Chương 28: 26 • BY CANDLELIGHT

21 BY CANDLELIGHT 🙜 C RASH. Ember bolted upright, scrambling for his knife—sweat soaked through his shirt, chilling him as a blinding white light flashed overhead. The twisting vines glowed luminous green, and tangled shadows lashed across the door like gnarled fingers. Darkness fell, and it took him a moment to remember where he was. He aimed the knife about the room, breathless; a darting upward glance revealed no more stars.

A bit of weak morning light sifted through the thick grey clouds; they roiled across the sky, and a distant grumble could be heard… A summer thunderstorm. Shivering, Ember swung his legs over the side of the bed. He snatched up the candle—leaving his shoes behind—and padded across the cool flagstones to the doorway. There was no sign of the lady. He stood sleepily in the door for several moments, s cratching the side of his face, and then wandered back to the basin.

It might do to freshen himself while he had the chance; there seemed to be an unlimited supply of fresh water here, and his clothes not only looked foul but stank of dried blood. He paused beside the vines, distracted by the sight of two small blooms growing from the stems he had plucked the previous night. One of the remaining fruits became his breakfast.

When he had drunk his fill and scrubbed most of the blood and grime from his skin, Ember wrapped the blanket around his waist and set about washing his clothes, making trips to the far end of the stream occasionally to toss the soiled water. He tugged his trousers back on as soon as they were tolerably dry, and the tattered shirt he draped across some of the vines; not all of the reddish stains could be entirely rinsed away, but at least the smell of it was no longer offensive.

In this manner he occupied himself for the first few hours of the day. The grumbling storm shrouded the sanctuary in a gloomy darkness, and he was grateful for the luminous magic of the candles. Last of all he scrubbed his stubbly face and washed his hair, working his fingers through a few of the fiercer tangles. As he bent low over the bowl, the storm's light grew faintly brighter until he could see a faint outline of his own features crowned by the thunderous sky. Lightning arced about the mountain crags.

Ember jumped as a flash of crimson appeared above his reflection. It was distant, but distinct: a head and a pair of shoulders leaned out over the precipice—shrouded in a wild tangle of hair. Water splashed into the basin as he flinched, shattering the reflection with a series of ripples. He glanced upward, craning his neck as far as he could. The figure was gone.

Ember shivered, wondering if his nightmares had come to claim him; but he knew Ky's silhouette—not well, but well enough—and besides, how could she be looking down from above? Could she have escaped the mountain without him? Whatever it was, it can't get in, he assured himself, weakly. When he was finished he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders very tightly before venturing back out into the main room. He paused at the door and glanced up once more, but there was only the sky and the storm to greet him.

Best to be aware.

"Hullo!" he called, descending the two flat steps to the flagstones below. There was no reply but the faint resonance of his own voice. Another streak of lightning lit up the room, and all the candles gleamed more brightly for a moment, as if the storm had breathed new life into their flames. Ember trod around them, careful to keep his blanket from sweeping too low to the ground. He headed up to the alcove, retrieving another candle on his way.

If the lady would not greet him, then he would see if there was anything to be done about that well. His own past he knew, the present was currently being determined, but the future—now, t here were some questions he would like to know the answers to. Did it really possess such a power? The lady had told him the truth about the pitcher, but perhaps she had been deceitful about other things in this room.

He hopped up the stairs on the right side of the stream and then circled around to the left, eyeing the water's surface. Reached out. Touched the mossy stone. Leaned down to have another look… Darkness, and his own reflection Ember cautiously held a finger above the water—braced himself—and poked it. A chorus of ripples branched out from the spot, perfectly circular, but it only warped his own image. He had already asked it how to leave, but perhaps the well could only speak of the past or future.

"Will I get out of this mountain alive?" Either the well did not know, or it did not find him worthy of this information. Shifting his attention to the lonely bones, Ember took a few steps closer and held forth the candle, letting the flamelight play across them. He noted that they were well-preserved, and had not been gnawed or cracked like the bones outside the sanctuary. Other than their surprisingly untarnished condition, however, there was nothing unordinary about them.

The man appeared to have died while sitting, possibly even in his sleep. Ember knelt, setting the candle near the well, and tentatively reached for the bones. They glimmered enticingly, and he had lost almost all fear of touching corpses during his earlier wanderings through the mountain.

"Do not disturb the oracle." He saw her almost before he heard her: a flash of white in his periphery. Withdrawing his hand, Ember stood and gathered the blanket more snugly around his shoulders. He turned to the lady, trying hard not to glower.

"Where were you?"

"I never left." She folded her hands serenely. He considered that, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

"Are you—" His tongue stuck in his throat. A ghost? Her smile killed the words before he spoke them.

"Do you have a name?" he asked instead.

"I am but a servant of the oracles," she said, her voice clear and quiet.

"What is your name, son of men?"

"Forgive me," he muttered, sidling around her and trotting down the stairs, "but I'd rather not say." There was a momentary lull in the conversation, which Ember did not like.

"What reason do you have to withhold such information?" came the gentle inquiry.

