"* Scratching Amber (for Brandi)" by A. Setliffe

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Caecitace stood facing the one wall of his library not covered in racks of scrolls and books. It was white, stark, and pure against the dark wood that otherwise dominated the small room. Sunlight from the large window, harsh with the first of spring, cast a shadow in his line of sight, much to his annoyance. Often he found himself staring into the empty whiteness, drawing comfort and hope from its near perfection, but today it did little to soothe him.

Slowly he turned from the reflected light to look sternly down upon his only son.  The boy was sitting in his father’s tall-backed chair, knees drawn up against his chest with arms clasped about them and his chin cradled in discontent. Even though he sat out of the light, his father could see that his black hair was disheveled, as were his clothes.   The boy and his twin sister had been playing with the young elkhounds, wrestling with them on the lawn as they had been forbidden to do so many times.

“For Hasta’s sake, Millace, sit up!”

The boy quickly shifted in his chair and fixed his mellow, gold-brown eyes on his father, one hand gripping the age-darkened arm of the chair for comfort. Those eyes always reminded Caecitace of wells of honey, or perhaps pine sap, and on this day their softness only served to infuriate him further.

“How old are you, Millace?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“And how do you think a young man of your age is to act? Especially one of your lineage?”

Millace recited, head bowed, “I am to act with pride, propriety and piety, sir.”

Caecitace nodded, his expression and voice sharp. “Eyes up.” Millace looked up obediently as his father continued. “And do you consider gamboling with your sister and the dogs to fall under any of these three categories?”

The boy’s frustration was painfully apparent as anger, shame and defiance battled for expression on his face. “No, but I do not see what is so wrong with it, either. We were just playing. ‘Missi…”

“Do not mention Amissiana to me!” snapped his father. “She is the source of this problem as I see it.”

Caecitace saw his son flinch and he continued. “If she is ever going to become a true lady and make an honorable marriage then she must set aside this childish, and, I would say, blasphemous obsession with animals. Hasta has set us apart from the beasts to be his chosen.” The man rolled his eyes in disgust. “The way she wept over that bird the other day, it was as if it had been her beloved friend, but it was merely an animal; an animal, Millace.”

Every word that left Caecitace’s mouth seemed to strike Millace like a cast stone and the boy turned his face away. He knew better than to draw his knees to his chest again for his father would then have made him stand and he was not certain that he could.

“And you, my son, encourage her bad behavior and distract her from her studies. You are her brother! By the natural order you should be her master and protector, guiding her on the path of righteousness until she leaves your guardianship and is married.  Instead of this, you act like her companion, or perhaps I should say pet, as she often appears the leader in your childish games. You make no effort ever to restrain her. We hire companions for her, young women who will guide her into proper behavior… but you! You neglect your own studies, and both of you mope like whipped slaves whenever you are apart. It is enough to make any father mad.”

The man’s voice had risen to a crescendo but now he paused, looking into the stricken face of his only son. Millace was shaking slightly and both of his hands now gripped the chair.

Good. Maybe now I have reached him, thought Caecitace.

Millace, however, though he blinked rapidly, desperate to fight back tears, rallied his voice and responded. “Do you want to know why we ‘mope’ when you separate us?”

Caecitace raised his dark eyebrows inquiringly. This was a new response.

“It is because the more space you put between us the weaker we feel; because something within us twists and tears. We mope, because, unlike you, we are not whole when we are alone.” The boy shook his head, trying to keep the anger in his heart from manifesting in his voice for he knew it would work against him. “I do not know if it is this way with all twins, but you know that our gifts are linked and maybe that is why…” He forced himself to meet his father’s light brown, too intense, eyes. “I do not know if we can live separate, father. I do not know if we can survive.” This was dangerous ground and he knew it. Never before had he expressed this thought so clearly to his father, and the moment he had said it he wished he had not. His gaze begged for understanding but did not expect to find it.

Caecitace’s eyes widened and there was a pause of several soft breaths before he spoke again. “Firstly, what your sister can do is a curse, not a ‘gift.’  Secondly, you can, and you will find it in yourself to ‘survive’ apart. I cannot indulge the two of you, Millace. You are my only son. You must and you will be an heir in which this family can take pride.” Millace tried to speak again, but his father’s burning gaze and raised hand silenced him. “You will learn not to be tied to your sister’s wrist. It is almost as if she has enchanted you like one of those damned animals. You have twice the potential I ever had, Millace, and I will not see it wasted. My son will be a strong lord and a peerless sorcerer. Go and think on what I have said. We will speak of this again tomorrow.”

