Descent Into Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Nia crossed the small room to the table opposite her bed and pulled out the wooden chair. Not her wooden chair; she owned no possessions, besides her two garments and a pair of wooden sandals. In her chamber she was allowed only a cot, the small wooden table, the chair, a decanter and a glass. Not even a chamber pot; if she had need to relieve herself, she would be required to venture outside. Not until a Daughter took her second Oath would she be granted more.

  Presently she poured herself some water and took a sip. Her stomach rumbled. A high, narrow window cut into the stone wall allowed in just enough light for her to sense the time of day. It was nearing dusk, which meant she would, on an ordinary day, soon be allowed one of two daily meals. She recalled how she often dreaded the walk to the dining hall. The other acolytes would know better than to speak to her, communication among the Unordained being forbidden. The Ordained she encountered, however, never failed to torment her. Today, she longed for something as ordinary as such banes.

  They knew. Somehow, they all knew. Becoming a Daughter granted no special powers of telepathy. Only a sorcerer was capable of seeing into another’s mind, but Nia had no doubt: her second secret was no secret at all.

  On the day of her first Oath, she had omitted one word. She could not bring herself to say it. Something in the deepest part of her, her soul perhaps, cried out against it. She had coveted the power, of course… none alive could surpass the magic of the Daughters, perhaps save Sartean himself. She had earned the Mother’s favor through her deeds at Kehrlia. She had been ruthless in her studies, more so in competition against her peers. And above all, she had taken a life. Such an act was not a requirement for admission to the temple, but it guaranteed one’s acceptance if they chose to seek the life of a Daughter.

  Yet this was her first secret: she had not done so deliberately. The young man she had killed in her fourth year at Kehrlia was not her enemy. She bore him no malice. In fact, she believed she had loved him, at least insofar as a young, foolish woman could genuinely love someone. It was simply a spell gone wrong, one intended to enhance their pleasure while in one another’s arms. They mistranslated the incantation, and instead of increasing their desire, it turned it to rage. When the smoke cleared, she was alive, and he was dead.

  She could not, of course, admit her failed spell to Sartean. It would have meant her instant expulsion. Instead, she concocted a tale. The two had argued, she had said. A lover’s quarrel, nothing more. But he became enraged, jealous… he attacked her, she defended herself, and she prevailed.

  Her status among her peers improved considerably after that day. The story took on a life of its own, and by the time it had reached the temple, she was rumored to be a most powerful and merciless wizard indeed.

  As was so each year, on the day she graduated Kehrlia, the Daughters were present. Two women had graduated that year, and when the ceremonies concluded, the trio of young Daughters approached Nia. They told her of the great and boundless power she could one day possess. They spoke of the sorority of their sisterhood. She must come with them, they said. All her questions would be answered. All her desires would one day be fulfilled.

  For a child born into servitude on the shores of the Sapphire Sea, she had come quite far. Her father, a fisherman whose voice she could not recall, had loved her, if memory served. The scent of brine and blurry recollections of a brown-skinned man with leathery hands and sad, soulful eyes were all she had left of him. In those days she saw him only in the offseason, as the heat of summer peaked and the fish swam too deep for nets to reach, and then only once or twice when he was given leave to visit with his family. Any hope of a deeper connection had been lost when her mother sold her to Kehrlia. For this, Nia carried no hatred for her mother.

  She recalled her last night in her family’s hovel by the sea, lying awake, drenched equally in sweat and her mother’s tears before the Incantors came for her at dawn. Her mother had no choice. Nia, barely eight years old, was already known to be possessed of small magics. She had thus caught an Incantor’s eye, and Kehrlia spared no coin in obtaining its newest candidate for apprenticeship. Her four younger siblings, Miano, Pito, Ethiria and Lanidae, two boys and two girls, would be loosed from the bonds of generational servitude with the gold of Kehrlia. Nia would be given a chance to become something more than some sea lord’s waterwife.

