The Scrivener's Tale #1

THIRTEEN

Gabe had remained silent, invisible, since the shock of the arrival of strangers into his body. His sinister companions had no idea that he was present. It had taken him a long time to believe what had occurred, to accept that he was still alive — albeit in a curious form — and also to feel sure that neither of the usurpers was aware of his presence. He had made himself so insignificant that his being alongside them was inconsequential. It was all part of the trick he’d taught himself as a youngster, and practised throughout his life, to go within himself. His defence mechanism and protection from fears.
‘Within’ was safety and he had spent a long time ‘within’ after his family’s death. He would be silent and think through this extreme and unique situation.
It felt as though an eternity had passed since he’d last seen his apartment and life had felt anything other than blurred. He’d convinced himself to accept that he was not moving through a dream sequence. That’s what had taken him the longest time: suspending his own disbelief and no longer praying for deliverance from a nightmare. This was real. The male that now controlled his body was named Cyricus. Angelina’s name was revealed as Aphra.
‘Why do we travel in one body, my love?’ she said now.
‘You were travelling in such a handsome shape. Why would I want to remain as fat old Flek when I can be young and virile Gabriel? I like this fa?ade. I may keep it for a while.’
‘So we’ll travel together?’
‘Until I can find you an alternative. I will look for a suitable host for you. One who measures up to your beauty.’ He sounded patronising.
Gabe had listened, darkly fascinated by this conversation, from within himself. Cyricus was now fully in charge of his body. What had occurred defied all rational understanding, so he’d stopped drawing on what he knew to be normal and ruthlessly confronted what he had actually experienced.
Cyricus and Aphra were ancient, he knew that much now, and they spoke as lovers. She was every inch the slave. He sensed she was frightened of Cyricus, but found his cunning and power addictive. From their discussion Gabe gleaned that master and slave had been separated for a long time. She’d had been banished centuries ago, from wherever they’d last been together, to wander aimlessly until she’d finally discovered Gabe. He was her ‘way back’ into the world her demon master inhabited.
‘You chose well,’ Cyricus had said to her. ‘He is without scent or trace of being from elsewhere. No-one will know he is not from this world. I’m intrigued, though. How can this be?’
‘As soon as I met him I knew he was the one. He dreamed of Pearlis too. He is an aberration … a gift. I almost believed you somehow sent him to bring me back to you.’
Cyricus had made a soft sound of disdain. ‘I wish I could say I had. I admit this is somewhat overly neat. How does a man from one world dream accurately of a cathedral in a world he doesn’t know exists?’
Gabe had heard her hesitation and fear. Good. He hadn’t even begun to pay attention to the hate that he was feeling for Angelina, but soon he would. No, he reminded himself, she wasn’t Angelina. Angelina was some poor young woman whom this vile creature had possessed, using Angelina’s body and her own wiles to lure him into her wicked plan.
Cyricus had pushed for more details. ‘How has his arrival into this world not caused a disturbance to it, I wonder. Or maybe it has and people attuned to such magic are already sounding alarms.’
Gabe could now feel the tension rising in his body.
‘I don’t know. It is passing strange,’ she replied sweetly, and quickly added, ‘but, my love, you know we have experienced where worlds have touched before. You’ve told me of occasions when people have passed between the worlds.’
‘This is true; the most recent I recall was of a man and woman, except those were people of Penraven, who returned to it. This man we inhabit is not from our world.’
‘No, of course he’s not,’ she said, sounding worried. ‘I found him by chance. We bumped into each other and one thing led to another. I knew he was the one. I knew he could bring me back to you because of his dreaming of the cathedral. You surely don’t wish I had stayed lost forever? Perhaps his vision of the cathedral was just a leak from our world. He could only ever dream it, not touch it or move to it. It leaked into his world as a dream and remained his.’
Gabe mentally blinked. That sounded overly simplified.
He heard the demon sigh. ‘Gabriel is dead. And with him went any potential magical connection he’d possessed. What’s left is his soulless vessel and when the time is right I’ll cast it aside. Pity, I like this handsome presence. I will have to make good use of it while I can.’
Aphra gasped as if hurt.
‘You misunderstand. Gabriel’s good looks and honest face will open doors. Be assured you’ve always been my favourite. I give you special privileges, Aphra, but when a demon dabbles with mortals, he must be extremely cautious.’
‘I know, my lord, that you are being cautious. Gabriel is gone; his body is safe. No-one will be any wiser to your arrival … or my return,’ she’d cooed.
It suddenly hit him. She had lied to her master! Gabe’s hopes surged … she wasn’t telling Cyricus everything. It was Reynard who had brought Angelina into his life; they hadn’t bumped into each other, she hadn’t stalked him. Reynard had found him, befriended him and then introduced them.
