Stumbling Blind

  Basalt and Joshem’s cousins chased Skye out of the funeral house as if he was their murderer.

  “Crazy coalson!” they shouted, and “Sootin’ liar!” they accused. And with a “We see you here again sellin’ nonsense, you’ll petrify at the bottom of the Scar,” they saw him off.

  He rang his bell, and they stopped, turning to receive condolences from guests.

  This had been his third attempt this morning to convince them of what had truly happened. It was hopeless; he might as well scream his story into the Void for all it mattered. What he claimed sounded unbelievable, he was a stranger to them, with no credibility, and zero proof. In truth, all present facts contradicted his claims.

  Yesterday, he traced his path through the Deeps back to the abandoned crime scene, searching for evidence. The place was wrecked like stonebears’ mating grounds, but he found no corpses and nothing to indicate this was the result of a battle between channelers.

  When he returned to the Gateway, he learned that some prospectors had found his team’s remains somewhere else in the Deeps. They were petrified to pure stone after prolonged exposure to Geo fantasia. The constables ruled the cause of death as ‘an unfortunate cave-in’.

  Skye paced, thinking about how to proceed. It was a busy morning in Troqua as usual. People and carriages filled the streets, gems shining all around. He considered returning to the funeral for one final try, but he had no clue how to convince anyone of anything when he barely understood what had happened himself. He knew next to nothing about wardens and monsters, less so about his curse.

  If memory alteration was possible, it would require Psycho fantasia. Marching forward, he wondered how many competent mentalists existed in Troqua, and whether any of them had experience with his curse.

  **********

  To picture the man known as Varick Shamoun, one only needed to imagine a bull standing on its hind legs, pretending to be human. Varick was a renowned fighter in Troqua’s arena with a face full of scars like a rusted old shield. Yet, despite his brutish appearance, he was a famed scholar at the Warden Academy, and more importantly, a renowned mentalist. Everyone Skye had asked for advice referred to him.

  Locating Varick proved easy. Convincing him of the truth, however, proved not.

  “I’m telling you, it helped me sneak up to the surface!” Skye shouted in the middle of the road, drawing unwanted attention. “I even got a flower from the Meadrix’s garden. Look!” He brandished a sunflower to Varick and his two armed guards who looked askance.

  Varick rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Say I believe you, what would you like me to do next?”

  “Help me get rid of it!” Skye cried exasperated, as if that wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world.

  “How? Am I supposed to… give you money and watch you vanish perhaps?” Varick asked.

  “No! Use your magic, cast some spells. Aren’t you a mentalist?”

  Varick’s frown eased into an amused smile. “Wait. You’re serious?! You’re seeing flying bells?”

  “I’m dead serious,” Skye said, locking gazes with him.

  The three men broke into laughter.

  “Coals, boy! Have you been smoking shrooms?” Varick exclaimed, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how ridiculously impossible the spell you’re describing is? Getting inside a single person’s head isn’t easy. And manipulating minds is a beast of its own. Instantly purging all memories related to someone and replacing them with believable gaps is downright impossible! And you’re claiming you’ve been doing it repeatedly, at scale, and without conscious thought for the process?” He shook his head. “I salute the ingenuity. But your imagination is better suited for fairy tales and bedtime stories.”

  Gritting his teeth, clenching his fists, Skye barely held back from throwing himself at Varick. This was the seventeenth Mentalist who’d dismissed his curse as implausible. He’d only shared a fraction of the truth, omitting everything related to the wardens, the monsters, and the curse’s physical effects. Yet, he’d still failed to convince anyone.

  He took a deep breath forcing himself to calm. “Please. I don’t know what to do.”

  “If the bell bothers you this much, why don’t you just… stop ringing it?” one of Varick’s guards asked.

  “Because I want my life back!” Skye snapped, louder than he’d meant to. “Because I’m sick of being alone.”

  Varick stared up in consideration. Eventually, he turned to Skye, rubbing his thumb and forefinger. “What’s in it for me?”

  Frustrated, Skye spread his hands. “I told you, I lost everything. I had a stash of gemstones hidden at my old place. If you succeed, they’re all yours.”

