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Sangrelysia
by Vivian Darkbloom
Butterflies
We honored the sacred traditional rite of staring at the ceiling,
which in this case was a translucent quartz-crystal skylight. It
filled the room with a peaceful glow, and granted us the
opportunity to glance around at the neatly organized clutter and
partially-tamed disarray collected by generations of eccentric
cognoscenti.
On the wall behind the collection of telescopes were pinned
several different maps of the stars and charts adorned with
astrological glyphs, the seven elements, and other magical
symbols, accompanied by notes in ancient Sangrelysian. Because
many of the more useful texts regarding magical practice had been
penned in that language, it was customary for a wizard to learn
it.
As the warmth of satisfaction gradually diminished, Sylvia's
former cranky mood began to return. Though silent, her fidgeting
and tossing about told of her discontent.
"What's so great about this cramped old cave, anyway. Can't we
open a window or something?"
"A window," I chuckled, taking the resolve to sit up and walk
over to a battered old wood console from which emerged a series
of tarnished brass-knobbed-levers. I slid one of them to a
different position, and the ceiling disappeared altogether for a
360DEG panoramic view around the horizon, 180DEG across the sky
overhead. "One-way, nobody can see in," I said.
Sylvia took in a quick breath, but quickly recovered. "What if a
bird comes by and craps on it?" she asked.
I laughed again. "Not sure. It wouldn't hit you, though. The
lever only adjusts invisibility, not solidity. We can have it
open in a rainstorm and we'll still be dry. Like being outdoors,
but protected from the elements. And bugs."
There was a breeze of fresh air. Up in the air nearby above us, a
patch of cloudiness shielded us from direct sunlight. The magical
cloud would shift throughout the day to keep the room perfectly
lit.
We were surrounded by orchards and meadows, and there was a lake,
perfect for swimming or sailing on, down a short path from the
cave. In the distance were mountains, and nearer by were the
rolling hills.
"Rolling" wasn't literally the way they moved, more like bobbing
slowly up and down like rounded hemispherical islands floating
dreamily in some sort of viscous fluid. The hills were covered
with dark green grass and trees.
"Those hills, are they moving?" she asked, pointing.
"You could say that, though the technical explanation is somewhat
more complex. See, this has been the training grounds for
generations of wizards, and all that spell-casting and magical
activity has loosened the grip of reality."
"Oh."
"Over there is where we practice folding space, like I was doing
yesterday. I'll take you over there and I can teach you."
"So what am I going to wear?" Sylvia complained. "All my clothes
were in the carriage. Or back home."
We were, after all, both naked.
"Open the closet," I said. "See if there might be something in
there."
With a dejected slump, she trudged over to the wardrobe, and
yanked the door open.
It was divided into two -- the first I had seen the wardrobe here
accomplish that. (did this mean we were married?) On one side
were dresses, skirts, pants, and every sort of foot apparel
imaginable, all in her size.
For a moment the dark cumulus hanging over her mood lifted, as
she dove in with words like "Wow!" and "Awesome!" and "Cool," and
there was a momentary blizzard of fabric in the royal crimson,
violet, and green, as she tried on the various articles.
Few things bring happiness and satisfaction to the heart more
completely than witnessing the delight of a young girl.
Meanwhile, I donned one of the lighter robes, more suited for
this tropical climate.
While I sat enjoying the view, she came to me with various
outfits, grinning for my approval, which I gladly conveyed.
Eventually, she arrived at one eminently suited for running and
playing in, pants and a shirt with a little dress for frills, and
stood before me, showing it off.
"When they're dirty, just toss them on the floor of the closet,
and when you open it again they'll be hanging up, clean. Or you
can use the hamper if you like," I said. "Isn't that a better
kind of wardrobe than one having a preachy old lion in it?"
She sucked on her index finger while leaning on my chair.
"You miss everyone from back home?"
She nodded sadly.
"Hungry?" I asked.
She nodded again.
For breakfast we went downstairs, and with the touch of a wand,
the kitchen stove provided waffles.
"Those are like the ones they make in that non-magical city of
Belgica I think it's called, wherever that is," I helpfully
explained.
"Belgian waffles. From Belgium," she corrected.
"How do you remember stuff like that?" I asked.
"Weren't you going to make up some memory potion to help you
remember things?"
"Well, I was, but I, uh. . ."
". . .Forgot?"
"Well, yes."
She executed a flawless eyeroll.
The waffles were topped with syrup harvested from the local
treacle-trees, perfectly sweet and flavorful, and white foamy
whipped cream that came from pods growing on short bushes with
grey leaves. It was like whipped cream, only with the botanical
freshness of a spring garden, without the sour aftertaste of the
stuff that comes from cows.
And fruit salad of strawberries, melons, apples, and a variety of
others.
Shortly, I was sipping coffee, while she gave up the struggle to
finish what was on her plate.
"So let's go back upstairs," I said. "I've got an idea of
something to help with your mood."
"'K."
As she sat with me overlooking the panoramic view, I found a
cubby with a sheaf of blank paper, in different colors of
stationery.
"What's that for?"
"Messages. Write one for each of the people you'd like to
contact."
"'K." She set out with determination, filling the leaves with
hearts and flowers and words of yearning and well-wishing.
"Write only on one side," I said. "Then they can turn write on
the other, and it will come back when they are done. It will
split in two, so they can keep the message you sent."
I wrote to Roderick, asking about the raid, and other political
news from the castle. And I wrote to Gwendolyn, telling her the
story of what happened.
"How do we send them?" she asked, when we were done writing.
"First, fold them exactly like this." The series of creases
yielded an origami shape with two symmetrical wings.
I helped her fold the ones she had written, for Shanon, Meredith,
Lindsay and Stacey. Then I pulled a sturdy little wand from
collection in the wand-holder sitting on the desk, and held it
over one of my folded insects.
"Now you say this verse, and keep the person's image clearly in
your mind. At the end, you say the person's name:
Mela thiann uz laue sith O uerech Imcla
Lo/th er a d`in.
Schea sia uth senn myria nasco dia l`aloth seya
Ko/kh re oe ts`in.
O ith a hoitha serva maeneth
Fly to Roderick!" and I tapped the folded shape lightly with the
wand.
With a burst of tiny magical glittering stardust, it turned into
a gorgeous butterfly, and flitted off into the wind.
"Here, now you try it."
"Um, could you write down the words? I didn't quite get all of
them."
"Of course," I laughed. "Sorry!"
I held the wand in her hand and helped her recite the spell, and
one by one her tiny messages came to life and fluttered and
scattered, each one winking at us, growing smaller and smaller
until it diminished completely in the distance.
By the end, she was doing it all by herself.
Once they were all gone, and had vanished into the remote
solitude of their journeys, she wondered aloud, "So somebody who
just saw them flutter by would think they were butterflies."
I smiled. "And whenever you see a butterfly, it could be a
missive of longing for an absent lover."
Chapter 17
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