So Reynard had been telling the truth in warning him about Angelina. But why bring her to him? Did he know what she was? How could he? Gabe reached, as if closing his eyes, straining for the answers. Why had Reynard given him that quill? It meant something — he was sure of that now. And the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that his customer at the bookshop had known far more than he’d let on.
Had Reynard deliberately set him up? It sounded like madness to think this and yet the notion would not leave him. The more Gabe recalled the way in which Reynard had pushed him and Angelina together, the more he believed the man’s protestations at leaving them alone were all a ruse.
It was becoming more credible that Reynard might well have known the series of events that would occur to put him here — Reynard had wanted it to happen, or at least had needed to see it happen. Why? He recalled the raven; it too had been watching Gabe, waiting for something to take place. Was it the death of Angelina and the transference of Aphra into his body? How would it have looked to that bird? One moment he would have been in his apartment naked with Angelina, the next she would be bleeding to death and he would have winked out of existence? His thoughts continued to crash against one another, each one more dramatic and unbelievable than the last. And yet, the more difficult it became to counter these wild ideas, the easier it became to entertain the idea that he had slipped between worlds and the whole event had been staged, carefully planned. Aphra thought she was outsmarting Reynard, but now Gabe firmly believed she was the one outwitted. And he — Gabe — was the stooge, the mule, the courier! Why? Cyricus had just voiced a similar concern. Now Gabe also wanted to know what it was about him that had allowed his body to move between these two planes without creating a disturbance.
There had to be a reason that Reynard had found him, that Aphra had used him. There had to be an explanation for why he had dreamed of a cathedral he’d not seen or known of, but which almost certainly stood proudly in this different world.
He had plenty to learn before he could begin to fathom how to thwart Cyricus and rid himself of his presence. As for Aphra, he hoped they would find a ‘suitable host’ very soon; he could no longer stand the sound of her voice reverberating through him. She sickened him. Gabe had always thought he didn’t possess any capacity for violence and that his calm reasoning would always get him through a situation. Now, his rage was such that he would kill Aphra with his bare hands … if either of them were made of something substantial.
However, he must remain calm and invisible to them. He would sit dormant within his own body, pulling tight any clues to his existence, and he would listen and pay attention. Perhaps he could find a way to get help from the outside. He’d already tried to leave clues. Even in his terrified, mind-scattered state, when he’d been forced into killing Flek, he’d pressed the quill against the man, hoping it would be found and cause questions to be asked.
The demons had missed it because they were so distracted by the transference of Cyricus and their reunion  . However, he had sneaked a look when Cyricus had cast a glance through Gabe’s eyes at Flek’s body. Gabe had seen that a burn mark had been left behind on the man’s chest and it seemed to him that the burn resembled the marking he knew existed on the quill. He’d never known what that tiny image represented, but knew that every anomaly and every small connection might help if people were questioning the events surrounding Flek’s death.
The other curious moment during the shocking exchange of Cyricus into his body was to use his last remaining gasp of breath to cast the word ‘Help’ into the dying man’s consciousness. If pressing the quill against Flek’s chest was a long shot, then pushing the word ‘Help’ into Flek’s dying mouth was just about as far-fetched as things could get. About as fanciful as clinging to the belief that he might have a chance at conquering these interlopers.
Nevertheless, he had given it all of his remaining strength.
In truth, he didn’t know why he’d done it, but rationality was not a feature of his landscape at present. It was a desperate moment and he’d regressed to using a game from childhood, except now that he came to consider it, he didn’t remember playing any game along those lines while growing up in England. And yet, in that moment of terror, had come the searing clarity of playing a game called ‘dead men’s whispers’ with his brother in a village square, a village square that he saw in that same moment of bleak terror. What brother? Which village? He’d been raised in a city. Even so, the impulse had come to him in less than a beat of his heart and he’d acted, breathing that word as he let go of the shirt of Rural Dean Flek, whose warm lifeblood was spraying his naked body.
It had been desperate, for sure. Who would hear that cry for help from a man who was little more than a spirit himself, via the lips of a dead man? He was truly crazy. But there had been a time in his life when he’d believed in magic, hadn’t there? Here it was again, that dim reaching toward a life he couldn’t properly recall and yet somehow had flashes of memory, or glimpses into. Was the cathedral at Pearlis one of those glimpses? Aphra seemed to know about the cathedral, didn’t she? And here they were in the land where Pearlis existed. His parents had always been awkward when the odd query had come up about his birth, hadn’t they? That was over three decades ago though.
