As the Moon Climbs

Brother Abselius had not always been an ambitious man. He entered the Order of the Omniscient Shadow mainly because they promised initiates two square meals a day, and he had seen the way people slipped offerings to the other brothers as they walked the streets of the city. Dark things occurred in dark places, so it paid to be in the Shadow’s good graces. If sometimes the pay happened to go into a brother’s stomach instead of onto an altar, who was to know? But the more he learned of the order’s teachings, the more power he gradually came to wield, and he found that it tasted better than any poor peasant’s stale bread.

“What news, Brother Mordo?” he asked when he reached the designated meeting place.

“The First meditates in the Pit, Second,” the heavy-set fourth-level disciple replied, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Her candle suggests she will be there for at least two more marks.”

“Good. I will send you word when… well, I will send word.”

Brother Mordo nodded and slipped into the shadows, as if the Second could not track his movements easily. Still, he supposed it did not hurt for the disciple to practice.

It was customary for the First to finish his journey into shadow in a reasonable time, thereby allowing the Second to ascend to First and lead the Order. The current First, whose name was mysteriously missing from the Order’s records, had been in her place for at least the past three hundred years. This hadn’t been important to Brother Abselius–until he became the Second.

The Pit was the deepest room underground in the sprawling complex that housed the Order. Brother Abselius passed through the above-ground temple that was all most people experienced, with its jet-black stone walls and portraits of significant historical events. He descended into the upper floors, where the wide-eyed pledges began their initiation trials, then down to the darker middle floors, where routine business was conducted by the fifth and sixth level disciples, and farther down still, past the silent chambers of the third and fourth levels in their solitary studies.

If the First would not go gently into the waiting arms of the Shadow, then Brother Abselius would be more than happy to assist her in her passage. He had complete mastery over the Order’s secrets, after all, and was no less than the First in skill, he was sure. Darkness itself was his plaything, his servant to call upon and mold to his will, and there was no place more full of darkness than the Pit.

As he had been told, the First’s candle sat in an alcove outside the thick stone door, at least a mark remaining until the flame guttered out. With a smirk, he casually flicked a shadow at the light and it extinguished in a puff of smoke.

He could not open the door because the First would hear him, and as no one dared disturb her in her meditations, she would at the least be on her guard, if not inclined to retaliate immediately. But he was a patient enough man, and had carefully crafted the tiniest pinhole through the rock wall of the Pit, curved so that no candle light might accidentally reveal it to the person inside. It was a simple enough task to slip into the shadows and slide through the hole in the blink of an eye.

The First sat in the center of the small room, her back to the door, her small frame hunched over her legs with her head buried in her crossed arms. She was still as the stone that surrounded her, and the Second had only to drive a spike of darkness into the back of her neck to secure his glorious future.

“Brother,” the First said, her voice like a whisper of wind through tall grass. “Reconsider.”

He said nothing, but struck, sending the icy stiletto at the woman with the full speed of dark. It sank into her skin without a sound, and she sighed.

Then, to his dismay, she slowly unfolded her limbs and rose to her feet, her black eyes boring into his.

“Your learning is incomplete.”

“I have mastered the dark,” he spat, preparing for another attack.

She shook her head. “You have not.”

Softly, so that Brother Abselius thought he imagined it, the First began to glow. Her skin brightened from the faintest reflection of a star’s glimmer to the pale gleam of the moon, and the Second’s eyes struggled to adjust from the total darkness. His pupils could not shrink fast enough, and the moon soon became daylight, then the searing glare of the sun itself. He threw up his arms to shield his face, but the light penetrated even through his closed eyelids and thick black robes. He could feel his vision burning to white and knew he had gone blind.

“To master the darkness,” the First said, “you must first master the light.”

Brother Abselius screamed.

When the First left the Pit a mark later, she left alone. Inside, on the wall near the door, a vaguely human shadow stained the stone a slightly darker hue that no one but the First was ever likely to notice.

Rory’s eyes fluttered open and her first thought was, “I can’t breathe!”

She tried to sit up but succeeded only in hitting her forehead hard against what turned out, upon further examination, to be another forehead. She also realized that her breathing problem had been caused by someone’s mouth covering hers. Someone staggered backward, clutching his head and having the good grace to look embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“I should think,” she replied. One hand fumbled under her pillow and came out with a dagger, which she promptly unsheathed. “Guards!” she shouted. “Help!”

“They’re probably just waking up,” he said. “Give them a minute.”

“Silence, knave.” It occurred to her that the guards really should have arrived immediately, and that even though she was brandishing a weapon, the intruder had his own sword at his side and had made no move to draw it. Had he already killed them? “Who do you think you are, anyway?”

He cleared his throat and gave an elegant bow. “Prince William Alexander Michael Eduardo Lysander de Montebello de Gros, at your service.”

“Eduardo?”

“Erm, yes. An uncle by marriage.”

“Well, Eddie, since when do princes sneak into the bedchambers of princesses?” The man was covered in fresh wounds, she saw, scratches that could have come from fighting. “And did I mention, help!”

