Fire and Flame

The clouds were pink, to begin with. Emperor Posy of Peony had made sure of that. But, they hadn’t always been. Much to the Emperor’s alarm, they had turned black the day of his daughter’s birth. 

“Change them back,” the Emperor told his sorcerer after taking one glance at the mewling newborn in the nursemaid’s arms. “All was fine and pink until she came into this world. Nothing good will come of it.” 

The sorcerer, Aflyn, clad in a rose-pink robe with a red sash, quickly removed a vial from his breast pocket and blew across the top of it and out the window. Shimmering dust bloomed into the air, turning the clouds, and a passing flock of pigeons, a pale shade of coral. 

“Better,” Emperor Posy murmured. 

The Emperor’s wife, Delilah, sweating, pale, and barely conscious, lay in bed amongst mounds of pillows and furs. Her ladies-in-waiting hurriedly wiped and brushed and dabbed at her face with pale creams, rouges, and powders that bloomed into a great cloud. A sweet aroma, mixed with the smell of too many bodies in one room, filled the air. The doctor sneezed. One servant furtively, and unsuccessfully tucked the Empress’s damp strands of black hair back under her amaranth tinted wig. The doctor poured an elixir into her mouth in between tentative swipes of lipstick from a child servant. 

The headmistress shooed the servants away, fluttering her puffy lace sleeves as the Emperor turned away from the window. 

“I must see to my dogs,” he said, walking blindly past the servants as they fell into a line of deep bows and curtsies. “I’ll have the armory restocked,” he murmured, Aflyn trailing behind him. “Spears sharpened, new swords forged…” 

The servants exchanged nervous glances when he closed the door behind him. The only sound was the fussing newborn. The sorcerer paused at the door. 

“May I?” he said softly. The nursemaid holding the baby hesitated, looking to the doctor. The doctor, arms folded, gave a subtle nod. Aflyn took the babe gingerly into his arms. He waggled his long, slender fingers in front of the child’s face, and her eyes opened wide for the first time. Quiet gasps erupted as she stared up at the sorcerer’s tanned, gently lined face. 

“Gemma,” he whispered to her with a smile. “Like the sun-kissed honeysuckle within the briar, like the gentle kiss of fire...you shall make all evil things burn.” He flicked his fingers, and a rosy bloom glowed within the baby’s cheeks. Mouths wide, the servants watched the sorcerer tenderly return the babe to the nursemaid’s arms. He took one last look at her before closing the door behind him. 

⤋

Balthus stared at the flames reflected in his wine; wine the color of the blood he had once walked through on the battlefield. It had been moonlight winking back at him that day. 

Balthus drank the flames and lifted the letter off the scarred oak table once more. His black eyes were too bleary from the wine to read it anymore, but he had already memorized the scribbled ink: “It’s true. It’s all true - down to the very last creature in those ancient, dusty scrolls. - Aflyn.” 

Night had long since fallen over the watchtower. Snowflakes swirled past the frost-marred windows on either side of the mantle. The wind moaned through the chinks in the chimney and poorly-patched cracks in the door. There was still snow melting on the firewood his servant had just laid beside the hearth. Tendrils of black smoke wafted from a smoldering log on the fire like worms trying to escape the earth after heavy rain. Balthus stirred the fire. 

The wind faded to a mutter. Balthus peered through the windows, seeing only the pale whorls of snow against the black. He drained his goblet and reached for the jug again. The gold thread of Emperor Posy’s sigil on his chest, a pink peony, glittered faintly. 

Nine years, Balthus thought. Nine years since that gypsy-worshiping fool sent us to war. The great Emperor Posy. And what good did it do? Hundreds of good soldiers slain, and the evil forces now stronger than ever. They drank those men’s blood like mothers’ milk, they did…The gypsy had failed to mention that. 

The fire popped, and Balthos flinched as he poured, spilling wine over his large, calloused hand. He cursed and licked it off, eyeing the door. 

Clancy, Gowain, Faustus, Balthus recalled the names and faces of his friends, broken and crushed to the point where even their dear mothers could not have recognized them, bless their souls… And so cold, they were. Colder than tree roots in January. The kind of cold you carried with you in the marrow of your bones. 

He stood and staggered to the mantle. He looked up at his sword hanging on the wall. Candlelight glinted across it like light across water. He watched the light caress the blade and rubbed the coil-shaped scar that wrapped around his forearm. He saw the faces of those creatures again: decaying flesh clinging to bone, teeth that gnashed, teeth that tore. They had come like the shadows themselves, stepping from the gloom between the trees, between the stars. 

He grasped the hilt of his sword. Carefully, he brought it down, set it on the table, and rang the bell for his servant. After a moment, a trail of light climbed across the tapestries lining the top of the spiral stairs in the far corner of the room. A withered man clad in a long, white tunic and nightcap appeared within the glow. 

“You rang, Master?”

