The Lesser Talisman

By James Gillaspy

On a world long lost beyond the Veil

A smith finds a magical coin and the imp it binds.

A peasant becomes a mage and enables a conqueror.

A princess is kidnapped and becomes a pawn in the conqueror’s war,

while another discovers the magic that surrounds her family.

A story of chariot battles and warriors, sorcerers and deception,

and human strength in the face of unimaginable power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Gillaspy
• Release date: Oct 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370218851

James Gillaspy

I worked in systems for 45 years (hence the computer references in my first novel, "A Larger Universe".) Now that I am retired, I finally have time to write the kind of stories I have enjoyed since I was a teen.

Book preview

Contents

FlyLeaf page

Title Page for publication

copyright page

map 2017_10_28

Come fill your cup and listen to my tale

ONE: Discovery

TWO: Magic Beings

THREE: The Princess and the Jann

FOUR: Mage

FIVE: King and Commander

SIX: Fresh Perspectives

SEVEN: Wind

EIGHT: Two Wagons

NINE: Weapons and Wheels

TEN: Decisions

ELEVEN: Magical Weave

TWELVE: Caravan

THIRTEEN: A Gift for the King

FOURTEEN: Voices

FIFTEEN: Mantua

SIXTEEN: Encounters

SEVENTEEN: Merchant

EIGHTEEN: Jann and Imps

NINETEEN: Ashes

TWENTY: Wishes

TWENTY-ONE: Leaving Mantua

TWENTY-TWO: Cork in a Bottle

TWENTY-THREE: Reunions

TWENTY-FOUR: Battles

TWENTY-FIVE: On the Plateau

TWENTY-SIX: Kanda

TWENTY-SEVEN: Palace

TWENTY-EIGHT: Reckoning

TWENTY-NINE: Afrit

THIRTY: Crystal Spire

THIRTY-ONE: And...

End

Persons, Places, Beings, and Objects of Note

Character Map

Sources and Inspiration

Dedication

Also By Page

end Fly

The Lesser

Talisman

The Lesser

Talisman

A Novel by

James L Gillaspy

The Lesser Talisman. Copyright © 2015 by James L. Gillaspy. All Rights Reserved. No Part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration and design Copyright © 2015 James L. Gillaspy

NOTE: The names of places, characters, units of measure, and objects in this story are similar to but not of this world and some will be unfamiliar to the reader. You will find a map on the next page and a compendium of terms and cast of characters after the novel.

The Minstrel’s Song

Come, fill your cup and listen to my tale

About a world long lost beyond the Veil;

Where three moons rise and rush across the sky,

And lives are ruled by bronze, and horse, and sail.

A world where magic beasts, both great and small,

Bring woe to him on whom their wrath befall;

Though neither sword nor spear can do them harm,

Those bound to talisman are held in thrall.

My story starts: a lowly blacksmith finds

A talisman; a coin; the imp it binds;

Discarded by the Goddess long ago;

Not Jann or demon—one of lesser kinds.

While from a city, men ride forth to war

Before the walls between the rivers’ shore,

And Jann or Demon bets upon the end

And tallies those who fall to rise no more.

ONE: Discovery

On a world called Kolahvar, in a cave near the city of Mantua and three thousand paces from the cave entrance, Haytham slid on his belly beneath a bulging overhang. The flickering flame of his oil lamp, directed by a small mirror, revealed a larger chamber beyond the crawlway, and he decided to continue.

Soon he doubted his choice. A leather jerkin and pants protected his body, but the hard muscles of his shoulders, built by a decade of labor over an anvil, jammed repeatedly in the narrow tunnel as he pushed with his hobnailed sandals against the limestone earth.

He slipped the lamp into the next chamber and grasped the edge of the crawlway. A moment later, he pulled himself out of the passage and stood on a slender shelf at the edge of a black pool. A cold, damp breeze blew gently past his face, and from some distance came the rumble of falling water.

He checked the oil in his lamp. Almost gone, he thought. He hefted the metal flask of oil and spare lamp he carried in a bag at his waist. More than enough to get back. I’ll try for the waterfall, first.