  Varick shook his head. “A promise of wealth isn’t worth my time.” He turned and marched away.

  Skye clenched his teeth, feeling like a dog on a short leash. He needed to convince Varick at any cost. Because until he got rid of the bell, everyone in the city was in danger. “Please wait.” He jumped in the constables’ way. “You have to help-“

  One of Varick’s companions, a lean, short man, stepped forward and backhanded Skye across the face. The slap felt like the explosion of a photrine stone, hot and searing. Skye tumbled into the mud, catching himself on one hand, scraping his palm. Groggily, he rose, coughing dirt and blood.

  “Leave,” the guard growled. “Don’t let us see you again. We’ve no patience for Coals’ rats.”

  The three men moved on.

  Skye’s cheek throbbed with pain, but it was his dignity that burned. All of this was to save their stupid, worthless lives, and each and every one of them was repaying him with ridicule, beating, and humiliation.

  His fingers dug into the muck. Like the Void I’m leaving.

  Brow furrowed, nostrils flared, he faced their backs. “I’d never stop!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “I’d come day and night, screaming for your help until you cave in. Think I’m annoying now? Wait till I’m under your window, waking you up at midnight!”

  Varick paused, turning toward him with annoyed scowls. Cursing, the guard who hit Skye stomped forward. He unhooked an aerober-tipped spear from his back, a nasty look in his eyes. A windrider he was, a channeler capable of blasting gusts strong enough to hurl a man like a leaf.

  “All I’m asking for is a moment of your time,” Skye shouted, speaking fast. “Help me, and I’ll give you your peace of mind.”

  A group of children gathered to watch, pointing fingers, and cheering for a fight.

  The guard leveled his spear at Skye. Grimacing, heart beating fast, Skye stood his ground, keeping his chin up.

  Varick sighed. “Fine, fine,” he said, stunning Skye and the two officers. “I’ll help. Where’s your invisible bell?”

  Skye’s frown dissolved. “Here!” He ran past the windrider before Varick changed his mind.

  “Listen well,” Varick stepped forward, reaching his psychosite-ringed fingers toward Skye’s head. “I will now use my mighty magic to cast an ancient, forbidden spell to break your curse. But you must follow my instructions precisely. Are you ready?”

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  “Yes!” Skye said, bustling with joy.

  “Very well then. Close your eyes. Good. Now, imagine the bell. Floating in endless darkness. Visualize it with every detail. Now, picture a crack running down its side. Watch the crack expand. See it splintering into a thousand chinks through its frame. Watch it shatter!”

  Skye let Varick’s voice guide his imagination. A light headache stirred behind his eyes, followed by… a pulling sensation. Something was about to happen.

  “Focus! Focus! It’s about to vanish and release you of its curse!” Varick chanted. “Oh, sacred golden bell, I command thee to break and cast this innocent boy free!”

  Skye opened his eyes, grinning wide. It worked! He was so happy he wanted to dance and sing and jump. He hadn’t known that mental magic required incantations, but who cared! Varick had saved his life; he was his hero. Skye hugged the large man, thanking him repeatedly.

  Then he saw the bell hovering beside his head.

  “See? It is gone now!” Varick exclaimed as Skye backed away. “Now, that’s magic!”

  The two guards snickered, unable to contain their laughter. The gathering children whispered, pointing at Skye and giggling.

  Skye’s grin widened still but he had no reason to smile. The bell was unaffected. Not even scratched. Besides memories, mentalists could affect thoughts, senses, and emotions. Was this all just a stupid prank?

  “You didn’t do a thing,” Skye said frowning, feeling a fire flash inside. “You messed with my mind!”

  “What are you talking about?” Varick played innocent. “I broke your all-powerful, dreary curse!”

  “Stop treating this like a joke!” Skye shouted.

  Varick shrugged, unashamed. “What do you expect me to do, boy? If you want people to treat you reasonably, stop acting mad.”

  “I hate you!” Skye yelled, stomping Varick’s fat foot. The man howled in pain, falling over as the two officers lunged to catch Skye. Running away, he activated his curse, then stopped to watch the guards return to support Varick.

  “You alright?” an officer asked.

