The Unfettered Child

by Michael C Sahd

  Now, invoke the power.

  Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “Invoke?”

  Cast the spell, the spirit said.

  She did as she was told. The power flowed over her, hardening her skin. As her flesh stiffened, its color transitioned from pale brown to alabaster. Feeling heavier, she poked at the tightened skin. It felt like stone, and she could barely detect her finger running across her arm.

  Very good, Illtud praised. As the day progresses, I’ll teach you more protection spells.

  “What about turning into an animal?” Samara asked.

  I’m afraid I don’t know how; it’s not something I can teach you.

  Disappointed, Samara said, “Oh.”

  However, when we get to my people, you will have access to countless spells, including changing forms, Illtud said, enthusiasm coloring his words.

  “And my mother will be there?” she asked quietly, doubt still nagging her.

  Yes. Of course.

  Continuing her descent to the sounds of water, Samara became lost in her thoughts. The woods thickened, and she found herself weaving through countless trees. Stopping to glance around, she found that the forest appeared much the same in all directions. She had spent a little time in woodlands gathering with Sigmia, although never far from the plains. She recalled foraging in the leafy trees near Standing Lake and the edges of the pines by the mountains. However, she had never been alone in one or so deep into one. If not for the flowing water and the obvious decline, she expected that she might be lost.

  Spying a blue aura pacing her farther along the slope, she squinted for a closer look. Among the trees, she spotted the giant wolf gazing at her. She waved enthusiastically at the shaman. Knowing that her grandmother was still around made her feel better. The wolf lifted her chin, almost nodding, before turning into the woods and disappearing into the shadows.

  Who did you wave at? Illtud asked.

  “Sigmia, and she had a blue aura, so you’re right. It is magic.”

  Yes, it is, whether she believes it or not.

  “Illtud?”

  Yes?

  “Your aura is blue, and you said you’re a mage,” Samara said, pushing through a group of saplings. “What spells can you do?”

  My magic is very limited while trapped in this gem. However, a mage can direct me to cast spells at a person. You could do it, but so far, we’ve had very little opportunity to use my magic.

  “At a person? What do you mean?” she asked.

  You could use my magic to force people to do what you want them to do, Illtud said.

  “Even if they don’t want to?” she asked, stepping onto the bank of a river.

  Yes, that’s right, he said. When I had a body, I could command the elements with proficiency. I was unmatched in magical ability, or so I thought.

  “But why would you want to force people to do something they don’t want to do?” Samara asked, while contemplating a way to cross the river.

  Illtud didn’t answer right away. Sometimes you just need to, he finally said.

  Samara peered thoughtfully into the water. She could see her face reflected on the surface, and she hardly recognized herself. “I wouldn’t want anyone forcing me to do things that I didn’t want to do,” she said.

  Again, Illtud didn’t answer immediately, but when he did, he said, I wouldn’t either.

  As she stared at her reflection, an idea came to her. Putting her pack and knife farther up the bank in the shadow of a tree, she stepped to the very edge of the river. The water flowed rapidly over the rocks below. Taking a steady breath, she invoked her inner magic.

  On the top of the water, a miniature whirlpool appeared, but instead of twirling under the surface, it lifted into the air, a tendril of swirling liquid rising to the same height as Samara.

  Then she pulled her hands to her chest, and the funnel came toward her, engulfing her in its swirls. She closed her eyes as she felt the cool liquid flood over her, soaking her clothes and hair. Holding her breath, she directed the water to swirl over her face as well.

  When she felt clean, she released the spell, and the liquid splashed to the grass below her. Invoking her magic again, she directed the wind to blow, whipping her clothes and hair around. After drying up, she gazed back toward the knife, smiling. “I’m really good at this,” she said.

  That was very creative, Illtud said.

  Glancing back at her reflection, Samara noted that although she was cleaner, she still seemed too thin, with dark rings under her eyes.

