Ynamynet, the one spellcaster in their company, nodded. “I certainly heard such stories when I was growing up in Pelland. By the time I was born, people with magical talents were beginning to survive querinalo with their ability to use magic intact: Once Dead, as people still say.”
Firekeeper saw how Ynamynet unconsciously straightened with pride at the term, for she herself was Once Dead, and a spellcaster as well. Not long before, that would have set her at the top of the hierarchy of the Nexus Islands.
Of course, she still is on top, but for very different reasons. Ynamynet’s love for her husband, Skea, and their little girl caused her to side with us.
Derian flicked his horse ears flat against his skull, perhaps remembering how ruthless Once Dead Ynamynet had been, but he perked them again. When he spoke his voice held no aggression. “That’s something I’ve wondered about for a while, Ynamynet. If I have the dates straight, people in the Old World started surviving querinalo some three or four generations ago. Didn’t anyone start a new university?”
“Not a university,” Ynamynet replied with a brisk shake of her head, “nothing much larger than small-scale, very secretive instruction within families or communities. If you think that that New World has bad memories of when the sorcerer monarchs of old ruled, they’re nothing to what the Old World history holds. The colonies were well-established when Virim and his associates decided to protect the New World’s indigenous peoples from the invaders from the Old by creating querinalo. Here in the Old World—as well as in more distant lands, such as Tey-yo, where Skea’s family comes from—the sorcerers had ruled for centuries, and most felt little compassion for the peoples they dominated. When querinalo sickened those who possessed magical gifts, the attacks from the non-magical were swift and vicious—and justified as retribution.
“When those with magical talents began to survive, the fact that many were made—forgive me—apparently monstrous, by what the fevers did to them, did not reassure those without talents. Even those who, like myself, were apparently not marked were viewed as monsters. That we were born a few generations distant from the worst of the abuses kept us from being automatically slaughtered when we were discovered, but certainly not enough time had passed for the establishment of public teaching facilities.”
Urgana rapped her pen on the table. “King Essidan took advantage of the negative view of those who use magic to create a refuge for the Once Dead in the Mires. You know the consequences of that well enough.”
“I do indeed,” Derian agreed. “So, Queen Anitra is custodian of what many believe is not just a ruin, but also a sort of repository of magical what? Books? Surely those would have burned. Artifacts like the glowstones?”
“Or that peculiar sword that Laria brought back from Rhinadei,” Urgana agreed, “and possibly more powerful artifacts. Queen Anitra has declared the ruins of the old university absolutely off limits. For this reason, Queen Iline’s claim that Azure Towers is an unfit custodian has always been viewed by other nations, both on the continent of Pelland and those within trading distance, such as Tavetch and u-Chival, as unfounded paranoia and envy, nothing more.”
“But Queen Anitra is not likely to give us permission to send in a group to investigate if Kabot did go there.” Derian snorted a very equine sigh. “No wonder I was apprehensive. Either we take the risk of a crazed mage having free run of the ruins of a magical university or we send in what could be taken as an invading force, not just by Azure Towers, but by all the other Old World nations.”
“Laria, is that really, truly a magical sword?” asked Laria’s youngest sibling—her five-year-old brother Kitatos—for what seemed like the hundredth time over the past several days.
“Yes, it is.”
“What’s its name?” Kitatos asked.
“It doesn’t have one, yet,” Laria answered.
“I’d call it Biter of Badness,” Kitatos said, not for the first time.
Laria wished she’d just said her sword was an old one she’d found while in Rhinadei, but it was too late for that. She hadn’t liked to leave the sword sitting around, but carrying it with her had, inevitably, led to questions, questions she had answered honestly.
“Can I use it?” her younger sister Nenean asked. “You said that this sword helps people who don’t know how to use swords do it safely. Right? So you shouldn’t be greedy.”
Laria decided the time for white lies had come. “The sword can only have one owner. I’m the owner now, so it wouldn’t work for you.”
“You could tell it you’re giving it to me,” Nenean said with the covetous craft of her eleven years. “Then I’d give it back. Don’t be selfish.”
