The Song of Roland Ch. 24

There was something wrong with Roland's dream.

The fact that he was even aware that he was dreaming should have been proof enough, though that was merely the delirious prelude to the true terror to come. His head turned like he was underwater, his vision sweeping across the hazy landscape that surrounded him like a fog of indistinct colors.

He was... in Arjal. In the Red Light District. Above him in the sky, well beyond the tallest spires hung a great, scarlet Globe. The strange phenomenon glowed with a preternatural shimmer, dispensing light in an incandescent aura in all directions.

The red sphere was but one of eight magical constructs, an octagonal halo of lights set like a crown atop the fabled city's head. Roland had read once that each colored globe represented one of the schools of magic, each in turn the dominion of one of the eightfold Gods.

The Mage-Kings of Arjal had fashioned the massive globes in ages past to channel arcane energy through the very veins of their city. It was a metropolis made into a living spell, a place where - at times - the conventional rules of reality bent and twisted about in wild and uncertain ways.

This marvelous city was divided into eight chaotically-arranged districts radiating outwards from the centerpoint of the Mage-King's Citadel. The hilly city was, in fact, a geomantically-ideal channeling circle that spanned for miles.

But the particular place Roland found himself stranded in was a peculiarity amidst a truly peculiar polity. For the Red Light District - alone amongst the other districts of the city - was bathed beneath the baleful red eye of Huzra herself.

The red orb of Amphara blazed its pernicious glow down upon the looming whorehouses and gambling establishments, cursing them with the barest portion of her malice. The shadows cast by the Demon Goddess' eldritch light were deep and dark. They transmogrified the streets and buildings into sharp contrasts of crimson and black. At night, not even torchlight could dispel the pale, rosy tint it left upon all things.

Beneath its frightful glare, Roland, for a moment, faltered. He shifted his weight, feeling the uncomfortable heft of his guard's armor, and-

The young man did a double take, gaping at the temporal incongruity of his outfit. Upon the chest of his leather surcoat was stitched the sigil of Loherhof: a red Lion running rampant across a yellow field, bordered by onyx.

His hand reached down unthinkingly and lifted the ceremonial dagger of the Captain of the Guards free from its scabbard. He toyed with it in his fingers, lowering it with a haunting weightlessness back into its leather sheath. Awful clarity came at last as Roland realized his dread circumstances.

It was a play. This was a part. The setting was wrong, but the time of night was correct.

Roland felt the inexorable drag of something pulling him forward, driving him onward in sudden footsteps out of the alley in which he stood and onto the main street. Though the ramshackle buildings and bustling bordellos of the Red Light District were both dingy and decrepit, the roads themselves were wide avenues of meticulously maintained cleanliness.

Down the dark and murky cobbled road echoed the haunting pall of footsteps. Roland turned his head to the right, his mind latching on to the situation with the foreknowledge of one who had already lived through the coming proceedings. Roland could not recall this place in Arjal from his few, brief visits there. The location was wrong, but the events were correct. Why was this happening?

The figure that stepped from the shadows was unknown to Roland. Dressed in the faux-finery of a woman of the night, she was a strange admixture of frilly clothing caked in the grime of unrelenting poverty. Her dirty blonde hair was done up in dated fashion, dolled to resemble a northern Noblewoman's mountainous hairpiece. A dozen yellow ribbons fluttered in her hair. She was pretty enough, though time and experience had taken its evident toll on her.

Roland did not recognize her, yet she was at once unmistakable. She moved like Callie, the Demon of his past. Roland snapped to attention, remembering his place as he leaned casually against a wall. He watched as the woman in the gaudy getup struggled with a basket of grapes in her hands, waiting till she was nearly past him before making his presence known.

"-And just what is a scullery maid doing at this hour, marching about the streets with a basket of the Lord's finest vineyard?" Roland called out, a humored youthfulness to his tone. He stepped out from the heavy shadows and into the reddish light, his form silhouetted darkly in the crimson shine. He ran a hand across his chin, smooth despite his best attempts to grow a beard.

The unknown whore started, jerking back before matching eyes with Roland. "B-by the light of Gosvin!" She put a hand to her chest in chaste discomfort. "You scared me half to death, sir!"

