SciFi and Fantasy Stories: Requiem

“Keep him playing, Sam,” said a soft, beautiful voice from the corner of the room.

At the bar, Fat Sam nodded, sending a ripple through his massive neck.  The bard across the room, an unhandsome, weathered man in a thatched hat, shrugged his agreement and began another lullaby or requiem on his haunting wooden flute.

Staying this late, the bard would demand more coin from Sam.  For Sylvie, Sam wouldn’t even pass on the charge.  Northton’s famous dancer added class to the Lumen, already among Northton’s finest inns.  She stayed there often in her free time, listening to music and sampling exotic wine, because there was no violence at the Lumen, no lechers or autograph hounds—nothing that didn’t receive Sam’s fleshy nod.   The Lumen was Sam’s child—built with pirate money, some claimed—but whatever Sam had once done for a living, he spent his retirement serving fine wines, listening to fine music, sampling fine foods, and living in a spell-warded inn where the land’s finest assassins could barely lift hand to dagger.

Sylvie enjoyed the place immensely.  The Lumen sold what Sylvie’s life lacked: peace, security, and luxury.  If plots were hatched and fees paid in the Lumen—and Sylvie knew there were—at least the violence happened outside the inn’s walls.

Sipping elvish red from one of Sam’s finest crystal glasses, she smiled at the music.  Hearing the tones cascade lightly off the walls, she knew the bard played to her—to the one who’d called for the song, rather than to the wealthy men across the room.  “That man is a real artist,” she thought.

Raising her eyes towards the bar, she saw the bard looking at her already.  Most gentlemen would look away; he held her gaze.  She sighed.  Sometimes men recognized her and hoped for a cheap hour with the jewel of the Silver Swan—a luxurious dance hall and brothel that turned scruffy artisans like him away at the door.  Smirking to herself, she wondered how a man of his class had even gotten a job at the Lumen. 

A cheap hour was out of the question, of course.

She turned back to her wine and gazed into its cherry richness.  A smile spread across her face as he began a tune she’d never heard before.  The sad and consoling song began to dance within her, driving troubles from her mind.   It grew louder, more personal, as its source approached her table.  The last note of the whistle drew her spirit out for a moment before laying it to rest.  She reminded herself to breathe. It wasn’t every day that a song effected her so powerfully.

“You must be Sylvie.  The slyph, they call you.  Have you heard that one?”

Hearing his low, soft voice, she looked up.  Besides a cloak of exotic hide, nothing about him implied that he could afford her services, especially on her personal time.

 Visibly relaxing, she leaned back in her chair and coolly replied, “Who?”

He grinned and tipped his hat as he pulled up a chair.  “Sylvie the slyph.  Sylvie Silver, the swan herself, fabled like a foreign queen in exile if you heard the soldiers speak it.  I was on the walls during the siege.  As many soldiers fought for you and your sisters during that long night as fought for their wives and daughters.”

Another woman might have blushed.  “You have me mistaken, sir.”

He shrugged, “You have the hair I’ve heard about, and the face.  No silver dress adorns your figure, but you’re still wearing silver jewelry—most women of your bearing wear gold and gems.  You gave your profession away with that precise smile, hinting without promising, and what other of your profession would be allowed, alone, in so fine an establishment?”

Crossing her arms across her chest, she met his gaze. “You think me a whore, sir?”

He tipped his hat again.  “The finest kind.  But not tonight, else you’d have long since made those wealthy men in the corner less wealthy.  They’ve had an eye to you since you came in.”

She suppressed a smile of amusement.  “May I ask your name, master bard?”

He leaned forward, smiling mischievously.  “No master here, Sylvie, just a poor player with more troubles than a prince.  I am Gilliam NaCrae, the friendliest nomad and worst hero I’ve ever met.”

 “Dear sir, a poor player has not coin enough to speak with me.  He certainly couldn’t afford anything more.”

His grin widened.  “Oh, surely not.  However, as it seems you’re not working tonight, I come to you with a challenge of sorts. Can you seduce a dead man?”

“A friend of yours?”