The shelf widened into a rocky beach. The sound of plunging water swelled, becoming a roar, and a rock wall, higher than his light reached, blocked the way. A tap of his knuckle on the rock chimed above the thunder of the falls. He slid his hand along the wall’s striped face toward the side by the water. As thin as the spine of my knife blade. Holding his lamp behind the wall made it seem like a rind of bacon, with bands of lighter fat and darker meat glowing in the light. Since his fifteenth summer, he had explored these caves to see the strange and wonderful sights not found on the surface, and this wall was both.

He dipped a finger in the water. Cold. No help for it. I’ll get my feet wet. His sandal stirred the silt at the water’s edge as he worked his way around the bacon rind. Something glittered in the crystalline water.

Eh. What’s this? A swirl of his fingers in the water uncovered a coin nestled against the pool’s edge. The Goddess curse him. Someone’s been here and dumped his trash. He closed his hand around the coin and stood. Only his footprints marred the beach. He looked toward the still invisible waterfall. Maybe I am the first here. Perhaps the coin washed down from the surface.

A reedy voice spoke: Neither answer is true, master, unless you don’t count me. Ask me and I’ll tell you how the coin came to be here. Before Haytham could respond, the coin moved. If you would allow me the use of your flame, I would be eternally grateful. The lake is so cold.

He jerked his hand upward, exposing the coin. A diminutive man-like shape rose from the coin’s embossed surface. The figure grew to thumb height, its feet near the coin’s edge, its arms wrapped around a shivering body.

What’s this? Haytham rasped.

The flame, master. Allow me your flame. Please. You must give your permission.

He brought his hand close to the lamp.

Please, master, your flame, the man-shape repeated.

Haytham held the lamp closer. He barely finished saying Warm yourself, when the figure leaped into the fire and did a whirling dance. Two horns, a spiked goatee, and a barbed tail threw sparks as the wick flared under cloven feet.

Haytham almost dropped the lamp. A demon!

The creature completed one more turn. An imp, master. Demons are much larger and not so handsome.

He felt a slight pain in his hand and the imp squeaked. Master, you’re bending my coin.

He opened his hand. The coin, now blank on the upper side, made a small tent on his palm. The coin must be gold. He placed the lamp on the ground and flipped the coin over, exposing a five-pointed star.

Master, you must restore my coin. It is the one thing I cannot affect.

Haytham sat down beside the lamp. Why should I? What are you, and why do you call me master?

The imp made a formal bow inside the flame, one arm held across its waist and the other arm pointed behind. The Goddess willed I am yours to command. By finding the coin, you begin my hundred years of servitude. The imp spun toward the lake. An eon ago, I was bound to the coin and cast into this icy water. Not a lake or ocean on the earth’s surface, but this light-less pond where no one would find me, such was my crime. Haytham flinched away from the imp’s squeal. Except you did find me, master. Ask, and if granting your wish is in my power, I will. But first you must straighten the coin. I can be in only two places: the coin, and where you bid me be, and the flame from this lamp is dying.

The imp spoke the truth about the lamp. There is risk to this. Can I believe an imp? The flame sputtered. Even if not, I can’t stay here in the dark. He drew his knife.

Master, what do you intend to do with that? the imp yelped.

Ignoring the imp, He pressed the coin against the blade by the handguard. Home with you, he said when he heard the click of gold flattening to iron.

The imp disappeared from the flame before it flickered out, leaving Haytham in the complete and utter darkness found beneath the earth.

He fumbled in his pouch for oil and flint. This would have been much easier if I had added the oil before the flame died.

The imp’s voice spoke from the dark, Would you like me to make a light, master?

Haytham hesitated. He had heard stories about magical objects and demons granting a few wishes. Sometimes they did horrible things after the wishes were granted. You did say you are here for a hundred years of servitude?

Yes, master.

Could all those hundred years be for me?

The imp’s laughter tinkled from the blackness. If master needs me that long.

You will grant all my wishes?

I am not a god, master, but I’ll bestow those I can, starting with making a light if you want it.

In for a fals, in for a drachm, he thought. Yes, I wish for a light.

The air chilled, and a swirl of color glowed above his head, gathering to a single point illuminating the beach and wall and casting hard-edged shadows.

The coin rested near his knee where he had dropped it. The imp gazed up from its glittering surface. Perhaps you should hurry, the imp said.

Haytham opened the metal flask and the stopper to the lamp. Hurry? Why?

Even a demon can’t create light from nothing. The air in this chamber is near freezing. I am using what heat remains to fulfill your wish. Soon snow will fall on the lake.