  Noticing the movement of fish in the river, she had another idea. She sent a bolt of electricity arcing out of her finger to dance over the water. Two of the fish came bobbing to the surface, but to her surprise, they floated away downstream, much too swiftly for her to catch. Embarrassed, she glanced back toward the knife.

  That was a good thought, Illtud said. Don’t concern yourself though; mages are not fishermen.

  She turned back to the water. Sitting down by the bank, she studied her reflection again. Her stomach grumbled, and she realized just how hungry she was. Despite Illtud’s instructions, she still hadn’t been eating much.

  Interrupting her thoughts, Illtud said, All people interested in magic are first taught to harness . . . He paused, realizing that she probably wouldn’t understand his usage of the word.

  To bring the power to themselves. They accomplish this with the assistance of words and gestures, and only those very practiced can cast these spells without using these methods. You have a natural gift, so you may not realize how difficult magic is for most. Many mages never learn more than the simplest spells. I am old and have known a great many mages; not a single one could use magic like you.

  “Why am I able to do it?” Samara asked.

  I don’t know. Let’s keep moving. We’ll talk as we travel, Illtud said.

  Samara dropped her eyes to the river. “I have an idea,” she said. Standing at the edge of the bank, she searched carefully for more fish. In three quick successions of splashes, needle-thin icicles shot out of the water at an angle. Each one had a fish skewered on it, and leaned over the shore inches from her grasp. Excitedly, she collected her fish.

  Very nice! Illtud said, enthusiastically. You’re well on your way to becoming a very powerful mage.

  Chapter 10: Escape

  Orin felt warmth on his face as he slowly came to. He opened his eyes to a slit, but the sun ambushed them with painful spears of light, forcing him to squeeze them shut again.

  Groaning, he tried to move, and his head throbbed with a searing pain. Despite his agony, the slow, horrible realization that he was tied to a tree concerned him more. Where was he? He had been sneaking through the woods. The elves! He had fought with them. He had killed them . . . hadn’t he?

  A hand patted his cheek, a soft hand, a woman’s hand. He opened his eyes and winced as a swirl of blurry colors swam in front of him. It hurt. Snapping his lids shut again, he felt the patting briefly stop, followed by a stinging slap that forced his head to the side.

  Under normal circumstances, it would have merely stung, but the back of his head protested in an agonizing surge of pain. He opened his eyes once more, and the blurry colors came into focus in front of him.

  An elven face haughtily scowled up at him, aqua-blue paint extending from the top of her eyelids to just below her brows. Her lips glistened a vibrant red in the sun.

  If not for the knowledge of what these elven people had done to his tribe, if not for the intense hatred he felt for them all, he might have found her exotically beautiful. Instead, he glared at her, trying to pull his hands free. More than anything, he wanted to break that conceited face for the destruction of his people, the death of his daugh . . . he groaned, unable to complete the thought.

  He felt ropes digging deep lines into his calves and forearms, cutting off his blood flow. He knew he would have to fight pins and needles if he escaped his bonds. A cold wind prickled against his body, and to his dismay, he realized that
he was naked.

  When the elf turned her head, he followed her gaze and discovered he had an audience. Two male elves stood to his right, and some armed men stood behind them, staring subserviently at the ground.

  The female elf started singing. It reminded him of a gentle wind blowing across the plains. It seemed a short verse, and he realized she was, in fact, talking to her companions. The male elves smirked and responded, their voices equally melodious. At the end of their song, the elves eyed Orin cruelly and laughed.

  Returning her focus to him once more, the painted elf pinched his muscles and poked at his stomach, as if studying a particularly good horse. She sang a violent dirge to her companions, as she tried to put her hand on his cheek once more. He jerked his face away, but her hand followed him. Stroking his wild beard, she finished her verse, then slapped him again.

  The other two elves laughed and responded in song. They turned to go, and the men behind them scurried out of the way. Orin watched them hike up the mountain to the huge tent he had seen the night before.