“A former associate.  His name was Andrew.  Is, I suppose.  He’s a quiet artist like myself in some ways, except that he’s younger and more confident, and much prettier, and he kills people.”

In the Lumen, she was not afraid.  “He doesn’t sound like my type, Mister NaCrae.”

“Gilliam, please.  I can assure you that he isn’t looking for a long-term relationship.  But ghosts are not known for their wits and he was quite a charmer in life, so the nearness of a woman might divert his attention for a while.  And if any woman might…well, your reputation precedes you, my dear.”

She searched his eyes for evidence of a joke.  She saw danger, but no humor.  To her surprise, she saw no lie.  She began to hope that Gilliam was mad.

“I don’t accept challenges, Mister NaCrae, and I want nothing at all to do with ghosts.”

“You have no more enticing grin for your bard, lady Sylvie?  I’m saddened.  You liked the song, did you not?  It’s a requiem for Andrew.  I don’t honestly know what it takes to fight a ghost, if it comes to that, but I’ll recruit any weapon that touches a mind or a soul.  My songs, your smiles, maybe a magic trick or two, but that’s all I’ve got so far.”

He pulled a dagger from his belt.  She flinched when he laid it on the table, even knowing that the Lumen would prevent him from attacking.  The dull gray blade looked more like thick mist than steel.

Gilliam said, “I need someone to distract him.  I ask you Sylvie because I suspect that no person in this city has a better chance.  Andrew has killed in this city and will again, I’m sure.  He must be dealt with.”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed into slits as her body began to tense.  She had heard talk of a gruesome murder in town, a man torn apart inside a locked and windowless room, but the rumors were vague.  When her grandmother had told stories of ghosts, those raging spirits could blast souls into splinters.  The bard’s words echoed the most terrible legends.

Gilliam continued, “Andrew killed first to bait his true target, a sorceress girl.  The next person he kills will be me because I took this dagger that belonged to him.  He’ll come for it—I know that much of ghosts—and I could use some help defending myself when he arrives.”

“Then throw away the dagger, you fool.  You don’t look the hero.”

He sighed, shaking his head.  “Indeed not, my lady.  The gods know I’ve never been the type.  But if I can’t stop Andrew, then he’ll kill again.  Viciously.  He tortures his prey.  I’m sure that he’ll hunt down the sorceress girl, who was once my friend.”

At that moment, with shaggy eyebrows overhanging his lonesome eyes, Gilliam looked very much like a poor player resigned to die. 

Sylvie replied, “I cannot help you, bard.”

He nodded and sighed.  After a moment he reached to his belt and withdrew a heavy purse.  When he sat it on the table, golden coins tumbled out.

“Then, my dear, might I have the honor of playing for you this night, that may be my last in this world?”

A madman for sure, she thought, even if some strength of art is in him.   On the other hand, gold was gold, and he had asked kindly.  The polite ones were sometimes fun.

He surprised her by handing Sam ten golden coins for one of the Lumen’s night rooms—several hundred times the pittance that a man of his class might pay for a room near the docks—and surprised her again by pulling out his flute when they reached the room. She sat on the bed and listened, letting her feet sway.  The first songs were sweet.  By the second, she’d kicked off her shoes.  By the fourth, her long gloves and hose were draped over the headboard.

When the tunes became more cheerful, she noticed Gilliam watching her.  She held his gaze, rose from the bed, and began to dance—slowly at first, timidly, like a shy bride in her wedding bed.  Passionate and innocent, confident but not controlling, the way the gentle men liked her.

The bard encouraged her by nodding and played on.  Subtle shifts in the music urged her onward, attempted to hold her attention whenever her gaze met his.  When he liked her movements, the tune saluted with bends and trills.  His song shifted between melodies without stopping, swelling and relaxing like a whale’s slow breath.  In minutes, Sylvie found herself panting, and not only from exertion.  How much longer must she dance? As her body tingled with anticipation, she licked her lips and her gaze lingered longer each time it met his. 

The look he gave her in return was pleasant and empty of lust.  She spun, hiding her surprise behind a curtain of silky hair.  “That’s a first,” she thought.

