by Sean Hinn
“I’d like it just fine, thank you.”
Vincent coughed again. “I’m not meeting my end like that. And neither are you.”
“Instead you’ll meet it coughing up a lung on the side of the road. An inspired plan.”
“Stop harassing me and cast me a spell or something.”
“I can dull your pain, but I’ll dull your senses, as well. The way you’re sitting in that saddle, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“It’s a new horse, that’s all,” Vincent lied.
“It’s that, yes. But this air is no good for burned lungs.”
“Just cast the spell, Gerald.”
“‘Just cast the spell, Gerald’,” the wizard mocked. “If I had a scale for every time you told me that—”
Vincent pulled his horse to a stop. “You’d still be hungry. Now hurry it up.”
“Fine. Stay still.”
A wave of euphoria washed over Vincent. His vision swam for a moment while he acclimatized to the spell.
“Better?”
Vincent took a deep breath. “Much. Tell me, why don’t you just walk around casting this on yourself all the time? It feels wonderful.”
Gerald urged his horse forward. “Who says I don’t?”
“Very funny.”
“Wasn’t joking. How do you think I get around like I do, at my age?”
“I thought you were just particularly virile.”
“I am, thank you. But my knees are a disaster.”
“Well, then you should be glad to be off them for a few days.”
“Hips aren’t much better.” Gerald’s tone changed. “Eyes up. Moat bridge ahead.”
“You ever wonder why they built a moat inside the walls? Seems pretty dumb to me.”
“The walls went up after, Vincent.”
“Well, they should have put the walls up first. Dug the moat after.”
Gerald cocked his head. “Centuries after. We’ve discussed this before.”
“Or I guess it doesn’t matter what order they built them, does it? Ha! They could have dug another moat outside the walls.”
“Certainly,” Gerald jibed. “And used the water from the first one.”
“Exactly!”
Gerald smiled, and Vincent saw it. Vincent understood—he was making little sense. Everything felt… fluffy. Like a dream of clouds. He decided it would be best to ride in silence and enjoy the lack of pain for a while.
They crossed the ridiculous inner moat and passed the gates unchallenged. There was no one to man them, Vincent knew. A few would-be thieves advanced here and there, but something about the riding pair made clear that there were easier targets to be had. Vincent considered how often that was the case when he rode with Gerald, deciding that the wizard must have regularly employed some magic to dissuade malefactors.
What a wonder, to possess such power, Vincent thought, not for the first time. No sooner did he have the thought, however, than did he question the morality of its use. Gerald’s power was, largely, mundane magic, the sort of thing one could learn at Kehrlia, given patience and talent. Certainly, he was exceptionally gifted with its use. Vincent’s very life, however, was proof that the wizard dipped his brush in darker paints. Vincent had pushed the thought from his mind repeatedly since the day Gerald brought him back, and he decided to do so again. He recalled the line of a poem his mother often recited when he was a boy:
A step will mar the road once placed;
No deed of man can be erased.
Vincent had little time to ponder the matter in any case. They came upon what was once the Morline Bridge near to midday.
“Sweet Lor, what happened here?” Vincent asked rhetorically. The answer was obvious: the dragon.
A heavy blanket of snow and ash shrouded the worst of the carnage, but frozen limbs and white faces still lay exposed here and there. The Morline ran like sludge, all ash and ice, breaking against and over protruding blocks of stone that were once the great bridge.
The two stood on horseback silently for a turn until Gerald spoke.
“No one came for them.”
“Who would?” Vincent asked. “Bleeding tower lackeys. They loved only power. They won’t be missed.”
Gerald cast Vincent an icy glance.