  With her hand still on his cheek, she turned to one of the men and said, in Havallan, “Find a captive that can translate for this fool.”

  “Yes, Lady Amastacia,” he responded and ran down the slope.

  Orin had collected saliva in his mouth while the elf spoke, and when she turned back to him, he spat a giant glob onto her face. A string of it still stubbornly hung from his lips. He heard gasps, and everyone stood still as stone while the slimy mess dripped down the elf’s chin. An angry half-smile stormed over her features, and her eyes darkened.

  He felt sharp stings on the side of his face as she dug her nails into him. She pulled her hand across the soft flesh of his cheek, tearing deep gouges. The gashes burned, and he could feel blood oozing out of them. The pain in the back of his head flared up again, and vertigo threatened to black him out.

  His anger pushed the dizziness back, and he said in Havallan, “I’m going to kill you!” More spittle followed his words, and his head lunged forward as far as it could go, his eyes wide, his breath coming heavily through clamped teeth.

  Unperturbed, the elf scowled back and said, “I don’t need a translator, it seems.” Orin continued to glare at her. “Where is it?” she asked, pulling out a piece of cloth and wiping her face.

  Ignoring her, Orin tugged at the bindings around his hands. The elf shook her head sadly while she folded up the cloth and put it away. Placing her hand on his bare shoulder, she mumbled something in her singsong language.

  He tried to bite her hand, but it was just out of reach. He felt a burning sensation in his shoulder. His skin began to blister and crack. The burning traveled the length of his arm, and he screamed.

  “Where is it?” she asked through clenched teeth, slowly enunciating each word.

  “Where is what?” he managed through his agony.

  “That’s better,” she said. She removed her hand, and the pain disappeared as if it had never existed. Examining his arm, he couldn’t find any blisters, and he wondered if it had been real at all. She tapped the side of his face, bringing his eyes back to hers. “Now. Where is the pendant?”

  Orin mouthed, “The pendant?” He shook his head and looked at her as though she were crazy. He couldn’t fathom what she was talking about, or even why she was asking him.

  Scowling at him, she asked, “Are you an idiot, or do you not understand what I am saying?”

  “I understand you,” he said, dangerously.

  “Then where is it?” she sneered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he yelled.

  The slender elf put a hand on his arm and intoned something again. His skin started peeling up, cracking like a dry riverbed. The pain shot through his arm so intensely that he nearly forgot about the pounding in the back of his head. His yell echoed across the mountain.

  When she finally removed her hand, the pain and wounds disappeared once again. She said, slowly, “The gold pendant! It had a large sapphire in it. One of you humans had to have taken it. Where is it?” Suddenly, Orin realized what she was talking about, and it must have shown. “There you go,” she said. “Now you remember.”

  He thought of the stone he had set into his daughter’s kukri and of his conversation with the elf at the crater, resurfacing his recent grief. Samara . . . he had lost his little girl over a rock? Unable to control his emotions any longer, he started to cry. Through his tears, he asked, “Is that why you did it? Is that why you killed my daughter? For a rock?” His voice rose to a yell at the last question.

  “Oh, you poor human, so confused,” she said sympathetically. Then, smiling, she demanded, “Now, tell me where it is.”

  The man who had run off for a translator returned with Tiana, one of the young ladies who had been harvesting in the mountains. She appeared beaten and scared. She shivered in terror when she saw Orin strapped to the tree.

  “I’ve got your translator, m’lady,” the man said. “She speaks Havallan.” The elf rewarded him with a slap, and he sank to his knees and groveled away from the group, eyes wide with fear.

  “You idiot, can’t you see we’re already talking? Move her aside!” He scrambled off the ground and grabbed Tiana, dragging her away from the tree.

  Orin let his head droop. He felt like a failure. Not only had he lost his daughter, but he had failed to rescue his wife as well, and he had abandoned Nikolai. “Just kill me.”

  “What?” Zayra said incredulously. “I have no intention of killing you. Although I should. Just tell me where the pendant is.”