Millace’s soft golden eyes searched his father’s face then flinched back from what they found. With a hurried air he rose from his seat, bowed, and fled the room.

Pine sap, thought Caecitace, too soft for the eyes of a lord and a leader. He slammed his fist against the edge of his oaken table. No doubt amber is the hardest that can be made of those weak eyes; easily scratched, easily powdered amber. He massaged his bruised knuckles automatically, though he barely felt the pain through his thoughts. Hasta, why, if you gave me only one son, did you have to give me one so fragile?

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            Millace shut the door to the reading room and leaned hard against the sturdy wood. At the sound of his father’s fist striking the table he flinched and ran down the wide hallway to the curling stair that led up into the bell tower.  It was height he craved, and wind; as much separation from the world below as he could find. He took the narrow steps three at a time until he reached the open pavilion at the top where the calling bells dangled. The ever-present doves startled as he reached their haunt but only a few took to flight and they soon landed again, unafraid.

The boy stepped up to the low wall around the pavilion and looked out. Strong wind gusted by him causing new tears to form, though these felt clean as they sprang from an external rather than an internal cause.  Below him his family’s estate spread out in a blanket of gardens and fields. As always, when he sought high places, he felt the impulse rise in him to jump, as if some part of him was convinced that it could fly. He laughed at the foolishness of it, but made himself sit down, back to the wall, careful not to land in the bird droppings.

Ascending footfalls on the stairway alerted him to another’s presence, but before he saw her, Millace felt his sister approaching as if a taut cord between them was going slack. The tension in his mood faded. She appeared at the doorway and fixed him with an instant look of concern.

“He was very angry, wasn’t he?”

Millace nodded, though at the sight of Amissiana, her sable braid unwinding and her dress grass-stained, he could not hold back a smile. “Haven’t you even bothered to change? Mother will tear her sleeves in frustration if she sees you like that.”

The young girl crossed her arms over her chest. “And what of you? What did father say? …I could tell that you wanted to cry.”

Her brother flushed with embarrassment.

“But it is true. Come now, tell me what he said.”

“Nothing he hasn’t said before,” he breathed as he rested his head back against the wood of the pavilion wall, looking into the cloudless sky. “He is threatening to separate us again. Oh, and he knows that you are still speaking to animals.”

Shadow fell across Millace’s face as his sister loomed over him where he sat. Her brown eyes, so much like those of their father, caught and held his look.  “They can’t separate us.”

Millace groaned, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought and wishing his twin would let the subject rest for the moment. “They can. They will marry you off and send me to the church. You know that as well as I.”

Familiar defiance lit Amissiana’s eyes as Millace watched them fade to a honey-gold like his own. She turned to the doves warbling amongst themselves and held out her arm. A pair of the birds, both soft gray with metallic-pink markings across their wings, flew to her and perched comfortably on the arm she had offered them. “Then I will have the doves fly between us and carry messages and you will come to visit me whenever your studies allow.”

A grimace marred her brother’s face. “And if your husband thinks as badly of your gift as our father? He doubtless will and you will be punished. Besides, father thinks that you make me weak, he will not allow me to visit.”

            “You always see shadows where I see sunlight. Why?”

            The boy became defensive at his sister’s mild accusation. “Because you refuse to see them. One of us has to face the troubles and as you live in a dream…”

            “What?” Annoyance tinged the young girl’s voice as she turned again to her twin. Her eyes faded back to their natural brown and the two doves, startled by her sudden movement, flew back to their roost. “What do you mean by that?”

            “I mean that you are always so happy, you deal with problems as they come but you never see them coming. You never anticipate.”

            “And you worry about everything. I have to drag you into the present to get you to enjoy yourself.”

            “…I’ll admit to that. But I worry about you. They say your gift is evil, they say that you are unnatural. I hear these things and I worry about what is going to happen to you.”

