Haunting

It was night, and snow coated the ground, just as it always was when they went out. This was the time of spirits and the time for punishments. Kija gripped Atlas’s reins tightly in her hands. The dragon didn’t offer the same gentle light from her star pearl or the calming touch of a soft mane. Her pearl was a cage for a creature much smaller, a shadow of a shadow that was her companion. Smooth scales were her mane, and the clawing darkness her domain. The hands of a dozen spirits waited patiently for her summons, writhing in and out of Kija’s vision, knowing that they would be called soon. Indeed, her wake was of a completely different nature to Menoetius’s, but one Kija was much more familiar with. She, too, pulled her comfort from the shadows. Her Shadow carefully weaved within the shadows, her glowing green eyes flicking in and out of the bushes. If Iapetus could not protect her, then she was safe with these two.

A broken mask of bone and fur was crying quietly from the saddlebags. One way or another, it had reached Iapetus’s hands, and he would put it to rest like he did with all the other ghosts. Kija despised the way he ruined the spirits, but today was apparently different. In addition to the resting ceremony, Iapetus would be slaying a monster of the living variety. ‘It’s important that you watch,’ Iapetus had told her. ‘It’s also a part of my work.’ She cared little for the farce he called an apprenticeship, but the thought of watching the frail Tsotska take on a hunter piqued her curiosity. Because, certainly, there was only one such monster, and he was the hunter who lost the bones they now claimed.

Her Shadow returned from the woods, joining the spirits at Atlas’s feet. “He approaches.” The wyvern was inclined to remain in the shadows. Like Kija, Shadow wanted nothing to do with the physical world. Any moment spent above ground was akin to the breach of a fish at sea; Temporary, fleeting, unwanted.

Iapetus could hear her just fine, though. He had ears for the ghosts and eyes for the spirits. He nodded towards Atlas’s shadow and stopped his progress. It wasn’t long before they could hear the hunter—or, at least, the hunter’s dragon—clambering through the woods. The dragon’s thin snout poked through the brush, sniffing, then leaped out with his antennae buzzing and tail wagging. The hunter bore a new mask now: a smaller skull, with straight strands of a golden mane hanging from its brow. He had tied it together in a small ponytail and let it drape over one of his shoulders. It wasn’t his only souvenir from the slaughter; He had new sandals, gloves, belts, and even a new leather saddle for Caliban. Prospero had stolen as much as he could from the corpse. The Tsotska sighed. “Do you know why I called you?”

Prospero shrugged. “Could there be any other reason?” Caliban glowered at Atlas, and then further underneath her, where he knew that Shadow was lying in wait.

There was a silence between them; Iapetus eyed the hunter up and down, inspecting each and every contraband. At last, he said, “There are many things that are wrong with you. But today, you’ll be seeking penance for a crime far older than the one you committed across the channel. Kija, if you would?”

Kija didn’t let her hands fumble, even though she knew every dragon here anticipated a battle. She revealed the broken mask from a saddlebag and handed it to Iapetus. Caliban cocked his head as he looked at the old mask, doing his best to look confused. “This was at the hot springs. Did you lose it?”

The hunter laughed. It did nothing to ease the tension. “Depends on your definition of lost. It was stolen, more like.”

“Ah, so you did meet the dragon spirit there.” Iapetus cradled the two pieces of the skull carefully in his hands. “It’s best not to upset them, and impossible to break the code without their eyes seeing. Do you understand?”

Kija started to smell the blood in the soil, saw the flicker of a deer spirit in its perpetual last throes, heard the distant cries of birds. Only ghosts tread over this ground now. Ghosts and—apparently—dragon spirits. She quietly wondered how many of them were around. If they were watching Prospero carefully, or maybe Iapetus, or maybe her. Shadow piped up from beneath. “There are a few, all small. Merely a snack for any dragon here.” It was comforting, in a way.

“Thank you, my Shadow. Don’t eat them, though.”

As Shadow sent a feeling of affirmation, Prospero dismounted his dragon. “I thought it was Tsotska that dealt with crimes like that? Or maybe the Tsotska-mar? Not some exorcist with a hobby of hatching eggs in his free time.”

“It’s better if they don’t get involved, trust me. You’re lucky I was the one to find out first.” He held out the mask to Prospero. “Today, we’ll put this spirit to rest. Tomorrow, we’ll find out.” Kija nearly rolled her eyes. There wouldn’t be a tomorrow for someone like that. At least, that’s what Iapetus had told her in the hovel of an instance he called a den.

Prospero took it with a careless familiarity. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“Bury it, first of all.” Iapetus pointed at the ground.

The hunter was inscrutable, the mask hiding whatever reaction he had to it. Caliban stepped in and started churning the earth beneath their feet. Green magic seeped into the soil like roots, separating the grains and creating a comically large hole for such a small item. Prospero waved a hand at the hole. “Is this suitable enough?”

The Tsotska didn’t acknowledge the question—instead, he gently took the pieces of the skull and laid them within the black and blood-stained soil. “Cover it now.”

Caliban happily started shoveling dirt back into the hole with his feet, making sure to kick up some extra dust towards the other party. The loose dirt grew into a mound over the old skull. “Should we flatten the ground? Make a gravestone?”

Iapetus shook his head. “Inconsequential.” For a brief moment, it looked like he was more occupied with the grave than his target. “A simple acknowledgement is enough. Now, we draw the spirit out so that it can travel to the next world.”

The hunter crossed his arms. “Are you a necromancer? Because this thing is dead. At least ten years dead, maybe more. Even if there was a ghost or something haunting it, there’s nothing left in there.”