“I’m sorry. That was—”
“You do not know, Vincent. You cannot know. To discover you have command of the elements, to whatever small degree, is to feel… it is as if you might someday gain the keys to all doors. More. Like you can reshape the very world. No one is immune to the lure of such power. No one. These…” Gerald looked around. “These were children once. Children who discovered they could manipulate the very fabric of existence. Children who were broken, remade in Sartean D’Avers image, and set against one another as he dangled the next key.” Gerald turned again to face Vincent. “Kehrlia was once glorious, my friend, as were its works. As were its wizards.”
“I am sorry. Truly. I spoke unkindly. Kehrlia can be glorious again. You can make it so.”
“Me? Please. I can do no such thing.”
“You defied him, Gerald. You left Kehrlia. You resisted the wicked uses of your craft.”
Gerald glanced towards Vincent’s chest. Vincent could swear he felt the wizard’s eyes trace the scar. “Did I?”
Vincent did not reply. He did not need to.
Gerald dismounted his horse. “Wait here.”
Vincent waited and watched as Gerald made for the riverbank. He began to gesture wildly before a large chunk of stone from the bridge. A turn passed, then another. Vincent began to think Gerald had lost his mind when the stone suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces, each the shape and size of a standard wooden plank.
“Walk the horses down! Hurry!”
Vincent heard Gerald chanting as he neared, watched as his gesticulations became more exaggerated. The planks of stone began to shift position, locking into place… Gerald was making a bridge! By the time Vincent arrived with the horses, the task was complete.
“Get them across. Can’t hold it long. And be careful... it will be slippery.”
Vincent wasted no time. The horses shied at first, but he managed to walk them atop the stone. They crossed quickly. When they all reached the northern bank, Gerald followed at a jog.
When Gerald reached the bank, Vincent expected him to drop the spell and the stones would fall into the river. Instead, he turned. His casting intensified.
Vincent watched in awe as words began to etch themselves onto the stones. Names. Beneath each name, the symbol of the Tower of Kehrlia appeared as well, as if chiseled by the most expert mason. One by one, the stones flew upwards and away, dozens, in all directions, some to positions close by, some a hundred paces away or more. When the last stone found a position beside the bridge, Gerald raised his hands high above his head, turned his palms downwards, and brought them down with a primal cry. The wizard fell to his knees.
The gravestones set themselves deep into the ground, each at the place where its respective Incantor of Kehrlia fell. Turns passed in silence. Vincent watched as tears began to freeze on his friend’s cheeks.
Vincent said nothing. After a time, he placed a hand on Gerald’s shoulder. The wizard nodded and stood.
The two friends mounted their horses and rode north.
XV: FURY
YOU HAVE TO let me, Aria.”
“No. They’ll come back.”
“And they’ll leave again. They can’t get in.”
Aria shook her head, forgetting Lucan could not see her. “I cannot die like that. Not here. Not to those things.”
“Which is why I have to heal you. We do not die here, Aria. You know that.”
Aria took a shaking, labored breath. “I know what I saw in a dream. No more.”
“It was real. It will be real.”
“How can you know?”
Lucan did not respond for a long moment.
“I know.”
Aria shifted position, the
hard, cold floor of the iron tunnel paining her. She inhaled sharply. Moving hurt more.
“I’m doing it. Help me or don’t.”
“Lucan, don’t—”
Aria felt the warmth of Lucan’s hand on her knee, the sensation somehow of more consequence than the healing that followed. She placed her hand atop his, and the two shared their magic.
Her ankle throbbed with each beat of her heart, with each beat of Lucan’s, the pain all but overwhelming. As their hearts fell into time, Aria knew what each beat revealed to the street hustler from Mor. The notion frightened her nearly as much as the creatures their magic would call. Nearly.
Again, I sense nothing from him. Nothing at all.
Aria had shared her magic with countless others over the years. The procedure was common among those of her Order, and always, each time, without single exception, the act was one of total vulnerability, a communion of mutual exposure, the unrestrained display of one’s innermost feelings. Yet what she felt from Lucan… power, yes, and intent… he wanted very much to heal her, as was necessary for such magic to be effective, but the heart of the man remained guarded, hidden away, as if behind a locked door. The magic should not work without his honesty; her years training at the Grove taught this; years spent, chiefly, in learning to open oneself to such things. Its absence incited suspicion in Aria, a feeling to which Lucan must now be privy.