Roland had known, even then, that Callie had not been surprised in the least by his abrupt appearance. In long hindsight he wondered if it had been mere chance that had twisted their fates together, or if she had - in her kind's predatory manner - chosen to ambush him at this spot herself. The truth was as ambiguous as the dream.

Roland strode up to her, affecting a posture of teasing authority. He reached forward, gently tugging at the basket in her hands as he bent his head over and inspected her bounty. "...Quite the haul you've claimed. Were you planning on holding a feast?"

The scullery maid played by a whore took an anxious step backwards, her head dipping as she caught sight of the young lordling. With a shock of red hair and strong features, Roland was a landmark face around the town. He was, after all, a hard man to miss: clad as he was in an expensive mail hauberk, bearing his family's sigil proudly on his chest.

Roland smiled at the maid, amused at her honest fear. She clearly hadn't lived in Loherhof for very long, if she was afraid of the Ronces. They were beloved by their subjects, and for good reason. Just and proud, in equal order, as his regal father was fond of saying.

"My sincerest apologies." She said, curtseying. "I did not realize who you were at first, my Lord."

"You don't need to apologize, yeah?" Roland said, laughing. "T'was only done in jest, my Lady." He paused, wiping at his bare chin. "...You speak with a highborn's tone. Do I know you?"

The whore stammered and glanced away. The act was strangely charming to Roland. "N-no my Lord! I am just a humble servant of his majesty, the Duke."

"As are we all." Roland replied. He let go of her basket and took a step back, allowing the poor thing some room to breathe. "The only difference is, our mutual taskmaster happens to be a personal relation of mine. More's the pity."

Roland shook his head back and forth. "How fares Herlinde in the kitchens? Haven't gone to visit her in ages. Does she still screech like a banshee when Alric burns the roast?"

The whore who wasn't Callie pulled back, caught off guard by Roland's questions. "You... know the Kitchen servants, my Lord?"

"Seems not!" Roland said, grinning. "After all, this is the first time we've met." He gestured for the whore to continue her walk. With a half-glance backwards she did as he asked. Roland paced along beside her, sauntering across the rain-slick cobblestones as they traversed the hazy dreamscape.

"What is your name?" Roland asked, clasping his hands behind his back.

"It's... Callie, my Lord."

"Roland." He said, tilting his head in greeting to her, as though he were giving a highborn lady her due honors. "A pleasure to meet you, Callie. You've livened up my evening considerably."

"Why is that, my Lord?" She asked.

Roland hooked his thumbs into the seam of his sword belt and acted for all the world as if he were on a casual stroll. Even as encumbered as she was, Callie was quick on her feet. He was forced to take longer strides to keep pace with her.

"Well," Roland said, "fer starters I'd be bored out o' my arse, patrolling a bunch of empty streets in the quiet part of town. The worst thing we've had to deal with around here for the last three years was a cutpurse and the occasional drunk."

"-Hence why you accost me, instead." Callie said, staring straight down at her basket as she walked. "An innocent maidservant, dutifully delivering grapes for her barking mistress..." She cast a sly glance in his direction. "Till you came along and startled me!"

Roland laughed aloud. "We all find ways to dull the boredom, yeah?" He replied. Callie met his eyes and let a smile play across her comely features. "Besides: I'm on a secret task from my father, the Duke. We both know yer smuggling these grapes in under the Lord of Loherhof's nose."

"But... to what purpose, I wonder?" Callie responded, keeping her deferential tone but allowing a hint of humor to seep into her voice. The peasant was daring to jest with her social better.

Roland took the bait. "Mayhaps something dastardly. You strike me as the type capable of concocting many a mad scheme. Maybe the fruits are poisoned, yeah? Or worse: affixed with an Elven Hex that turns yer tastebuds all to sour grapes?"

Callie giggled, her eyes flicking over to Roland to gauge how truly serious he was. Roland let his toothy smile speak for itself.

"Nothing so mundane as that, my Lord." She replied, hefting the large basket in her hands like it was nothing. "They are the latest reagents for my alchemical brew."

"Ah, a Witch-hag then!" Roland said, lifting and lowering his favorite dagger in and out of its sheath. "I've heard of yer kind: usin' potions to transform themselves into the beautiful forms of their victims. Word has it they beguile men, and lead 'em to their boiling cauldrons fer supper."