  “I kicked this stupid rock!” Varick grunted, struggling to reach and massage his leg. “Necro! Who put this rotten thing here!” He grabbed the rock he’d kicked and threw it away.

  **********

  The book flew across the room, knocking over a gem-adorned vase, smashing it to a thousand pieces. Unable to contain his frustration, Skye released a long bellow of rage that reverberated throughout the hall. Footsteps rushed from the corridor outside, shouts rising throughout the mansion. With a chime, the night resumed its silence, the vase reappeared where it had been, and the book returned to its original position on the shelf above his head.

  He sat inside the Obtundril’s private library which contained the largest book collection in Troqua. He hadn’t gotten access to these vast archives by their goodwill per se. But by sneaking inside after climbing the walls, breaking the window, and casting his curse several times to hide his tracks.

  He’d spent the entire day here searching for clues regarding his curse, for any mentions of the bell, or for a record of someone who’d shared his symptoms.

  He’d found nothing.

  Varick was right. The mass manipulation of thoughts and memories was considered an archwizard’s feat that only a handful in the history of Troqua had accomplished. Moreover, there appeared to be a unanimous agreement between all denominations of channelers that creating objects composed of non-basic elements—like plates full of food—was an absurdist’s pursuit. Yet Skye had accomplished both deeds many times. Did that make him some freak of nature? What was his bell? How had he acquired it?

  He threw his head back as a weak whimper escaped his mouth. He felt tired. Not physically, as he was used to grueling journeys in the Deeps. It was a different type of fatigue.

  He wanted this nightmare to end. His teammates were dead, their murderers still walked free, and he was all alone.

  Closing his eyes, he saw the fire monster dancing and laughing, smashing petrified corpses beneath its burning feet.

  Clack.

  Skye opened his eyes, realizing he’d fallen asleep. As keys rattled against the door outside, he sprinted to the window, slipping out the same way he’d entered.

  **********

  Half an hour later, he crossed the long bridge spanning the Scar, Troqua’s largest crevice. Its pit was bottomless, its length divided the city into halves. Nothing escaped the Scar, not even sound or light. It was the gateway to the Void from which nothing returned, and everything horrible came. It wasn’t simply a cut through Troqua or the Deeps. It was a scar unto Inma itself.

  Or so the legend said.

  Beyond the bridge stretched the market: a maze of stalls and shops built into stone. Most vendors were closing as night fell, locking doors or curtaining their stands. Few lingered to sell food to returning workers both from the surface and the Deeps.

  Nearby, a row of tidebreakers floated orbs of soapy water like jellyfish, scrubbing grimy diggers for a fee. Farther down, a bare-chested firedancer exhaled red flames into a furnace set into the rock, baking fresh bread from slabs of raw dough. Skye’s stomach growled; he hadn’t eaten anything all day.

  A pot of boiling broth invited him with its smell. Drooling, he watched gravy drip down grilled sausages until he was shooed away by guards. His stomach grumbled angrily, and he clutched it, then reached into his pockets. Nothing lay there. Not even a photrine coin. Not even a coal.

  He had no way to earn money. Even if he somehow got a job, the next activation of his curse would erase him from his employer’s memory, and he’d have to start over from scratch. And he had to activate it, to gather information, and escape constables and wardens.

  That left him with two options: starvation or theft.

  He hated both equally, but the stronger his hunger grew, the less appalling stealing seemed. Yesterday, Rierana saved him the indignity by offering soup. But he couldn’t rely on handouts to fill his stomach every day. He had to fend for himself.

  In a moment of weakness, he snatched three sausages and ran away through the traffic, casting his curse to escape the shouts. The sausages were hot, yet he stuffed them in his mouth anyway before he changed his mind.

  He hated what he’d done. Hated the curse for turning him into a thief. And hated himself for making up excuses for it. He walked back to the barbecue stall to memorize the owner’s face so he could pay him after he broke his curse. But the man stood peacefully by his stall, uncaring for his loss.

  Skye took another bite of the delicious, spiced meat, tears threatening to run across his face. The bell had deleted the sausages from memory. Just like him.

