Refuge

The gray and white seagull ignored the buffeting rain and how much every muscle ached from the long flight. The storm wind under his wings was carrying him in the right direction at last. And, as twilight descended, he could see what looked like from this distance a straight white branch sticking up from the ocean.

Light emanated from the vertical pole, ceased, then shone again.

Although thunder cracked and lightning flickered between clouds and ocean, he felt his heart ease. Where there was light, there must be a keeper. In these changing times, doubt haunted every former certainty.

When he could see waves crashing on the rocky shore of the small island which the lighthouse tower crowned like a single candle on a tiny blessing cake, he began to wonder if he would be welcome.

It would take more than a night’s rest to prepare him for another flight, but if that was the outcome, he could hardly complain after everything that had happened.

He focused on flying, not wanting a rogue blast to smash him against the lighthouse, then circled the tower, looking for the best landing spot.

Last time he was here, he had mostly seen the interior or spent time fishing with the keeper and exchanging tales, most of which had a grain of truth or two.

A wide ledge high up seemed ideal for the purpose.

He landed inelegantly, stumbling forward with wings spread but managing not to slam into the thick pane of spell-reinforced glass. He blamed his faltering on weary musculature, not on any miscalculation because flying was his best talent usually.

Beyond the closed window, a shadow moved, then he saw a hand reaching for the latch.

With another thunderclap booming behind him, he scrambled through the gap.

“Welcome to the Light Tower at the edge of the world,” the woman he did not expect to see here greeted him as he hopped down to an intricately woven carpet which felt odd under his webbed feet.

Exhausted, he relinquished the form of the seagull without consciously intending to do so.

Standing naked before her, breathing deeply, his mind busily calibrating to mortal form, it took a few moments before he could organise his vocal apparatus to speak. “May a shapeshifter claim refuge?” he said, bracing himself for a No.

Her gray eyes reminded him of the tempest through which he had journeyed. Was that the slightest of smiles before her lips parted? “Be welcome if you bring no malice in tooth or claw, in heart or mind or body.”

“I bring neither harm nor havoc,” he replied formally, relieved that his tiredness prevented his mortal nakedness from revealing any particular interest in her.

She gestured to a heap of clothing woven of pale emerald colours interspersed with sapphire and amethyst. “I found one of the old keeper’s robes for you,” she told him before turning away.

“Thank you,” he said, enough aware now of the mortal body to feel chilled from his exposure to the elements despite the comfortable warmth of the room. She must have some gift for precognition among her other talents.

As he gathered up the folds and found his way into the capacious garment, he wondered with what feelings she anticipated his visit. Neutrality, most likely, given that she had taken up the role of lightkeeper.

What happened to the previous occupant of the tower? A natural death or something sinister? Attacking a lightkeeper was tantamount to hurting a priest or priestess.

He watched her sit down at the massive desk, her outline framed by the shelves of scrolls and ledgers, a heavy rune-encrusted candle burning to her left. Despite his promise of bearing no ill will, not everyone of a sorcerous lineage would turn their back on a shifter so effortlessly.

“And food on the table,” she added as she picked up her rusty brown feather quill. He recognised the sea-hawk feather and was belatedly grateful for the storm that protected his seagull shape from encountering such a fierce enemy.

He crossed the room with nearly coherent movement, feeling the texture of the rug beneath his cold feet. When he lifted the lid from the large bowl, he had to swallow back saliva that pooled in his mouth as he inhaled the spicy fragrance. He dipped a chunk of honey-smeared bread in the thick green soup to begin his most necessary feast.

“Do sit down,” she suggested.

He swallowed what he was eating, sat as she bade and stopped eating long enough to bow his head in gratitude. A quick glance told him she was not watching him, though he still tried his best not to eat with a total lack of manners, wondering if she prepared the food or a servant dwelled her also.

Eccentric had been his judgment of her over a year ago at the last gathering of mages before chaos descended on the realm. Unobtainable perhaps to anyone, though she might own passionate secrets which he could not guess. At that noisy banquet, during the subsequent dancing and eventual carousal, she kept her distance from everyone as far as he could tell.

The words of his older brother came back to him, bittersweet from the fatal loss of his only blood kin during the first onslaught. “Looking never did entice a kiss or anything more intimate.”

Having shrugged the comment away then, he accepted the present irony of his nude arrival which, under other circumstances, might have led to the fulfilment of those desires which the annual magical assemblage was intended to engender.

Mixing the best bloodlines, but how many of those would survive the conflict in what had been until several moons ago a realm renowned for internal peace? The magically gifted had for centuries saved their aggression for external threats which, the gods knew, were doubtless watching with interest from over the borders. Invasion would come when it was established how many defenders remained standing.

His head began to hurt, so he stopped thinking and concentrated on the texture of the food. He appreciated the fact that neither wine nor ale were included as he sipped the juice of mixed berries which tasted of childhood summers. After that flight, he could have been careless enough to indulge simply out of sheer weariness.

Continuing to eat, he watched her dip nib into ink pot then saw the green eyes of a hefty black cat gazing at him as if not only measuring him but finding him severely wanting. Had the midnight beast been sitting on that stool the entire time or only recently joined them? Changing form always made him vulnerable to attack, but luckily even in his weakened state, he had nothing to fear from a cat. The feline tribe in general seemed attracted to shapeshifters rather than repulsed.

Tempted to offer a large flake of the excellently baked salmon, he managed to bite back an inappropriate comment about not wanting to get too familiar with the witch’s familiar. Even while he crammed more food into his mouth, he began to yearn for sleep but he must satisfy one appetite at a time and in the correct order to avoid unpleasant or hazardous consequences. Lessons learned in childhood had become binding laws of behaviour.