Gabriel felt nauseated. Had his parents lied? Had his whole life been a lie, waiting for this moment for him to flip into another world … the world he’d originated from? It sounded feasible, in a sinister way, given his situation. Is that why Aphra had found him to be the perfect ‘ride’ home? Was it that he would not disturb the fine fabric of the worlds if he were one of Morgravia’s own returning? Had she been so blinded by her own desperation that she was risking not telling Cyricus the whole story? Is this why she was so fearful?
Had Reynard known? If so, how? Did the raven know?
And even though his jumbled thoughts crowded in to frighten, disturb and sadden Gabe, this one thought of Aphra’s fear of him stood out. It pleased him and he experienced a thrill of pleasure that Aphra was keeping secrets from Cyricus. Divide and conquer, he thought.
The wolves surrounded Fynch, deep in the forest, where they had dragged him. Unbeknownst to Cassien, Romaine had sent her kin to range alongside the two men as they’d travelled, staying within the dark shadows, far enough away so the horses did not pick up their scent.
Fynch owed them a debt, for once Cassien had finally — and he knew, unhappily — left him, he didn’t have the strength to do much more than die by the roadside. Death! He wasn’t ready for it. Surely it would not choose this time to call him, when the Crown most needed his counsel? The pair of wolves had sat, like sentinels, beside him for two days now. He understood they were keeping vigil to watch him slip into death and would stay by him until his body cooled.
The clue that this was not the plan was the sudden stirring of the trees. A strange wind had erupted in the darkest, quietest part of the night when even the owls were still. He heard the leaves flutter above and then felt the air buffet his face. He opened his eyes and, for a heartbeat, he felt a moment’s fear that this was it; true darkness had come to claim him. The soft whine of the wolves as they lowered themselves to the ground, and a looming shape above, told him this was not death but life hurtling toward him.
Tree trunks bent, branches snapped, and leaves fell as though it were a different season, as the familiar shape broke through the sparse canopy of this woodland area and landed soundlessly on the forest floor. The beast’s colours, like illuminations, glowed and softly spilled a pool of low light about itself.
Fynch blinked, grinning despite his weakness. It had been a long, long time since they had seen one another. ‘My king,’ he murmured, his spirits soaring to see the great dragon. ‘Forgive me for not being in a position to welcome you more elegantly.’
My friend, it replied in his mind, in its usual gracious manner, and dipped its huge head.
Fynch chuckled. ‘Far too long.’
Nevertheless, we are always together.
‘You’ve terrified my wolf friends.’
It is the wolves that called to me. Romaine is persistent; she howled her despair for two entire nights. Set my head aching and my whole body on edge, the dragon complained.
‘She had me followed!’ Fynch complained.
Clearly you can’t be turned loose from the Wild before you get up to mischief, the dragon chided.
‘Ah, but I wish it were only that innocent. I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders right now, my king.’
It is not your burden to bear.
Fynch shook his head weakly. ‘I have pushed it onto the shoulders of others and —’
Look at you, more than old enough to know better than to risk your life, to deliberately spill your precious, magical blood! The dragon gave a soft growl of displeasure.
I think I am dying.
You may have been, but I’m here.
Despite the dark, he and the dragon could see each other perfectly well.
You obviously had good reason to spill the dragon’s blood.
‘You felt it?’
Every drop. We are of one flesh. You bound yourself to me and I to you.
‘So you can heal me?’
My strength is yours to use. But we must leave here.
‘Dragon strength,’ Fynch wheezed.
Dragon magic. Come, Fynch. He switched out of the language of dragons and spoke to the wolves. You have guarded him well. Thank you.
Both stood at his acknowledgement but kept their heads lowered. Go back into the full safety of the forest now, my sons, and keep the children of Romaine safe. I fear she has other things than mothering on her mind.
The wolves gave a brief collective howl before each padded over to lick Fynch’s hands.
‘Thank you, dear ones,’ he said, feeling weaker than ever.
They dragged him once again, this time toward the huge clawed feet of their king.
Go now, the dragon commanded.
The wolves melted silently into the shadows and Fynch was alone with his beloved blood-brother.
Back to the Wild, the dragon said, where you are safe. Let the young learn the way you did all of the secrets behind your life.
Fynch didn’t answer. There had been so much more he should have said to Cassien.
As if the great serpent of the air could hear him, the dragon pushed into his mind. You have done what you could, put much in place, made enough sacrifice. To leave the Wild again will be to die, Fynch. You must remain within its safety, within its magic. You’ve defied it three times previously and it has been generous to you. But —
‘I understand,’ Fynch said, so weak he could barely form the words.
Under cover of night, flying close to the treetops and landing to hide each time the moon peeped out from behind its cloud cover, the pair moved cautiously until they were far from Morgravia, far from habitation, northeast of Briavel. Not until he saw the welcome sight of the Thicket and felt the life-giving force it pushed into him, did Fynch believe he’d survive this night.