This story is one of a dozen "background flavor pieces" I wrote for Sierra On-Line's 1997 roleplaying title, Betrayal in Antara. All appeared either in the game, on Sierra's website as a teaser for the game, or both.

The Tale of the Malachite Cat and the Coal-Black Cat
-- a winter’s fireside tale
story by Cindy Vanous, ©1996 Sierra On-Line

Years and years and years ago, in the days of Magic's last Golden Age, there were wonders in the world which would make the greatest works of modern mages seem like the feeble attempts of an apprentice smith. The Lights of Starnyka blazed over the towers of the city once known as T'jallar, the Brotherhood of Sorcerers travelled from place to place with a single spell, Bhaud's Carnival Of Wonders toured the countryside to display such magically-created oddities as the Winged Grrllf and the Unspeakable Lump, and you could buy dreams of any sort in the Avenue of the Mages.

In this time there lived a sorceress by name of Derillia. The joymen and bards of her day sang her name in every city, in every town, in every port and palace and pub. Derillia truly was as powerful as the ocean, as beautiful as the sunset, and possessed of a will stronger than the finest steel. Her spells were breathtaking in their scope, and subtle in their implementation. She created many of the finest magical artifacts and cunning simulacra that our world has ever seen. Her fame was as bright as a diamond. Sadly, though, her heart was cold and dark, poisoned with a disdain for those who could not weave spells, and with a desire that her name be remembered until time itself slipped away and was no more. It was only to this end that she crafted her magical beasts and brooches, bottles and bags, that her works be admired long after her soul had passed from the lands of men.

Also in this time there lived a sculptor by name of Maricor, who was unsung and unregarded, but whose works were fine enough to grace the homes of nobility, if only they had known of his existence. His sculptures were made for the love of the making, and so he did not seek fame for himself. His only regret in life was that his wife, a quiet and loving woman who understood his passion for his art, and watched each creation with admiration, had succumbed to a wasting disease and had been bedridden for many months. He knew that soon she would be taken from him, and he despaired.

On the Day of Bright Birds, during the week of the Festival of Dreams, Derillia came to Maricor's small storefront in the Street of Artisans. As she swept through the door, Maricor was immediately struck by her beauty. His fingers itched to capture her features in stone or clay, as she seemed so much like a perfect statue made flesh. He bowed deeply and asked her what errand could possibly bring a lady such as herself into the city without servants or handmaidens. Without comment, she took a small black cat from a sack that she had carried with her, and placed it on the work-bench, where it took great interest in Maricor's smallest sculpting tool.

As Maricor studied the cat, Derillia took from another sack a block of coal and a block of malachite. A cat of coal was her need, she told the sculptor, with malachite eyes, and the whole thing as realistic as he could make it. Most importantly, the work could not take more than two weeks, or it would be useless to her. Maricor nodded once, and Derillia smiled and seemed to melt into the sunlight which streamed through the open door. In less than two heartbeats, she was gone. A mage, then, Maricor realized. He weighed the two blocks of stone in his hands, then recovered the cat and his sculpting tool from the dust beneath his work-bench. He took them upstairs to the room above the store in which he and his wife had lived for a dozen years.

Feeble though Maricor's wife had become, her eyes lit up at the sight of the small black cat. In her youth, she had been a farmer's daughter, and had cared for many cats. A cat was often a farmer's best friend, since it would drive the mice from the grain-stores and the rats from the barn, and even in its own small way foretell the future. For a cat's coat becomes thicker if the winter is to be harsh, and it can hear a visitor's approach to the house long before any human can tell. And Maricor's wife had fond memories of comfortable winter nights by the fire, with a mug of cider in her young hand and a grizzled farm cat covering most of her lap, listening to her father spin tales of days when the world was new. And Maricor, seeing this, smiled and placed the small cat in her bed, and told her that he would request the cat as part of the payment for the sculpture that he must do.

And so for three days, Maricor studied every move the cat made. He watched the shift of its fur as it stretched, and the play of lean muscles when it moved. He watched its expression when it chased dust motes across the floor, or bent to drink from a bowl of water, or simply sat and watched him in return. For three days, he learned things that he had never known about cats: the eyes that remained open ever so slightly when it pretended to be asleep, the cautious testing of the air with nose and whiskers when the door opened, the little wiggle of the haunches just before springing on a scrap of meat. And, after those three days, he carefully began to work on the block of coal.

The basic shape of the cat was easier than he had expected; it almost seemed to make itself. Low to the ground, tail held out motionless behind it, the coal form seemed to be stealthily stalking a mouse or a bird, or its owner's dinner. The details were only slightly harder. Ears straining forward to catch the slightest sound, eyes partially slitted and focused on the prey ahead, muscles bunched and tense, claws slightly extended, fur sleek and flat against the skin. The completed sculpture took only four days. The last detail that Maricor added was the eyes, carved from the block of malachite and set into the sculpture with genna-bark resin.

As he took one last searching look at the completed coal cat, Maricor's eyes fell on the block of malachite. It was almost the same size as the block of coal had been, and he had used only a tiny portion for the coal cat's eyes. Thinking, he ran his fingers over the smooth stone, turning the block over and over in his hands. As he looked at it, he found that he could see a shape in the stone, much as he had with the block of coal. He picked up his tools and set to work.