  Even at such a young age, Nia had understood. Her magic was the gift that would save her family from a meager life of hunger and labor. She did not, however, understand why she could not see her father one last time before she was taken. He would have been home within a cycle. She had begged her mother. Begged the Incantors. Surely there was no hurry? Surely a few days would make little difference? It was to be the first of many hard lessons about the way things worked at Kehrlia: sentiment had no place in an Incantor’s heart, not under Sartean D’Avers’ rule. To be admitted to an apprenticeship would be to silently suffer many things, and to succeed in graduating would be to become as ruthless as those who had pulled her from her mother’s arms that humid summer morning. She was no wealthy son or daughter of Mor. Coin would not ensure her path. She was the crownless daughter of a nameless sea clan. She would toil in the halls of Kehrlia until she came of age, thus, hopefully, earning her entrance to the academy. She would be tested for apprenticeship. To fail to please her masters, to fail her entrance examination, or to dare escape would bring the wrath of Kehrlia to her family’s house.

  She had succeeded in all. Her family’s security had been assured. Yes, she thought, I have come far, but I will go no farther.

  The sound of a gong reverberated throughout the temple, bringing Nia from her reveries. For the Ordained, it was time for supper. For the other Unordained sisters, which numbered fewer than a dozen, it was time for an hour on their knees in supplication to Kal. They would be allowed to eat what the Daughters left over while they washed their bowls and cups. Nia would not join them in the kitchens today.

  For Nia, it was the moment of her reckoning. She pulled her woolen shift over her head, slipped calloused feet into worn sandals, and made her way to the chapel. Her eyes kept to the floor, the sweet, foreboding scent of incense sufficient to guide her way.

  The Mother stood in flowing brandywine linen before the wooden altar, her severe visage scantly lit by oil lanterns hung on the chapel walls. Once nearly bereft of hue, the altar now stood darkened and stained, nearer in tone to the Mother’s gown than to the pale, petrified maple from which it was long ago carved. On either side stood three Daughters, gowned in white, eyes downcast. The Mother’s dark eyes, however, bore into Nia’s own.

  Nia lowered her eyes.

  The Mother’s voice bore the chill of winter. “Shall you kneel? Shall we proceed with this charade then, Daughter?”

  Nia looked up, glancing briefly into the Mother’s voracious gaze, then higher, toward the soaring ceiling of the stone chamber, craning her neck to peer through its slender windows, straining, one last time, to make out the light of the Twins that just then crested the horizon.

  I will see you in the next world, Father.

  “I am prepared, Mother.”

  “To take your Oath? Which would that be, your first, or your second, Nia of the sea?”

  Of course. She knew. She had known all along.

  Nia took a breath and straightened her spine. Her face remained impassive, though her knees belied her fear.

  “I suppose neither.”

  The Mother smiled coolly.

  “Good. You have found your courage. Though, do you think it will avail you, at this late hour?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The Mother stepped down from the dais and approached, delicate fingers tracing the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at her waist. Nia took an unsteady breath.

  “It does, my daughter.” The Mother’s tone warmed. Nia blanched, the Mother’s uncharacteristically kind manner somehow more terrifying than the dagger at her waist.

  “You resist the teachings of Kal. You,
and only you, among your sisters. Knowing what you forsake. Is this strength, I wonder… or weakness? I have not decided.”

  Nia blinked, but did not reply.

  “Perhaps both,” the Mother continued. “Or neither. Perhaps you yourself do not yet know.”

  Nia cleared her throat. “I know I will not speak the words, Mother.”

  “Ah, Nia.” The Mother drew a fingernail across Nia’s chin. “Have I mistreated you so? Surely you understand, the poverty and sacrifices of the Unordained are necessary.”

  “I have no quarrel with the ways of the temple, Mother.”

  “Only with our god.”

  Nia nodded. “Only that.”

  “But why? Look around you. Was this not all foretold? The coming of the beast. The defeat of the Master of Kehrlia at the hands of his own pupil. The fires, the quakes, the collapse of kingdoms… do you think Kal responsible for these things? Do you lay the blame at his feet?”

  Nia frowned. “Who else?”

  The Mother sighed and returned to the dais. She ran a hand across the altar slowly, with reverence. “You blame the messenger, Nia. It is given to us to know what will come, we who devote ourselves to Kal. It is given to us to carry his power within us, so that we might withstand such times.” The Mother turned again to face Nia. “Do you no longer seek his power? Surely you once did.”