A hard case, she thought, but she knew the type—his sort of men were patient.  They liked to develop a story, a man and woman story, and to pretend they didn’t know how it would end. The story could not be forced.  His lust would come of its own but retreat if called. 

Sylvie, too, liked a good story.  She let herself enjoy the dance itself as she had not in some time, knowing that her genuine sweat and pleasure would excite him.  She thought back to Gilliam’s purse of gold and knew that he’d come up with another like it, somewhere, if he enjoyed her enough tonight.  Her lips erupted in a wide and genuine smile, though not for him.

When at last the song ended, they both knew that she was aroused and he merely amused.  Her smile for him was half sincere enjoyment of this game and half to mask her bewilderment.

He spoke before she could.  “Take a break, lass.  You must be tired.  I know that I needn’t say it, but I wish I played half so well as you dance.”

Trying not to appear frustrated, she sat on the bed’s edge and fanned herself with a delicate hand, sighing and laughing as if tired.  She took an extra breath while deciding what Gilliam wanted to hear from her.

“Whew.  Dancing to your song is like being held in the arms of a tender gentleman.  You may play for me any day, master bard.” 

Gilliam blushed—a strange expression on his unkempt nomad face.  Sylvie smiled her widest when he reacted and, at her smile, Gilliam’s blush spread to his eyes.

He looked away as if he’d noticed a suspicious ant on the floor.  When he looked up again there was warmth in his eyes, fleeting and cautious, a distant and flickering hope of romance—too remote for any woman but a professional to glimpse.  Sylvie was comforted.  Perhaps Gilliam was human after all.

A breathy, bodiless laugh rattled the walls and wiped any hint of warmth from Gilliam’s eyes.  Cold terror flooded them as he looked about the room and drew the gray-bladed dagger from his belt.

The laugh, a man’s, had no source at all.  The words were silken and confident, gently lethal.  “You dance well, for sure.  But don’t tell Gilliam that he can do something well, or you’ll never shut him up.  That’s all he does.  Talk.  And hide from danger.  And meddle, him and the rest of the Valdwin Ten.  I owe you all, you know.”

Andrew appeared in the room like a congealing shadow.  His form was clear like water, like frozen mist.  Sylvie edged into the furthest corner of the room.  She had never seen a ghost—never heard anything of them but horror tales.  If this was a ghost, it had to be the very worst kind.  Death had not been kind to Andrew.

Gilliam remembered Andrew as the handsomest of men.  What strode toward them now was a mist-shrouded rictus of pain and rage.  Had the figure possessed eyes instead of foggy sockets, its gaze would have been death, bloody and torturous.

Gilliam held the knife before him.  “Your ghost-touch dagger, remember?  Take another step and taste your own steel.”

Andrew chuckled, “The dagger drew me to you, fool.  You should know better than to rob the dead while their souls yet walk the earth.  And you’re a greater fool to think my dagger will protect you.  I am an assassin.  You are nothing.  The Ten faced terrors in the months we traveled together and you never managed to kill a thing.  You haven’t got the power in your arm, or in your heart.  When I choose a time for you to die, storyteller, you will die.”

“Why must he die?” said Sylvie, steady and professional.  Andrew was a man after all, she saw now, with a man’s mind and passions.  The ghost assassin was terrible, but Sylvie had been with terrible men.  As she rose to her feet, little of her fear touched her eyes.

Andrew turned to her and smiled—a crueler gaze than she had ever seen.  “All of the Ten will die, lovely.  The master of the tower commands it and I take joy in the task.  I had thought to start with the sorceress girl who made me like this.  Her screams will be legendary.  Then the druid witch whose spells found me out, then the paladin brute and his sense for lies, then the others.  Useless Gilliam would have been the last but, when I felt my dagger’s presence, I knew it would be useful to me.  A ghost-touch dagger is both light and dark, solid and shade—it can harm a phantom, but a phantom can wield it.  In my hands, that blade will bring great suffering to the Ten.”

The wrathful spirit chuckled and turned back to Gilliam.  “Hand it to me now, or die where you stand.”

