Heiress of Dark Waters: Prologue

Heiress of Dark Waters: Prologue

Naked and badly beaten, clothed only in offal and her own blood, Zirana stumbled upon the shore of the Lake of Dark Water, her bare toes catching in the grating sand, tugging her scraped knees to the ground. Her long black sweat-dampened hair swung heavily against her scratched cheeks and she smelled the fetid, metallic scent of the blood matted in it.

Zirana barely saw through puffed and bruised eyelids the gentle, sculpted waves driving across the lake, their rounded crests painted with winking patches of moonlight, rolling casually toward her. Instead she heard distant shouts from behind as the villagers, in pursuit of her, struck at the woods' foliage with their poles. Before long they would be upon her.

Can the sorcery I've learned so far, and which the villagers fear, save me now? she thought as she looked quickly over her shoulder.

A corner of Zirana's trembling mouth tilted upward and she tasted new blood as the sudden smile widened a cut on her lower lip. For she realized that she should not be fearful of her fate, and so would not beg for mercy as the villagers menaced her with the poles, prodding her toward the lake. What further damage could they wreak upon her save to end her life entirely?

She gazed at the calmly lapping waves as they grabbed at the shoreline and felt the tearing pain of her many wounds, then thought: They needn't use the poles to sink me, for I will gladly drift beneath those gentle waves so that they might carry me to a serene oblivion.

But before the villagers could set upon her once again, and there was no place in which to escape, wishing only to reflect upon the events that had brought her here, Zirana crawled on all fours toward the lip of the shoreline. Then she slumped upon the dampened sand and allowed the chilled water to hiss and lap at her torn knuckles. Her thoughts eddied back to the events leading up to this moment as she clutched handfuls of the wed sand, now like a thick pudding, letting it ooze through the spaces between her fingers, comforting the wounds with sand's muddy smoothness.

###

She had been roused from a deep slumber, early one morning, upon the spartan straw pallet that served as her bed.

Zirana lived with an aunt and uncle whose allegiance to her was strictly familial, her parents having died years before: her father first in battle and her mother next through sickness. No one else in the village would see to the girl's welfare and so the obligation fell to her mother's only sister. But Aunt Yellia's forced largess was strained and full of resentment. After all, with six of her own to feed and to look after, a seventh mouth and belly thrust upon her was too much to bear.

So, when Prator the Lawgiver ordered Zirana dragged from her bed in earliest morning--even before the sun yawned light upon the horizon, Yellia offered neither resistance nor protest. In fact, as Zirana was pulled upright, the Lawgiver himself twisting his knarled yet strong fingers in her hair, she glimpsed her aunt and uncle watching from the aegis of a doorway, their faces twin statues of stone. When she cried out, her arms beseeching them to come to her aid, the two looked away, their eyes flashing bright with guilt as they turned their faces to the wall.

Zirana felt a large, hard hand cup the crown of her head and twist her face to meet squarely with Prator the Lawgiver's wrinkle-etched visage. "Do not look to your guardians for support, lest you wish to name them collaborators in your dark works." The Lawgiver's lips barely moved as he hissed his oath. "You will answer to your crimes at the Pillar of Justice."

"But...I do not know of what deeds you speak." But she did know--knew also that someone must have seen her slipping into the woods each midday.

But the Lawgiver did not answer Zirana's protest, only hauled her, with hands now gripping her neck, out of her aunt's home and into the street.

The villagers were waiting, stones of varying sizes and textures cradled in their arms, already condemning her to punishment before her protestations of innocence could be announced. As the Lawgiver dragged Zirana through the rutted street toward the Pillar of Justice, her ears stung with the villagers' harsh epithets: "Let my new dagger cut her blackened heart from her chest!" "Whore of magic!" "Give her to the Lake!"