  What did that make him? Some oddity living on the fringes of reality? Was all this a figment of his imagination? Perhaps Varick was right. Perhaps, he was simply mad.

  Languidly, he dragged his feet to his hole beyond the market. It wasn’t that late yet, but he couldn’t endure another minute of consciousness. With heavy eyes, he descended into the shallow cave, hoping he’d feel better tomorrow.

  “Hey, coalhead!” someone barked from inside. “How about ya knock before ya enter someone’s home, huh?” A man shifted on the ground, filthy and hairy like an overturned cockroach.

  Skye flinched in shock, then winced as the horrible stench pierced his nose. He vomited a little in his mouth as he watched the flies crawling on the man’s face and stained rags. Burnt shrooms littered the floor like caveboar droppings, filling the hole with an overly saccharine fetor.

  Perfect. This was exactly what his night needed. A homeless addict invading his cave.

  “What do you mean your home?” Skye barked back, pinching his nose close. “This is my place! You get out!”

  “I was here first!” the homeless man shot back.

  “I have been sleeping here for days!”

  “Do I look like an idiot to ya? No one’s been ‘ere in years! Where are yer stuffs? Where’s yer emblem?” The filthy man gestured manically with his blistered hands at the cave’s entrance. “See that by yer ear? That’s me emblem which means this is me place. Ya get out!”

  To his right, Skye saw a crude drawing of a scantily dressed woman wrapping her arms and legs around what appeared to be a giant mushroom. He stared at it, captivated not by its vulgarity, but by the realization that he could never mark any place as his.

  He was the homeless one, not this man. This man had a hole to sleep in for the night.

  “I said get out! Now!” The man brandished a small knife. “Or do ya want me to carve yer pretty face to bits?”

  Silently, Skye turned and left.

  Displaced, dejected, and drained, he wandered the city heading nowhere in particular. A couple of days ago he’d dreaded the idea of becoming one of those older, filthy, hollow-eyed vagrants. Now, he wished he could have what they took for granted: the truth that they existed. That they could leave a mark on this world, no matter how insignificant.

  How long would it take before he looked, sounded, and smelled like that man? He was already a penniless, homeless, dirty criminal. What came next, the scars or the shrooms?

  He sniffled, wiping his nose with his filthy sleeve. He would never allow himself to sink that low; he knew better. He would take good care of himself while searching for answers. Starting tomorrow, he would- no! Starting now, he would take actions to improve his situation.

  First things first, he had to stop smelling like a mobile rat burrow. Hurrying his steps, he headed toward the lake in Aquanturine District, nestled on the far side of Troqua.

  The night was cold, and he had no soap, but he’d already made up his mind. The lake was still, the fishing boats sleeping in their moorings. Inside a secluded grotto, he undressed, setting his clothes aside, keeping only Rierana’s headband bound to his wrist.

  The stones beneath his feet were bumpy, slippery with moss. A group of little mushrooms ran to hide among the cracks as he approached, and a cluster of snails blew air out of their shells, flying away. And as he eased into the clear, cold water, little fish scattered in every direction.

  Shivering, he rubbed his skin, watching the waters around him blacken with grime. He tried to splash the murky cloud away, but a better solution came to his mind.

  Dong!

  The waves flattened in an instant, the flying droplets disappeared. The lake calmed, becoming a flawless mirror for the gemstones hanging high above.

  The sudden stillness unnerved him. He repeated the process, watching the waves’ eerie death like the instant exorcism of a specter. He hadn’t learned anything about his curse through reading or asking except for how impossible it seemed. Perhaps, the best way to understand it was through experimentation.

  Feeling clean at last, he trudged back to the shore to retrieve his clothes and wash them too. There, he paused, hugging himself against the cold.

  His clothes were gone. Looking around frantically, he searched for any marks, any footsteps and found none.

  The curse!

  He gasped, smacking a hand against his forehead. He’d rang his bell while not touching his clothes. How could he be this careless? He knew it erased everything he wasn’t directly in contact with.

  A frigid wind arrived, chilling his wet body. Cursing his stupidity, he hurried toward the city, searching for anything to wear, ringing his bell every time someone spotted his bare cheeks running through the night streets.

  **********