Gilliam looked terrified.  With a shivering hand he gripped the dagger by its misty blade and passed the handle toward Andrew.  The assassin took it from the bard and sneered, “Idiot.”

A lightning thrust shot toward the storyteller’s eye.  Sylvie had no time even to begin a scream.

Her wordless shock fell away when no blood flew.  The ghost stood frozen, the dagger’s point touching Gilliam’s eyelid.  The bard slowly backed away and reached for his flute.

Sylvie whispered in wonder, “The Lumen.” 

Gilliam nodded slowly, almost mournfully.  “Yes.  I’ve heard that this place was spelled to prevent violence.  I had to pay the fat bartender to let me play here.”

Andrew roared.  The sound penetrated walls, flesh, bone, hearts, minds—the sound of rage from a world beyond.

Gilliam winced.  “I have a song for you, Andrew, and you will listen even if it takes us all night.  This song does not affect your body like some of mine do.  Like the Lumen’s spells, it speaks to your mind.  It’s a requiem, a song of your world.  Hear it, Andrew.  Listen and be at peace.  Let Sylvie touch you.  Let her touch remind you of mortality.”

A look from the bard told Sylvie what to do.  Touch his mind, Gilliam had said.  Distract him.  Weaken the spirit’s defenses.  It may be our only hope.

She stepped forward as Gilliam’s wooden flute began to sing.  Andrew raged, and each violent impulse wrapped the Lumen’s spells more tightly around him.

Sylvie laid delicate fingers at the edges of Andrew’s glowing form, at the sides of his head.  She fingers met only air—not flesh or mist, heat or cold—but their minds met when her fingers graced his translucent body.  He felt her touch, she knew, for her fingers tingled at his mind’s gasp.  Wrath poured from him in waves—wrath beyond consoling, the wrath that crosses boundaries—but she knew how to soothe wrath.  Angry men came to Sylvie and howled their pleasure before they left.  It was just as Gilliam had said: distract, refocus the emotion, then set it free.  As Gilliam’s low and mournful song floated around her, she realized they were doing just that for Andrew: working together—dancing, body and song—to release Andrew’s soul from the wrath that bound it to their world.

Her fingers traced tenderly down Andrew’s ears.  The bard’s aging gray eyes held life and death resolve, and she knew that this would not be easy, and there would be no stopping.  Their arts would calm the wrath that crosses boundaries and release Andrew’s spirit to the world beyond, or he would paint the walls with their blood.

Sylvie recognized a special quality to Gilliam’s music, a certain allure lurking just above and below the melody. She’d heard true bards play such songs before—had been lured to an unpaid bed by them before.  Charm songs had magic in them, though it wouldn’t affect Andrew for all the hatred clouding his spirit.  She wondered again, as her fingertips caressed Andrew’s throat, “What manner of man is Gilliam NaCrae?”

Gilliam’s charms and Sylvie’s tugged at Andrew’s rage.  Minutes slipped by, each song becoming another just before it ended, and the sound never stopped.  Sylvie felt like a trance dancer, swaying to the charm song, her hands and lips waltzing across the surface of Andrew’s mind.  He would join her in the dance.  He was a man still, in tiny ways; he craved an act to focus his wrath, his energy, his emotion.  His soul needed release from profound anger, from some terrible hurt, from his own arrogance and self-doubt and the chains of an unnatural existence fueled by pain.  In that, Andrew was like nearly every man who came to Sylvie.  Sylvie knew this dance well.

Hours passed, with Andrew and Sylvie wrapped in a cocoon of song, a private sanctum of souls, with his slowly, slowly opening to hers, accepting her touch and her breathless whispers. 

When at last the time came, her kiss broke him.  After a long dance of tenderness, of unfulfilled promises and need, the kiss thundered through the assassin, freeing all that was not innocent, freeing the need.  When her warm lips touched his ghostly ones, his figure wavered.  An unearthly howl rang again.  The intensity of his release, the fire of his pleasure, seemed unbearable; Sylvie’s mind burned from the shared experience and the skin flushed all over her body.