"Alas, my kettle's still heating, my Lord." Callie replied, relaxing just a bit more in Roland's presence. "Perhaps you could call on me another day, when the pot is properly boiling?"

Roland chuckled, "I'd like that. So what witch's brew are you concocting tonight?"

"A lust potion." She said, stressing the s so that it lisped from her lips. "For a man I've been sweet on."

"The poor fool." Roland surmised, "He has no idea what he's getting himself into."

"Most men don't." Callie replied, and Roland laughed again.

"You've a glib tongue, my Lady." The young nobleman said. "I find that refreshingly pleasant."

"And you have a most... ignoble tongue, my Lord." The whore said in response, turning her eyes to look at Roland through her thin bangs. Her smile was light and whimsical. "If I may be so bold as to ask: on what pretense do you accompany me on this evening's walk?"

Roland straightened his back and puffed out his chest. "Can't ya see I'm out on patrol? It's mere chance that you follow the same path as I."

Callie smiled but said nothing. At the first bend down a side alleyway she took it, heading deeper into the maze of side streets that made up Arjal's numerous gutters, dead ends and sunken corridors.

Roland without hesitation turned right alongside her off the path, away from the main thoroughfare. They were now walking side by side, shoulder to shoulder through the narrow lane.

"...Your patrol is back that way, my Lord." Callie murmured.

"Tis a wonderful, cool evening, yeah?" Roland answered, staring up with a smile at the crimson sky.

"I would not want you to get into trouble, purely on my account." She said.

"I do not find you troublesome, my Lady." He said. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Callie came to a stop, her face partially hidden by the sharp, angular shadows cast by the tall buildings that surrounded them. "You are too kind, my Lord. But your interest is... unseemly. Word spreads fast around the castle. And while your attentions are flattering, I am..." She trailed off.

"You think I came to bed you?" Roland let out a hearty laugh. "My Lady, I am as virginal as the spotless snow. Is the mere act of enjoying yer honest company really such a sin?"

Her eyes colored at that statement. A contemplative look came to her features. "No." She said, tasting the thought on her tongue. "...I suppose it isn't."

"Do you make this walk often?" He inquired.

"Every evening."

Roland smiled. "May I walk with you again on the 'morrow, then? I like to have a stable patrol route, and some company along the road would be a nice distraction from the drudgery of it all, yeah?"

"I'd like that, my L-"

"Call me Roland." He preempted her, "And maybe I'll call you 'Callie' in return."

She laughed. To this day, Roland remembered that laugh. It was so sweet, so genuine in its intent that he was, in a moment, smitten with her.

Callie looked at him, her eyelids lowering. Something in her appearance called to the young Guard. It drew him onward, like the pull of an unseen string.

Like a low, pleasant hum in the back of his mind.

Roland reached forward without thinking, turning aside a stray lock of hair from her face. There was an instant connection. She did not turn his hand away as it gently cupped her cheek. She was so warm. Her skin was so warm.

Callie leaned up, and he down. Their faces split the light between them, shadows flickering in the dull red glow. The would-be lovers' lips brushed across each other for a brief moment, before both nervously withdrew.

"I..." Roland began, his knightly bravado disappearing in an instant, betrayed by youth and inexperience. He'd never done something so brazen before. What had come over him? "I-I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay." Callie said, glancing away. She hefted her heavy basket into her hands."You meant nothing by it, after all."

Her words wounded Roland. The young guard backpedaled, fearing he had crossed an unintended line. "Please, I didn't mean to take such wanton liberties with you, my Lady. I-I meant what I said... about the walks." He felt at a loss. "Can you forgive me for-?"

"I thought you were going to start calling me Callie, not 'my Lady.' " She said, her eyebrow lifting as the whore in Callie's place let a sly smile slide onto her face. Roland's heart leapt. He exhaled an uneasy chuckle.

"Gods, I thought I'd done something profoundly foolish just now." He said, fingering his dagger again. Callie's eyes drifted down to gaze at the thing before snapping back up to match his own.

"Maybe you did, Roland." She let another smile play across her features. "You won't know until tomorrow, will you?"

Roland laughed again. Callie always made him feel giddy when she toyed with him like this. It would be a sensation he would come to know well in the coming months. He adjusted his sword belt and cast a shy smile in her direction.