Soon Zirana was standing before the Pillar itself: a column of roughly cut white marble brought down from the hills a century earlier. She'd witnessed enough stonings to realize that "justice" meant only "guilty" for those unfortunate to be backed against the cold, grooved slab. It was mere formality that allowed the accused to plead his or her innocence as all manner of projectiles were hurled until the accused was either chastened--or dead. And for those accused of wielding sorcery, left half-dead to be driven toward the Lake and drowned.

Prator the Lawgiver now stood before her, his long arms spread outward at his sides, bracing the crowd behind him. Grumbling softly amongst themselves at the delay in meting punishment, but careful not to let unwisely-spoken complaints reach the Lawgiver's ear, the villagers took a respectful step backward. "You, Zirana Tenlaz'h," Prator stabbed the air with a stiffened forefinger, "are accused of consorting with the outlawed sorcerer, Orriss, living deep in the forest. If you plead 'innocent' then you shall also be judged a liar, for there are witnesses among us who will testify seeing you in his company."

Zirana swallowed a dry, empty thickness deep in her throat. She decided against lying, then. "But why are you still so afraid of sorcery? It is not all dark, but can be of light and goodness."

The Lawgiver's dour face broke into a wide smile. "Ah, then you admit your crime. Good. Punishment shall be commenced then." A satisfied roar rose up from behind him.

"Wait! You did not answer my question!" Zirana shouted as she felt the sting of a small stone bite into the flesh of her throat. "I will bear my punishment well if you will answer my question. Is it that you think a pure heart will be corrupted by the merest brush with sorcery? Or is it that you, Lawgiver, cannot control magic and therefore deny it for any who wish to learn its secrets?"

Prator the Lawgiver's smile widened ever still, but his twinkling eyes narrowed. "Then you have just answered the question yourself, as for the second sentence: you are now guilty of high insolence. Nothing further will be offered in explanation to you. You know the Law for it has always been made clear to you and everyone among us." And with that last, the Lawgiver stood aside to allow the people of the village to administer Zirana's sentence. She had just enough time, before she ducked her head against the peltings, to see that her aunt and uncle were not among the slingers.

###

They hadn't wanted to stone her to death after all, favoring inevitable drowning instead. The villagers had stripped away her clothing and clubbed her, driving her through the dense forest toward the Lake of Dark Water.

Like a cat toying with an injured mouse they knew would be unable to travel far from their grasp, the villagers delayed their pursuit of her. The villagers knew she would not run to Orriss, for they also knew well enough that the sorcerer would do nothing to spare her such a fate. Zirana remembered his warnings after each visit; for this, she felt no resentment toward him.

Now, as she knelt in the wet sand of the Lake's curving shoreline, she realized how true his prediction had been. Orriss had also told her that Prator and the others of the village so feared his powers that they would never attempt to drive him from the forest, but that there could be no such protection for his mortal apprentices. And her own training had been truncated before she could learn to conjure her first spell.

But Orriss told her one more thing, and this last set a chill to her spine now as it had during the telling. The old sorcerer had lowered his long, ancient face to hers so that her gaze would not waver from his own.

"Long ago," Orriss began, "he came to me, a very young man, this Prator of yours. Do not look surprised; Prator's youth made his mind more open than it is now. It seemed the harvests had grown thin over a time and Prator, having inherited his position from his father, knew of little which might save the crops. His father had some proclivity for magic, and it had been I who had brought it out of him, though he did not make his ability known to the people. But such ability did not pass to his only heir, Prator; and when the elder died suddenly, the people looked to the son to spare them sure starvation.

"So, as the people began to starve, and Prator could not send rain down upon them from the skies, nor allay the frosts which rotted what little grain was left to them, so did they cry for justice of a kind. For was he not the one entrusted with their well-being?

"Prator knew of me--surely did some at one time or another. Suddenly desperation bade him visit me, though he loathed to do such a thing as ask favors of an old sorcerer. He did not see evil in the shaping of magic--but resented that he had no talent for spell casting. One often distrusts that which cannot be controlled with one's own hands, that one must instead trust another who possesses such ability.