“If you’ll just let me explain–”

The doors flew open at last, and three guards rushed in, brandishing their halberds. The prince, if that’s what he really was, held up his hands and started to protest.

“Take him to the dungeons,” Rory said, and they complied without hesitation.

“But your highness,” he said, “I don’t–”

One of the guards cuffed him on the mouth, shutting him up while another dragged him out. The third bowed to the princess. “My apologies, highness. He shall be interrogated at once.”

Now her nursemaid rushed in, her face wrinkled with dismay. “My word, what a commotion! Where did you get that, that…” She gestured at the dagger, then waved dismissively. “Never mind. Your poor nerves! I’ll have a bath drawn at once.”

Rory yawned. Judging by the light streaming through the window, it was just about dawn. Or was it sunset? No, it must be dawn. “If it’s all the same to you, Nursey, I could do with a few more minutes of rest.”

Raul swung one leg, then the other over the roof’s ledge and began to rappel down slowly. His partner Pepe stayed on the roof, smoking and watching the ropes to be sure nothing happened. Sometimes he wondered why he was a window washer, even if he was working on these big apartment buildings instead of little restaurants or shops. Probably because he wasn’t afraid of heights. He hated this building in particular because of the big statue thing on the side.

It was a four-story-tall fiberglass woman, legs spread as if in mid-leap, toes delicately pointed, orange and yellow tentacle-like hair blowing in an eternal wind. Her clothes were a patchwork of reds and pinks and oranges mixed in patterns of stripes and spots that no sane fashion designer would replicate. It was a pain to clean and he had to be extra careful not to damage it. Hmmph. Artists.

He stuck his sponge in his bucket and spread soapy water on the girl’s hair. It was nothing like washing his daughter’s hair, which was thick and curly and tangled easily, but either way it was delicate work. He slid his squeegee along the surface and carefully flicked the excess water off, falling into a pattern and letting his thoughts wander.

* * * * *

Becky hated the sculpture attached to the side of her apartment building.  She assumed some marketing genius had thought it would be a great adornment for the property, bringing in score after score of rabid art fans to sign leases for any amount, but actually the rent was pretty cheap. That was the only reason she stayed, really.

But not anymore. Today she was going to ask if she could move in with her boyfriend, Manny. He had a great place on Brickell near the shops and the grocery store and the Metrorail, and if they split the rent, it would be a sweet deal. They might even upgrade to a bigger unit and still come out ahead of what they were each paying separately. Then she’d never have to look at that Technicolor abomination again.

She finished getting dressed and made sure her makeup was perfect, her skirt a little too short and her top a little too low. She knew how guys could get about commitment, and she didn’t want Manny to turn her down. It wasn’t like they were getting married or anything; it was just sharing an apartment. And if she asked him in public over lunch, he wouldn’t make a scene.

* * * * *

Raul heard a muffled shout, then a scuffling sound on the roof. “Pepe, what’s going on?” he asked.

A face peered over the edge, but it wasn’t Pepe; it was some young guy with a scraggly beard and a manic grin. “Aw, no,” the man groaned. “If I do this now, you’ll just clean it off!”

“Do what?” Raul asked.

“Whatever, I’m not going to waste this.”

“Waste what? Are you crazy?”

The man grinned and Raul was pretty sure he knew the answer already. “Naw, man,” was the reply. “But I freaking hate this artwork.”

Without another word, the man leaned over, opened his mouth, and vomited all over the enormous woman’s face.

* * * * *

Becky exited the building and began to walk around to the side, toward the nearest Metrorail station a few blocks away. Her cell phone rang.

* * * * *

The puke arced toward Raul and he yelped and tried to dodge. He lost his grip on his ropes and the contents of his bucket sloshed and spilled. To steady himself, he grabbed at one of the sculpture’s ridiculously bulbous fingers.

With squeals and groans, whatever was holding the giant woman to the wall bent and broke. Raul pushed himself away and watched in horror as the figure which had seemed to be flying now fell instead. It was at least a ten-story drop, he knew.

“What do you mean?” Becky spat into her phone. “You can’t cancel on me now! Do you have any idea–”

And then she was crushed by several hundred pounds of metal and fiberglass. And a few pints of vomit.

Veronica was taking a picture of a house she was appraising when she heard an incredible crash behind her. She turned around and saw the mangled mess of red and orange and pink, the twisted metal, the spray of blood and flesh mixing with the shards of crystal that caught the noon sun and scattered its light in a thousand directions, and she did the only thing she could.

She took a picture.

This is the second part of Curiosity: a fairy tale in two parts. To read part one, click here.

* * * * *

Sera scrubbed a yellow stain in a corner of the tavern’s great room and sighed.

“This is bloody ridiculous,” she muttered.

“What was that?” her mother asked. She was scattering straw on the places Sera had cleaned.

“Nothing,” Sera replied.

Sera usually kept her disdain to herself, so it could fester and roil to a crescendo of contempt that would carry her through the wretched holiday. Every year, the kingdom celebrated the anniversary of Prince Alan and Princess Ella’s wedding. It wasn’t that she was opposed to parties, or costumes, or dancing; she simply had the bad fortune to be the child of a tavern owner, so on the biggest feast day in the kingdom, she worked while everyone else had a grand old time. It wasn’t fair.