            Amissiana nodded, frustration creasing her brow, but then she smiled ruefully. “This entire world is against us, isn’t it?” She turned back into the wind and it rippled through her disheveled braid. “Why were we even born if the world considers us so wrong?”

            Millace rose to his feet and smiled, equally rueful. “We have to believe that Hasta has a purpose for us, even if father and the rest of the priesthood think otherwise. We cannot have been born simply to cause trouble.”

            “Ah, so when I admit to seeing shadows, you will search for sunlight?”

            He smirked. “One of us must.”

            She laughed freely and threw her arms around her brother’s chest, hugging him fiercely. When she let go the concern was gone from her face and her attention seemed no longer to be on her father’s anger and disapproval. “I want to go find Liam!”

            “We should go change at least,” he replied, looking down at his grass-stained trousers.

            “Yes, you are tiringly correct as usual,” she grinned. “I will beat you to the gardens!” With that she turned and bounded down the stairs, Millace after her, unwilling to be beaten in such a race by his sister.

            Despite his best efforts, however, Amissiana was waiting for him in the gardens, out of breath and carrying her brush, but the victor, nonetheless. Millace shook his head, face flushed with running.

            “You should have been born the boy.”

            “I know.” She grinned at him, then turned to look about in search of her quarry. A handful of the house slaves were weeding amongst the vegetable patches, but the twins knew that the slave they sought would not be engaged in labor on such a warm day, but nor would he be indoors. On an impulse, Millace started for one of the ancient trees that stood off from the edge of the gardens in a solemn row.  There he soon discovered Liam, asleep, with his head resting on the overwritten page of his music book.

The old man’s skin was tanned, but still with the pinkish hue that marked him as not being Hastaren by blood, though his full head of dark, grizzled hair did not cause him to stand out as much as the blond or reddish tresses that some of the other slaves carried.  Liam was of a different nation, Millace knew, though he had never managed to learn where his father had found the strange musician and his alien instrument. The fiddle, the only one of its kind in all of Hastare, lay beside the sleeping man in its hard leather case.

Amissiana came around the other side of the tree and, as she saw the fiddle, the hint of a smile twitched across her mouth. Her eyes flicked to Millace’s face and sparkled when she found a smile in answer to her own. Carefully, Amissiana picked up the fiddle and settled it beneath her chin. There was a moment’s breath of silence before the horsehair touched the strings and the girl began playing her favorite spring dance, bright, swift and loud.

Liam opened his eyes and sighed. “So much for an old man taking a peaceful rest.” He sat back and listened as his young student finished her song, then he considered before passing judgment: “Well played. A little fast in places, but you hardly squawked at all. Take your time over the notes, though. That’s where the beauty finds its way in.”

Amissiana rolled her eyes. “I like playing swiftly.”

The old slave smiled. “Then you will have to practice more. If you are going to play fast, then you are going to play flawlessly.”

The girl shook her head and handed the fiddle to her brother. “I think I’ll just have Millace play for me.” Her eye winked mischievously and Millace grinned in response. He played more slowly and with less assurance, but the sound was both mellow and poignant and drew a smile from both listeners.

“Don’t be afraid of the instrument, Millace,” said Liam, as the boy finished his tune.

“It isn’t the fiddle; it’s the listeners he’s afraid of.” Amissiana smiled.

“He shouldn’t be afraid of listeners, either. They don’t matter. All that matters is you, the fiddle and the bow. Everything else is unimportant. Try again.”

Millace, blushing slightly at the admonition, began to play again, but his confidence did not improve.

            “Liam?” said Amissiana, softly.

             “Yes Mistress?”

            “Has my father spoken to you of my brother and me lately?”

            “No. He asks that I play for him, but he has not confided anything in me for weeks.”

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            Caecitace paced in his room, until the sound of a fiddle outside his window drew his attention. He looked out and sighed at the sight of his children playing beneath a tree with his musician. At least they were doing something useful. A sharp knock on his door drew only a little of his attention.

            “Who is it?”

            “Master, the high priest Elaquor is here to speak with you.”

            Caecitace took a deep breath of surprise, trying to compose himself. “Don’t keep him waiting, man! Send him in.”

