Tryal's Curse 1.1

~2244 words

Chapter One:
A girl is lost

Everyone in the valley called it the Mountain.

It rose like a tooth, an incisor among other incisors, until its peak faded from view. The sun dipped over the sky, casting harsh shadows along the valley, as if the Mountain were a giant umbrella. By late afternoon, however, it would be a chunk of charcoal-black against a horizon that stretched out into forever.

The Mountain was, after all, a special mountain, and being a special mountain it had to look at least slightly intimidating. On the gentler slopes, tufts of grass and vegetation balanced the otherwise rocky topography. Clouds gathered like feathery nests along its crest. A red house was built into its side, a gleaming house with a ceramic-glazed roof and windows that were never washed unless it rained. But what made the Mountain special wasn’t simply its general mountain-like qualities, nor the red house that was carved into its side—because that is unimportant, when all’s said and done—but the man who was currently struggling up it. He was short and plump and had worn a receding hairline to work for the last decade.

This man, it can be gathered, was important, and not just because it has already been stated once that he was so. He was also, in fact, the proudest man in the Meare: a sweating, complaining, disgruntled heap of a man—but a proud one all the same.

His name was Elborn Radagel (although he would have happily told his name to anyone who asked, even if they happened to be a hooded figure with fangs whom he met on the street). And although he was a clever man, he wasn’t very wise. Anyhow, we are not here to dwell on Elborn’s faults. Rather, the story begins with his qualities, for of his faults we shall hear enough; but of his qualities he shall never let us hear the end anyway, so why bother resisting, eh?

Elborn Radagel was a remarkable man.

He also happened to be the village Meka, the man in charge of keeping the real world and the magical world intact. As such, he could claim with the utmost conviction that no one else in the Meare had seen or built as many odd things as he had. Wind-catchers, shoes that tied themselves, engarvments that surpassed those even the snobby city Mekas had discovered…. Oh yes, Elborn thought to himself proudly, any Ixister would be lucky to have him for a companion. He walked up the slope towards Kelm’s cottage, cloak flapping around his shoulders, and smiled as he saw the Ixister’s bright red roof burning in the haze of the afternoon sun. It was hot yet, although winter would soon set in, and Elborn felt in his bones that today would be a good day. The sun was shining. The sky was a clear blue, the kind that made Elborn think of the colour of his favourite waistcoat, and everyone else in the Meare think of the sea. From where he was now, he could see his village, the Meare, and it was a splendid sight, the wind-catchers he had erected standing tall against the strong mountain breeze.

And in his pockets was the message he was meant to deliver to the Ixister. Elborn patted at it and grinned. He was eager to get it to Ixister Kelm, because it was likely that the letter was almost as important as he was. And if that meant hiking up the mountain, Elborn thought, then so be it. He had seen and done worse, after all. And he began to list down his numerous talents once more, this time by way of song. (Note that not all of these assumed talents were necessarily true.)

‘Elborn Radagel, forty-two;
there’s a whole host of things that he can do.
From riding rentai to dragons, in a pinch,
he’ll read to you the markings on a red-crested winch.

Aha!’ And he clicked his heels together in glee.

Beaming, Elborn reached the end of the mountain path. He lifted himself up onto the slab of rock on which Kelm’s cottage stood, thinking happily of how pleased the Ixister would be. But as he raised his hands and took hold of the door-knocker—a large, brass creature—he gasped.

Even Elborn Radagel had never met an unfriendly door-knocker before.

‘Ouch!’ he said as it bit down on his hand, its sharp, bronze teeth piercing a hole in his gloves. Quickly, he retracted his hand and took a moment to glare at the offending creature. It glared back. Steeling himself, Elborn once more raised a hand towards the heavy, oak door—the injured one, because he had a feeling the door-knocker might try to bite him again.

It did. The creature snapped at his glove and tugged it off his hands, its onyx eyes glimmering. Elborn sputtered, outraged.

