Whitesong Series

First Theme: Dea Lumina.

Copyright Erin Pfeiffer, 2005.
Part One, Chapter One.

First Theme: Dea Lumina.
First Movement: Beauty and the Beast.

Finny was talking animatedly to the moon-faced girl before him, his ale sloshing in gentle waves over the edge of his tankard, when the plate crashed to the ground.

Normally, this kind of thing wouldn’t be cause for alarm. After all, in taverns, dishware and glasses had an unnatural tendency to leave the hands of their owners utterly by accident and come to a very untimely end on mildewy floorboards.

It was what came AFTER the crash of plates that tore Finny’s blue eyes from the porcelain face – a womanly shriek and a short, sandy snarl altogether too deep to be human. Without a thought, the skinny Avian glared over his shoulder with pointed aggravation and near-tears helplessness. He didn’t need to look to know who’d knocked the plate; only one creature in all of Sinai made a sound like that.

“Cirocco Kei!” The tavernkeeper spat, the name almost a curse on her puffy lips. Bustling over to the trembling barmaid – who had been surrounded by all manner of men carrying all manner of painfully pointy objects in a matter of moments – she pulled the girl away and inserted herself, craning her neck to look into his eyes.

Finny sighed. “Ahm sorreh,” he purred, overdoing his accent deliberately. “Et looks loik I’m goin’ ta haveta be goin’.” The girl across from him only made eyes, tossing her hair hopefully and eventually furrowing her brow in hurt as he continued to step away, shaking his mane of red-orange feathers ruefully.

The street was cold. Finny resented Ciro for that.

“Ya just had to go an’ make yerself a gigantic walking wrecking ball agin, dincha?” he grunted at the slyph churlishly. “Ya just couldn’t lemme get one more drink inna her.....why?” The Avian threw his hands into the air in a signal of defeat. “Ya get these pretty fawners in half the tavs we go ta, but when I allost got m’self a duckie, y’go all beastie on meh.” As he walked, he reached up with taloned fingers to smooth the ruffled down that served as his hair. Finny was proud of his Avian heritage, and prouder yet to be one of the elite of his race – the red and golden-orange feathers that stretched from his forehead to his shoulderblades in a fantastic mane marked him as a phoenix-kin, a phaedrake.

The creature padding along beside Finny said nothing for a long time. The more alleyways they passed through, the odder the looks became, and the longer Ciro’s shadow, which ran just ahead of Finny no matter how fast he walked. Finally, when he was almost out of breath trying to keep the shadow behind him, he whirled on Kei and snapped, “Can you jes’ put tha’ away, already?” Ciro stopped, curling back his thick upper lip to reveal heavy, wickedly sharp canines.

“Shut up, will you?” His long, thick lizardlike tail thrashed once and he slammed his left paw down, shattering one of the cobblestones. One pair of hands pointed at Finny while the other folded coldly over his chest as he continued hissing out his anger in his too-deep, sandy bass.

“What difference does it make to you how I look? You don’t get women because you’re a prat, so don’t blame your lack of luck on me. How many girls do you think like a man whose other body is a four-armed, snout-faced freak?” The golden eyes glared a combination of hurt and frustration out at the slender Avian. “At least you’re proud of your appearance. I have to hide mine, because Winds forbid someone in this city might see me, goodness, whatever would we do.” The bitterness in his voice was laced with sarcasm.

Turning away and continuing down the alleyway towards the Golden Eagle, Finny could only shake his head. “I’d think girls would fancy somethin’ with tha’ many appendages. You know....besides,” he added gruffly, “ you got some massive feet tha’ way, iffen you unnerstand me drift.”

It was crude, but after ten years Ciro knew it was as close to an apology as he was going to get. Rubbing his long, rounded snout with a long-fingered hand, he shook his head. Finny meant well, and he was probably right. A white haired, fanged, four-armed, claw-footed, neon-blue tattooed, seven-foot-tall tan monster with a tail might not be commonplace in the back-alleys of Sinai. Then again, he thought, smiling, you never know.

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The Golden Eagle was bustling in its usual, obnoxious fashion. She went unnoticed for the most part, thanks to the crowds of drunken soldiers, slipping between them like a slender shadow with her head down. Unlike most women here, she was neither a harlot nor a barmaid, though her cloak disguised the armor and insignia that might have given her away. Men feared a woman in plate; something about the idea rankled them. She had no desire tonight to be either leered at or told off.

So Oliende tul’Rosria kept her hood up and her eyes down.