            The door opened and the servant stepped back to reveal an average sized Hastaren man, with fine silvered hair cut to chin length beside his thick beard. His face was lined with age and pleasant, though with commanding blue eyes. The dark gray habit he wore, like Caecitace’s, was marked with a pale blue stripe on its sleeves and collar, indicating that both had risen to the priesthood through the ranks of the Gray Monks. The older man, however, also bore a golden star shaped with spears, centered upon his chest, an ornament that only he and the other seven high priests possessed.

            “Elaquor!” Caecitace smiled welcomingly. “I was expecting you tomorrow, but please, make yourself comfortable.”

            “Thank you, my friend.” He smiled in return, an expression well adapted to his often impassive face. With an easy step he entered the room and came alongside his host, looking out the window at the children beyond. The servant gently shut the door.

            “You are still having trouble with them,” said the high priest, without a question in his tone.

            “I am. I do not know what else to do. It is as if my family is under a curse. My daughter… she leads her brother around as if he were her pet. He is learning nothing of how to be a strong man and a servant of Hasta and everything I do to try and pull him back only makes him resent me and love her more. I feel it will not be long before they both become animal-worshipers like the sickeningly immoral Sallendians.”

            Elaquor sighed, a sound that echoed heartbreak. “I have thought long and deeply on your behalf. I have my answer, but it is a difficult one, one that will try your faith as no other. I will understand if you choose to leave the church rather than accept this burden. That is why I came early, my friend.”

            Caecitace was filled with hope and dread. “Tell me. Please.”

            “It… is this: twins of the kind you have sired are very rare, and some of the ancient texts I have been reading describe them as manifestations either of heaven or of hell. It is clear, in this case, which realm is to blame. Your daughter is hellspawn, Caecitace. She is a demon sent to drag your son, and with him your family, into the abyss.  I know you see it. You said as much to me just now.” His eyes were fixed on the lower priest’s face, reading and calculating every expression. “If left as she is, un-exorcised, she will be the ruin of your household and your only son. I am sorry to be the bringer of such tidings.”

            When Caecitace spoke next, some minutes later, his voice was hoarse. Though he had expected such, he could feel his heart lurching. “Wh-what can be done? How can they be saved?”

            Elaquor rested a gentle hand on the father’s shoulder. “She cannot be saved. She is not worth saving, but Millace is worth our fighting for. I know an exorcism that will break the power she has over him and set him free.”

            “And my daughter?” Caecitace’s voice shook audibly. “What will happen to my daughter?”

            “She will die in her sleep and return to the abyss that spawned her. We are fighting a battle for the life of your son, my friend.” He tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder. “I know what this is like for you. I have lost my only child. The daughter you raised, though, is as evil as she is subtle. Every seemingly good trait she has put on is a disguise to protect her until her full purpose is complete. You cannot doubt that for one moment, or the future of your son’s soul will be lost. This is the will of Hasta.”

            Caecitace turned away from the window, no longer able to look. His stomach was in knots and his heart was racing in fear and pain. He dropped onto his knees on the floor, unable to answer, his eyes filling with tears. “Why would Hasta visit such a misfortune on me? What have I done to anger him?”

            “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps this is a test of your faith preparing you for his service. Show what you will do when you know the right course.”

            Caecitace believed that he did know the right course, though it struck him to the heart to think of it. Elaquor was a priest of high renown, and a man of great piety and holiness. His words must be true. If he refused to allow this exorcism, his sin would bring his house to an end.  Weakly, he nodded. “Do what you must. Save my son.”

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            Elaquor did not smile as he left the estate. Long ago he had learned to hide looks of satisfaction. He was satisfied, though; more than that, he was pleased. For most of his life he had been searching for a way to win the age-long war against the Sallendians, and now he had found his weapon of choice. The boy had potential in more ways than one. He was adept at sorcery, quick of mind and, most of all, emotionally dependant on a single person; a person who could be taken away. 

            He reconsidered the possible advantages and dangers on the journey back to his own estate. His gift in strategy was what had brought him his current power and success; he was not going to abandon it now. He could lose Caecitace’s loyalty, but the chance was small as the man was easily manipulated and, by the time his plan was in its final stage he would be so guilt-ridden that pushing him in one direction or another would be simple. There was a chance that Millace would become uncontrollable, but he had an idea of how to deal with that as well.  As his carriage halted he stepped out and wandered slowly up the stairs to his home, deep in thought.