He felt his hands stiffen, and he took special care in filling the lamp. He replaced the stopper on the flask and picked up his flint and knife. A practiced stroke of flint against the spine of his knife lit the wick.

End your light, he ordered the imp. Once again, they were surrounded by the dancing shadows cast by flame rather than sharp edges from a single point.

Haytham gathered and repacked his gear. Your magic seems nothing like that of my mother’s stories, he said.

What do humans know of magic, the imp said, even those who call themselves magicians? Is your mother one of those?

No. She kept my father’s house and told stories from her porch. He pushed his knife into the sheath on his belt with a thump. Three winters ago, she and my father died of the pox. She was not a magician.

He picked up the coin, holding it by the edges between thumb and forefinger. Enough of this. I must start back. If I’m to keep you, what’s the proper way to carry you? I can’t crawl with a lamp in one hand and this coin and you in the other.

I’ll enter the coin, again, master, and you can place it in your pouch. The imp stared longingly at the lamp. Once again, its arms were wrapped around its body. I should never have allowed you to see me. You should have thought your wishes granted by the coin, but I was so cold and the flame was so close.

Haytham loosened his belt, exposing a hidden pocket buttoned against his skin. Would this be better? Warmer and less chance of losing you?

You are too kind, master.

With everything in its place, Haytham again wet his sandaled feet going around the bacon rind wall and walked back to the entry tunnel, where he paused and peered into the small opening. How did I get through that? The hole appeared much wider from the other end. He rubbed his shoulders. They still burned from his earlier crawl.

Something moved against his waist. Of course. The coin.

Imp, widen this passage.

Step back, master, and cover your mouth and nose with a cloth.

He retreated a few steps and pulled his jerkin over his lower face.

More, master.

His new position must have satisfied the imp. A fine dust blew from the tunnel, growing in volume until a twisting wind swirled over the lake. The howling died, and the passage cut as straight as the shaft of an arrow through to the other side.

I would have finished sooner, the thin voice said, except for the overhanging rock. The rest is limestone. The rock is granite. The bonds holding granite together are much harder to break.

Haytham looked from the now muddy lake to the polished passage. When I get out of here, please explain what you mean. For the moment, I’m trying not to be angry at myself for defiling this place, which I seek to leave as I find it. You tempt me and I succumb. You are a demon.

The imp squealed. I did nothing, master, except grant your wish.

I know. And that’s why I’m angry at myself and not at you.

* * *

Many days travel north of Mantua and Haytham’s cave, under a hard blue sky, a single puffy cloud hung high above the city of Kanda, held by an eddy of still air in a swirl of thermals rising from the city’s structures and the hot, barren soil extending half a parsang from the city’s walls. An hour before, a thousand chariots, supported by a thousand archers, rushed from the gates to form an arc east of the city, anchored on one end by the Sa Nadime’s rushing waters and on the other by the wide flood of the Alichem River.

Men and horses stood, sweating in the heat, watching a double column of chariots and marching men split north and south as they passed the toll station by the main road, and, at a trumpet’s call, turn to line abreast and continue toward Kanda.

Kanda’s king, Mir Vais, his sharp cheeked, sun-browned face impassive, waited in the center hand of five chariots as the enemy host, displaying the pennon of Khusru, king of Herat, advanced at a walk. Vais’s thin lips tightened as the narrowing river delta squeezed the gaps in the enemy line.

Two hands of chariots to the left of Vais, the hand's captain, Makeen, removed his unadorned bronze helmet and wiped his neck and trim beard with a damp cloth.

Why are we here? his charioteer, Tahmasp, said. A half-moon ago, Khusru visited Mir Vais as an ally.

Makeen shifted back and forth on the chariot deck’s leather straps, trying to get air under his calf-length coat. He glanced at Mir Vais. The rumor is that Vais doesn’t know. He squinted at the midday sun and leaned forward, whispering where only Tahmasp could hear. Whatever the reason, we’re here, so why does he wait? I would rather die in battle than broil in this armor. The Goddess banished the wind and grills us on this flat, treeless plain. If we want a breeze, we must move and make our own.

Makeen spread his bare legs under the sleeveless coat, its leather covered with bronze scale plate sewn from neck to ankles. Warm even in winter, the armor protecting body and legs smothered under the summer sun. Sweat trickled down his chest and gathered above the belt circling his hips.