The mage-forces were not trusted among the regulars. Most soldiers thought that mages were dangerous, evil creatures easily swayed to the darkness. As such, the entire mage-force was kept under close surveillance, in case of spies and traitors. Most of the magicians weren’t dangerous, or even out of line; but that knowledge did nothing to ease the fears of the common foot soldiers. Most of their families felt threatened by the forces, and even if the soldiers became accustomed to the use of magic, wives and children kept fear alive in them. Why she was putting herself in danger to be here? If the other mages knew, they’d tell her she was crazy. Looking for trouble. On some level....maybe she was.

It was practice not to use magic in public establishments, and despite its clientele the Golden Eagle sported several signs with large, blatant gold lettering that read, ‘This Tavern is a No-Magic Zone. Any Mage or Alchemist Found Practicing the Art will be Persecuted to the Full Extent of City Law. - Ordinance 917, Magical Restrictions, Class A.”

The signs made Oliende nervous. After all, if she couldn’t use her magic and a man approached her with ill intent, how was she to defend herself? She carried no weapon, even if she was trained to wield a pike. It didn’t help that the fire was surrounded by fifteen or so soldiers, heavyset and already deep in their cups. Trying to reassure herself, she gripped her tall tankard of ale tighter and slipped from the bar, leaving a silver behind in payment.

On the lefthand side of the tavern, opposite the fireplace, there was a small alcove full of darkened tables. It really wasn’t the best place to sit, either, she knew. Sitting alone in the dark was like waving a bright orange flag over your head and screaming “I’m up to no good!” at the top of your voice. Still, what choice was there in this place? In the bright central area people would recognize her dark skin and sharp features. At the bar she had to hide her golden eyes from the keep. By the fire she was in danger of discovery by the drunken soldiers.

Absentmindedly she touched a few of the shimmering marks on her chest, glaring at the slight glow they let off even in the confines of her cloak. As if being a mage weren’t trouble enough! She’d have to go to Mistress Iuna and get more salve. Better to pay the ridiculous sum than light up the entire barracks even in the dead of night. Oliende drank.

She’d just relaxed the last of her aching muscles when the door was slammed open with a thunderous crack. Yelping, she yanked her shoulders up to her ears and wound all the muscles tight again. Damn noisy.....turning her head to see just what had undone all her hard work relaxing, she felt her mouth fall open quite by mistake. Highlighted in the doorway were the strange silhouettes of a short, slim Avian and a hulking monster, its long lizardlike tail swaying gently in the darkness outside. Her eyes locked on the pair as they entered the tavern, almost afraid to see just what the bigger man WAS....but when the monstrous silhouette passed through the doorway, something very strange occurred. Oliende gawked, her jaw loose and her hand over the neon-blue tattoo on her left breast. What looked like a lizard-man in the doorway was now a tall, sandy-haired soldier wearing barbarian’s clothes. Her wide eyes took in the tattoos, identical to her own, the same dark skin and pale hair.....could it be? But she was supposed to be the only one left!

At once the bar erupted in jeers and cheers and all manner of coarse calls, clearly a welcome for the well-known pair. It made sense, the magus mused, eyes lingering on the bright red plumage that glittered on the Avian’s head. Of course someone with an appearance that distinctive would be remembered. And by the way he was waving and laughing, showing off by leaping from table to table, he was used to this kind of brutish praise. Oliende groaned; men like that were pathetic, lording their good looks and charm over everyone and acting like they’d been born blessed. The man behind him had his hands shoved in his pockets and was looking perturbed, drifting to the bar to order a drink and ignoring the antics of his smaller companion. The magus felt sorry for him.

Burying her head in her glass, she tried to ignore the two men as best she could. It was difficult. Already the dark one – surprisingly, she’d thought him a bit of a wallflower -- had attracted a jabbering crowd; they were filling his cup, with the Avian spooning off the ale from their jugs into his own glass. Oliende wrinkled her nose at the arrogance of the behavior. If she were the pale-haired stranger, she would’ve pinched that red-haired leech by now! Feeling justifiably angry for the taller man, she snorted into her beer and downed it, lifting it to show the tendress her interest in a refill – one uninterrupted by the coarseness of a common soldier.