"Of course young Prator did not trust me fully, but he knew no other spellcaster and so he put his appeal before me. I knew his true motive, for Prator was as ambitious then as he is now. Make no mistake: altruism is not a word for which he has any acquaintance. But I did not wish to consign a whole village to starvation and death; and so I conjured a spirit and put it in the Lake of Dark Water. It would now do all that Prator could not: make the rains come again when they should and chase the frost away whenever it should come upon the crops.

"Soon the harvests were lush and plentiful, the fish many in number--and grown twice their size. But after a time, the spirit within the Lake grew weak and in need of the nourishment of a young soul. I could have prevented this, had Prator come to me whenever this was so. But his pride would not allow him to beg favor of me each time, even though I would never seek to chide him for it.

"It was not long before Prator discovered what manner of sustenance the Lake craved; and there grew the evil mythology he sought to apply to sorcery. And of course, his own jealousies prodded him to sacrifice those with abilities in sorcery, giving them over to the Lake. And as he accused and gave feeding to the Lake, so did he eliminate any possible rival to his position as Lawgiver.

"Even now, the people of your village know little of the truth behind the bountiful harvests and spirit living within the Lake. Indeed, those that do know would never expose or acknowledge it. They will forever choose to look askance so long as the harvests are plentiful and fish swell their nets.

"If you should become one of the accused some day, do not issue an appeal, for such will go unheard."

And not long after, Zirana would become the next to be offered to the Lake of Dark Water.

###

The shouts were becoming louder, some words came clearly to her ears now: her name among them. Zirana turned again to look at the Lake and watched its surface become more calm: the waves rolling like muscles beneath dark flesh. The spirit within knowing its feeding near.

Zirana rose to her feet slowly, painfully. Just as slowly she walked toward the waves, feeling the water rising against her ankles, tickling. Soon the water rose to cover her shins then her thighs as she walked, arms away from her sides for balance as she gained the Lake's depths.

She would not turn round to look--to see the villagers behind her, jeering her with their malice-contorted faces. She would deny them this: their vengeance upon her.

As the water reached her nostrils, and she would take her last breath, Zirana had one thought: She would sacrifice her life for an ungrateful people. And that would be her own vengeance.

###

But the life did not leave her body after all. Zirana's lungs still seemed full of air, though she tried to bring water into them. Her body thrashed beneath the Lake's surface and she spun around, her eyes wide. She had not imagined drowning could take so long, and she wondered if she would die at all.

Zirana felt the spirit of the Lake surround her, envelop her, though she could not see it. The spirit seemed to press her within a bubble which in turn flattened against her body like a warm second skin. Somehow, she breathed--though how this was possible she could not guess.

Then a soft humming sound entered her mind--as if something wished to gain her attention. It was the spirit choosing to sing to her, Zirana guessed. She relaxed, feeling her fear seep from her body like slow blood. What a kind spirit, Zirana thought, who soothes one into death.

Is this what you expect, then? That I would bring you into death's hands?

But is this not why I am here?

Perhaps...at first. But not now. I would wish something from you and if you refuse my request, then death you shall have.

And what is your bidding?

That I join with your mind so that I might leave this lake and know what it is to walk upon land. I wish to see the things you would, with eyes of flesh. I have lived so long within this lake--indeed I am its prisoner.

But have you not asked this of others given to the lake?

None had the power to absorb my essence into them. Only you--and I have waited for one such as you.

And what of your duty to the people of the village? It is your doing which has feed them, how would they fare in your absence?

You have compassion for them? They who would have you drowned, sacrificed so that the village prospers? You did not offer your life willingly, nor would any of them do the same for you.

And so the crops will rot in the fields and there will be no more fish for their nets. You would leave them to this?

I am not without compassion, even for those who scarcely deserve such. There will be enough magic left within the Lake to give the village what it needs, though it will not be as bountiful, they shall survive.