Ikitata, obviously regretting teaching her children to share, interjected maternal authority. “Enough, Nenean. Laria also told us that she’s been practicing how to use a sword, not depending on this one’s magic alone. She clearly understands that a weapon is a responsibility, not a toy. I thought you did, too, but maybe you don’t. Perhaps I should withdraw you from archery classes.”
That shut Nenean up right away. The Nexus Islands required all adults in its small population to train in the military arts. Even the elders had to learn the basics. Those who were too infirm to fight were trained in medical arts—learning enough to be able to tend patients or watch at the bedside of someone who had been critically wounded. Being given more than basic self-defense training was one of the first hallmarks of adulthood, and Nenean was very proud of her short bow and quiver of blunted practice arrows.
Ikitata went on. “Laria, do you remember the stories I told you when you were little? Maybe you can find a name for your sword in one of those.”
“Volsyl!” A character hardly remembered, never forgotten, sprang immediately into Laria’s mind.
“Not a bad choice,” Ikitata said. “You always did love the stories about her.”
Laria nodded. There had been stories about strong heroes, magical heroes, cunning heroes. Among these Volsyl stood out because she was none of these. All she had going for her was determination.
“Volsyl,” Laria repeated, touching the sword’s hilt. “I’ll call it Volsyl.”
“I still like Biter of Badness, better,” Kitatos muttered.
Laria tousled Nenean’s hair. “Want to go shoot targets? Bet I can beat you. I’ve been helping hunt.”
The sisters were out at the archery butts when Farborn streaked down from the sky and landed on Laria’s shoulder. The merlin bobbed his head down to indicate the message tube tied to his right leg.
“Thanks,” Laria said as she carefully unfastened it. Experimentation had shown that, no matter how delicate the glimmering crystal appeared to be, Farborn’s legs were actually armored. Nonetheless, they looked as if a breath might break the shell.
“What’s it say?” Nenean asked, jumping up and down impatiently.
Laria read aloud. “Silver Lady has set sail to retrieve Ranz and Wythcombe from the Rhinadei gate island. Firekeeper and Blind Seer have gone missing again. Arasan and I are stuck in a meeting. Will you meet them? Derian.”
Nenean went wide-eyed, all her previous sass vanishing. Although the Nexus Islanders were accustomed to transients, the idea of new arrivals from a civilization that had been forgotten long before the coming of querinalo remained exotic.
The sisters unstrung their bows, slid them into their cases, then hurried off toward the high ground where they could glimpse Silver Lady, her sails belled out, heading toward the small island.
“We have time to drop our archery gear at the apartment,” Laria said, omitting that she wanted to comb her hair and put on less sweaty clothes. Ranz had certainly seen her looking a complete mess, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity to look her best. She even considered changing into a dress, rather than her more usual trousers and tunic, but Nenean would be certain to notice and, after she got a look at Ranz, to tease. As far as Laria could tell, Ranz hadn’t noticed that she “liked” him, bu
t having him find out because of her little sister’s sly comments would be the worst.
“Laria! Silver Lady is nearly to the docks! I can see the pennants clearly.”
Gulping, Laria took a final quick look in the mirror—another of those little luxuries the non-ruling Islanders hadn’t possessed a few months before—then hurried down the stairs, Nenean pounding after. They arrived while Silver Lady was loosing her sails preparatory to sliding into its berth. Junco Torn, Chaker’s son and one of the few Nexans about Laria’s own age, gave the sisters a casual wave as he used his one remaining arm to grab the line Symeen tossed out to him. Nenean rushed forward to assist but, despite her getting underfoot, Silver Lady glided smoothly to the dock. What seemed like moments—or ages—later, Ranz stepped onto the dock, then turned to lend Wythcombe a hand.
They were an ill-matched pair. Laria knew that her tendency to compare Wythcombe to a potato had a great deal to do with the fact that, when she’d first met him, he had been digging tubers in his garden. He was somewhat shorter than average, balding, with weathered brown skin, deceptively mild brown eyes, and a generally nobbly build. Wythcombe had never said just how old he was, but Laria thought he couldn’t be less than seventy and maybe as much as ninety. His attire was more suited to a farmer than a spellcaster, all but for the polished, rune-inscribed staff, topped with some rough mineral, that he held in his right hand. Laria knew that Wythcombe’s many-pocketed vest was designed to hold the powders and dried herbs he used to hasten the activation of various spells but, combined with brown homespun trousers and well-used boots, it added to his overall lumpy appearance.