‘I like that glove!’ he said. ‘It’s what makes the other one useful.’ He held out a (bare) hand. ‘Give it back,’ he demanded.

The door-knocker obliged, and Elborn was disgusted when a soiled piece of leather made contact with his face, greasy and dripping with saliva. Gingerly, he peeled the glove from his forehead. It squelched.

‘Hello, Elborn Radagel forty-two,’ the doorknocker tittered, grinning at him with its sharp, gleaming teeth. ‘Would you like to knock?’

‘Indeed I would,’ said Elborn crabbily. ‘I’m here to see Kelm.’

‘I’m afraid Master Kelm is indisposed.’

‘Indisposed?’

‘Indisposed,’ the doorknocker affirmed.

‘I’m afraid,’ Elborn said, gnashing his teeth, ‘that I don’t entirely understand you. That probably isn’t your fault, though; you must be new. I’m the Meare’s Meka, and Ixister Kelm’s friend. The last door-knocker,’ he said bitingly, ‘would have told you as much. Nice fellow he was—opened the door the moment he saw me and never made any excuses not to.'

'And I'm afraid,' the door-knocker drawled, 'that the previous door-knocker is also indisposed. You'll just have to come back tomorrow.'

Elborn smiled tightly. ‘I have a letter that needs delivering. If you refuse to open the door, I will knock it down.’ The door-knocker scoffed and drew its long bronze wings closer to its snakelike body. Elborn cocked his head at the vile thing, trying to piece together exactly what kind of creature it was supposed to be. It looked nothing like the Rentai he had seen during the days of his apprenticeship, whilst working in the Meka mills down south. But what else could it be, with its narrow, sloping wings that extended the entire width of the door, and the rounded head? It stared at Elborn suspiciously, its mouth beaklike and half-open (as was the Rentai’s particular characteristic) although it made the door-knocker look like it was gawping at him. The Rent, Elborn knew, had many names. Flamehurler. Fierelord. Agchiel.

But right now its chief name was ‘Bloody-beast-that-won’t-open-the-door’.

Elborn thought the name fit perfectly, for such a clumsily hewn creature.

He kicked at the ground in front of him, wincing as clods of dirt hit the fancy brickwork. He wished his foot had instead made contact with the heavy oak door. More specifically, he wished he had exchanged his boots for one of Garnet’s heels before leaving the house, so that he could carve a hole in the wood. It was already rotting nearer the ground anyway. He’d be doing the Ixister a favour by destroying his door. Would that count as breaking and entering? Elborn thought, giving the now-yawning door-knocker his best glare.

Perhaps.

Did he even remotely care at this point?

No. But it didn’t matter anyway, he fretted. The Meare was at the foot of the mountain—a half day’s hike if you were quick on your feet and had enough provisions. Elborn had neither of those, nor was he of the temperament to return to the village for a dratted heeled boot with which to break down the door.

Improvise, Elborn, he told himself. You’re not village Meka for nothing.

‘Fine,’ he said to the door-knocker. It had started to doze off and opened its left eye.

‘Fine what?’ it asked blearily.

‘Fine, fine,’ Elborn said. ‘I’m leaving. Just let Kelm know—whenever he ceases to be indisposed—that I came by to deliver a letter from King Trent (which is a very important letter by the way, urging his immediate attention), and that it would do him good to get a new door-knocker.’ Haughtily, he adjusted the green-tasseled cap that had been slipping down his head, and turned his back towards the door. ‘Have a good day!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in half a year so with the royal summons. The King won’t be half-pleased, as I said, but it can’t be helped.’ He bit back a smirk as he saw the door-knocker flap its bronze wings in agitation. Walking towards the edge of the slab, he looked back at the house, as if bidding it farewell. The unwashed windows seemed to leer at him, their sides stuck fast and impossible to open, and the red walls seemed orange in the afternoon haze.

