by Sean Hinn
“Keep yer voices down!” whispered J’arn. He knelt to inspect Aria’s ankle. Aria suppressed a cry as he examined the injury.
“Broken,” J’arn said. “We gotta heal this and fast.”
“I can do it,” Aria said. “I’ll need some help, though.”
Lucan understood, and knew the others did as well. Lady Lor had bestowed them all with a comprehensive understanding of healing magic. She had also imparted something else: while they each possessed great power, its strength could only grow through use and experience. As such, while healing a broken ankle might someday require less than an afterthought, the process was still foreign to them all—all save Aria, who had trained for years under Pheonaris at the Grove. To do this now, quickly, would require a sharing of all their power.
“Just lay your hands on me,” Aria said, “and relax. I will channel your strength.”
Shyla knelt beside Aria, placing a hand on her thigh. J’arn grasped her shoulder. Aria looked up at Lucan. He thought he saw a pleading there in her frightened blue eyes, something more than a mere appeal to help heal her ankle. Lucan placed a hand on her cheek, gently.
The sensation was both jarring and pleasant, even sensual. As Aria drew from Lucan’s power, so did he draw from hers, as was required. What she took from him—what he allowed her to take—was raw and simple, an unrefined energy without form or definition. What she returned to him, however, was more complex, more distinct. These were emotions. There was gratitude here, and respect, but also resentment, distrust, fear… and desire. More compound emotions, some convoluted, some unnamable, but all things Lucan well understood. He knew these things for what they were—the entirety of Aria’s feelings for him. Such was the intimacy required in sharing magic. The feeling left Lucan breathless.
“Oh, Mawbottom! What are yeh doin’!?” Cindra’s voice interrupted the spell.
“She’s hurt, Lady Cindra, we were healing—”
“Yeh cannot do such magic here! It be a beacon!”
Wolf let out a low growl.
~THERE YOU ARE.~
The screeching, howling cries of their enemies returned. From everywhere.
Shyla jumped to her feet, her pink eyes wide with fear. J’arn again reached for his axe before stopping himself. He bent to help Aria stand. “Get up! We gotta fight!”
Aria took J’arn’s arm. She stood and tested her ankle, crying out in pain. Lucan caught her as she fell.
“Get her back in the tunnel!” yelled Cindra. Lucan wasted no time, carrying Aria beyond the threshold of the tunnel from which they just emerged. Shyla and J’arn moved to follow them, Wolf snapping at the darkness behind them.
“No!” cried Cindra. “Yeh have to lead them away!”
“What? We ain’t gonna leave—”
“Do as I say J’arn, or we all die!”
Cindra turned towards the tunnel, gesturing again as she had before.
“Stand back!”
Cindra’s hands twisted and writhed as she cast. Lucan moved back, carrying Aria a few paces deeper into the tunnel. He set her down. He could feel the heat from Cindra’s spell as the mouth of the tunnel began to glow crimson, then pink, then a bright, almost blinding white. The iron began to melt, hot metal oozing from the ceiling. Lucan struggled to see past Cindra as gouts of flame cast by Shyla and J’arn met a cascade of screeching devils. Cindra’s spell manipulated the dropping metal, thickened it in long ropes which descended, slowly, all the way to the floor. Wolf growled and snapped. Torrents of flames flew now from Shyla and J’arn in opposite directions. His friends were surrounded.
Cindra screamed into the minds of the companions. ~Down! Now!~
Lucan and Aria dropped to the floor. The princess threw her body atop his as a frigid burst of bone-chilling wind washed over them. The gust accelerated, faster, impossibly fast, faster than any wind Lucan had ever experienced. The tips of his ears began to burn. He covered them with his hands. Within moments, his fingers hurt. Lucan knew nothing upright could withstand the freezing blow. Even lying flat, the unrelenting wind slid Lucan and Aria backwards across the iron floor. All the companions screamed and howled in pain and fear, Wolf loudest of all.
The deluge stopped. For half a breath, all was silent.
Lucan looked up through newly-cast iron bars, these now solid. Cindra turned to J’arn and Shyla. The air around the gnome witch shimmered with power as she commanded J’arn and Shyla.