“You hide from me.”
The distant sound of scraping claws sent a chill down Aria’s spine.
“No,” said Lucan softly. “Never that.”
The magic Lucan sent deepened then, widened, hastened… more power than Aria had ever felt, save that which she was given by Lady Lor. More even than what she had shared with Pheonaris. Yet it was an empty sort of power, bereft of emotion… No. Not empty. Not hollow. Singular?
A single droplet of sweat—
Not sweat, it is too cool here.
—splashed against Aria’s shin.
Pure?
“Then why—”
“Please do not ask me, Aria. Never ask me.”
The howls returned. Lucan’s power doubled. The sensation was an ecstasy.
“Oh, Lucan…” Aria reached for his face. He pulled away. Her ankle was healed.
“We need to fight again,” Lucan said, his tone cool.
“Fire?” Aria asked, her head still spinning as she reached for her magic.
“We’ll see.” Lucan lit an orb. It hovered above them, deep violet in hue. “Can you stand?”
Aria nodded. “Maybe we should move back. So they don’t see us.”
“They know we’re here. We need to see them.”
Aria shuddered. “In case something new comes.”
“In case something new comes.”
The mewling, screeching horde drew nearer.
“You have to tell me something, Lucan. Make me understand.”
Lucan remained silent.
“You are different since the Eyre.”
“Yes.” He replied quickly.
Louder. Closer. Aria gathered her magic.
“Since you were with Lady Kal.”
At this Lucan turned, eyeing Aria briefly. Over his shoulder, specks of yellow light through the iron bars pulled her gaze forward.
“Same as before!” she yelled. “Fire, now!”
The minions of Fury threw themselves with hateful abandon at the bars of Lady Cindra’s iron prison, screaming, yowling, baying in desperation as Aria and Lucan bathed them in sorcerous fire. They broke against the flames like a river dammed, wasting themselves into smoldering pools of ichor and bone. Still, they came. Clawed arms reached through gaps in the crude bars, scorched upon contact with the now-glowing metal. Still, they came. A pool of viscous, acidic, blackened liquid boiled flesh from bone as they scrambled for purchase. Glowing eyes were extinguished, darkened by death. Still, they came.
“Aria! The bars!”
Aria saw. In the center, the glowing bars began to sag inwards. Near the floor, acid began to dissolve the iron. It would take time, but eventually, the bars would fail.
“They won’t hold! We have to move back!” Aria yelled.
“Back? To where?”
Aria ceased her flaming deluge. “The other tunnel!”
“Cindra blocked it off!”
“Just move, dammit!” Aria grabbed Lucan by the sleeve, pulling him behind her. The two began running up the tunnel. Lucan lit another orb, sending it forward.
Aria’s heart hammered. Terror took hold as the situation became clear. “We have to get out, Luc! When they realize the bars are failing, they’ll send everything they have!”
~EVERYTHING, LIESPEAKER? YOU ARE A FOOL. WE ARE UNCOUNTABLE. YOUR SECOND DEATH COMES SOON.~
Second death?
“We are not dead!”
~YOU ARE IN MY DOMAIN. NONE COME HERE BUT THROUGH DEATH.~
Lucan and Aria came to a sliding stop before another set of bars, these too shaped by Cindra to block their previous escape. Aria moved to speak, but Lucan put a hand over her mouth.
“Listen to me,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s fear they track. Love. Your heart. You must not feel in this place! You must only choose!”
“Choose? Choose what?”
“Your next action, no more.”
“How can you know this?”
“I just know!” Lucan hissed. “Now think with me. What would Cindra do?”