"I look forward to the riddle's answer." He said, knowing in his heart that she'd be there, waiting for him the next night. "And if, by chance ya decide not to come, it was... nice to meet you, Callie."

Her eyes twinkled with mirth. "Farewell, Roland."

Roland bade her a warm goodbye, his mind alight with the confusing, terrifying, wonderful things he'd just experienced. He had never been so singularly struck by a woman before. He was almost dazed at the memory of their kiss, as if the act itself was an aberration.

He waved over his shoulder at Callie as he turned away, content to continue on his patrol and the comfortable bed that awaited him. He certainly had a story to tell the men when he returned to the barracks! Roland could not contain the infectious smile that grew on his face as he began his march back towards the-

"Wait." Callie's voice called from behind his shoulder.

Her tone was... different from before. Syrupy, and candy-sweet. Roland felt something strange build in the back of his head, like foggy clouds drifting over the higher functions of his mind.

No. This was wrong. This didn't happen. Roland remembered it all so clearly: He'd had that wondrous stroll with Callie, had fallen asleep to the memory of her laugh, and then spent the night dreaming of that singularly fascinating kiss. He'd think of her for days afterwards, dwelling on little nuances of that night together that he hadn't noticed in the moment. But he for certain left after the kiss. She didn't tell him to-

"Turn around." She whispered. "Come back to me."

No. This is wrong! Don't turn around. She didn't ask you to turn around. You walked out of the alleyway, and finished with your patrol. You told only your squire Janus about her, and then had a meal with your elder brother in the-

Roland revolved about on his heels like a plodding turntable. His dull eyes affixed to the creature standing there, a phantom of unreality in the midst of the darkening dream.

Callie's eyes were not her eyes, nor were they the whore's eyes. They were red. Red like blood, mixed with hellfire. Her dilated pupils blazed with a seductive heat that pulled at Roland's very being. He fell into their depths, losing all semblance of control as he took a few, final, infantile steps towards her. He could not stop himself; he'd been glamoured.

"Roland. I need you." The whore who wasn't Callie whispered, casting aside her basket of grapes. Her bluish tail thrashed excitedly about her as her demonic features came to the fore. "Don't you need me as well?"

No. No, no, no!

"Tomorrow night, at the same time. Do you promise?" She smiled so sweetly at him, flashing her fangs as her horns curled like black snakes about her head. Roland nodded without telling himself to do so. It was a surreal and frightening experience. His body was not his own, his memories were a lie.

"Kiss me again. Harder." She strode into his arms, asserting his personal space as her own without hesitation. "I want to taste you on my tongue."

Roland, driven half-mad by the cloying words, dropped his head and mauled her mouth like an animal. His hands reached down to fondle her nethers as a dark voice spun threaded tendrils in his ears.

My flame. He heard the whispers say, over and over till consciousness roared up to meet him. Roland's terrified shout banished the voices more completely than ten long years of alcohol had ever managed to do.

"Guh!" Roland wheezed, his arms reaching in front of him as if to ward off a charging foe. He sat up in a rush, his muscles tensing as he swept his unfocused eyes about the cramped attic room.

He was panting heavily, his shirtless and scarred upper body caked in a sheen of sweat. His nerves were shot, his blood pumped adrenaline like liquid fire through his veins. Roland felt like he had just stepped off a battlefield, and a nasty one at that.

Kelsea let out a similar gasp next to him, jerking in place on the double bed they were resting on. They were in one of the village's many abandoned buildings in the Outer Cloister. Triss had volunteered her own room for the two to use, choosing instead a more cramped locale amongst her compatriots in the tavern.

The nude Demon sat up, her purplish skin and unbearable heat an immediate fixture in Roland's mind, even as he struggled to come to terms with what he'd just experienced.

They turned to look at one another. Roland was horrified to see her wearing the same, confused and frightened look.

His heart sank. The Meld had finally begun.

Roland turned his back to her, sticking his legs out over the edge of the bed to plant his feet upon the ground. He rested his hands upon his knees, staring at the floor. His breath came out frenetically. His body trembled with fear.

"What... what was that?" He heard Kelsea say over his shoulder. Her tone was uneasy and agitated. "What did I just see? Was it a dream? You were walking past my mother's whorehouse with Chea. But... that wasn't her."