Elborn raised his hand to his head in mock-salute, then swung his feet over the rocky slab and onto the path below. In his mind he composed a song, a marvel of devilish satire that revolved around door-knockers, but barely had he opened his mouth to sing that a powerful Force yanked at his feet. It was unlucky for Elborn, really, that his mouth had been open, because as he was pulled backwards he swallowed a clump of dirt. He was sure his cloak would be covered with grass stains. He groaned.

‘Elborn Radagel!’ he heard, over the whoosh of Ixistence magic and wind, and the tingling feeling of grass in his ears. This person sounded nothing like Kelm, who had a deep, throaty, rich voice unlike any that Elborn had ever heard. This voice was … different. It, too, was throaty, but it was not Kelm’s voice. Oh, no, thought Elborn. It was not Kelm’s voice at all.

He was dragged across the floor quite unceremoniously before being hurled in front of the red house once again. This time, Elborn raised his eyes not to meet with the onyx ones of the door-knocker, but the glittering blue ones of … someone else. Elborn’s pale eyes widened. It was a boy. He had yellow hair and a nasty smile. A silver cloak was thrown upon his shoulders, one that swept rather carelessly to his feet; both the boy and the cloak looked rather vain, in Elborn’s opinion.

‘You’re who?’ asked Elborn, straightening up and brushing the dust off his cuffs.

‘Ixister Malkolm,’ said the boy, still with the nasty smile. ‘I’m Ixister Kelm’s replacement.’

Elborn’s mouth fell open. ‘Replacement? This is the first I’ve heard—I mean—I’m the village Meka, why did Kelm not tell me himself? And when did this happen?’ he demanded, jumping to his feet.

‘Fifteen minutes ago,’ said Malkolm easily. ‘I understand you came here to deliver a letter, Elborn Radagel?’ He stretched out a pale—but badly scarred—hand. ‘As Kelm is currently unavailable, I think it belongs to me now.’

Elborn’s fists tightened. He drew himself to his full height, which was still only three-quarters that of the boy, and spoke in clipped tones: ‘It is Ixister Kelm’s letter. No one else’s. I am here to deliver it to Kelm or to no one at all. And let me remind you, boy,’ he said indignantly, ‘that I am the village Meka and ought to be treated with more resp—’

Malkolm waved a hand and Elborn’s mouth filled with feathers. He coughed and hacked and tried not to swallow. The Ixister smirked.

‘If it is Kelm the letter belongs to, then you should probably get it to him, shouldn’t you?’ He placed a hand on the doorframe, his tall figure blocking any entrance Elborn would have had to the house. Inside, it was dark; the bricks were not glowing as they usually were in their ethereal state, nor were the lyte-fixtures turned on. Elborn wondered how Malkolm had walked down the hall in that kind of darkness, although, he admitted to himself glumly, there were plenty of things that he still didn’t know about Ixisters. Like where Kelm had disappeared to, for instance.

‘I’m meant to—delivering—’ He pulled a handful of feathers from his mouth, accidentally swallowing one in the process. ‘Ugh. If you could tell—me—’ he lisped, ‘where Kelm is, maybe I co—ould. Bud as far as I know, an Ixister is meand to serve an endire lifetime in one place. So unless he’s dyind, or seriously ill, I can’t see why…’

Malkolm waved his hand again. This time, a small bird sat on Elborn’s tongue. He spat it out and glared at Malkolm. The Ixister's face was impassive as he surveyed Elborn curiously; he nodded at him. Leaning down until he was level with the Meka, Malkolm said, ‘Come with me.’ Three precise words, uttered with the utmost precision. He was not lying. 

Another thing Elborn had learnt at the mills was this: A true Ixister cannot lie. 

With a flourish, Malkolm turned and walked into the house, silver cloak billowing around him in a non-existent wind. The walls along the hall began to gleam.

Elborn followed. The door shut behind him with a snap, causing him to fall inside rather ungracefully.

Behind him, he swore he heard the door-knocker titter.