“RUN!”
Cindra’s hands dropped to her sides. Lucan could see they were caked in frost. She glanced back at him, answering the unasked question.
“Survive.”
For just a moment, before she turned away, Lucan thought Cindra’s shining, silver eyes had turned to gold.
Or perhaps yellow.
XI: HIGHMORLAND
THE DOOR TO THE CABIN opened enough for half a face to peer out. Silver-haired, a head shorter than Mila, a stout woman jammed a foot against the door. Mila inclined her head and folded her hands. The deferent gesture felt awkward—it had been a long while since Mila Felsin submitted to anyone—but she had no intention of alarming this woman.
The woman opened the door a bit more, enough to stick her head out.
“I am alone, I swear it.”
“Hmph. Well, ya would wouldn’t ya? Don’t suppose you’d just wave your cutthroat friends over ’til I open the door proper.”
“Emma, who’re you talkin’ to? Who’s there?” A man’s voice, elderly.
“Oh, just the king of Mor, Fillip. Come to make you a knight.”
“All right.”
The woman shook her head. “Lotta help he is, deaf old goat. Well, come on in, I suppose if you were gonna gut me, you would have already. Kick that snow off your boots, if you please.”
Mila did so and followed the woman inside. Warm air and the sweet smell of stew greeted her like a long-forgotten friend; she could not recall the last time she ate.
“Well, close the door! And bar it, would you? Mind that hook, now, damned thing’s hangin’ by a nail. Oh, just let me…”
Mila stood aside as the woman fiddled with the rotten wooden bar. She didn’t bother commenting on the uselessness of the ordeal; the shabby door looked like it could be kicked in by a gnome. The rest of the cabin, however, was sharp as a pin, immaculately clean and well-cared for. To the right of the door lay two small beds, each tightly made with matching quilts and embroidered pillows. Across the room from the door, a hotstone hung suspended within a small hearth. The chimney, made of light-colored rock, appeared as clean as if it were just mortared. To its left, against the wall, four rows of shelves lined the wall, these displaying plates, bowls, and every imaginable shape and size of pot or pan. From the bottom shelf, a variety of spoons and knives and other kitchen implements hung, each equidistant from the next. Mila marveled at the exquisite organization of it all as the woman looked on, her expression satisfied.
To Mila’s left stood a long table with benches on each side, suitable to seat perhaps eight, though set with care for six. In its center stood a large covered pot, presumably of stew. On one side of the pot, a plate with bread; on the other, a quarter-wheel of hard cheese. These, too, were set perfectly equidistant from one another, as were the six lace doilies upon each of which lay a wooden plate, a wooden cup, and a single spoon. A balding, white-haired man sat hunched with his back to Mila, his face buried in a book. A wrinkled hand held a small candelabra to light the pages, which to Mila seemed unnecessary. Every few feet around the cabin, a lantern or candle was lit.
“I thank you, Madame. I—”
“Madame? Ha! Hear that, Fillip? I’m a madame!”
“Huh?” Fillip turned around in his chair. “Oh! Who are you!” The man appeared terrified.
Mila leaned forward, speaking up. “My name is Mila, sir. It is a pleasure—”
“Easy, now! You don’t have to yell, I ain’t deaf!” His eyes lowered, taking in the shape of Mila.
Emma put a hand on Mila’s sh
oulder, pulling her upright. “Sure, and he ain’t blind, either.” Emma shot a glance at Mila’s bosom, then back into her eyes. “All the same, watch your robes there, Miss Mila.”
“Oh! I’m sorry…” Mila looked down to see her robe was clasped at the neck beneath her cloak, but the plain hint was well received. “Again, thank you so much, Lady Emma. But… have I interrupted something? Do you expect company?”
“Company? In this mess? Ha!”
Mila smiled demurely, knowing the woman had been delighted to so dismiss her faultless housekeeping, but then glanced at the table.
“Ah. Never mind that”, said Emma, “I just like it set, is all. Now come on, give that cloak here before you drip all over the house...”
