| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by Barbara A Barnett / Artwork by Jonathan DeBryn |
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| Jarra |
Jarra stood in a line of girls on the dusty temple steps, head bowed and feet bare, wearing a gossamer shift that left
nothing to the imagination.
"They are all of age, my lord," the priestess known only as the Oracle said, her voice as severe as her black vestments and
her dark, pinched face. Behind her, beyond the temple's sand-blasted pillars, a knot of weeds tumbled past, dry like Jarra's
throat. "And they all have the gift."
Jarra peered through the strands of tawny hair hanging in her face. Lord Yuron, a sleek figure with sunken cheeks,
strutted up and down the line of girls, eyeing each one with a lecherous smirk. When he passed Jarra twice without giving
her a second glance, she bit her lip to fight off a grimace.
She had done the spell correctly. She had waited until the moon was dark to bathe in clover-scented water, to slip beneath
its surface and hold her breath as she recalled every detail of the man whose desire she wished to rouse: Yuron. It wasn't
enough to have the gift for such spells, though. One had to have focus and a will as steely as the ore the mine workers
dug from the caverns in the valley. But if one of these other girls had performed the same spell, someone with more skill…
Yuron stopped in front of Jarra. He slipped a spidery hand beneath her chin and tilted her head up, so high she spied a
bird's nest in the temple's rafters. Yuron's lips curled away from his teeth -- perfect and polished, reminiscent of fangs. He
sniffed Jarra's hair, then took her by the hips and pulled her close enough to notice his arousal through his velvet breeches.
Jarra fought off a shudder. Fear gripped her tighter than Yuron did -- fear that her spell had worked too well.
What have I done? In her head, Jarra's voice sounded like that of the other young women before they had been lined up
for Yuron's inspection. They had chattered like rodents as they smeared dirt on their faces to make themselves look less
desirable. A few shunned such scurrying, vain enough to think they could give Yuron what he sought. Others thought a
brief life of luxury with him was worth the fate they would meet in the end. Most, though, were like Jarra had been before
the Oracle had taken her aside only weeks before -- too desperate for life to give up the one of captivity they had.
The Oracle cleared her throat. "My lord?"
Yuron slid his hands up to Jarra's breasts, and his stale breath crept over her face. "I'm still inspecting the merchandise."
Jarra cringed. The Oracle was wrong. I don't have the strength to do this.
She thought of the family she had been taken from when she was a child of eight. Jarra doubted her brothers and sisters
would recognize her after the ten years that had passed since then -- if any of them were left to remember her at all. Life
in the mines was never long.
With narrowed eyes, Jarra followed Yuron's hands as they roamed over her body, his jeweled rings and gold cufflinks
glinting in the sun. Bile surged up Jarra's throat, and she swallowed the bitterness back. So much wealth, all of it earned
through the drudgery of families like hers.
Yuron stroked Jarra's face with hands as soft and manicured as her own. Girls like her -- ones with the gift -- were spared
from the mines. The Oracle sought them out for Yuron and trained them in the ways of magic. They all had the same
story to tell of Yuron's soldiers marching into their homes and forcing them away amid screams and tears.
It was an heir Yuron desired from them -- a male child with the gift. No girl skilled in magic had ever borne a son, but that
had yet to dissuade Yuron, even after fifteen years of trying. He took girls with the gift to his bed and killed them when
they failed to conceive a son before the year was out.
"He will succeed if given time," the Oracle had told Jarra. "And if a boy with the gift is born, Yuron will use that child's
power to unspeakable ends."
The Oracle said it must be me.
Yuron ran his hands through Jarra's hair, then brushed his lips along her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, her stomach
churning with a revulsion she tried to push away. If she let such reactions distract her, if she lost focus for even a
moment, she would never be able to perform the spell that needed to be done.
But only if he chooses me, Jarra reminded herself. Without a physical union with Yuron, she lacked the connection
necessary to perform the spell the Oracle had taught her.
Yuron stepped back and smiled at Jarra. "This one."
#
Jarra sat beside the pond, grasping a flower she had picked at the peak of its life cycle. She brushed her fingers up the
sticky stem, then over velvety red petals and the spongy pink center.
The air was still enough to try the spell again. The slightest breeze would disrupt the balance required -- or the slightest
distraction. Twenty days had passed since Jarra's last attempt, when the sound of Yuron's voice, then the sight of his
hollow face and the remembrance of his oily touch, rattled her so much she broke the flower too soon and ruined the spell.
The gardens around Yuron's manor were dense with greenery, bursting with shades of red and pink, canopied by thick
leaves as long as a grown man's arm. A wind had been blowing from the south for weeks, bringing with it the sand and
tumbleweeds that overran the valley. Now, though, every leaf was still, the pond's surface like a pane of glass, the garden
cleared of the valley's dry detritus.
Jarra plucked a crimson petal and let it flutter into the water before her.
"One to open the seer's world," she said.
The tear-shaped petal floated across the pond's surface, a drop of blood suspended by water. Its edges curled, and its
color grew richer and deeper with the moisture it absorbed.
Jarra plucked another petal and dropped it into the pond. "One to open the gates of vision."
The water's surface rippled. Jarra's reflection -- the pale, haunted countenance of a girl desperate to escape the
degradation she faced night after night -- faded, replaced by the image of Lord Yuron. He stood at one of the manor
windows, gazing out at her. Jarra choked back a wave of nausea and dropped another petal into the water.
"One to open the gates of sound."
Faintly, the sounds of Yuron's study accompanied his image in the water -- the rustle of his breeches as he shifted, the
steady tap of his fingers against the window sill, his sighs as he watched Jarra.
If it were not for my skill with magic, he never would have considered me worthy to look in the eye, let alone take to his
bed.
Jarra sucked in a slow breath, let her anger harden into determination.
You cannot let your temper ruin this again -- not when your brothers and sisters spend every day in the mines to fatten
Yuron's pockets.
In the pond's cloudy view, one of Yuron's attendants drew up beside him. "What is she doing?"
The words came to Jarra muffled, as if she were submerged beneath the water instead of staring down into it.
"Fertility spell," Yuron said. "She didn't perform it correctly last time." His lips curled into a leering sneer. "As much as I
need the heir, I much prefer using her for what it takes to gain one."
Jarra bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. She tilted her head back and swallowed; just one drop in the water would ruin
the spell. Jarra took another deep breath, then plucked a fourth petal and let it fall into the pond.
"One to open the gates of feeling."
Jarra snapped the flower's stem in half, and it cracked with a sound as sharp as her hatred for Yuron. She dropped the
broken flower into the pond.
"And this to bridge the space between us."
Jarra drew a dagger from beneath the folds of her gown and held it over the image in the pond, tip pointed downward. She
dropped the blade, shuddered as it penetrated the water's surface. Yuron's image wavered, lasting only a moment more,
but that instant gave Jarra all she sought.
She saw the blade open a red, moist gash across Yuron's chest. She heard him scream a dry-throated cry of pain.
Jarra felt him die.
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