#

She dipped her nib in the small triangular container of water and watched tendrils of ink emerge before blotting it dry and setting the quill aside.

Though interrupted, she had completed the new spell sequence that she would use tonight to include the shapeshifter in her warding of the tower. At times like these, all protective spell work must be as secure as the keel of a ship, not let a single drop of water between the planks.

Once more, she faced the hard truth that she simply must do her best with what the last lightkeeper shared with her before he perished. Typically, an apprentice studied for several seasons at the minimum, but the outbreak of war made everything more urgent, then his demise left her with only ledgers to study. She pushed aside the fear, knowing it could sap her strength.

Looking at the rusty sea-hawk feather, she allowed herself a little smile that the gods had brought this particular visitor here. Due to her love of birds, she had worn a feathered cloak and matching mask to what might be the last gathering of mages ever held in the realm.

Standing beside her, a cousin wearing glittering silks and satins laughed and told her, “You are being closely observed by a shapeshifter.”

The eyeholes of the feathered mask made it difficult for her to get a good view. Despite the illumination of the plentiful candelabras, he seemed a shadowy but intriguing figure wearing black trimmed with silver which contrasted with the rest of the colourful assemblage.

He alone did not wear a mask, but then she supposed his mortal shape to him felt disguise enough. She assured her companion that the shifter was probably only curious about where she obtained all the feathers, nothing more.

She wondered what he thought of those that wore animal masks. Curiosity about him impelled her enquire once a would-be lover claimed her cousin and gave her freedom.

While she circulated alone among friends, acquaintances and strangers, she gathered facts: that his older brother shapeshifted too though oddly seemed unable to attend the social event of the year, that he had attempted but failed to shift into the form of a dragon, and that he once tracked down a radical mage in the most inhospitable mountains in the realm.

But shapeshifters belonged to the rarest of bloodlines, besides which the tales told about them were extravagant and outlandish, so naturally her interest was only temporary.

It bothered her now, though, that she failed to predict his appearance, only been aware that someone was flying over the ocean despite the raging tempest. Her precognition tended to fail with any circumstances of personal importance.

Although it could be the heavy burden of being the lightkeeper had blocked a more specific prediction. A year ago, she would have been considered too young for such an important role in the defence of the realm.

A loud yawn brought her back to the present moment.

She turned and saw Shadow sitting on the table, sniffing the shapeshifter’s offered fingers.

He yawned again, while her familiar gazed into his wide-open mouth with interest, a comical interaction which made her smile briefly.

The cat always tended to treat anyone apart from her cousin with disdain or avoid them entirely. She wondered if his aura perhaps held some residue from his hours as a seagull that interested Shadow.

#

Yawning a third time, the shapeshifter belatedly thought to cover his mouth since he was in gracious company, but a need to stretch both arms wide as he yawned defeated that idea.

He stared at the witch, wishing they could converse, but would he stay awake long enough for more than a sentence or two?

“Is there somewhere I can sleep?” he asked, hoping his words made sense.

“Of course,” she replied. “Follow me.”

Getting to his feet summoned up an entire catalogue of aches, but he managed not to curse as he might have done on his own.

He held on to the railing of the curling spiral staircase that occupied the center of the tower, relieved when she soon pointed at a door already open.

“Warm water to wash with if you need it,” she instructed.

He attempted to thank her before entering the room, but was satisfied most of all to be able to close the door and drop the pretence of normality. He pressed his lips together to keep from groaning at the bone deep pain emerging underneath all the various aches.

Everyone wanted to be a shapeshifter, but only those with the talent knew the actual cost. He missed his brother so much in this instant that he could feel the sting of tears.

He removed the colourful robe and washed himself with the fragrant water, not merely to clean away the sweat and grime but also to reacquaint himself with how this body fit together.

He needed to anchor himself to his own flesh against the danger of reverting, especially if a long flight was followed as it needs must be by sleep. He could never guarantee he would not dream of flying.

When the need to relieve himself surfaced, he dragged a chamber pot from under the bed. Though he had walked across the woven carpet to demolish the feast waiting for him, he only now felt he had actually landed at his refuge.

The urgency of sleep pressed down on him with an almost smothering intensity. He burrowed into the rose-scented sheets, hoping he would awaken in mortal form, given that he was the only shapeshifter in the vicinity. He did not fancy spending the rest of his life as a seagull.

His cold feet began to warm, but the necessary respite eluded him, partly because his shoulders felt like they had either broken apart or were about to do so. He realised, though, that he was listening for a bolt to be shot home outside the door which did not happen.

Perhaps the witch knew enough about shapeshifting to realise that she would not wake up with a wolf or lion invading her bed. The only shape he could switch to—and that would be a stretch with his depleted energies—was a seagull because that template remained active in his mind.

Not that he would mind sharing her slumbers or maybe more than that in mortal form. But who in their right mind would tolerate a shapeshifter? At best, the inconvenience of having an untamed beast sometimes sharing their abode, at worst bearing a shifter child whom he knew from his own experience would challenge any mother. Although shapeshifters did not inevitably breed true.

He finally drifted into sleep thinking that he must ask her about the feathered cloak and mask she wore at the gathering of mages. Did she still own these so that he could examine them? Was there a seagull feather among the weave? A lighter topic to introduce during what was going to be a grim discussion in the morning or, more likely, late afternoon or possibly early evening as he would need a long sleep to restore him.