The stew was delicious, the bread sweet and soft, the wine new, but delicious. Mila skillfully guided the conversation away from herself, not merely to avoid detailing the unpleasant circumstances that brought her to their home, but in genuine desire to fill her mind with thoughts of anything but her own life.
Her hostess was more than happy to lead the exchange, launching effortlessly into breathless narrative. Emma and Fillip Manchele, purveyors of fine candles, honey and honey-baked goods, had been living in Highmorland since they were wed one golden spring day by her uncle, fifty-and-two years before at the Lorday Festival. To hear Emma tell it, in the dreamy tones of a young lover, one might have believed the wedding was days past rather than decades. So handsome had Fillip been, so respectful to her father, grower of wheat, owner of the mill, brother to the prior of their small village on the north side of the Morline, Windfall, so named for the miracle of one bountiful apple harvest generations past. So proud was her mother—lovely woman, just lovely—spending the whole of winter sewing her blue dress, weaving the banners, painting the traditional green leaves on long, brown ribbons. So envious were the girls of Windfall, Emma landing the comeliest, if among the lowest born, man in all the farmlands. Not that it mattered, mind. They had no intention of staying long on the farm, did we Fillip? No, Fillip dreamed of bees… bees and honey, liquid gold, and the best place for bees was, of course, the floral pastures of Highmorland, and in any case his inheritance, or rather the lack of one, would have been of no consequence when compared to the wealth of her father. He owned the mill, you see. Did you know his brother was the prior? Devout man, that one. Loved Lor with all his heart. Shame about the highwaymen.
Fillip looked on quietly as Emma told the story of their early lives, how Fillip and she built their first cabin, their first hives, their small but scrappy business. That first winter, they had returned to her father’s house, too poor to feed themselves. By their third winter together, they had built their own inn to house the merchants, human and elf alike, even the occasional dwarf, who traveled far and wide to buy quality Manchele honey.
Emma nearly began speaking of that next spring. Nearly, until Fillip and she shared a glance. The old man then looked down, returning to his book. Mila sensed the need to change the subject.
“Do you still manage the inn?” she asked.
“Oh, no child, at our age? No, the Manchele Manor has been gone for years now. What do we need with such things, anyways? We’ve got plenty of gold, don’t you worry.”
Fillip looked up. “Emma!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry much about Miss Mila here. I suspect she’s got her own problems. Problems gold won’t fix, if I’m not mistaken.”
The sorceress met Emma’s knowing gaze. Emma seized an opportunity to press.
“Mila. Such a lovely name. What did you say your surname was?”
Mila blinked, turning her head away, towards the fire. Her breath caught in her throat. Time stood still as the young Incantor gazed into the fire, past it, towards something else.
“I did not say. But…”
A hand rested atop Mila’s own. Fillip’s hand. “Are you all right, dear?”
Mila forced a smile. “I… yes, thank you.”
“You were saying, dear?” Emma urged. “Your name?”
“It is… Brennan. My name is Brennan.”
And it was. Mila Felsin, once Freya Brennan, daughter of Shane and Amelia, had not thought of her true own name in as long as she could remember. Tears welled in her emerald eyes.
“Oh, dear, come now, come here.” Emma embraced Mila before she could resist.
The woman’s embrace was too much. Mila’s shoulders heaved, but she could not draw breath. A wagon parked itself on her chest. Soon Emma’s silver hair was soaked in tears as the horrors of Mila’s life swept through her mind like a gale. It had been so long since someone cared to know her, to hold her…
Earl.
Silent sobs became faint cries. Mila returned Emma’s embrace. The older woman rocked the young guest in her arms for a time, longer than strangers might, before Mila pulled away, wiping her face.
“I’m so sorry,” Mila began. “I don’t know—”
“You’ve lost something, dear.” Emma’s voice had lost its lilting timbre. The old woman shifted her glance to an empty place setting. “We understand.”
Eventually the conversation returned to recent things. By unspoken agreement, neither the Mancheles nor Mila dug into one another’s hidden aches. They discussed the infernal volcano, Fang; or rather, Fillip did. An omen, he promised, and a bad one. Worse things were to come, and soon. Did Mila not know about the fires? Lost ten hives to the last one, they did, not three cycles past. Barely got it out before the whole glade went up. Mila nodded politely but did not fail to notice Emma noticing her. She could not bring herself to lie to these people, but neither could she bring herself to say what she knew. She did not want to be Mila Felsin here, Incantor, sorceress, drug-peddler, killer, soon-to-be prey of the fearsome, now-curiously-silent Kalashagon. She wished to be a Brennan, for just a while longer.