The second cat was carved in a more playful pose than the first. The malachite cat reared on its haunches, batting one paw at a dangling braid or proffered hand. Its eyes were wide, its whiskers splayed, its claws sheathed, its jaw slightly dropped as if mewing. The ears were perked, and the fur looked as if it was slightly fluffed. Like the first cat, it almost seemed to create itself out of the stone, and Maricor finished it in less than four days. Once it was finished, he brought both the malachite cat and the coal cat to his wife and showed her what he had done. Her pride in him shone in her eyes, and he once again felt the pain that he would soon lose her. The small black cat lay curled at her side, purring idly, and as he packed away the sculptures, Maricor reminded himself to ask the lady mage for the cat.

Two weeks exactly from the day that she had brought him the stone blocks, Derillia once again appeared in Maricor's storefront. Carefully, he unwrapped the coal cat and placed it on the work-bench. He could see immediately that she was pleased. She took the sculpture carefully in her hands and examined it closely, turning it over and over and over. Finally, she smiled. When she turned back to Maricor, he placed the malachite cat upon the bench. For just an instant, Derillia looked confused, but the sculptor explained that he had crafted it from the block of malachite, since he had been so inspired by finishing the first cat, and there had been so much of the green stone left over. Derillia informed him that he was welcome to the malachite cat, as it was worthless to her. At that, Maricor was sorely disappointed, thinking that perhaps he had sculpted the second cat poorly. Though Derillia usually took no interest in the feelings of others, so pleased was she with the coal cat that she hastened to reassure the sculptor that he had done well, and that she simply had no magely purpose for the malachite cat.

So Derillia carefully wrapped the coal cat in a very soft cloth, and asked Maricor what sort of payment he wished for his work. The sculptor, knowing as well as any man that it was never wise to ask too much of a mage, said that there were two things that he desired, if she would be so kind as to grant them. The first, he said, was the small black cat that she had brought when she first visited him, as his wife was very fond of it. Derillia waved a disdainful hand and said that this was hardly payment, since she had simply provided the cat as a reference and did not care what he did with it. He thanked her, and made his second request. Since many mages were well-known as healers, he explained, he had hoped that she could help his dying wife in some way.

For the first time since Maricor had met her, and possibly the first time in her life, Derillia actually looked uncomfortable. She said that her power was not of that circle, and that she could not heal his wife. However, she said, there might be some way that she could help, and she promised to think about it. As even the possibility of help was better than no help, Maricor thanked her profusely as she left. And when he turned back to his work-bench, he saw that there was a small pile of gold coins next to the malachite cat. With this, he knew that the lady mage had already kept her word -- the gold was enough money to purchase the help of a very good healer indeed!

That very afternoon, Maricor took the coins to the Avenue of the Mages, and visited one of the healers who had set up her shop there. He described the wasting disease which had afflicted his wife, and she spelled him a potion. Unfortunately, as the healer warned him, although the potion would doubtless cure his wife of the disease, it could not restore the damage done by the wasting. So it would be many months, possibly even years, before his wife would regain her former vitality. But Maricor was so overjoyed that one little detail could not matter less to him. He gladly handed over Derillia's gold coins and rushed home with the potion.

Maricor's happiness, sadly, did not last. A terrible sight greeted him in the little room over his shop. The malachite cat sat in the middle of the floor, glowing faintly. Next to it, to his very great horror, lay the bodies of his wife and the small black cat, both stabbed through the heart. As Maricor struggled to make sense of what he saw, a figure stepped forward, barely seen through the haze of confusion and despair which held his mind. The figure resolved itself into Derillia, with a broad smile on her face and a thin stiletto in her hand. Maricor opened his mouth to ask something, anything, but couldn't find the words. Swiftly, Derillia plunged the dagger thrugh his chest, then lowered him carefully to the ground. As the sculptor died, the last thing he heard was the lady mage's voice telling him that she had, after all, promised to help him.

Derillia surveyed the room and double-checked to make certain that her work was done. Pleased with herself, and exhausted from a long day, she faded into the light which streamed through the room's open window. Moments later, she reappeared in the front hall of her own home, a small palace of marble arches and colored glass. As she strode towards her living quarters and a hot mug of restorative tea, she ordered servants to go to her study and clear out the remnants of her morning's work: the bound corpses of a thief, an assassin, a soldier, a spy, a minor noble from an enemy province, and a small black cat. The next morning, she would visit the general of her own province's army, and bring him the thing which he had commissioned, a small and inconspicuous coal-black cat with green eyes that saw everything around it, ears that heard the slightest noise, and the intelligence and skill and talent to insinuate itself into an enemy's home, discover all his secrets, and bring them back to its owner. The general would pay her in gold, which she did not need, but the coal-black cat would be prized and valued, and remembered -- which was what she wanted more than anything else.

On that next morning, the malachite cat awoke and stretched. It felt as if it had been frozen in one position for far too long. Stiffly, it turned and began to lick the fur flat onto its back. For a moment, its muddled mind registered the fact that the haunch it licked was green, which seemed a bit unusual, but probably not terribly important. Slowly, the stiffness disappeared from its limbs, and the malachite cat turned and sniffed the air. The smell of the meat-vendor stalls and the sound of birds calling outside seemed terribly enticing, and the cat moved towards the door. It stopped only once at the top of the stairs to look back upon the three bodies which had once contained its mind. It recalled fondly all three, and felt a muted sorrow, as if it had lost something which it couldn't quite define, but soon the lure of the street distracted it. It bounded down the stairs and never returned.

Now perhaps this is all just a legend, and perhaps not. But if ever you see a coal-black cat looking at you with its green eyes, as if it knows everything there is to know, perhaps it is Derillia's eternal spy. And if ever you are lucky enough to see a cat with fur as green as a genna-tree in summer, and the look of mischief in its gaze, perhaps you would be wise to offer it a piece of fish or a saucer of milk, for a cat like that would be a true friend indeed.