“Sorcery, yes, but not from one of Palin’s ilk. Maybe those roots are edible, but I’m not that hungry.”
A search revealed tinder and steel, and Dhamon lit an ornate lamp filled with a heady, musky oil. His head spun from the oppressive scent, making him feel intoxicated, and he made a move to douse the lantern but stopped himself when the light spread and bathed the place in a warm glow. He spied more curiosities, including a few preserved animals—a coiled exotic snake, a curly tailed lizard, and a hedgehog with six legs, but he couldn’t find a single scrap of parchment that would give him a clue to their location.
Curtains and beads hung from a beam that stretched across the back of the room, perhaps separating the little shop from the owner’s living quarters. He might find documents there.
When he ventured behind the beads, he found a much larger room with a silt-covered table no higher than his knees. He brushed away the dust and set the lantern on the table, frowning to see his disheveled state reflected in the surface. The table was fashioned of polished walnut and inlaid with silver—a real showpiece. Spaced around it were overstuffed pillows, all coated with dust and the husks of insects. In the center of the table was a pile of fingerbones and petrified chicken feet, painted wooden cubes, and a cup containing dried green leaves.
Scarves and ribbons hung from the ceiling, and there were rows of shelves holding tiny preserved animals, monkey skulls, crystal sculptures of insects, jars of sand and powders, and fragile-looking scrolls.
Dhamon’s eyes settled on the latter. Maybe there’s a map here after all, he thought.
He reached for the thickest scroll, his hand brushing a carved bear the size of a plum. It was one of many carved animals, ranging in size from a small cherry to a large apple, that dangled on strings from the upper shelves. Colorful wedges of glass also dangled and caught the light from the lantern and sent whirling patterns around the room. Watching them made him dizzy.
Not a sorcerer at all. A fortune teller’s place, he decided, with a measure of disappointment. One long gone from this town. Stuffing the thick scroll under his arm and reaching for the others, his gaze fell on the largest pillow. A purple robe shot through with metallic threads lay across it. Bracelets lay nearby, earrings too, and an elaborate hat of some sort. There were thin wooden cards spilled at the end of a sleeve. On two of the other pillows were strewn more abandoned clothes.
“Customers long gone, too. We should do our best to be long gone from here,” he muttered to himself anxiously.
“Rig! Rig! I can’t find you. It’s so dark in here.” Some sane part of Fiona knew Rig couldn’t possibly be anywhere in this place, knew she should leave and get Dhamon. That part of her was overwhelmed by the madness that had taken root. “Rig! It’s so hard to see in here. Come outside with me. It’s too dark in here. And it’s cold. It’s very, very cold.”
“Cold as the grave.”
“What did you say, Rig?” She glanced behind her, where the curtains fluttered, and considered retreating to the shop to get one of those lanterns. Perhaps Rig was hiding, hurt, scarred by the spawn and draconians that they had battled in Shrentak. Maybe he didn’t want her to see him with scars and deformities. It didn’t matter to her what he looked like. She loved him.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re scarred,” she cooed, her fingers touching her own acid-blemished face. “I will always love you.”
She paused and listened, then repeated. “I can’t see you, Rig. What did you say?”
“I said I am here, my lovely lady, waiting for you. I have missed you so very much.”
“I’ve missed you, too, and—”
A swirl of black separated from the shadows. Spinning like a small whirlwind, the black swirl produced no breeze, but it exuded a sudden wave of intense cold.
“Rig!” Fiona stared at the shifting mass, trying to see behind it and find Rig, warn him of the mysterious whirlwind. “Rig! Be careful, my darling, I—”
“Dear Fiona, I have been praying you would come to me.” The voice was Rig’s, but she realized in horror it emanated from the black swirl.
“Rig?” Fiona stared in disbelief. “Y-y-you can’t be Rig. You’re not…”
Suddenly the room lightened and all the shadows were banished as from the center of the swirl burst an eerie, yellow glow. As Fiona watched, the swirl became black flames licking at the air, then changed into spiraling smoke. The wisps stopped spinning and wove themselves into a human form. The eerie glow at the center of the form receded but did not disappear completely. Although by some gift of magic Fiona hoped to see Rig, what she saw instead was a duplicate of herself.
“I have waited a long time,” the Fiona-image said, still adopting Rig’s voice. “It has been nearly a year since someone has passed this way.”
Fiona took a step back. “I-1-I don’t understand. What’s happening? Rig? Where’s Rig? What…?”
She turned to flee, but the Fiona-image shot out a hand to grab her wrist.
Fiona screamed, for the mirror-Fiona felt as cold as the coldest ice. “Let go of me!”
“But, dear Fiona, I truly have been waiting for you.” The Fiona-image twirled her around, its fingers digging deep into her flesh and drawing blood, its white-hot pinpricks of eyes boring into her.
With her free hand Fiona drew one of the knives at her belt and plunged it into the chest of her double. The blade sank in, but there was no blood, and the creature seemed unaffected.
“So long since real people have been here,” the duplicate Fiona said. The Fiona-image no longer boasted Rig’s voice, but used one that was low, musical, and inhuman. It glanced at the knife protruding from its chest and smiled mischievously.
“Y-y-you sounded like Rig,” Fiona stammered. “You tricked me, made me think . . . what are you, anyway?”
“Your mind gave my voice its sound, sweet Fiona.” The duplicate-Fiona opened its mouth wide, and where its teeth should be there were instead motes of sparkling light.
“You sounded like Rig, and you look like me, and…”
“I look like my victims, Fiona. It is what I do, what all of my kind do.”
“After you kill me,” she stated, “my clothes will lie empty, too.”
The duplicate-Fiona shook its head, hair trailing away from its head like tendrils of red-tinged smoke.
“True, my brethren and I killed all the people who lived here, so greedy were we then. And foolish. We thinned the population too much, and so we do not kill very often now. We only feed. It has been so long since I fed. This island, so few come here anymore, Fiona. We must protect our cattle now and allow the herd to multiply.”
The color drained from Fiona’s face. “Are you some kind of vampire then?” She’d heard legends of such grisly undead. “By the breath of Vinus Solamnus, are you—?”
“Not vampires,” the Fiona-image chuckled. “We are products of Chaos.”
The Fiona-image studied the female Knight, glowing eyes caressing her form, delving into her mind and trying unsuccessfully to make sense of its latest victim. “You are most interesting… Fiona. Your memory is turbulent, names and faces changing places incessantly. Yet this Rig is the name most important to you. This man seems to be the center of everything.” The Fiona-image paused, then resumed speaking in the mariner’s unmistakeable voice. “You are clearer and better focused when thinking of Rig, but the rest of your thoughts are warring and imprecise. They wax and wane like the sea.”