Читать книгу The Stringless - Alisha Walkerden - Страница 5

The day performed its usual rhythm—the strings in unison, each instrument playing its part in Maître’s symphony. But from her waking moment, Serie did not play her part with ease. She fought against the strings all day. When Tristian returned that night, with much effort she lifted both of her arms off the bed.

On her walk to work the next day, she paused to take a deep breath of the spring air. The sweet aroma of wildflowers mixed with freshly cut grass invited her into the woods. She walked with fresh hope. She could defy the bidding of the strings; she could be free of them and not die.

Serie came to a fork in the road; one road led to Kalan, the other to somewhere she had never been. She toed the edge of the unknown path and looked through the overgrown trees. Vines sprawled across the path that covered the road ahead. The path called her forward, but the strings regained their control, dragging her back towards Kalan.

Tristian returned that night, stirring Serie from her slumber. She was prepared for the heaviness in her muscles.

“Why,” Serie sighed, “can’t you fix me with your magic?”

“Magic is not going to fix you, Serie.” he said. ‘the pain will go away. You just have to keep moving.”

Serie sighed and lifted both her arms off the bed. She pushed them down, trying to sit up. Tristian helped her up, propping her against the bed head. Serie concentrated her energy into her movements.

“You”ve made a lot of progress in a few days,” Tristian said watching Serie’s arms rise and fall in almost fluid movements.

“I was practicing today,” she said, as she admired her fingers curling into a ball.

“Maybe you can try lifting your leg,” Tristian said, giving her right foot a small squeeze.

A look of uncertainty crossed her face, but she fixed her eyes on her knee and tried to visualise lifting it up.

It didn’t move.

“I can’t do it! Why can’t I do it? It was easy to lift my fingers.”

“You’re feeling some resistance. your body is used to the magic of the strings. Something inside you is telling you this isn’t how it should work.”

“Yeah, it feels like a rock.”

“But you know you can get past that rock. It was the same when you tried to lift a finger, or your arm, or your head. You can do it.”

She wiped away her tears and turned her attention to her foot. After a moment her toes wiggled. She smiled at Tristian. “The fact that I knew I could do it made it easier.”

“Remember that,” he said. “Some of the others took weeks just to lift a finger.”

“Others?”

“The others I have helped, the Stringless. There is a large group of us now, scattered in places around the world. There are about two hundred of us southeast of Kalan. Our home is a few hours’ walk along the coastline. It’s beautiful by the beach. We call it Haven.”

Serie’s interest piqued; Tristian wasn’t the only one.

“It sounds amazing. I hope I get to see it.”

“The way you are going, I’m sure you will.”

“When did you lose your strings, Tristian?”

“I never had any.”

“How is that even possible?”

Tristian paused, his lips pursing when he tried to think of the right words to say.

“The day you came into the world, you didn’t have any strings, no one does. The strings are not a natural part of humanity. While you were in your mother’s womb, your only experience of the strings was when they forced your emergence into the world. A child’s strings come for them at dawn. Mine never came. My parents woke up the next morning thinking I had died in the night. They realised I was still alive. They waited for months, but the strings never came. Maître found out and came to kill me. But my parents ran away with me before he could find us.”

Tristian hesitated; a hint of sadness appeared in his face.

“How did they run away? Maître could summon them by their strings,” Serie murmured.

“They learnt how to walk away from their strings. Their desire to protect me far outweighed their allegiance to the strings. But Maître pursued us for years. When I was ten, he found us, hiding in a little cottage on the border of Pardu. He killed my parents, but he couldn’t touch me.”

“Why couldn’t he touch you?”

Tristian whispered inaudibly; a small white flame appeared in his hands.

“Like Maître, I was born a sorcerer. A human that has magic and can live for centuries. Maître has used his powers for darkness for so long that he can only produce dark magic. My magic is light magic; it is stronger than darkness.” Tristian’s fingers curled over the flame to extinguish it.

Serie’s gaze lingered on the sparks of white light that clung to the air.

Tristian pulled a ragged piece of parchment from his pocket, showing her the faded ink:

La lumière brille dans l”obscurité, mais l”obscurité ne peut pas l”éteindre

“What does it mean?”

“It means that in the end, light will overcome darkness. Even in the darkest of moments, there are tiny rays of light that can shine through and break it.”

“Like the Kings’ war. The one that made Maître bring about the strings.”

“I suppose you could say that,” Tristian said.

“I learnt about the war at school,” Serie said. “Two corrupt kings were going to destroy the world in war, until Maître intervened. It was over two hundred years ago.”

Tristian took up the story. “The war was between King Varsna of Pardu and Chancellor Garinth of Ashwin, the country that borders Pardu in the north. War is what these men knew: they fought and then there was peace for a while and then something else happened and they fought again.”

“What were they fighting about?” Serie asked. “We never learnt that.”

“I don’t know. After a while, you begin to forget what the fight was about in the beginning. One small thing triggers a lot more things.”

“What did Maître have to do with it?”

“Maître was the sorcerer to King Varsna, and Varsna commanded Maître to curse his enemies to bow down to him. But Maître realised the power his curse had and took control of the world.”