When Andrew’s will gave way amid that torrent, Gilliam’s song took grip of his spirit.  Andrew’s cry faded and he sank to the floor.  Sylvie wavered; the power of his release—and her own, she realized—left her body quivering.  She let herself collapse near Gilliam, arms wrapped around herself, clinging to the fading emotions, to the childlike need and acceptance that she and the spirit felt together.

Gilliam rose to his feet and stood over the ghost.  His flute song warbled on the low notes and faded gradually back into the tune of Andrew’s requiem.  Graceful notes beckoned, “Peace, peace.  Live in freedom.  Lay the pain to rest, rest, rest.”

Andrew’s pleasured gasps faded to a whimper, then a sob.  Watching him, Sylvie’s vision clouded and the room’s lamp cast rainbows across her sight.

The song continued, “Rest child, rest.  Take your freedom in eternity.  Grant yourself this, for you are loved.”

Weeping openly, Andrew’s ghost moved slowly.  Its fingers curled tighter around the ghost-touch dagger.  The final note of Gilliam’s song dwelt long in the air before he let it fade.

In the silence that followed, the spirit rose to his knees.  Andrew’s voice was quiet, like autumn wind.

“Thank you,” he muttered between sobs. Andrew wasn’t talking to Gilliam, but to Sylvie and the entire mortal world.  Pressing the dagger to his heart he said again, “Thank you.”

Andrew’s misty countenance held only a smile as he pressed the dagger home.  His form rippled like smoke on a breeze and passed soundlessly from the world of men.  The mist-bladed dagger clattered to the floor, coated in blood.

“The light take him,” Gilliam mumbled.  He lowered himself to the floor and laid the flute beside him.  He looked toward Sylvie and, with his left hand, brushed a tear soaked strand of hair back from her face.  “We have done a fine, fine thing this night, Sylvie.  We have saved good people from death, ourselves included, and spared a wicked man from a crueler fate.  Tonight you are more priestess than whore.  I hope you never forget.”

Tears broke through her laugh.  “Never, Gilliam.  I will never forget.  I cannot ever forget this. Thank you.”

The next morning, Gilliam led Sylvie through the Lumen’s common room, arm in arm, like a father escorting a bride, until they reached the sunlit door.  Fat Sam watched them pass with veiled suspicion; he knew Sylvie and knew that she didn’t spend nights with men of Gilliam’s class, and certainly would never emerge smiling at dawn.

When they reached the door, Sylvie pointed out Sam’s prying gaze. 

Gilliam answered, “He’ll be happier not to hear the whole story.  And I’ll be pleased if word gets around that you smile in my company.”

She feigned a coy smile on reflex.  “Why Gilliam, you wouldn’t protect my honor?”

He smiled in reply, looking deep within her, and his smile grew deeper.  A moment later, a dry laugh escaped him.  “You and I are similar in ways, Sylvie.  We are creatures of smoke and mirrors.  We thrive in the silence between truths.  Honor for us must be in our own souls, never in what another perceives.”

It was the last answer she expected.  Her smile sobered as she tried to read his face.  The lines around his eyes were worn; she saw there echoes of love lost and comfort craved.  She wondered if, in that moment, he saw the same in her.  She wondered if he understood—if his profession, like hers, threatened betrayal to any heart too near.  Had he too given up fidelity for the power to live between truths?

His eyes contained understanding and sadness. 

Taking her hand in his, he unwound their arms.  “You must excuse me, lady Sylvie, but I have a dagger to bury.  If you ever have a need, you must come to me or any among the Ten—they owe you more than you know, for Andrew revealed precious information while you had him talking, and now a more bitter task lies before me.  You’ll have no more gold from me, my dear, but I hope the bright gods see that our paths cross again.”

He kissed her hand, stood, tipped his thatched hat, and pulled his exotic overcoat around him.  She watched him turn and walk quickly away, disappearing into the first alleyway he reached. 

Sylvie realized that she hadn’t said goodbye—had forgotten entirely the parting sweetness that made lonely men return to her attentions.  Her thoughts wandered among memories of futile love and strained self respect and the overriding question in her mind, “Who is Gilliam NaCrae?”