jeered, “we will sell them to the crowd, and I will use my share of the coin to buy a pie.”