By contrast, Ranz—his full name was Ransom, but he hated to be called that—was as handsome as a dream. Like most Rhinadeians, his skin was a warm brown. His eyes were a pale ice grey with a darker rim around the iris. He wore his silky black hair to his shoulders, held from his face by a band tied across his forehead, the ends streaming down behind. Today’s band was a dark blue, similar to one Laria had filched and that now resided like a guilty secret at the bottom of her trouser pocket. In imitation of his master, Ranz wore simple clothing, but on him the multi-pocketed vest didn’t look in the least lumpy. He didn’t carry a staff, but Laria didn’t doubt he longed for that mark of a master spellcaster.
Wythcombe accepted Ranz’s assistance, although something in his slight smile suggested that he was humoring Ranz much as Junco had humored Nenean. Stepping neatly behind them came Rusty the goat, wearing Wythcombe’s packs.
Laria cleared her throat. “Welcome to the Nexus Islands.” Aware that she sounded ridiculously formal, she tried again. “Right? I mean, I’m sure that Chaker Torn already greeted you and all that, but… I’m glad to see you both. This…”
She indicated Nenean, who was now standing next to Junco. “…is my sister, Nenean. And this is Junco Torn. Nenean, Junco, these are Wythcombe, Ranz, and Rusty.”
“Is the goat yarimaimalom?” Junco asked, interested.
“Not wise,” Wythcombe replied, “merely a beast of burden, a prop for my aging years. It really would have been too much to ask Varelle to watch Rusty, so I brought him along. I figured he could be left here if we didn’t choose to take him with us. Goats eat almost anything. Rusty can make do with seaweed if he must.”
As if to prove the point, Rusty trotted along the dock, down to the sandy, gravelly shore, and started chewing enthusiastically on a bristly weed. Nenean hooted with enthusiasm and galloped down the dock after the goat. Laria couldn’t help but grin.
“If you don’t mind having Nenean take change of Rusty, the first place I’m supposed to take you to is Virim’s rooms.”
“That’s the sorcerer who created querinalo?” Wythcombe asked.
“That’s him,” Laria agreed. “I know you told us that you thought you could shield yourself and Ranz from querinalo, but Virim says he can do a better job. That way you won’t need to deplete your mana maintaining a shield.”
Wythcombe nodded. “That might be useful. However, I’ll want to discuss the nature of Virim’s shield with him before he does it.”
Laria laughed. “Virim will be very happy to explain what he’s doing to you. He loves to talk. The hard part will be getting him to stop explaining, and actually work the spell. Also, I’ve been told that when you’re rested from your travels, the council wants to speak with you—with all of us, actually. I don’t know the details, but there’s some disagreement as to the best way for us to go after Kabot.”
“Interesting,” Wythcombe said, his affable expression fading. “Very well. First Virim, then the council.”
“You don’t need to feel too rushed,” Laria said quickly. ““I’m supposed to show you to your quarters as soon as Virim has proofed you. There’s a nice cottage next to Plik that we’ve been using as a guest house that you can have. Private bedrooms and everything.”
She decided not to mention that no one had wanted to move into that particular cottage because the Spell Wielders had used it as a prison. Also, even with the gate removed from its hinges and repurposed elsewhere, not many people wanted to live surrounded by blood briar. Plik claimed not to mind. He even worked with Frostweed in tending the ferocious stuff, which—to be fair—was a valuable medicinal herb when it wasn’t killing anything stupid—or ignorant—enough get too close to it.
“‘Plik?’ That name sounds familiar,” Wythcombe mused, following Laria down the dock.
“The maimalodalu,” Ranz reminded. “The one who was captured by the Spell Wielders and is now a sort of elder statesman of the Nexus Islands.”
