by T P Sheehan
Clenching her jaw, Alavia stared a moment into her subordinates eyes. She took the scroll from the man. It was sealed with dark blue wax imprinted with the Ice Realm symbol of two icicles. Breaking the seal, Alavia unfurled it. The message was addressed to her, written first hand by one of her scouts. Positioned in Ba’rrat, he had witnessed the destruction of the Black Capitol at the hands of the Couldradt Fire dragons and the Irucantî. And there was more.
Alavia looked to her men and dismissed them. With silent bows, they turned and rode westward to the cavalry. Alavia reread the latter part of the scout’s message—
“… Furthermore, I have news of both your husband and your son…”
Alavia walked to the well, tore up the scroll and threw the scraps down the long, dark shaft. She then walked to the rise in the field, north of the homestead. Here, she sat cross-legged facing southward—toward Ba’rrat. After some contemplation, Alavia formulated her second negating spell. This time, it would lift the masking spell from Magnus.
Alavia knew full well Magnus would no longer be hidden from his Icerealmic past, nor keep his powers in hibernation. She prayed though, to the god of Ice, that the mark of Iisilée would save his life.
SPELLS
“How could I never have known my mother was an Electi of the Ice Realm?” Magnus searched for memories that would hint at the truth. The process was futile.
“The first thing you need to get your head around is this, Magnus,” Marsala was emphatic. “Your mother was protecting you, not lying to you—know the difference.”
Magnus was sure Marsala was right and told her how Alavia’s family was killed by the Quag.
“The rune sticks shattered as part of the spell’s process—to veil the truth. Anything revealing your connection to Hasdereq or Iisilée places you in danger. Your mother knows the Quag would never cease trying to kill you.”
“With the strength of the Electus, I could have protected myself.” Magnus tried to counter Marsala’s reasoning.
“Her family was slaughtered. They were all Electi and well-trained Rhydermere. You were a child.”
“I think your mother was very clever,” Catanya contributed.
“I can see that,” Magnus conceded. “It’s just… difficult knowing my mother hid from something so powerful for so long.” Magnus had a thought and shared it with Marsala. “If my mother’s spell hides Iisilée’s blood in me, why then does Thioci’s blood not finish its process?”
“Your mother has not taken her strength from you, she has masked it. I doubt anything can take it from you, not even Thioci’s blood.” Marsala put a finger to her lips as she pondered. “Thioci was intent on protecting you. Is there any way Thioci could have known you carried Iisilée’s blood?”
Magnus immediately thought of Breona. She was the reason he faced Crugion, Briet and the other two Quagmen in the clearing in Froughton Forest. It was Breona who charged forth to protect the dragon youngling. “I was just following Breona,” Magnus half mumbled to himself. He shook his head, piecing things together as Marsala was suggesting. “Breona… my mother’s Astermeer. She would have known for certain. She spoke with Thioci before she died.” Magnus knew Breona had made a connection with Thioci. His mind was permanently etched with a vision of the two of them looking at one another. “Breona told me that I had my mother’s heart—that I was the ‘chosen one’. Thioci then said Breona had ‘shown’ him… that I was the Electus.”
“And you were badly wounded. For some reason, Iisilée’s blood did not heal you. Thioci acknowledged the Electus power within you thanks to Breona and decided you should live.”
“And in doing so, made Magnus a double Electus,” Catanya concluded.
“Precisely.”
Catanya stared at Magnus as if waiting for him to comment on their collective deduction. Magnus stood and paced about the small room. This was far too much to comprehend.
“It seems you owe your life to two mystical creatures… three actually, if you count Iisilée.” Marsala grinned.
After Magnus’s overwhelming revelations, Marsala suggested he get some fresh air and asked Catanya if she could spend some time with her alone. Magnus agreed and went for a walk. Marsala turned her attention to Catanya.
“Pretty-priestess, the whole time you’ve been here you’ve had a strong scent of jasmine oil to you.”
“Everyone is telling me that,” Catanya said.