Tahmasp glanced over his shoulder at Makeen, Our horses are fresh for the charge. Khusru’s host traveled tens of parsangs from Herat. His smile gapped where rotten teeth had been pulled. Perhaps you should’ve brought a perfumed harlot to hold a shade over your head rather than me with my shield. Do you know a tart who can guide a chariot and catch arrows in the air?

Makeen wiped his neck again. Ignore me, my friend. I’m hot and impatient. He drew his sword from its sheath. And I want to strike bronze with this. He brandished the sword of black iron, the first in the city, bought in Mantua the month before.

I’d rather you not wish that. If we’re forced to use our swords, we’ll be on foot.

The odor of fresh horse manure joined the aroma of sweating men and horses. Makeen smirked as a horse in Mir Vais’s team dumped a stream of horse apples in front of the king’s chariot. His horses give him no respect, Makeen said. Perhaps they’re hot, too.

They give him more respect than you do, Tahmasp answered. Your comments will get us killed before the battle begins.

Their horses jerked, and Tahmasp shifted his weight and pulled lightly on the reins, guiding the chariot’s bronze-bound, spoked wheels back into line with those on either side.

To their front, Khusru’s trumpets echoed over the rumble of hooves and wheels rolling toward them over the plain.

Now, Makeen said. Now.

As if in answer, Vais called to his four Companions and ordered his trumpeter to blow the notes sending the foot-archers forward to shoot a single volley from their wooden bows and fall back to the city wall.

You’d best don your helmet, Tahmasp said. The breeze you wanted will soon arrive.

The horn sounded and Makeen signaled the five drivers in his hand of chariots to bring their teams to a walk. As they moved, he checked the spacing of his chariots with those around him, ready to call out should any lag behind or move ahead.

At the signal to trot, the horses became harder to hold. Bred and trained for battle, they surged toward the enemy.

Makeen shouted over the rumble of wheels, Maintain the line.

Makeen had fought in four of these battles for his king, first as charioteer, then as warrior and archer, and, after his third engagement, as captain of a hand of five chariots. Makeen knew this fifth clash would be little different from those he endured before. The lines would repeatedly charge through each other, the warriors killing with arrow and lance until one host destroyed or broke the other and the survivors tried to escape. He hoped for one difference. Usually, the host with the larger number of chariots won.

The archers launched their arrows and dodged back. Makeen acknowledged one archer’s shout of May the Goddess grant us victory. with a wave as his vehicle’s wheels passed a few finger-widths from the archer’s body.

Makeen pulled the heavy composite bow from its case on the chariot’s wall and nocked a bronze-tipped arrow, leaning into the bounce over the rough ground, letting his knees and the leather straps under his feet absorb the shocks. Neither he nor Tahmasp had a hand free to grip the thin chariot rail. A fall might break bones, and the narrow wheels cut flesh like a knife.

The wind he sought whipped dust from the advancing host high into the air and tossed grit in his face. He blinked hard. When his vision cleared, he saw the smudge of individual faces in the enemy line. Mir Vais’s trumpets sounded the charge. Makeen's scream and hand signal joined those of the other captains on the line: Make the wedge.

Tahmasp urged their team ahead. The charioteers of Makeen's hand dropped back until the heads of each team of horses were even with the chariot closer to the wedge’s center, leaving the length of an arm between chariot hubs. The other hands did the same, and the line became two-hundred sharp teeth, pointed toward the enemy.

With the lines less than a hundred paces apart, the horn sounded, freeing them to release their arrows. Makeen raised his bow to aim over the heads of his horses. The warriors of his hand would follow his lead, shooting as he loosed his first arrow.

Makeen drew the bow string to his eye, the muscles of his shoulders and arms knotting with unconscious effort. His first shaft hit a horse’s neck above its armor. The horse tried to stop, dragging back its harness mate. The chariot skewed toward the uninjured horse of the pair, and tumbled, throwing charioteer and warrior into the air.

He lost sight of his second arrow in the dust as the other line erupted from the swirling sand. His wedge plunged through, forcing enemy chariots to veer into the gaps to either side. Two enemy chariots slammed into each other, breaking both axles and throwing their riders to the ground.

They passed through the Herat line. Makeen pulled and released as fast as he could nock and find a target. His third shaft struck another horse in the flank. Their line raced for another hundred paces before the trumpet signaled, slow.