“Fergus. Tell Atlas to bring more firewood,” Balthos said. “We must keep the fires blazing for Aflyn’s arrival.” 

Fergus bowed hesitantly, spilling wax on the floor, and scampered back the way he had come into darkness. 

“And to keep the night where it belongs,” Balthos said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “God willing…”

Later, a soft shake of his shoulder jarred him awake. Panting, he pointed his sword into the dark. The fire had dwindled to faint embers, and he was shrouded in darkness so thick it would have smeared him like ink. He peered into the murk. A sinking feeling filled his belly while he wondered why Fergus had not kept the fire burning. 

“Aflyn?” Balthus whispered. Quiet breathing emanated from beside the hearth. It was slow and raspy. The sound fixed Balthos to the spot. He clutched his Lady of the Light talisman hanging from his neck. An icy chill slid down his back. 

“Be you man or beast…Show yourself,” he could only whisper. 

The breathing stopped. 

Darkness crept from the corners of the room, twisted into crouching figures. The gloom dropped from the rafters on wings of smoke, silent as breath stolen by the wind. A hulking, crooked form slowly stood up in front of Balthos. 

Balthos, his sword still pointed out in front of him, groped for his servant bell. “Balthos,” the thing breathed, its voice like the stale air within a tomb. The form took a step closer.  

“The prophecy was wrong,” Balthos told it, his voice trembling. “The princess’s birth reversed it all.” 

Something like smoke swirled around him, clouding his vision. He ducked and stood, his chair scraping along the floor. 

“We killed you that day!” he said. Something tapped him on the back. He whirled around, sword slashing at nothing. The shadows around the windows grew horns and fangs. He reached for the servant bell. 

“The prophecy was wrong!” he yelled, his voice ringing through the rafters. 

Outside, a raven croaked at the smell of dawn buried far below the frozen horizon rimmed with white trees. The raven took to the sky and flew over the tower below. 

A faint bell rang in the distance. 

⤊

Gemma let the lavender raven fall from the rooftop of her dollhouse into the heap of other puppets. The raven’s ebony-beaded eyes glinted in the early morning light. Gemma picked up the Toad King puppet lying partially hidden beneath the ogre and a farmer wearing a dusty-pink-tunic and straw hat. Gathering all three, she climbed up one of the thick bed posts and onto the sturdy canopy above. Her favorite tapestry, a silver river running along a craggy mountainside, hung on the far wall at the head of her bed. She had picked out the previous pink threads her father had ordered sewn over the original colors. Her father had always said pink was the color of purity - pink would keep the shadows at bay. But Gemma loved the original colors. They were bold and true. 

She placed the puppets below the river and smiled. 

A shout came from outside far below the window, followed by the beating of hooves across the drawbridge. A steady murmur of voices and harried footsteps grew outside her door. Her door opened. 

“Princess,” hissed her nursemaid, Helena. Her voice held a sharp tone of panic. Gemma could just see her head poking into the room. Her usually-impeccable wig was off-kilter. Gemma found herself slumping further down into her canopy. 

“Princess?” Helena said. After a moment, she left. Gemma crawled to the foot of the canopy and looked down out the window. The rolling pink hills and lavender river running away from the palace could be seen. The farmers bundled the strawberry-pink wheat in the fields. Goose girls strolled down the main road herding their magenta-colored geese. Milkmaids wore their yokes, their buckets brimming with fresh milk, along the path from the dairy barn. Nothing seemed amiss. And yet…

The murmur of voices outside her door had grown louder, sending a cold shiver across her skin. She clutched her puppets tight against her chest and waited. The sounds from the hall grew more and more terrifying. She had begged the gods to bring Helena back to her. The murmur had turned to a roar of screams and clamoring footfalls. Gemma shivered against the breeze through the open window tickling her exposed ankles beneath the frilly pink hem of her gown. She pulled her slippered feet closer and peered at her puppets’ faces. Their despondent faces provided no solace to her when the voices outside turned to wails. Strange bumps  and sloughing sounds against the walls followed. 

Her door opened slowly. Gemma held her breath. She breathed shallowly, hoping to smell Helena’s perfume and hear her voice. Soft footfalls on the thick rug entered the room and padded around to the other side of her bed. A foul stench caught her nostrils. Gemma dared not breathe, lest the canopy move. Then came a fervent snuffling as if a large dog or bear had entered. 

Chills like spiders crept across Gemma’s skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and held the Toad King tight. All sound coming from outside her door had ceased. The sniffing came close, so close Gemma felt the vibration through her sleeves. Gemma forced herself to look. 

Thick, black fur, as one would expect of a bear or beast, poked up just below the edge of her canopy. It slumped over, searching beneath her bed. The spider chills became tarantulas, fat and heavy; racing across her skin, trying to flee. The sniffing drew nearer, just beneath her now.   

Gemma flung her puppets against the wall. The creature grunted, a gurgling, choking sound, and lunged after it. Gemma jumped off and scrambled out the door. 