“Help me clear the table, Mila.”
Fillip stood gingerly, with the belabored movement of the elderly. Mila could practically feel the ache in his joints.
“Taking a walk.”
Emma glanced towards one of two small windows in the room. Mila followed her gaze. Night had fallen.
Emma took a cloak from a hook behind the door, throwing it over her husband’s shoulders. “Bring a lantern, dear.”
“Bah.”
Emma and Mila busied themselves quietly until Fillip had closed the door behind him.
Emma set down a plate and towel, eyeing Mila. Mila dipped a rag into a bucket and wiped a cup clean. She caught the hint but turned away, seeking something inane to say. A hand on Mila’s shoulder turned her back around.
“Who are you?”
Mila swallowed.
“You don’t want to know.”
“If I didn’t want to know, young lady, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I know. But maybe you don’t.”
Emma held Mila’s gaze. “And maybe I do.”
Mila sighed, glancing towards the door. “How long do we have?”
“A few turns.”
Mila shook her head. “Not long enough. Not nearly.”
“The short version, then.”
Mila moved to sit. Emma had none of it. “Oh no, you don’t. Clean while you talk. Unless you’ll be paying for supper?”
Mila nearly laughed. Emma sensed Mila was dangerous, of course. She was afraid. But she would not show her fear. This is one strong woman. The Incantor handed the cup to Emma and grabbed another from the table.
“I’m a sorceress.”
“Sorceress? Incantor, you mean? From the tower?”
Mila shook her head. “That also, but… well, more.”
“Lor help me. One of Sartean’ D’Avers whelps, in my own home.”
“I am not one of his whelps.”
Emma stopped drying the cup for a moment, the briefest pause before reaching for the next.
“And in any case, you need not worry about Sartean D’Avers anymore.”
Emma looked up, incredulous. “Oh, no? Killed him, did yo
u?” She reached for a plate. “Hmph.”
“I did.”
Emma’s hands began to shake.
“Please, do not be afraid. I will not—”
“Afraid? Young lady, this is my home. It will take more than a little girl to frighten me.” Emma dropped the plate.
Mila bent to pick it up. She set it on the table and took Emma’s trembling hands.
“Listen to me. I know fear. I’ve instilled plenty of it. But you don’t have to fear me. I swear it. But… what hunts me…” Mila glanced towards the window, letting her voice trail off. Emma’s hands tightened around her own.
“You were afraid when you arrived here.”
Mila nodded.
“I heard something. Something big. Flying overhead yesterday. Then a bright light. From the bridge?”
Mila nodded again.
“The bridge is a long way from here. That light—”
“Sartean’s doing,” Mila said. “To lure the beast.”
“The beast?”
Emma released Mila’s hands. She reached behind her to feel for the bench. Mila helped her sit.
“It is called a dragon, I think. Its name… its name doesn’t matter. But it slaughtered nearly all of Kehrlia. How long has it been since you heard news from Mor?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A cycle, maybe?”
“I thought I saw fresh tracks. Horse tracks.”
Emma shook her head. “Not from Mor. A friend, Chaliq. Looks after us. Lives nearby.”
“Chaliq? Is that… orcish?”
“Half-orc. Though, he’s maybe a sixteenth, at best. Ran through here a year ago, come up from the Sapphire. We took him in for a time. Taught him how to build a cabin, so he looks in on us. Never mind him, though. He hasn’t been south of the bridge in a year.”
“Then you’ve missed quite a bit. Halsen is dead. Mor is leaderless, and likely starving. It’s going to get dangerous soon. Everywhere.”
“Says the sorceress in my house, who killed Sartean D’Avers and is being chased by… by what again?”
“A dragon. Listen to me, Emma. If you hear it, hide. In fact, I would not go out during the day. I promise, you have never seen—”