Makeen raised his bow over his head and brought it down to his side. Tahmasp drew the horses to a walk and the hand’s other chariots slowed with his, until all were in line, still facing away from the city. A call from the trumpeter sent the outermost teams in each hand racing ahead and around each other to the opposite side of the hand to face the way they had come. When the outer chariots returned to the line, the teams next to the center of each hand made the same flying turn. Then Tahmasp galloped his horses in a wide circle back into line.

The first charge broke a few of Vais’s wedges. Behind the line, the surviving captains organized new hands from the remaining chariots and returned them to the formation.

With the first encounter over, Makeen noticed things not vital to staying alive. An arrow extended halfway through Tahmasp’s shield, missing his charioteer’s arm by a finger’s breadth. He pulled another arrow from the chariot’s unarmored side near his knees and threw it to the ground. His chest ached under a bright scar on the bronze protecting his body. He hadn’t felt it strike.

Beyond the overturned chariots, dying horses, and crawling bodies, he saw Mir Vais’s second reason for waiting. The enemy’s turn brought them under the city’s wall. Plunging arrows from the wall killed men and horses while Khusru’s chariots circled back into line.

A breeze whipped, lifting the horses’ manes. A horse screamed. The leather straps under his feet jerked as one of their mares tried to rear, dragging her harness mate with her. More horses bellowed in fear, and, up and down the line, captains shouted for the charioteers to control their teams.

Makeen added his own commands to the tumult and leaned toward Tahmasp. What’s frightening the horses?

Tahmasp pointed with his chin. Look, above the plain.

Between the hosts, a gray whirlwind coiled down from the single cloud hanging in the sky, its slender tail pointing first at one army, then the other.

A Jann! someone shouted.

Magic! cried another.

The trumpeter signaled Hold.

Makeen glanced toward Mir Vais, who stood rigid, gripping the rim of his chariot and staring upward.

Vais has no magic, Makeen muttered. If Khusru brought a sorcerer—

The spinning column dipped to the earth between the armies and darkened with sand, roaring as it sucked bodies and broken wheels into the air.

Lightning flashed from the empty sky, and by the time thunder rolled over them, the whirlwind had scoured the remains of battle from the ground, leaving a wisp of haze hanging over the city.

The Jann cleared the field for our next charge, Tahmasp said into the sudden silence. Maybe he’s bet on the outcome.

So long as he stays out of the game, Makeen responded.

Will the fight continue?

It must. The Herat are between us and the city.

As if to answer the question, Vais’s horn sounded to bring them forward at a canter. He had planned to trap the enemy host close to the city’s fortifications before they could redeploy, but too much time had passed. Khusru’s chariots rushed toward them, beyond the city archers’ range.

Once more, Makeen’s attention focused on staying alive and killing his enemies.

An arrow clanged from his helmet and he missed his first shot. He recovered his balance and drew and released three times in five heartbeats.

Mir Vais waited until his host neared the city wall before he signaled turn, followed by halt.

The gates opened, and hundreds of slaves ran out on the plain, bringing water for the horses and warriors.

Makeen removed his helmet and stepped to the ground. He bent over and, at his gesture, a slave poured water over his head. The trumpet sounded and the slaves moved aside. He shook the water from his scalp and took his place on the chariot platform.

The lines met, and again the wedges shoved their way through, forcing the enemy chariots into each other and exposing them to arrows from their flanks.

Mir Vais signaled a running turn and each hand responded by making a sweep to the left. Without pausing, the host hurtled back toward the city, trying, this time, to hold Khusru’s force against the wall.

They’re coming out, Makeen screamed to his command. Prepare to meet them.

The first enemy chariots emerged from the dust. Makeen leaned by Tahmasp’s ear. Khusru’s warriors aren’t shooting. More chariots came out in a ragged line. They’re crouched low and running the horses at full gallop. They’re trying to escape.

Khusru’s line passed, a blur of running horses, spinning wheels and flying sand. Makeen wasn’t sure any of his arrows found their targets.

As they neared the wall, the trumpets signaled another running turn then pursue.

Makeen leaned forward. Now we’ll find out how tired their horses are.

* * *

Where are we, master?