“That’s right!” Wythcombe said. “If I have estimated correctly, Plik’s around my age. It will be good to have another oldster around. You young people are exhausting. Where’s my other apprentice, by the by?”
“Hunting,” Laria replied, “with Firekeeper. On the mainland—in the New World. I’m sure someone will have sent a message that you’re here and they’ll be back. If they went far afield, the local yarimaimalom wolf pack will howl to them.”
“Marvelous,” Wythcombe said. “Absolutely marvelous.”
He said that a lot over the next few hours: repeatedly as he and Virim discussed querinalo and how to proof against it; when he met Plik; when he examined the blood briar (it turned out that Rhinadei had a several different varieties of the horrible plant); when Derian came to greet him astride the yarimaimalom horse, Eshinarvash, Isende behind him, her arms around his waist. The gate complex merited a “stupendous,” and the council a “deeply honored.”
Ranz was a lot more quiet, but his grey eyes missed nothing. Laria guessed he was imagining what it would have been like if he’d grown up here, surrounded by people who routinely used blood magic. No doubt the Spell Wielders would have recognized his considerable ability and taken care to train him. Of course, Ranz would have suffered querinalo, and probably wouldn’t have come through nearly as handsome. Then again… Laria found herself imagining Ranz transformed into a sort of Ice King: the sleet grey of his eyes paled into glinting, topaz blue; his usually unruly black hair combed back and frosted at the temples; the planes of his face sharper, as if carved from a glacier. His touch would be as cold as Ynamynet’s, but hadn’t she and Skea managed to…? They did have a kid.
Laria felt herself grow hot and, not for the first time lately, was glad her skin was brown enough to hide a blush.
Wythcombe had opted to take a quick tour, then visit more with Virim. However, he all but ordered Ranz to tour the Nexus Islands. Laria thought that Wythcombe was very aware that Ranz had only lived in one isolated village, which he had left in pursuit of his teacher. Certainly, there were times that—despite the fact that Ranz was more than five years older than she was—Laria felt as if he was the younger. He certainly showed that “youngness” in his first informal encounter with Ynamynet.
When evening came, Laria brought Ranz with her to the dining hall. The Nexus Islands had come a long way since the previous summer, but communal meals had become a
habit. In any case, one team cooking for everyone freed up other Nexans for other, more essential jobs.
Ynamynet came to greet them, her daughter Sunshine tugging at her hand, her husband, Skea, towering behind. As always, Ynamynet was bundled in clothing more suitable for outdoors in winter, even though the dining hall was warm from hot food and many people—not all of whom were human. The yarimaimalom had taken to dining with the humans when appropriate, a way of asserting that they were people, too, not just very interesting animals.
Ranz studied Ynamynet with the most animation that he’d permitted himself to this point. “Excuse me if I’m being rude. I don’t really understand the protocol, but when Arasan was explaining about querinalo and how no one survived it without paying some sort of price, he used your situation as an example of how that price was not always readily apparent. Perhaps Arasan told you that my specialization is magic related to cold? I was wondering if I might…”
Ynamynet drew in her breath sharply. Behind her, Skea stiffened, which—given his height and bulk—would be enough to make most people stop talking. Even little Sunshine stopped smiling. But Ranz had built a city from snow and ice; that single-minded focus was upon him now.
“I was thinking that I might be able to reverse the damage. What happened to you might be something like the adaptation I raise for myself when I’m working with snow and ice, so my body heat doesn’t melt the snow, but somehow stuck.”
To say that Ynamynet’s gaze became frosty was clichéd, but Laria couldn’t help but think that if a gaze could freeze someone in their tracks, Ranz would be an ice statue now.
“My situation isn’t quite that simple,” Ynamynet said. “Querinalo isn’t. Be glad you have been spared.”
Ranz stammered. “I’m sorry… I did say I didn’t understand the protocol. I only…”
Sunshine tugged at her mother’s hand, and whispered, “Mama, you’re scaring him.”
Ynaymynet drew in a deep breath. “Yes. I’m sure I am. Ranz, come and dine with us. No hard feelings, but querinalo takes hold where one is weakest, and I am still very, very weak in some ways.”
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