Serie felt her heart begin to race. “How could anyone let him do that. He didn’t have the right.”

“What makes you say that?” Tristian asked with intrigue.

“You said we aren’t meant to have strings. So why didn’t someone stop him?”

“There were those who fought back at first, other sorcerers who tried to break his curse and failed. Varsna himself attempted to kill Maître. But he pulled Varsna apart by his strings and took the palace in Kalan as his own. Maître’s curse became so powerful that no one could free themselves. Maître was convinced that he was doing it for good, believing that humanity needed to be controlled so that there would be no more chaos.”

Serie took her time to process the information, letting her heart return to its normal rhythm. “How do you know all of this?”

“I have met many people while in hiding, some that have managed to not fully succumb to the strings’ powers. They have preserved the history that Maître wishes the world never knew.”

Serie felt her heart beat faster, her breath constricted in her chest.

“Don’t let anger control you, it tends to make for rash decisions,” Tristian said, placing his hand on her arm.

“I’ve never been able to feel anger before. If I hadn’t seen Maître angry before I don’t think I would know what it was. I watched as his eyes grew darker and his nostrils flared as if he would spout fire. It’s horrifying.”

“What does it feel like for you?”

“It hurts. I don’t know what to do with it. I shouldn’t be feeling it. I need to remain placid at all times, because that’s what the strings want of me.”

The sun slipped through the window again, and within moments the strings descended to her bed.

“Help me, Tristian,” Serie pleaded.

“My power can only keep the strings away for so long. Only you can make the choice to walk away and be free of them.”

“I want to be free now,” she said, as the strings drove their way into her flesh. She resisted their urge for her to stand. After a few moments, she couldn’t hold off any more. They pulled her from the bed and into her usual routine. She wanted to rip them off her body as they pulled her along. She looked at Tristian as he climbed out the window. She watched as he walked freely down the path. She would walk of her own accord, even run if she could. One day.

Serie grew restless as each day passed. It had been weeks since her first meeting with Tristian and she was still a captive of the strings. But she pursued her training every hour that he was with her.

Serie stirred as Tristian sat at the edge of the bed. The two friends watched as the strings disappeared in the waning moonlight.

“You are going to walk tonight,” Tristian said.

She smiled, pushing herself to sit up in bed.

Tristian held out his arm for her to hold, but she refused it. She pulled her legs from the bed and dropped them to the ground. She let her toes curl against the scratchy wool of the rug; she had never noticed its coarseness before. She rubbed her feet back and forth, the sensation bringing tingles in her toes.

Tristian stood up and offered his arm again. She held on and dragged herself off the bed.

“How does it feel to stand up?” Tristian asked.

“It’s heavy,” Serie said, trying to hold herself up. She shivered as Tristian’s hand tapped the bottom of her spine: magic poured from his fingers.

“This might help a bit,” he said.

Serie felt her body become taller as her chest opened, and her shoulders loosened. Her legs held her weight.

“Your magic couldn’t just help me walk?” Serie asked as her legs began to quiver.

Tristian frowned. “Serie, a sorcerer cannot use magic to make someone do something. If I made you walk, you would not be the one walking, the magic would. It’s like the strings: they do the walking, not you. All I have done is repaired what is damaged, so that you can do it yourself.”

“If a sorcerer cannot make a human do something, how did Maître bring about the strings?”

“That’s a story for another time. Let’s focus on walking.”

Serie nodded reluctantly, clutching Tristian’s shoulder as she slid her foot across the floor. Her knees refused to bend. Her arms had made great progress as she had gained full fluid movements. Her legs, however, took some convincing to move at first. She could lift them and pull them towards her on the bed. Now that she was off the bed, her legs didn’t know what to do with all the extra weight on top of them. She had never noticed how the strings had made her walk for all those years.

She watched as Tristian almost floated across the floor. There was none of the usual thudding that Serie had become accustomed to. He would stride, as if nothing could hold him back.

She thought of the path that she always crossed on her way to and from work. How it called to her to walk down it and explore the places that it led to. If she could walk, she would follow the path and keep walking until she reached the ends of the earth.

With everything she had, she pushed her legs to move forward, her shaky start supported in Tristian’s hold. She hobbled to the edge of her rug and slid her bare feet onto the smooth timber floor. She circled around the room and Tristian’s hold became lighter as she found her rhythm. The more she walked, the less her shaky legs stumbled. Tristian was beside her the whole time, helping her get back up every time she fell.

“It’s almost sunrise,” Tristian said.

Serie grimaced. “If I keep walking, maybe the strings can’t catch me.”

“It doesn’t work like that. If you aren’t close to where they left you, it will raise alarms. Maître will be alerted so he can punish you.”

Serie sat on the edge of her bed. “This isn’t right.”

Tristian squatted down so he was face to face with her. “No, it isn’t, but the strings won’t be here forever. We will stop them.”

That thought played in her mind. There was a chance that not only her, but everyone could be free of Maître’s curse. Serie smiled, hope filling the empty void that had been in her heart for too long.