The coin, vibrating with the imp’s words, tickled Haytham’s stomach and made him flinch. He grabbed an outcrop with his free hand. We’re still in the cave. Startle me again, and you’ll be at the bottom of this chasm covered with my bones. He held the lamp over the crevasse at his feet and shuffled some loose rock over the edge. If it has a bottom. He counted the beats of his heart. When he heard nothing after counting six hands, he continued, If we fall, your next master might be some time in coming.

You needn’t worry, master. I would catch you. The imp’s laughter tinkled, making the coin vibrate again. If you wished me to, of course.

And if I screamed all the way down?

The imp squeaked, You are quicker than that, master. You would remember to wish.

Haytham moved along the ledge beside the dark fissure, placing one foot in front of the other. You’ve known me long enough to have such confidence?

Perhaps not, master. Release me from my coin. I will help you find your way and keep you safe.

I know the way, imp. This is not my first walk down this path. The ledge leads to a domed room. Beyond, a crawlway leads to the surface. He held the lamp high, looking for the opening to the final room. Why must I release you? Can’t you use your magic to see the way?

I see what my eyes show me, even as you do, and my eyes are covered by the stinking band around your waist.

You will return to your coin the instant we see another person?

Yes, master.

Then leave the coin.

He felt his jerkin shift, and the imp spoke beside his ear. It’s cold out here. The flame, master. May I ride there?

Will the light use more oil?

No, master.

He held the lamp close to his ear. No dancing. Just ride.

The light flared. In its core, the diminutive figure spun once and sat, arms crossed, upon the flame’s glowing yellow center.

Thank you, master. The imp’s horns bobbed, and a bright light flashed, reflecting from the cave walls and illuminating a much larger area than the lamp. A cold breeze ruffled Haytham’s hair. A dreary place, the imp said. I could carry you away.

Haytham ignored the offer and continued creeping along the ledge through silence except for the scuffing of his feet and the flame’s faint hiss.

After a few moments, the imp whirled to face Haytham, making the lamp flame flicker erratically. Would you speak with me, master?

He tightened his grip on the lamp. Must you chatter? Can’t you enjoy the silence, as I do?

Your pardon, master. I’ve been entombed for centuries. At first I talked to myself, but I always knew what I would say in return. Then I spoke to the eyeless fish in the pool though there’s not a wit among them. I would be eternally grateful if you would talk with me.

Haytham laughed. First you will be eternally grateful for the use of my flame. Now you will be eternally grateful for some conversation. Does this mean I’ll spend eternity with you?

The imp hung his head, pointed ears drooping forward. No, master. It’s just that...

I know. You’ve been alone. It’s a wonder you aren’t mad. Haytham held the lamp closer to his eyes. Are you mad?

The imp’s head came up. No, master, that isn’t allowed. I must experience every moment of my punishment. Madness would be an escape.

He edged around an outcrop blocking the path. What did you do, imp, to deserve such punishment? he said when he again had both feet planted.

The imp stood, flinging his arms about and casting flickering shadows against the cave wall. It was an accident, I swear. It could happen to anyone. The imp’s head drooped again. Well, perhaps not anyone, master, but I was trying to help. The Goddess shouldn’t punish me for trying to help.

I’m not blaming you for anything, imp. Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.

The imp sat again and crossed his legs, cloven hoof hanging outside the flame. His dark, beady eyes regarded Haytham from under bushy brows. You won’t judge me, master?

If I do, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.

The imp leaned forward, cupping his goatee in his hand. "That’s fair. Fairer than She was. His shoulders slumped. I was in the great temple of the Goddess in the city of Merath—"

The Merath that legend says burned to the ground? Haytham interjected.

Have you heard this story, master?

My mother told a tale of fire falling from the sky on Merath. You had something to do with that?

You said you wouldn’t judge me, master.

I’m not.

The imp stroked his beard. If you’re certain.

I am. Tell your story.

Well then, the day I was cursed, the chariots of Lodi had surrounded the city for two cycles of the Ringed Moon, and the people were hungry. The priests prepared to sacrifice the last bull inside the walls to the Goddess and plead that She free the city from the invaders. The imp made a razzing noise. Since the Goddess never actually takes the meat of the sacrifice, the priests planned to fill their bellies after the ceremony.

He again held the lamp high, looking for the entrance to the final room. Why were you there?

For the excitement, master. To watch the battle—

Or the slaughter, perhaps?

Well, the army of Merath was greatly outnumbered. That would have been exciting, too, though it didn’t come to that.