Aria was familiar with the process of centering herself, though doing so in the fresh air was far easier. A deep breath and a quiet thought were all she would need, but here, it was all she could do to keep breathing at all. Her thoughts were a chaotic tangle.
“Use your will, Aria. As the Lady taught us.”
My will. Yes. Aria understood. Sorcery. I am a sorcerer. My magic is a product of my will. If I will it, it will be.
“Concentrate,” Lucan whispered.
Concentrate. My will. Gah, I cannot! My mind is in disorder!
Disorder.
A thought formed. The screeches and howls of their foes began to diminish. A chill ran down Aria’s spine.
“Luc. He said ‘we’.”
“What?”
“ ‘We’. He said, ‘We are uncountable.’”
“Why is that significant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You sense something.”
“I do. It’s right there…”
“Think. Trust your mind to do its job. Will it to. You know something. What do you know?”
Aria shook her head. “This magic, Luc. It’s so foreign to me.”
“Listen to me. I think I understand this. You have to let go. All the way. Unlearn what you think you know. Whatever your elven power, this is greater. Use it. Use your will to clear your mind.”
Aria forced a deep breath.
“’We’,” Lucan pressed. “He said ‘We’. Why does that mean something to you?”
“Well, it just doesn’t make sense. He is not…” Aria glanced down the tunnel, “one of these.”
Lucan frowned. “He isn’t? What is he, then?”
Aria eyed Lucan. “You do not know?”
Lucan shook his head.
“He is the Hand of Disorder. Or, well, at least… he should be...”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Aria continued. “Fury is his domain, but he would never deign to put himself in parity with these creatures. He does not see himself as mortal, let alone something akin to these mindless beasts. It makes no sense.”
“Hmm. Unless you’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong, Lucan. I know who he is. I might be one of only a few alive who do.”
“How? How do you know that? Explain.”
Aria paused before responding. “I cannot.”
“You mean you will not.”
“Call it what you like. The knowledge is a duty of my station. I will not betray an oath.”
“Your station?”
>
“As Princess of Thornwood. Have you forgotten that already?”
“I suppose I had. Seems like a minor thing, considering.”
“Minor?”
“We’re in Fury, Aria. Fury. Devils and all. The place adults made up to scare us into behaving.”
“Fury is no fiction, Lucan.”
“Well, that’s all it ever has been to me. Look, you—”
“Lucan, a part of my knowledge is rooted in faith. There are things I’ve been taught. I… I do not understand them all, but they are things I know to be true, and I cannot make you believe.”
Lucan stared into the darkness for a long moment.
“Very well.”
“Very well, what?”
“Very well, I’ll trust what you say and not question you. But my faith is in you, Aria, not whatever gods—”
“Listen.”
Lucan listened.
“They’ve gone. You were right. But how? How can you know anything about this place when you never even believed it existed?”
Lucan shrugged. “A guess. Maybe an instinct, I don’t know. It just… it seems like the beasts can sense feeling. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Probably nothing but rage down here. Anything different must stand out.”
Aria nodded, agreeing. “The more frightened we were, the worse things got.”
“That, and…” Lucan hesitated.
“When you healed me.”
Lucan nodded, clearly anxious to move past Aria’s meaning. “Cindra said it was a beacon, but she couldn’t have meant magic. Not simple magic, at least. It’s taking magic just to breathe. If that was what drew them, we’d be dead already.”
“Assuming we’re not.”
“We’re not.”
“Are you sure?”
Lucan nodded. “I’m sure. I keep telling you. This is not the end. In any case, we’ll not want to end up that way. What do we do?”
Aria sighed, unwilling to challenge Lucan’s belief again. She thought for a moment. “I think we start with deciding what we can do.”
Lucan smirked, a ridiculous, haughty, inappropriate expression, given their circumstances. “We’re sorcerers. Easier to list what we can’t do.”
Arrogant fool.
I love him.
A cackling shriek echoed through the tunnels.