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The tavern was alive with bodies by the time he descended the staircase. A shudder touched his skin. It seemed so dark, all this drinking in the City of Light. Merriment was harmless enough, and kept up the spirits of the men.....but the drinking led to excess and lechery, to all manner of mistakes and problems that sowed strife and frustration among the men. Drink and women were the two worst parasites on the troops, and no matter what he told them, no matter how many warnings he gave to the men, no one listened. No one cared that they were destroying their minds and livers and probably contracting all kinds of nasty sexual diseases to boot. No one cared that the prostitutes and bastard children trailing the camp were poor and filthy, dying of disease and malnutrition.

Needless to say Alex was in a foul mood by the time he got to the common-room. His glare only magnified tenfold when the room quieted slightly in his presence – save for the loud and braying tenor of the generally obnoxious Finneus Doulhamer, who was preening himself with the most arrogance Alex thought he could possibly stomach. The man was human wastefulness at it’s best. At the moment he’d trailed his drunken self and several equally-wasted comrades over to a huddled figure at one of the darker tables. Without so much as a word to the figure, Finny leapt up onto the table and raised his tankard high.

“To the brave men hiding in corners!” He sniggered tipsily, sloshing ale down onto her hood and then kicking it back with the toe of his boot. When she lifted her dark face up to his, golden eyes glittering in anger, his own blue orbs went wide and his grin grew unnaturally brighter until it seemed his face would light afire. At once the surrounding men broke into a chorus of ‘oohing’ and ‘aaahing’, and Finny reached down to grab her arm and pull her up onto the table.

It was foolishness on his part, and somewhere in the back of his head he knew it; but the drink was talking now, and there was no stopping it.

“Look, lads!” he cried, his words thick and slurry. “Oi’ve found a li’l diomund inna rough here! Now now, li’l miss, whatchoo doin’ in a place loik this’un, eh? Lookin’ fer sommat?” Reaching a hand up, he ran it through his feathers and jiggled his eyebrows. “Per’aps a par’ner, or a knight in shinin’ ta protect ya?” He flourished his hand grandly, but almost lost his balance from drink and had to grip her arm harder to keep from falling.

Taken by surprise, Oliende couldn’t resist; by the time she knew what was happening, she was atop the table, staggering under his weight. The cloak was tossed askew when he bumped into her, nearly dragging her from the table and revealing her gold sigil in a twinkle of light. At once Finny paused, blinking drunkenly, and a hush fell over the crowd of men. All eyes seemed locked on the sigil, drawn like moths to the danger of the flame. But in that moment, Finny did what might have been the most foolish thing he had ever done in his entire life – grabbed Oliende and pulled her close, pressing his mouth over hers. The room erupted in shouting.

Alex rose almost instinctively, and he wasn’t the only one. Across the room, Ciro abandoned his roast beef and bread to push his way towards the table where his idiot friend was liplocked with a very high ranking officer. Alex, however, didn’t bother to push. The men parted before him like oil on water, and he slid through as the first man grabbed Finny and shoved the pair off the table. Somehow the shapechanger Cirocco Kei wound himself into the fray, and by the time Alex hauled Finny and Kei out of the mass of people, a full scale barfight was underway. Shoving them to the bar, he clambered atop it and slammed his staff down onto the cool granite.

“Quiet!” And, as if by magic – though it couldn’t be, since you couldn’t use magic in the Golden Eagle – the room froze, and all eyes lifted to the white-robed figure. Shaking his head in disgust, Alex threw his free hand up and snorted.

“You all should be ashamed of yourselves. Drinking. Fighting. Spoiling the Lady’s city. I hope you all feel guilty about this. And worse, you almost caused the injury of an important magician.” Glaring down at the two soldiers at the bar near his feet, he turned his anger on them.
“And you two! You are both responsible for all the damages done to this establishment! Mistress Laramet allows you to come in here night after night, to take over her tavern, to trash it, and to leave without paying for almost a month! And this is how you repay her? You two will stay here, in the company of Mistress Laramet and her servers, and you will clean and repair every inch of this tavern. And if the job isn’t done perfectly when I return next week, I’ll see to it myself that you join the Sacred Order before your next birthdays!” No one doubted the threat; healers of the Order needed some protection. To keep the healers safe, the generals agreed that any soldier or layperson who harmed a healer or refused a fair punishment given by the Order could be drafted without consent into it’s ranks.

Ciro and Finny only glanced at one another before going white and nodding their heads uneasily. No one wanted to join the Sacred Order. The sacrifice just wasn’t worth it.

Sliding down from the bar, the gray-haired healer smoothed a hand over his pointed ears and gently supported the trembling Oliende with a hand around her back. “Come, my dear. I’ll find you a quiet place for the night.”

“Prat,” muttered Finny.