The Goddess answered the priests’ prayers?

She might have, but the wood was wet.

The wood?

The wood to burn the sacrifice. The priests couldn’t light the fire.

So you helped them?

Yes. I helped them. Their prayers were most piteous, master. You would have helped them, too.

When the imp didn’t continue, Haytham shook the lamp and held it closer to his face. And?

The imp’s voice was near inaudible. The wood was soaked. My first try fared no better than the priests’. The logs burned briefly and died. The imp’s mouth curved into a wan smile. So I decided to create enough heat to dry the wood and ignite the fire at the same time.

He peered into the flame. You overdid it, didn’t you?

The imp’s voice became shrill. I was younger then, newly birthed from the void. She could have taken that into account. I didn’t know my own power.

What happened?

The imp wrapped his arms around his body. The wood, the bull, and the priests were consumed in an instant.

Haytham snorted. Hard on the priests, but the Goddess should have accepted the sacrifice.

If that had been the end of it, but it wasn’t. My magic released an inferno from the aether. In a blink the roof vanished. The marble columns around the altar melted and flowed into the street. The temple walls were thrown into the air and fell like burning missiles on the city.

"So, you were the cause of the fire that burned Merath?"

I didn’t see that part, master. Some of Merath was on fire, but the Goddess came—

She wouldn’t listen to your explanation?

She might have, but only her temple in Kanda was larger and— The imp lifted his hands in an exaggerated shrug, and the lamp flared. You’ve noticed, perhaps, my fascination with flame?

Is that what it is?

Yes. Well, perhaps more than just fascination. The lamp flared again. I couldn’t help myself. The Goddess found me dancing among the rising embers, above the molten ruins of her holy place.

She assumed you set the fire on purpose.

I can still hear her screams, master. I woke in that icy pool, trapped in the coin you carry at your waist, my mind ringing with Her curse.

He had walked past the end of the crevasse and now moved more confidently. Have you practiced your magic since?

This time, the imp’s shrug sent a thin column of soot toward the ceiling.

I take that to be a no. His feet crunched on the loose gravel littering that part of the cave. Perhaps I should be careful what I wish for.

The imp sounded contrite. Yes, master, perhaps you should. I wouldn’t want you to be angry with me, too. The imp’s light flared again, revealing a large opening ahead. Is that the room you’re seeking?

Yes. We’ll be out soon.

The light focused to a brighter beam that followed the imp’s gaze. Master, why is this chamber so different? Nothing hangs from the ceiling, and the walls are as smooth as those of the passage I made for you.

Haytham’s fingers touched the surface. Water and sand polished these walls like river rock. That’s how I found these caves, by following the water.

The imp’s light bobbed across the walls and into the larger room beyond. Its sides were also scoured bare.

Water enough to fill this passage? the imp squealed.

Many times over. Does that frighten you? It doesn’t happen often.

How often?

Haytham’s words echoed. "You are frightened. Once that I know of, during my fifteenth summer. Why is an imp afraid of water?"

The imp’s light blinked out. I’m not afraid of water, master. I’m afraid of my coin being washed back into the icy depths where I’ll never be found.

Haytham ducked under a low overhang and, on knees and one hand, his other hand holding the lamp, crawled upward toward the opening, a few paces ahead. Stop worrying. We’ll be out soon. I’m a lot more concerned about snakes. The entrance is a snake pit, and I see several every time I’m here.

The imp’s light seared across Haytham’s vision. Frigid air mixed with the stench of cooked meat bit his nose and burned his eyes. Pebbles rolled across the hand supporting his body. When he could see again, he jerked back from a headless viper, writhing beyond the lamp.

That one won’t bother you, master.

His voice shook. What did you do?

Magic, of course.

I didn’t wish...

I knew you would, master. It was poisonous. I couldn’t let you die.

Were you more concerned about me, or you being stuck down here, waiting for the next storm?

You, master. How could you think otherwise? the imp squeaked.

Haytham shook his head, his hair brushing the low ceiling. "Now I must worry about what I might wish?"

He continued crawling, the air becoming warmer and dryer, until he could stand, his head and shoulders steaming in the sun’s direct heat. Please warn me before you kill any more snakes or anything else. I’d hate for you to murder my dog because it looks dangerous.

The imp squealed. "I’m outside! I’m rescued, master. May I