"Plenty." He stopped beside a tall stack of books and watched the candles flicker under the breeze from his swaying blanket. When he glanced over his shoulder, she stood near enough that he had to tilt his chin up to meet her gaze. Another flicker of lightning spilled into the room, glittering on the stream and granting the lady herself a moment of near-blinding radiance.

The sky darkened and thunder echoed over Sisters Mountain, leaving them to the light of the candles once more as Ember continued to wander among the stacks of books and scrolls. He was distinctly aware that the lady followed close behind. Her presence was hardly chilling—in fact, he almost enjoyed it, for she brought with her a sort of warmth… the kind that could not be explained, was hardly felt, but made one believe themselves slightly safer in the company of such a being.

Rather, it was her absence upon his awakening, he realized with some surprise, which had disturbed him more than her sudden appearance.

"What are you?"

"A servant of the oracles." Ember squinted at her, put off by the ageless, endless smile, and then went back to perusing the books on the floor. Some of them were simple and bound with leather, others with strange cloth coverings, and not all of them were titled. Those that were ranged from the ornate with gold embossing to simple etchings in leather. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. He eyed them jealously.

"But," he pressed, stooping to examine one of the thick leatherbound volumes, " what are you? Are you… like me?"

"A strange question."

"I don't think it's strange at all," he said tightly. The cover of the book proclaimed in gilded letters: The SHAPING of MAGIC Swallowing once, he tapped it with a finger. But the pages remained inert—perhaps it was not like the entity which had 'welcomed' him to the mountain. At length he flipped it open, curious.

At the front of the book was a strange introduction It was full of long words that took him some time to decipher or that he could not understand at all, bordered by lovely illustrations of nature, most of which Ember found familiar; it awed him slightly to think that perhaps the man or woman who inked those lines had drawn inspiration from the very valley in which he had grown up. Unlike the whimsical tapestries outside, these images were static, if elaborate. The lady watched him, silently.

He waited, never once looking up. At last she said, "You do not know?" Ember flipped to a new page, hardly concentrating on the literature now, and chose his next words carefully.

"Perhaps, if you were to tell me, I would remember better."

"I am the keeper of these books." She gestured to the one he had opened.

"My only purpose is to serve the oracles, attend to this garden, and sustain all those who come here seeking comfort. Do you understand?" He frowned.

"I think it's… becoming clearer." Her repetitive speech, the strange emphasis on her purpose there, and her seemingly ethereal nature warned Ember that she was not a real person at all, but most likely one of the room's many enchantments. It was as much a relief as a disappointment: even if she were real in the material sense of the word, what sort of creature could have survived so many years alone in this war-torn mountain?

"You have not told me how your fellows fared," she reminded him gently, freezing his hand upon the page.

"What would you like to hear?" he muttered.

"Whether the tides have turned in our favor. The last warrior to seek refuge here brought word that the passageway to Northall had been sealed. How goes the battle?" Battle? Ember tried not to let his interest show on his face. So there was a war after all; that must have been ages ago!

"Er… pretty grim, I'd say, from the looks of things."

"That is all the news you have brought?" He hep-hemmed and shrugged rather awkwardly. More thunder grumbled in the distance. As he flipped to the next page, Ember was confronted by an illustration that took his breath away: a shockingly detailed portrait of a woman with long hair and a delicate, pointed nose. The eyes were inked in fully black, but for a tiny white reflection, and two webbed ears framed her narrow face.

Her lips were parted in a savage snarl, the entirety of her features ridged with ire and wicked thoughts—and two fangs gleamed within the darkness of her gaping mouth. Ember stared, spellbound. The hair appeared to be fair and the proportions of the face were too thin, but it bore such a striking resemblance to the visage that had haunted him hundredfold in the hall of mirrors that he broke out into a cold sweat.

He shifted his finger from the illustration to the words on the page beside it, hunching down as if having his nose to the paper would make it easier to read. OF DARKER MAGIC — Siraens The lady swayed forward, her serene glow illuminating the pages.

There were, of course, some differences of spelling and manners of speech, but the following is more or less what Ember—after much mumbled frustration—was able to make out: It hath not byen made known to me at the tyme of this wryttening what the origiyns of the river people may be; if ever it was known that knowledge hath byen lost, and more pity upon us. They are named the Curséd by the devout, and as Siraens to seafaring men.

These fiendish entities indwell that order of innate magic which respectable Weavers may avoid. It is thought that they were shaped by it themselves, long ago, and are proficient in the wieldyng of it; such that no common spellweaver may contend with them. Siraens prey upon weak and strong alike, makyng no distynction amongst man, nor woman, nor child. Manie have attempted to reason with the siraens and, to my knowledge, all have failed.

There be wrytten no accounts of any such success by means of our magic, and no manner of persuasion can dissuade them from their hunger. They seek and devour the hearts of men, and to this end I drede that there can be no reconcilyng. It is a peculiar thing, that they have such a bynt toward the gnawyng of human bones, whan there are many creatures of the sea and land alike who do not make such fight as we, the sons of men. Byware, all weavers young and eald, lest ye be ensnared.

