The butterfly waved its antennae.
The object created by a legacy spell only appears to be imbued with the attributes of its physical appearance. Hence a butterfly tries to drink from a cup of sugary juice, even though it is not really a butterfly, and cannot really drink.
He leaned against Refectu, and something prodded him in the back. Absently he turned, to see whatever it was slowly erupting out of the stone. A lizard, smooth and sleek, with deep-set eyes and a mouth of tiny fangs. He recognised it as a shadowmander – those strange reptiles that lived along the border, where they could dart out and grab things born of light. The last time he had seen one, it had killed a beetle even though it was no longer hungry.
An idea began to form.
‘Heron,’ he said, ‘I will release you, of course …but I wonder if you would attempt to do Tyrellan and me a favour on your way out?’
Heron eased her aching body into the armchair, well worn to fit the bent shape of her spine. She was glad they had brought her here, to her small living quarters, to end her life in privacy. What the boy wanted to try did not bother her – whether it worked or not, she would still be dead.
Losara sat opposite, calmly alert, and by him was Tyrellan with the butterfly on his shoulder.
‘I thank you,’ said Losara, ‘for teaching me. And being the closest thing I had to a mother.’
Heron was touched by his sincerity. They had never been quite like that, she thought, not mother and son – she’d been too sad, and he too strange – but he had said the closest thing, and perhaps that was true.
‘It has been an honour,’ she said.
Losara smiled. ‘An honour you never chose for yourself.’
It was a surprise when Tyrellan spoke. ‘You have my respect,’ he said, ‘for a long life led in service to the shadow. And my thanks for what you are about to attempt.’
Such rare words of praise from Tyrellan almost moved her, but she could not entirely forget that it was he who had brought her back to Skygrip after she had supposedly retired. In the years since then they had become allies of sorts, protecting the boy from Battu, and she did not despise him as she once had, but there was not much fondness there either.
‘You are lucky to have Losara as your advocate,’ she told him.
The goblin looked as if he was about to say something else, but instead gave a brief nod.
‘Are you ready?’ said Losara.
She took a deep breath. ‘Yes.’
He looked up to the shadowy threads that kept her alive. She did not know if he cast a spell or simply commanded the castle to stop , but the threads detached and disappeared into the roof, and she felt the support they had given her fade. It did not take long for an unmistakable numbness to wash through her. Her eyes closed, and she died.
Somewhere in the distance, behind the veil of the world, a great darkness called her home. She knew it was Assedrynn’s Well, whence her soul had come as a tiny seed, now grown. As she floated her aches left her, and she knew a moment of pure happiness. Almost, she forgot her promise. The pull of the Well was great, and she was light, lighter than air. But then she saw the room she was leaving, grey as if frozen in time, her frail corpse bent over in the armchair, Losara watching and Tyrellan tense. And she saw the butterfly.
Magic without denomination, Losara had said, can perhaps be affected only by other magic without denomination?
As the butterfly had been cast on Tyrellan, so Heron cast her legacy spell on the butterfly. She could not destroy it, for the purpose of the legacy spell was to create something by which a departing soul would be remembered in the world, but she could build her own legacy upon it. She diverted a tiny part of her life force from that which flowed into the afterlife, feeling an odd tweak as it went. As she left it behind in the world, it was cut off from the Well and became magic that was neither shadow nor light – just like the butterfly.
The pull became too great to ignore. Not pausing to see if her final spell had taken, Heron’s soul departed.
Losara could tell that Tyrellan was anxious, though the goblin gave no outward sign beyond staring fixedly at the butterfly. He hoped he would not be proven cruel to give Tyrellan this hope – there was no precedent for what they attempted. In fact the more he thought about it, the more it seemed a wild notion.
‘How long will it take?’ said Tyrellan, a seam of tension in his usual flat tone.
‘I don’t know. Right away, I think – if it works.’
No sooner had he spoken than a slender trace of shadow dropped from the air like a falling ribbon. Losara sensed magic, but as it twirled down to the butterfly, it vanished entirely from his perception. Then, along the butterfly’s wings, grey sparks shimmered. As they spread, eclipsing all colour, the wings curled back to perfectly wrap around the body. Lines ran down the front and back legs, thickening them. The antennae and middle set of legs flattened against the body as it elongated, the head lengthened into a snout, and the skin turned deep scarlet as the sparks faded. The transformation was complete.
‘Well,’ said Losara, somewhat surprised that his idea had worked, but pleased nonetheless, ‘there we go.’
The shadowmander cocked its head at them, its tongue darting in and out. It was larger than the butterfly, for Heron had encased the original spell in her own.
Tyrellan stared at it in amazement, a long-held breath slowly escaping his mouth. ‘Assedrynn be praised.’ Then he looked upon Losara with great reverence. ‘And you, my master …my humble thanks to you for this amelioration.’
Losara nodded to him warmly.
The mander, apparently finding them of little interest, sniffed the ground and rippled to a wall. It skirted the room and disappeared under the bed.
‘Hunting?’ said Losara. ‘Like a real shadowmander?’ He paused, almost not daring to have the thought. ‘If it is, it seeks out creatures of the light.’
Tyrellan’s eyes glinted. ‘An invincible light-hating creature? A shame we cannot turn it loose.’ A new hope struck him. ‘Assuming it’s still bound to me.’
He went to the door and passed through into the corridor beyond. Losara waited, watching. A few moments later, the mander emerged and ran out of the room after the goblin. Losara nodded to himself, then turned to look upon Heron one last time. ‘Goodbye, old crone. I’ll have someone see to you shortly. Thank you.’
He left the room and found Tyrellan inspecting his scaly new companion as it crawled across the wall.
‘It follows me still,’ Tyrellan said, ‘but at least it is now a creature befitting the First Slave.’
‘Come,’ said Losara, sweeping past him, suddenly excited. ‘I want to test something.’
The shadowmander trailed behind as they moved through Skygrip. It was far less obvious than the butterfly, for it favoured the dark and would whisk quick and soundless from hiding spot to spot. It also seemed to be able to travel further from Tyrellan than the butterfly had. Due to its increase in size? Losara wondered.
‘Where are we heading, lord?’ said Tyrellan.
‘The aviary. I believe they have a cage or two of birds from Kainordas.’
They came to a portal door and stepped through a thin veil of shadow to emerge higher up in the castle. A tunnel sloped off ahead, and from it they could hear bird calls and the occasional booming of a whelkling. Tyrellan glanced back to make sure the mander had found its way through after them – sure enough, it came skulking behind.
Up the tunnel they went, till they entered a large cavern.
‘Welcome, my lord,’ a voice quavered. It was Vindo, head of the castle aviary, who shot several nervous glances at Tyrellan – during their last encounter, Tyrellan had delivered the Graka a vicious blow, which it seemed had not been forgotten.