“That spot isn’t getting any cleaner, dear,” her mother said. “Why don’t you try the lime?”

“Don’t need it, mum, thanks,” Sera called back over her shoulder, redoubling her efforts. A sly smile crossed her face. “Mum, what time is it?”

“Half past nine,” her mother answered quickly.

That was easy enough, Sera thought. Maybe something less simple…

“Hey, mum?”

“Hay is for horses, dear heart.”

“Mum,” Sera continued. “Why do I have to get the floor so clean if we’re just going to cover it with straw?”

Her mother’s mouth moved almost before the question was finished. “It keeps the bugs away so we don’t get infested like that godsawful Crusader’s Stein tavern down the road.”

“Oh.” That made sense. Why couldn’t her mother have said that the last time she asked?

“Here, now, young lady,” her mother said, frowning. “I’ll thank you to finish your work and keep silly questions to yourself.”

Sera smiled and said nothing.

Allie, Sera’s older sister, danced in from the kitchen. “Away, away, you coal-black smith, would you do me this wrong…”

“For to think to have my maidenhead that I have kept so long?” her mother continued.

“I’d rather I was dead and cold, and my body laid in the grave, than a husky, dusky, coal-black smith my maidenhead should have,” they finished together, chuckling.

Sera cleared her throat. It was time for the real test. “Mum, what’s a maidenhead?”

“A girl’s virginity,” her mother responded.

Before she could be interrupted, Sera asked, “So that song’s about some blacksmith trying to take a girl’s virginity?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you like to sing it, then?”

Her mother’s hands flew up to cover her mouth but it was no use. “Because it reminds me of when your father and I were first courting.”

Sera stuck out her tongue. “Gross!”

And just like that, Sera found herself locked in her room.

“You can come out when you’ve got a civil tongue in your head,” her mother said. “Or when we need you to help with the serving.”

She only spent a few hours leafing through her book of fairy tales before she was called to help clear tables and wash dishes. Eventually it was so busy that she was stuck serving while her younger siblings did all the cleaning. She managed to stay quiet and let the patrons bark orders until at last she forgot and slipped up.

“What would you like, sir?” she asked a quiet older fellow with a big bushy mustache. He spent several minutes enumerating things he would like, starting with new boots and underclothes, and Sera learned far more about him than she ever cared to know.

“What would you like to drink, sir?” she finally interjected in desperation.

“Water!” he exclaimed, gasping for breath. The patrons around him had moved away as much as possible, perhaps thinking he was already in his cups.

Sera darted off, her stomach doing a nervous jig. This was supposed to be a little spell? All she wanted was for people to give her straight answers, but if she asked the wrong questions… Sure, she could find out whether her little brother had nicked her dolls, or where her older sister was sneaking off to some nights, but this was so much bigger. Ye gods, she could ask a killer whether he had done it and he’d confess like a shot.

That was it. Sera had to get out and find that dwarf. The spell had only cost a few of her tears, though what he would do with them was anyone’s guess; maybe she could barter more to have the spell broken…

She slipped out the back door and tiptoed toward the crowded streets before realizing that no one would hear her. She took off at a run, dodging between women bustling about trying to look interesting, and men shopping for trinkets to give their sweethearts, and children playing with tiny popping fireworks that made a loud noise but didn’t burn. Food vendors danced to and fro, hardly needing to cry their wares with all the hungry people on every side.

But where the dwarf’s shop had been, squeezed between other buildings, there was nothing. Not empty space, but no space, the shops fitting snugly together. She even ran her hands over the walls to be sure.

“You can’t be serious,” she muttered.

Someone grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. She found herself staring at a boy about her age, with a halo of absurdly curly blond hair and dark brown eyes. He looked about as confused as she felt.

“Are you a princess, then?” he asked.

“No,” she sputtered. “Who do you think you are?”

His eyes widened as his lips moved of their own accord. “Crown Prince Wilford Otha Delmer Sebastian of Eastford and Greater Gramontis.”

Sera gasped. In seconds, she was pressed against the wall with a hand over her mouth.

“I was very much keeping that a secret,” the prince whispered into her ear. “So how, may I ask, did you do that?” He moved his hand enough to let her answer.

“I’m under a spell,” she said.

His eyes flicked to the wall. “The dwarf?”

She nodded, her nose turning red from impending tears.

“And the spell was?”

“To make people answer my questions,” she muttered.

His cheek twitched. “Better than the one I got, I think. Why are you here?”

Part of her noted ruefully that she was answering all of his questions, no spell needed. “I wanted him to take it off. I can’t live like this.”

“And your name?”

“Sera. Sera Innskeep.”

“Well, Sera Innskeep,” he said. “First, we’re going to nick some food. Then, horses.” She could almost see his thoughts flying around in his head.

“And then?” she asked, dazed.

“We find that dwarf.”

And that is the story of how Sera met the Crown Prince. How the two set off to break her peculiar spell and what befell them on their journeys is another story, and shall be told at another time.