“You should use a little less. It gives notice of your presence where you may wish to remain anonymous.” Marsala nodded at her own advice.
“I’ve not used jasmine oil since leaving Nuyan,” Catanya retorted, wondering why it was such an issue.
‘That is interesting.” Marsala directed Catanya to sit again and stood behind her. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check for any impediments placed upon you.”
“Impediments?” Catanya said. “I believe my Semsdi did this in the Romghold.” Even as she said it, Catanya’s heart jolted a stern warning just as it had in the artisans’ camp. Once again she remembered back to when her Ferustir suit was being made. Joffren supervised as Delik’s sorcerers checked her mind for spells and curses that may have been placed upon her. A feeling of dread ran through her as before in the form of an unwelcome chill. Joffren… Delik… the sorcerers…
Marsala placed her hands on Catanya’s head, splaying her fingers over Catanya’s temples. Almost immediately Catanya felt the mystic’s presence in her mind.
“I’ll share thoughts with you as I go so you know where I am and what I’m doing,” Marsala explained, telepathically.
“Very well,” Catanya reluctantly agreed.
“Your thoughts are your own, I’m just looking for any sign of—”
“Any sign of what?” Marsala was silent. “Marsala? What are you looking for signs of?”
“This!”
Catanya’s thoughts flushed with a vision of her mother—
Alessandra was young—no older than Catanya was in that moment. She nursed a baby in her lap and was singing to her. Her mother had a vial of fluid. She was dabbing it on her fingers and smearing it across the baby’s forehead, cheeks and chin, singing a Fireisgh enchantment as she went. She said her name repeatedly—‘Catanya… Catanya…’ The fragrance of jasmine crossed Catanya’s nose. Then the vision changed. Her mother was gone and her baby self was gone. They were replaced with a shadowed, overbearing presence like an all-seeing eye watching over her. The fragrance of jasmine became overbearing. It was as though she were drowning in it. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone.
Catanya opened her eyes and spun her head about. “What did you do to me?”
Marsala stood back. “Did you see him? Did you see your Semsdi in your thoughts?”
“No,” Catanya replied. “I saw my mother with me as a baby. She was placing enchantments on me, just as Joffren and the sorcerers observed back in the Romghold.”
“He has done more than observe you, pretty-priestess. Your Semsdi placed a spell on you. Your mother’s protective enchantments were made with jasmine oil—a rhythmic essence that is powerful at night when you are most vulnerable, and wanes during the day. He knew this. His spell piggybacked off these enchantments, enhancing the scent, allowing you to be tracked. All a tracker had to do is utter the words of your mother’s enchantment and they would be drawn to you.”
Catanya was shocked. “Can you remove the spell?”
“I just have.”
Catanya breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re sure it was him? I sensed a shadow but could not see its source.”
“Aye. He covered his tracks, but I saw him in the spell, just as you saw your mother. Catanya, your Semsdi obviously wanted to keep a close eye on you. He did not trust you.”
“Joffren…” It was then Catanya realised—“Joffren told the spell to Demi who used it to track me to the old chancel in Brindle. At least I can rest knowing the line of deception ended there.”
“And I’m betting she tracked you at night, when t
he scent was strongest?”
“Aye,” Catanya said.
“To meet her inevitable fate,” Marsala concluded. “Like I said—that is irony.”
Catanya considered a further irony—Eamon was to send Joffren to Marsala for healing. “Marsala, have you received notice from Eamon about Joffren?”
“Aye. He should be here soon enough. I’ve handled characters more difficult than him before. We’ll see where his fate takes him soon enough, pretty-priestess.”
Time alone gave Magnus the chance to settle his mind while walking the silent, crumbling streets of Thwax. The rising sun drew away straggling remnants of ocean mist. Magnus walked toward the jetty where the fog still clung and tried to make sense of Marsala’s revelations. Why does fate see us finding sanctuary in the house of a mystic who makes riddles of our lives? He knew the answer to his own question—“Eamon.” Magnus had learned not to doubt his friend, but he was starting to have doubts about himself. He was only beginning to understand what it meant to be the Fire Realm Electus and now… Now I’m being told I’ve always been the Electus, but of a realm I know nothing about.