  Nia nodded. “I did. And… and I suppose I still do. But I will not devote myself to his cause. I will not hasten the fall of Tahr.”

  “Ah, my dear child, but you already do. You brought the amulet to Sartean, did you not?”

  “Only to please you, Mother, and to preserve my own life. Had I not, another would have in my place. My actions made no difference.”

  The mother nodded, a gesture that struck Nia as both benign and spiteful. “Perhaps you begin to understand, then. Tell me, do you blame the lapping sea for the worn stone, Nia?”

  “I… of course not.”

  “No. Is the falling branch to blame for the lame horse? Or is it the wind? Or the storm? Or perhaps the season? Would you fault the darkened leaves for the coming of autumn? You are but a dying leaf, dear child. As are we all. There is but one choice open to you… a choice only our lord Kal can grant. Shall you be the first to fall, or the last?”

  Nia moved to speak. The mother held up a hand.

  “Do not answer, Daughter Nia. You are conflicted. I can see it in your eyes. What of Lor’s power, you wonder? What of the power of life? You have much yet to learn, not the least of which is this: life is a beginning. Death is an end. All things must die… all things must end. The truest power, my child, lies not in clinging to the fragile tendrils of life, but in embracing the ultimate, final power of death. It is Kal who commands this power. None other.”

  “So you say, Mother. Yet I still will not give myself to him.”

  The Mother sighed. “No, I suppose you will not.” The mother withdrew her dagger and placed it on the altar. The six Daughters present raised their heads. “Not today, at least.”

  Nia’s eyes widened.

  “You are a leaf, Nia. No more. But a spark to a dry leaf can ignite a flame to consume kingdoms. You will serve Kal as the winds decide. As I decide. I am those winds. I am your spark, Daughter Nia. Your life will not end today, Oath or no. We have much work to do, and before the end, you will serve us well.”

  VI: THE MAW

  SO NOW YEH HAVE a mind to fight then, elf?” Oort spat at the ground before Nishali’s feet. “Now that yer own beloved’s been lost?” Nishali clenched her fists but did not reply. The diminutive gnome looked every bit the Wolfslayer as he glared up into the First Ranger’s reddened eyes.

  “Not lost,” Sir Marchion corrected, gently. “Killed. Killed in cold blood, along with my knights.”

  Oort turned his glare to the Second Knight of Thornwood. “Yup. Like Dohr woulda done to my Thinny, given the chance. Have yeh seen her this morning, knight? Have yeh seen her purple, swollen face? Well, have yeh?”

  “Enough.” Nishali’s tone belied the inferno raging in her heart. Her narrowed eyes made clear she would brook no further dressing down from the gnome. “Your wife will be avenged, Wolfslayer.”

  “Do as yeh please.” Oort turned to his left, eyeing Lux briefly. “But so help me, not one dwarf will set foot in G’naath while I live.” From the corner of his eye, Oort saw Argl peeking out from behind a tent. “Argl, what are yeh still doin’ here? I thought I sent yeh with Rak—”

  Rak stepped out from behind Argl. The two gnomes bore identical sheepish expressions.

  Rak replied for Argl. “Ah, thing is, Wolfslayer, we thought maybe yeh might need—”

  “I don’t give a wet snot what yeh thought! Get a sled made up for Thinny. We’ll be goin’ home!”

  Lux spoke up without hesitation. “I’ll see ye there, Oort. T’was my fault—”

  “Did yeh not hear me, dwarf? I said not a one of yeh will set foot in G’naath. Not a one!”

  Lux took a knee before the gnome. “Aye, I heard ye. And soon as ye be safe in G’naath, I’ll turn back. Let me do this, Wolfslayer. Ye need a strong back for the journey. I can pull a sled far as ye like. I owe ye this debt. Let me pay it.”