  Gazing up to at sky, Orin steeled himself for more pain. “No,” he said.

  The elf put both her hands on his exposed stomach, and agony shot through his body. He screamed, and he cursed, but he told her nothing. She continued to hurt him in different ways, each more terrible than the last. At one point, he blacked out, but the elf woke him with a slap.

  “He’s a stubborn fool, but he obviously knows something. Go gather the rest of the people we captured near the plains,” she said to one of the humans watching.

  Turning back to Orin, she said, in an angry whisper only he could hear, “I will get my answers,” her painted lips snarling close to his ear.

  After his recent tortures, it felt easier not to respond, to just hang there with his chin on his chest. However, he finally mustered the energy to lift his head slightly. “Die!” he said, snapping at her pointy ear. She backed away just in time.

  In a fury, she slapped him continuously until his ears rang. While she vented her anger on the smith, the smell of feces preceded his tribe as they were marched before him. He noted some were missing, such as the hunter he had seen the night before with the wound in his side.

  The drugs must have worn off, because he could see recognition among his friends and family; yet, their eyes remained dull, the life drained out of them.

  Natalia paused in front of him, clearly confused by his presence. She still wore the same hides she had worn on the day she had gone to pick berries, but they were torn and filthy. She smelled terrible. Her cracked lips moved like she wanted to say something, but no words came out.

  Orin looked at her sadly. He couldn’t imagine what they had done to her. Through the dirt, he could barely make out the dark rings under her eyes and the acne marks that dotted her face. He shook his head slightly, turning away, hoping Natalia would take the hint and move on.

  She must not have understood. A weak, scratchy voice said, “Orin?” No, he thought, don’t say anything, please stop. “Orin?” she repeated.

  “Grab her!” the elven woman demanded triumphantly. A toothless, balding man placed his hands on her shoulders, and she dropped her head, standing submissively still.

  “Fight!” Orin yelled in Vohen. “Run!” But his tribesmen only stood there, defeated. “Do something,” he yelled at them, his voice pitched high in desperation. He gritted his teeth. “Leave her alone,” he said to the female elf.

  “Cut her nose of
f,” the elf said to the toothless man. The man yanked a knife from his belt.

  “No, please!” Orin begged.

  The elf raised her hand for the man to stop, then grabbed Orin’s hair and pushed his head into the tree, causing the pain to flare up again. “Then tell me where it is!” she demanded.

  Orin imagined his daughter’s body, twisted in the ruins of the camp, and he closed his eyes. Swallowing his tears, he said, “I set it into the pommel of my daughter’s kukri. You probably destroyed it when you destroyed our camp.”

  Natalia, who also understood Havallan, asked, “Samara?” Orin choked down a sob and dropped his gaze to the ground. This was not how he had planned to tell Natalia about their daughter. Natalia wailed, “My baby!” and dropped into a crouch, crying in despair.

  “Shut up!” the toothless man said and started kicking her until she stopped crying. Yanking violently on his bonds, Orin felt a bit of the rope snap, but he still couldn’t break free. Glaring at the man, he yelled, “Don’t touch her!”

  Zayra slapped the man, and he scurried back to his spot, staring down at the ground like the other thralls. “Do not step out of line again,” she told him.

  “Thank you,” Orin said.

  Turning back toward him, the elf stood thoughtful. Despite her youthful appearance, her composure made Orin think that she was older than she appeared. Her dress hugged her body until it flared at the very bottom and at the sleeves.

  She wore no jewelry, but a square bag hung from a strap over her shoulder, reminding him of something Samara and Sigmia would have used to collect herbs in. He realized this must be the mage the blond man had warned him about. “Please, mage,” he begged. “Let her go. Take me instead.”

  His voice seemed to wake her from deep thoughts, because she started. She stared at him for an instant as if he were dull witted, then smiled. She sang in her native language while sprinkling some white powder she pulled from her bag onto the ground in front of her.