Then do as you wish: for I have been given to the Lake. How you use me is no longer my concern, for when I stepped into the Lake I claimed myself servant to you.

Zirana heard the humming begin in her mind once again: gentle and...content.

###

Zirana lay panting upon the soft bank. A moist cushion of moss pressed into the small of her back as she tried to nudge herself into a half sitting position. As she moved she felt a soreness upon the skin over her ribcage, felt an even deeper soreness running along her arms. Slowly she eased herself back upon the moss, its damp coolness soothing her stiff muscles.

In time Zirana's vision began to clear and so she let only her eyes sweep in what surrounded her. The day had already begun its transition to night, but she knew that it had been a day she had not witnessed. She realized that she was well away from her village now, but she remembered nothing of her passage from it.

The spirit within her would not speak, though she implored it with questions. But she felt it glowing within her: swelling her mind and limbs with the warmth of it. Still it would not offer one word of comfort to her, though she felt its eagerness, its expectation of adventure.

But it was not adventure Zirana now wished for: only a warm, true bed with a thick coverlet in which to draw herself. She wished also for a warm meal, and it did not matter of what it consisted: even a tasteless bowl of gruel would do, so long as it was hot. But for now, Zirana was in need of clothing, for modesty as well as for warmth.

But as she looked about her there seemed little of which she could fashion into clothing. Zirana held her breath against the pain in her arms and ribs as she pushed herself to her knees. Taking quick breaths, she trembled to her feet, back stooped and arms cradling her ribs, but standing. She took a few staggering steps away from the shoreline, stumbling upon half-buried roots and stones.

Zirana had no idea where she was nor where she was headed, knew only that she must keep moving. She heard around her the shrill clicking sounds of nocturnal insects and knew that the howl of the night-cats would soon follow. Now the need for shelter superseded the need for clothing, but she must be careful, lest she trespass upon the burrow of a creature not wishing company within its abode.

As her staggering smoothed into solid footsteps, Zirana kept her eyes trained upon all in her path. The light had now faded to a linty grey, blurring the trees and brush into sculpted ash. As she moved the moon flickered across the high branches, offering her some intermittent light. Occasionally her progress was halted by the sharp crack of a twig broken beneath her feet, or the sudden mournful hoot of an owl somewhere above her.

When her legs became too heavy with the pain of bearing her weight, Zirana folded herself slowly toward the ground. On all fours she crept, like a creature of the forest, hands brushing over leaves, grabbing at stones.

As the darkness deepened around her, Zirana hunkered closer to the earth, feeling the blackness of night press down upon her. She felt as if she were drowning within it, barely able to see anything of definition before her. Only the rustling of the leaves disturbed by her searching fingers brought her from the smothering power of it.

Suddenly her forehead struck something hard and smooth: a fallen bough her hands told her as she caressed it. Zirana, ignoring the throbbing in her temples, let her hands glide along the bough, discovering it curved. Cautiously she moved beneath it, her hands brushing at the air, dreading the touch of some furry creature which might seek to bite her. But she found the canopied burrow empty, and there was no accompanying animal smell within.

Zirana curled herself into a tight ball, arms encircling her drawn knees. The burrow was warm enough and she would be able to see, once daylight returned, anything which might approach her. Now she had shelter for the night, but no food in her belly.

That sudden thought drove a spike of hunger into her. In desperation Zirana reached up and grasped a fistful of leaves dangling above her and pressed them into her mouth. She gave no thought that the leaves might harm her, only that they tasted bitter--but she chewed and swallowed them nonetheless.

Once her hunger was sated by the leaves, Zirana relaxed--even released a contented sigh. If she were destined to die because of a handful of poisoned leaves, or of exposure, she did not care. For the time being, Zirana decided, the burrow would make a fine enough tomb for her.

And with that last thought, she felt the spirit within her tremble.