  Oort thought for a moment before nodding. “Yer damned right yeh owe, dwarf. But not me. Yeh owe my Thinny. And I’ll let yeh pay. But when we get to the tunnels, yeh’ll not be welcome. When I see yeh after, if I see yeh, know that I’ll not call yeh friend.” Oort turned to Sir Marchion. “Might as well make it known, knight. G’naath be at war now. If my people see yer elves in the company of dwarves, they’ll be liable to end up with an arrow between the eyes. Choose yer friends carefully.” Oort stormed off after Argl towards Thinny’s tent.

  Lux turned to Nishali.

  “I’ve no right to ask this of ye, ranger, but I’ll ask anyways. Will ye see to it that Nova is healed, and treated fairly? She’s done ye no harm.”

  Nishali’s jaw clenched.

  “Please. I can’t be in two places at once.”

  “No,” Nishali replied. “You cannot. King Dohr will see Nova as a traitor, yes?”

  Lux nodded. “Aye, already does. Woulda had her hanged if I didn’t rescue her.”

  “Can she fight? Will she fight?”

  Lux frowned. “She can. Hard as a hammer, that one. But if ye mean to ask her to fight her own people—”

  “I mean to allow her to choose, when she is healed. And I will see her restored. But I warn you, if she intends to take up arms with Dohr—”

  “She won’t. That she won’t do. Leastways I don’t think she would.”

  Nishali nodded. “I will see her healed and release her. If I see her on the battlefield, however, know that her fate is sealed.”

  Lux sighed. “Aye. Fare ye well, First Ranger.”

  Nishali watched silently as Lux followed off after Oort.

  Sir Marchion busied himself with the fire, waiting for a turn before speaking. The afternoon light, such as it was in the deep, pervasive overcast, began to fade.

  “We should contact our queen, Nishali.”

  “I have sent word along the Winds. She will soon know my intentions.”

  “I meant that we should await Trellia’s instructions.”

  Nishali leveled a gaze at Marchion. “I know what you meant. You may do as you please. My rangers and I will attack before dawn. You will not sway me in this.” Nishali looked away, towards the south, towards Belgorne. “Neither will Trellia.”

  “She is your queen, Nishali.”

  “Queen of what? Of Thornwood? Thornwood is no more.”

  “That is not true, and you know it. The Citadel will be rebuilt.”

  “Foolishness. It will fall again. Look around you, knight. The world ends. The land cries out, and none can answer. You know what this is. It was all foretold.”

  “I know more than you think, ranger. I cannot sense the pain of the land as you do, but I have carried the secrets of Ya Di all my long years. As has your queen. As ha
s Barris. There are things you do not—”

  “You have your duties!” Nishali screamed, tears again welling in her eyes. Elves around the camp turned to listen. Nishali pointed to the sky, towards Fang. “Your enemy flies above us! It roils beneath us! My enemy camps to the south. Defend the dream that was Thornwood if you like. Defend Tahr. Defend your family, and your queen. I’ll not oppose you. But this false king of Belgorne is at this very moment devising a strategy to protect his false crown. He will recall his army, the dwarves he sent north. We wait for Trellia to dither and politic, and his position strengthens! I will not wait until he has fortified himself before I end him!”

  Marchion looked down, frustration clear on his features.

  Nishali quieted, a bit, though she did not soften. “It is a tactical matter, Second Knight.”

  “Only that?” asked Marchion.

  Nishali took a breath. “No. Not only that.”

  Marchion placed a hand on Nishali’s shoulder, who seethed at the gesture, but did not withdraw. “For all we know, when Hatchet and his army returns, if they return, they may depose Dohr on learning of his deeds. We may not need to take action. We may not need to lose more elves.”

  Nishali batted Marchion’s hand away. “Listen to yourself! You are a warrior! Your knights have been slain! My Second, my Kade…” her voice trailed off. She wiped at her eyes. “No. I will not dishonor them by cowering while we hope that Hatchet takes up arms against his own king for the sake of a few dead elves and a defiled gnome.” Nishali turned from Marchion to see two crowds of elves gathered around them, listening. The rangers and knights of Thornwood clustered in their respective groups. Nishali could see lines being silently drawn. The disciplined knights would not speak out. They would follow their Second. Her rangers were donning leather.