Bodies were strewn throughout the wide hallway: servants, ladies-in-waiting, gentlemen she recognized. Their silk and gossamer sleeves and gowns were spattered with blood, and pools of it made the floor slick as Gemma ran. The creature from her room tore after her. Gemma heard its heavy, rasping breath, and what sounded like heavy claws scraping the flagstones. Terror ripped through her. 

Gemma rounded the corner, but slipped and pulled down a large vase that shattered around her. The creature ran on all fours, skin like jerky with patches of dirty fur sprouting through like mold, and the head of a large, decaying deer skull. Its hands were like those of a human with long fingers and long, black nails like rose thorns. Five more just like it, some smaller, some larger, followed.  

She rolled out of reach of one, its claws snagging the hem of her gown. It tripped on someone. Gemma ran and threw herself around another corner and squeezed herself into a dumbwaiter. 

The ropes and pulleys squeaked terribly as she clumsily lowered herself down. Involuntary whimpers and her breath choked her. A creature stuck its head through the tunnel and yowled a blood-curdling wail like a cross between a gasping human and a wounded animal. Gemma flinched and lost hold of one of the ropes. 

To her horror, the beast threw itself down the chute after her, landing heavily on the top of her box. The dumbwaiter ceased to move, leaving her dangling in mid air like a bird in a cage. The thing croaked and screeched and dug its long fingers through the space between the dumbwaiter and the wall. Gemma crammed herself as far back in the box as she could, but not far enough to avoid one of its long claws. 

She felt something digging into her leg and remembered having seen a servant pull a lever that released the bottom. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt for it and pulled. 

 She fell through the bottom and painfully slid down the ropes until she met the bottom. She lay on her back, gasping for air, staring up at the dim light at the top and the box shaking and jarring. She cast about around her, and dragged herself through a dark tunnel littered with rats and trash. The sounds of the beast faded behind her. 

At the end of the tunnel was a wooden cover. Gemma peered through a knothole and saw her father’s portrait hall. She pushed it open, quietly crawled through, and peered out from beneath a side table. All was silent. She picked up a fire poker from a nearby hearth and began walking quickly toward the end of the hall.

A terrible stir sounded behind her. The creatures were bounding toward her. She bolted for the bookcase at the very end of the hall and started yanking out books, searching for the one that would open the secret door. The creatures closed in, foam dripping out the side of their mouths, snarling with each step. 

A man jumped out of a painting on the wall, hurling great orbs of bright orange fire. 

Aflyn, Gemma thought with relief. The beasts howled and scrambled backward, clambering over one another, bunching up the rug behind them. Aflyn sent orb after orb in rapid succession. One orb glanced off one of the creature’s shoulders and it dodged the next. It screwed up its face and spat at the sorcerer. Aflyn cried out and clutched his chest. Holes fizzled and burned through his tunic. He sent another succession of orbs. Keeping low, one of the small beasts crept up and spat in Aflyn’s face. Aflyn wailed and groped at his eyes. The others jumped on him. Gemma watched their jaws open…saw the number of teeth therein… jagged edges nearing Aflyn’s throat…

Gemma held up her hand. 

Blinding light filled the corridor, engulfing the beasts in white flames. They roared and writhed. The beasts crumpled into heaps of black, seared flesh. Gemma wanted to cover her ears, wanted to scream from the noise and the hot pain coursing through her chest. The creatures twitched and jerked before lying still. Gemma wheezed through her hands covering her mouth. 

The stark afternoon light shone through the window at the far end of the hall once more. 

Aflyn groaned and slumped to his knees, cradling his face in his hands. 

“Come, Aflyn!” Gemma said. “There will be more of them.” 

She led him back through the dumbwaiter tunnel. Aflyn, still blinded, held her hand and shuffled behind her. Groans and creaks emanated through the floorboards above them, along with strange bursts of movement and scuffles. Men shouted. 

“How was I able to do that?” Gemma asked. Aflyn bumped his head on a low-hanging rafter and winced. 

“I’ll tell you soon,” he said. “Right now we need to get you out of here.” 

“Where are Mother and Father?” 

Aflyn rubbed his eyes and was quiet. 

“You’re not safe here anymore, Gemma,” he said. “Your father will blame you for all of this…all over again.” 

Finally stepping outside, Gemma and Aflyn blinked against the intensity of the sunset. Radiant shades of pink, cream, and white robust clouds floated on the horizon. The rosy hills of the outer bounds of the palace lands spread out before them to meet with the marshy lowlands. The peach sunset shimmered across the water. A breeze rippled through the tall grass. 

Behind them, shadows lurched past the windows high above and flitted along their edges like black flames. A mournful, high-pitched call like a hooved animal emanated from the palace. Aflyn, now able to see through squinted eyes, looked down at Gemma and took her hand. He offered a smile. 

“Into the forest we go.” 

⤋