            He soon found himself in his chambers and closed the door solidly behind him before moving to his table. In its center was a small ivory idol shaped in the likeness of a crab with a human face. Its eyes were set with blue sapphires and seemed to glow even without light. The old priest placed a hand on either side of the effigy and closed his eyes, seeking the feeling of heat and decay that accompanied the presence he sought. 

“Cruciatre, I am here.”

“As am I,” the demon answered. “What have you come to tell me?”

“I have prepared everything. Now I want assurance that our bargain is binding. You will win this war in my name and leave Hastare in peace; in exchange, you may have this child’s soul and whatever carnage must come from this campaign.”

“Are you certain you can give me his soul?”

“I am. He will be utterly broken. There will be nothing left in him to resist you and he will feed you pain, anger and hatred until the day he dies, once I am finished with him.”

“He sounds weak. What use is a weakling to me?”

“Believe me, he is weak now, but I am good at reading my fellow men. Once broken, he will heal cold and cruel. I plan to make him a Hunter and, perhaps, an Inquisitor.”

“You would bring me into your church as well as your nation?”

Elaquor snorted derisively. “You continue to underestimate me. Do we have a bargain? If so, swear on the Stone that you will honor it.”

“I swear. And you swear upon your own soul to replace the boy’s if your plot fails.”

The old priest paused for only a moment. “I have faith in my own plans. I swear.”

“Lead your sheep tomorrow, then. I want my prize before the moon is full.” The demon’s voice and presence flickered with lust to see a victim, any victim, squeal and writhe before it faded, leaving an acidic taste in Elaquor’s mouth. He shuddered, disgusted by the contact, but his hopes to bring Hastare peace helped him to stay the course. 

            The next night the five priests required to help Elaquor complete the complex spell that would fulfill his purpose, arrived. All of them were magi and all of them had secrets that Elaquor knew he could use to silence them if they had second thoughts. The rest of the priesthood would never need to know the rest. As far as they were concerned, he would take the gifted son of Caecitace as his protégé and nothing more.

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            Though spring was far advanced, the nights were still touched with a chill. The twins, sleeping in their separate rooms, turned in unison as they slept and pulled their bedclothes closer.

 Caecitace tossed, unable to sleep. All that day, and now into the night, he had felt ill and had avoided the sight of his children and even his wife. Part of him wanted to ride to Elaquor and stop him, to face the consequences of raising a demon-child, for even if she were evil, he could only see her as his daughter. The rest of him knew it would be weakness, a frailty that would destroy all he had ever worked for and even his son. He closed his eyes and tried not to think, but sleep would not find him.

            The next morning, when the house-slaves came to open the curtains and wake the twins, they found them too deep in sleep to rouse and cold to the touch, though they still breathed. They called Caecitace, and the children were immediately put under the care of their nurse until a healer could be called.

            The healer, after he had examined the children, took their father aside and spoke gently to him.

            “I cannot tell what is causing this, it is strange to me. The best I can do is attempt to warm them. All you can do is pray. Hasta will surely listen to one such as you.”

            Caecitace did not have to counterfeit strain and concern. “I will pray.”

            Amissiana awoke in darkness with the only light she could see radiating from her own being. Beneath her, the reflective, seamless floor shone almost as a mirror, but the rest of her light was swallowed into dark mists. Her brother was near, she could feel him, and she turned to follow their link to where he might be.

Something caught the corner of her eye and she turned fiercely to face whatever was approaching her, swinging her skirt back with a practiced hand. It was only an eddy, however, created by her movement through the fog. Time and time again she turned to face swirls and movements in the vapor that she had taken for shapes closing in upon her, but nothing was there.

            Faint sounds, like men whispering, tantalized her ears and a nauseating-sweet smell, barely noticeable, pricked her nose, as if something was rotting nearby. Through the mists she caught sight of another light and she knew instantly that it was her brother. As she came closer she could see that he was lying prone on an altar that, at first sight, appeared to be in honor of Hasta. A second look, however, told differently. The plain, natural stone had been worked and squared until its edges were sharp and there were grooves, like scars running from its summit to its base. Her brother’s arms were shackled to the stone, but he was not even awake to be resisting. Her heart felt sick at the sight and all of her fear was directed at the question of what was going to be done to him. She opened her mouth to call to him and her feet moved into a sprint.