"That book—" The lady's voice startled him.

"—is often requested by those who visit the Oracle's Garden. There are others which may provide further insights concerning your adversary. Would you like to read them?" Ember took a deep breath and considered the inky portrait for a moment, wondering who the artist had been and how he had come into contact with a sirena. Was she rendered from the descriptions of others, or a depiction conjured by the author himself after a frightening encounter? My adversary…

He brushed his thumb over the snarling face, bewitched by the simple realism of it. The portrayal had not been penned, he felt, with ill will. In fact, each feature was inked with what might almost be called a loving attention to detail. Clearly the artist was obsessed: with the sirens or his own dedication to his craft. Perhaps both.

"Yes," he said, rousting himself from thought.

"I would like to read them. Where are they?" And the lady smiled warmly, pointing out another book pile a few paces away.

"The one at the bottom of this pile," she said.

"And when you have finished, there is a scroll near the steps that contains several interesting personal accounts..." For a moment, he half-expected her to say more, but noticed that her gaze had drifted over his head. Her smile was gone. He glanced over his shoulder, but nothing caught his interest.

"What are you looking at?" She bestirred herself, and for the first time since their meeting he saw the entirety of her being flicker faintly—betraying the illusion of life.

"My apologies, son of man. There are many foul forces and mislaid spells which wander freely beyond these walls, and I can hear more of their mutterings today. It is possible that you granted them access when you entered this sanctuary. It has been so long since a warrior has sought refuge here." Ember glanced around the entire room as a shiver touched his spine.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't know..."

"Such blame is not yours to take," she intoned firmly.

"Many dark things awakened when the Enemy stormed our mountain."

"What... sort of dark things?" She stared at him blankly, and flickered again.

"I do not know, but I do not wish for them to know you."

"Can you keep me safe?" he inquired as his heart gave a heavy thump. Yet, despite his growing annoyance at the woman's peculiar mannerisms, he felt somehow guilty for making such a request.

"No," she admitted quietly, clasping her hands.

"That is not my intended purpose." His misgivings slowly subsided when no spectral entities appeared in the room; there was only the burbling stream, the dance of the silent candles, and the wild storm rolling over the mountain. The terrors of the gloomy halls which he had left behind felt altogether removed from this place, where he could touch the daylight and see the patterns of the clouds. The lady returned to her pleasant demeanor with an inhuman swiftness.

She seemed quite content to lead him about the room, wandering from this book to that one, and answering his simple questions now and then, but Ember was altogether disappointed with what he found. There was no consensus on the sirens' origins or purpose. Some claimed they were vengeful remnants of the dead, others that they were merely spirits to begin with.

It seemed that there were many methods by which his ancestors had wielded their 'magic,' and as best he could make out, the oracles were proficient in the art of dreaming and glimpsing the future or the past. One seemingly respected oracle–a 'dreamwarden' by the name of Illustrian Kingsworn–purported that they had once been friendly spirits, driven mad by the encroachment of men upon their seas.

When he had exhausted what few resources there were, including a book full of riddles and rhymes that only served to make him feel stupid, Ember realized the storm had passed and it was getting quite dark. Only a few lingering streaks of orange and purple tinted the clouds overhead. However, he had no wish to go to sleep just yet—for that would mean facing another night of horrors.

"Which of these books is your favorite?" he asked on a whim. The lady blinked at him, and then said slowly, "Can you please rephrase your question?" Uneasiness crept over him. He watched her for a moment, but she made no sudden movements–though he thought, as he stared, a few of her fingers twitched faintly.

"Your favorite," he repeated cautiously.

"I just wondered…"

"My favorite?"

"Yes—the book you like best." She narrowed her eyes at him, the first of her expressions which had resembled displeasure.

"The last Oracle was very fond of the Book of Riddles you have in your hand." Ember wrinkled his nose and dropped it.

"But which do you prefer?"

"None. I have no preference. I am but a servant—""Of the oracles." Ember pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated.

"You know what… never mind. Forget I ever asked." The lady tilted her head at him, neither smiling nor frowning. Then she turned and walked up the stairs to the alcove. For a long while of silence she stood beside the well, gazing down with clasped hands, as if she could see something stirring within its serene depths. He regarded her jealously, and then stole across the floor to the bedroom, loathe to interrupt the soft silence which had fallen over the sanctuary after the storm.

The linens were in disarray from a night of tossing and turning, and he spent several weary minutes brushing crumbles of dirt and blood from the bed before crawling in. It was somewhat less pleasant an experience than before, but he snuggled down beneath the blankets until he felt reasonably cozy. This night was one of shallow sleep, which granted him fewer nightmares. Yet once, when he awoke, he thought he heard a woman humming somewhere far away... It was a strangely familiar tune–rather sad, he felt.

Though he was only half awake, it haunted his fitful dreams. Down, down to the sea we shall fly, Down where the salt winds blow; And wither I came and wither ye went No other man may know…