Fire made sense to Magnus. He was drawn to it. He craved its comfort and reassurance. Thioci’s blood warmed him during the lonely nights in Ba’rrat and healed him when he was wounded. He knew how to manipulate fire. He could create it and he respected it. But not ice. Ice was cold and chilling. It seemed heartless, merciless and unyielding. He thought of his mother and saw none of these traits in her. Then again, what do I really know of my mother?
Magnus drifted the length of the jetty. He was still acclimatising to the uncanny fit of Eamon’s Ferustir armour. It felt so nice against his body and thinking about it took his mind off his mother, Iisilée and the Ice Realm. An involuntary smile came to his face. He caught its reflection as he passed a small steel cabinet mounted on a jetty lamp pole. He doubled back to look again and this time, the reflection stole his smile. A chill ran through his body at what he was seeing. His eyes were luminescent blue—just like his mother’s in the dream. He did not recognise himself for this one difference. Reeling away, he stumbled to the other side of the jetty and held himself against the old railing. He peeked back at his reflection. Through fog, all Magnus could make out were those eyes. Looking away again, Magnus loped to the end of the jetty.
The end railing was half missing. He sat and leaned against what remained of it. Here at the end of the jetty, over the petrol blue sea, it was cold. He was cold. Magnus folded his arms across his chest. He had not felt cold since before he met Thioci.
It was Catanya’s turn to pace about Marsala’s living room. She glared at the black cat that was eying her as she circled. “It seems whenever I wade through the depths of deceit among the priests, there’s a deeper, more insidious layer to be negotiated.” Catanya cursed and looked at Marsala. She felt a fool for carrying on. “I’m sorry, Marsala. It’s not my place to speak this way in your home.”
“Catanya,” Marsala interjected. Catanya studied her. It was the first time the mystic had used her name. “You’re a strong woman and entirely entitled to speak your mind.”
Catanya blinked away shock. Of all Marsala’s riddles and revelations, she did not expect this.
“You’re a good person and a warrior. And I can see you’re brilliant at both.”
“Thank you.” Catanya felt awkward, but was grateful for the compliments.
“As for you and your lover out there,” Marsala whispered firmly. “Your fates are tied. In fact, your fate is tied to all of this, pretty-priestess.” Catanya smiled, now more appreciative of the nickname. “Yes… you are most certainly meant to be lovers. Any path you choose where you are parted ends in tragedy.”
Catanya let the mystic’s words settle then reached for clarification. “Do you mean ‘parting company’, or ‘a parting of the minds’?”
“At times, you’ll find yourselves at loggerheads. Perhaps even at opposite ends of this world. So long as you remain true to each other, it will serve you both well.”
As long as we are ‘true to each other?’ Catanya felt a pang of guilt for having kissed Dale back at the artisans’ camp, even though it was to serve a purpose.
“There will be temptations and interests for both of you.” Catanya was glad Marsala turned away as she spoke. “There is one who would gain much to have you as a suitor. And not just him—his kinsmen would gain much as well.”
Catanya was intrigued. “But it would lead to tragedy, you say.”
Thinking, Marsala put a finger to her lips again. “It would certainly make things interesting, yes. In fact, others have ambitions of their own that will make the Electus a desirable suitor, too.”
Catanya turned away, feeling awkward at Marsala’s prophecies.
“I think I’ll find Magnus, if you don’t mind.”
“Come see me before you go,” Marsala insisted.
Magnus had been leaning over the railing at the end of the jetty. He was looking into the blue water as it splashed rhythmically over the rotting pylons that sunk deep to the ground below. He wondered at the men who built it. Was it in times before the Quag arrived in Allumbreve? Were they part of a bustling town, thriving with its fishing trade, their children running and leaping from the jetty in summer, spending winters at warm fires in the white-stone cottages that now lay in ruins? He thought of his own home, most certainly in ruins. In another time, in another age, would a young man like him walk through the ruins and wonder who lived there?