            She never took a step and her cry caught in her throat as the mist engulfed her. It felt as if strong hands were smothering her. She tried to resist, anger being her first reaction, but all other emotions soon melted into terror as she found herself unable to break free. Her eyes flashed to gold and she reached out with her gift to find her brother.

            Millace!

            Millace struggled to open his eyes. Something was weighing him down and when he managed to pierce the blur that at first obscured his vision, he saw a stone slab laid across his chest.  When he tried to move it, he found his arms and legs bound to the hard surface on which he lay by shackles that, when he realized they were there, became hot enough to singe his skin. 

            “’Missi?” His eyes turned deep brown like those of his father as he tried to call upon his own gift to free himself. He felt instantly drained as his spell was pulled away into nothing.

            Her voice in his mind answered not with words, but with hysterical shrieks. Though once removed from what was strangling his sister, he could feel it.

            “Let her go!” he screamed. “In Hasta’s name, let her go!”  Her terror did not fade and now pain began to flicker through her, crushing, as her lungs could not get air. Millace struggled with what strength he had against his restraints. He could feel the thread that tied him and his sister together going taut. “Hasta! Hasta please help her! Father!”

            Amissiana’s mind-voice became clear again only for a moment and its tone was that of desperation. No! Not my brother! Not him!

            The cord was severed. It snapped and recoiled into the one left alive. Millace could not even react as his sister’s light blinked out of existence. He lay there and felt his blood draining out of him from a wound in his chest that lanced straight through to his back. The stone that had weighed him down was gone and with a faint hum the shackles vanished. Still he did not move. His blood found the grooves in the altar and lit it with the brightness of his life.

Amissiana tried to scream as her link to Millace broke, but there was nothing with which to make the sound. She looked at the altar and tried to step towards him. Her feet were rooted, and she looked down to see herself crumpled beneath her. Her body’s face was swollen and discolored. As her eyes trailed up again to her brother, she saw a woman standing before her. The stranger was tall, like her mother, and her eyes were soft and dark.

            Hush, soul. Come with me.

            No! He’s still here. They’re…

            The woman moved and drew her into an embrace. Amissiana relaxed against her and wept, though no tears fell.

            I cannot leave him to this. It’s coming, I felt it.

            Hush and follow.

            A presence that exuded happy satisfaction rose from the mist. Millace was momentarily blind and could not see it, but the echoes it made in his mind were overwhelming. Eternity contained, life shattered into brilliant, painful sparks; love curdled to jealousy, jealousy decayed into hatred and willfully made to fester until all else was eaten away. There was no form but a shell and no purpose but to maim and destroy those that had disinherited it, and now it had something it desired.

            Millace’s blindness gave way only enough for him to see piercing blue eyes, like stars observed through cobalt glass, and he could feel the presence surrounding him, embracing him.

            Does the void hurt?

            Millace choked. As the thing spoke, the void in his mind and heart wrenched and he felt that he was dying. Surely he could not survive this, not her loss.

            “Amissiana…” His tone was pleading.

            “Dead. Smothered and crushed…” The blue-eyed thing seemed to drink the words as something immeasurably sweet and potent. “But not you. You are still here, with a void in your soul. I will fill it.”

            “No.” Any resistance in his voice was weak. The hole was there, pressing inwards like a vacuum. It had to be filled, it would be filled and if the blue-eyed demon was all that was there to fill it, then it would be so. For an instant he tried to call out to Hasta to save him, but his heart broke before he could even form the words. Hasta had not come when Amissiana was dying. He had abandoned them.

            “I see you are wise enough now to know that your god will not save you. There is no god. Only me. It is the men of your god’s church that killed your sister and it is they that have given you to me. …I’ll give you revenge against them, if I have what I want. Your soul for vengeance.”

            Millace did not care about revenge at that moment. Loss was everything. The demon curled into the void Amissiana had left as if it were a warm, safe burrow. Millace screamed again as its nature shot through him, magnifying pain, loss, loneliness, and most of all, anger, and hatred.