“Necromancy is forbidden,” Iapetus snapped. He shut his eyes and let a calm wash over him. Was he listening for something? Or letting a thought take him elsewhere? Kija couldn’t tell. He broke from his stillness and motioned for Atlas. She carefully trod forward, her hands making soft indents in the moist soil. He held out a hand to Kija, which she took—what other choice did she have? She stepped lightly on the ground, connecting with her Shadow once more. She gulped, but Shadow circled around her like a dolphin around a castaway; Shadow wouldn’t leave her. She’d help. She had also learned what to do. Iapetus took out a golden object with strings tightly wound around its surface on various sides. “You remember the song?”

Kija nodded and carefully positioned her hands around the instrument. She was still new to it, but she had rehearsed this song hundreds of times since this morning. Even if she couldn’t play it as a whole, she could at least play the song. She plucked at the strings and let the chords flow from it. In the moment before a falter, Shadow would send guidance; Kija’s music flowed smoothly from one measure to the next. She felt a buzzing in her finger tips and in the air around her.

The ghosts under Atlas shivered and finally broke from her shadow, clawing at the simple grave in a display only the dark Riders and their dragons could witness. They writhed among the dirt and started to pull up something white and brilliant. As she played, the light grew brighter, and its shape more consistent. She nearly let her fingers slip as she recognized the curved bones of the mask, but Shadow was quick to correct her. There was no room for mistakes.

The beast stumbled from its grave in a flurry of white light. Iapetus squinted and Kija had to shut her eyes and play blind as her song reached a crescendo. She felt the fury of the beast, its lingering rage, its heartbroken voice singing in tune with the music. It looked like a kirin, with spikes jumping from its sides in all places, and a curled bumble wrapping around its neck. It was the spirit of the broken mask, free from its confines. It bucked and gnashed its teeth like a wild animal. It darted forward, charging toward Kija, but both her Shadow and Atlas were quick to weigh it down. It now turned its fury to the others around it.

Iapetus borrowed his dragon’s magic to blend in with the shadows. Prospero startled as he flickered out of vision, though Kija could still see the edges of his form. With only Prospero remaining, the kirin rushed at him, mouth frothing and body straining against Atlas’s arms. As it set Prospero in its sights, Atlas let go. Prospero saw nothing as the spirit crashed towards him. Its nostrils flared and it reared on its haunches, smashing its legs beside him. It dashed around him, tossing its horns to and fro, but never striking. Its eyes were wide, inspecting him carefully. At last, it seemed satisfied; Its anger returned in full, and it charged again at Kija.

This time Iapetus was the one to stop it. He casually grabbed its crest as if it was made of air and held its head in place. Where he was weak in body, he more than made up for it when it came to handling spirits. His will was much stronger than a decade-old echo. Atlas’s spirits curled around its legs, brushed through its velvet scales with their fingers, and did their best to comfort it with the first contact in ages. Its rage was not quelled, but the spirit was calmed nonetheless. Kija felt the end of the song approaching. The spirit glimmered underneath the starlight, growing fainter now. Iapetus offered a pet of his own, smoothing out the scales of its brow as it made one last look around for the source of its rage. Then, Kija’s song was ended, and the spirit faded completely. The arms curled in where there was emptiness, and Iapetus slowly let his hand down.

“A nice song,” Prospero offered.

“Naturally. Kija is quite skilled.”

The compliments left her feeling upset more than anything else, but she bit her tongue. This was her only skill. Her Shadow sent a feeling of protest, but she sent back an equal feeling of disdain.

“Was there a ghost, then?” Prospero was oblivious to the scene that had unfolded before him.

Iapetus scrutinized him up and down, flicking out his tongue in the stale air to take in every ounce of information it could relinquish. “Yes, but you’re a lucky man. It went ahead before it noticed you.”

Atlas lowered her shoulders to let Kija easily mount. Both of them were disinterested in the lies Iapetus was weaving.

Prospero motioned towards his current mask—the one with four-pronged antlers and a straight mane that flowed smoother than his old one—“And this? Am I haunted too?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also a hint of curiosity. So he did care about such things.

The Tsotska shook his head. “It’s not. You’re very, very lucky.”

Kija felt Atlas’s posture relax. Caliban saw the change in temperament and also relaxed, his body language growing a bit lazier. Kija no longer felt an animosity between Iapetus and Prospero and breathed a sigh of relief. As much as she wanted to see someone in the living world meet their maker, she hadn’t expected a spirit to be the source of the punishment. She felt betrayed, to say the least.

“Don’t fret, Kija,” whispered Shadow from beneath her. “We all arrived prepared for a hunt, and now the traps have been dismantled. This place is safe again, and the spirit left without being used for suffering.”

“Take care, then.” Iapetus was not one for lengthy goodbyes, and judging by the speed with which Prospero mounted Caliban, neither was he. They travelled their separate ways—Prospero to his Mountain Hatchery, Iapetus and Kija to the grove of their small instance.

Her Shadow followed Prospero’s progress with glowing green eyes and Kija carefully waited until he was out of earshot. Even then, she held her voice at a whisper. “Why did you lie to him? He’s very haunted right now. Aren’t we supposed to do something? Prospero still hasn’t learned his lesson.” She was frustrated at everything right now. All she learned today was to trust no one and expect nothing from them.

Iapetus also spoke under his breath. “I didn’t exactly lie. He is haunted, yes—but only as haunted as I am by Atlas. Only as haunted as you are with your Shadow. If that dragon felt animosity, then Prospero would be dead. It doesn’t need a summons to make its mark on this plane.” He sighed, inspecting the night stars. It was still a long time before the sun rose. “No…I know better than to get between a dragon and its Rider.”