“How are you doing with all this, Magnus?”
Magnus gritted his teeth, turned to Catanya and waited for her reaction to what he had seen in his reflection. Instead, she wrapped her arms around him and look fondly into his eyes.
“Our fates are tied,” Catanya smiled. “We are meant to be lovers, according to Marsala.” She raised a cheeky eyebrow. Magnus tried to share her humour, but was feeling more than a little out of sorts. Catanya’s smile slipped away. “Your eyes…”
“You see that?”
“They’re so blue.” Catanya stared so close their noses almost touched. Magnus blinked. Catanya leapt back. “Magnus!”
“You see it?” Magnus was desperate to know. “What do you see?”
“You’re eyes just…” Catanya shook her head slowly. “For a moment there, it was like…”
“Like staring at my mother.”
“Exactly!”
Magnus sighed. He crossed his arms again, shivering.
“Are you cold? I didn’t think you got cold.”
“Not since Thioci gave me his blood,” Magnus said. “I’m thinking what Marsala said has some truth to it.”
“Magnus, your eyes have been different since I found you in Ba’rrat. They change with your mood. Perhaps… perhaps this is just another mood.” Catanya feigned a smile. Magnus could tell she no more believed what she was saying than he did.
“Something is not right. I’ve been living with this for six months, but just now, something has changed, Catanya.” Magnus looked at the palms of his hands then turned them over. There were a few scars, but none were earned after he met Thioci, courtesy of the healing powers of dragon blood.
Magnus scrunched his hands into fists and squeezed them tight, waiting for Thioci’s fire dragon blood to course its way through his body and build in his fists. Catanya watched closely.
“What do you feel?”
At first there was nothing, but Magnus’s entire body soon started to warm over. The warmth turned to heat and the heat spread through his body, as he was accustomed to. The relief made him sigh—he was glad for the familiar feeling. Magnus relaxed his hands. “I feel better.”
Catanya hugged him again, staring into his eyes. “There you are—the Magnus I know. Your normal new eyes… Blue with a kind of amber ring pulsing about them.”
“True?” Magnus was beginning to think he should look at his reflection more often. “You never mentioned this before.”
“I was so glad to have you b
ack. I knew you were the Electus. I guess I expected something to have changed, other than the obvious.” Magnus looked at Catanya to see if she was being serious. “Well, look…” Catanya explained, “I’ve been living with dragons for the past six months. It kind of changes your view on what’s normal.”
“I imagine it does.” Magnus held Catanya’s face in his hands and kissed her. Her familiar touch was like a blissful remedy to the changing world around him. “I kind of like what’s normal.”
“So do I.”
They kissed again then started to walk back to Marsala’s home.
Marsala was waiting in the street. She had packed provisions into a pair of duffle bags that she gave to Magnus and Catanya. She also handed each of them a dark coat. “Here, you look conspicuous marching about in Ferustir suits. Also, I’ve a horse you can take. Come.”
Marsala led them back into the house, through the curtains at the back of the room and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, Magnus saw a kitchen through an archway to the right. Marsala continued ahead to a door at the back of the house leading to a garden covered with trained vines over a large pergola. Grazing in the back of the garden was a horse.
“This is Tilly. She’s no Astermeer, but she’ll get you where you need to go. You be patient with her, she’ll be patient with you.”
“A little like Mr Overstreet?” Magnus smiled, remembering Eamon’s old donkey.
“Yes! She’s a lot like Mr Overstreet!” Marsala chuckled. Her smile reminded Magnus of Sarah once again. “When you get to where you need to go, send Tilly on her way. She’ll follow her nose to Kreeluck on the Traas River where my mother lives. I’ll fetch her before winter.”
Magnus and Catanya thanked the mystic for her hospitality and packed their gifted belongings onto Tilly’s saddle. Then Marsala handed something to Magnus. It was a Juniper stone.
“I’m sure Eamon has shared the benefits of these?”