<>

Millace’s eyes opened though his breathing had not eased, and the nurse smiled to see warmth in his face. She turned, hoping to find Amissiana awakening also. She moved to the girl’s bedside and saw her eyes flicker open. Something was not right, however, and it took her only a moment to notice that the child was not breathing. Quickly, she moved to breathe into Amissiana’s lungs, but as she touched her throat she found it stiff, with no pulse, as if the girl had been dead for some time. 

“This cannot be! She was only sleeping moments ago!”

Millace’s rasping gasps choked and she turned, afraid that she would now see that the boy too was dying, but he had risen from his bed and was crawling across the floor toward his sister.

            “No, son. Back to your bed. I must go fetch your father.” She reached out to take him by the arm, but the choking sound in his throat came again and he lashed out at her with his fist, barely missing her knees. That moment she decided that attempting to restrain a child sorcerer was beyond her and she ran from the room, calling for Caecitace.

            Millace reached Amissiana and clutched her wrist in his hand. Stiff, cold and without the comforting rhythm of her pulse. She was a void; a nothing. Tears blurred his vision and he wished to go numb, but his every sense was sharper than ever before and his emotions burned like red coals.

            “This feels different, doesn’t it?”

            In desperation, hardly even knowing his own actions, Millace pulled his sister’s corpse from the bed and clung to it as if, somehow, he could make the life that he could feel within himself pass back into her.

“You survived. She did not. You cannot reverse that. Now she is dead and you are mine.”

            Behind him came voices, jumbled and agitated. One only did he hear clearly. His father spoke.

            “Millace! Thank Hasta you’re alive. …come here, my son. Put her down and come to me.”

            The boy did set his sister down on the ground at his knees. He stared blankly at her, and then turned, his vision blurred again, though this time not through tears.

            “He doesn’t care that she’s dead? What a praiseworthy father.”

            Caecitace, Elaquor and the healer watched, startled, as Millace’s eyes turned black as coal. His lips pulled back in a silent scream and he lashed out with his magic.

            Elaquor stepped forward, glowing white markings, like donward-pointing spearheads, appearing on his brow and his cheeks below his eyes as he deflected the blow. Millace’s spell crushed the door rather than the men at which he had aimed it. In another moment, Elaquor and one of his servants laid hold of the boy and clasped his arms in silver shackles.

            Millace felt the magic drain out of him and he nearly collapsed onto the floor. As the men backed away, however, he screamed, this time at full volume and charged his father. The high priest grabbed Caecitace’s shoulder and pushed him out of the room. He stood there alone and focused on restraining the boy. Fortunately, the demon was not adding to Millace’s power against its ally, else Elaquor knew that he would not have been able to resist it.

            The youth screamed, completely inarticulate, and struggled against the strength of his adversary until, in exhaustion, he collapsed. The old priest added shackles to his victim’s legs as well. Not even the strongest sorcerer would be able to cast with such fetters, even with a demon’s powers running through him. Both were breathing hard when Caecitace forced his way back into the room against the restraints of the healer and Elaquor’s servant.

            “What is wrong with him?” he demanded.

            Elaquor took a deep breath. “I fear… that perhaps your daughter, when she realized she was losing her hold upon him, threw him into madness...”

             Caecitace, his eyes wide in horror, ran to his son’s side and knelt down beside him. He placed a tentative hand upon his shoulder, turning him forward.

            “Millace?” The man could hear his own voice shaking, half afraid of what he would find, of what would answer his address. “Millace, my son… please recognize me. I am your father!”

            Millace turned his face to his sire and regarded him, expression utterly blank. Caecitace’s breath caught sharply. As he had hoped, the soft wells of honey were gone, but though the eyes still carried the color of amber, they had nothing of that stone’s warmth or softness. They were cold as a winter death and hard as granite. The boy’s gaze cut into his father like a razor as he spoke.

            “Die.”

            Caecitace jerked his hand away from his son’s shoulder, now visibly shaking, tears full in his eyes. Elaquor, standing behind him, caught him by the arm.

            “Stop it, man. He’s only a child. He will heal. I will take him into my care. He will overcome this madness and become what we would have him be. Your son will be a legend. This I promise you.”

             Millace laughed inwardly as he slipped further from his own mind. What kind of a legend, you bastard? Nothing but terror.