by J C Kang
She trudged over to the basin of water. It was tempting to use Hydromancy to blast away the sweat and dirt. But, needing to conserve her vitality for the Conclave in the highly unlikely event they gave her a second chance to prove her magic, she grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed like a regular person. Once clean, she donned her ceremonial white Biomancy robe, put on bone and shell bangles, and rested.
When the moondial window showed the Iridescent Moon waning halfway past its fifth crescent, she rose. No sooner did she step out than chants erupted from the tribal warriors lining the streets. The old warrior must’ve brought them. Their dark faces were painted in the shape of white skulls. Wearing ceremonial bone armor, they snapped to attention as she passed. Despite the tribe’s fighting prowess, the other clans disdained them for their historic treason, and their lack of higher magic. Brehane had been their hope, their first Mystic candidate since the Hellstorm.
Brehane’s spirit soared. Yes, there was still a chance. Had to be.
Kirala shouldered through the crowd. With another grunt, she held up Dragonstones and then tucked it into the fold of Brehane’s dress and patted it.
Gawking, Brehane looked back toward her house, where she’d left the book. The tome buzzed at her breast again, sending a surprised jolt up her spine. She reached for the fold in her dress.
With a shake of her head, Kirala stayed Brehane’s hand.
Recovering her wits, she smiled and waved as she strode toward the pyramid, towering high at the university’s center. Once a monument to the orcs’ foul gods, it now represented the pinnacle of human magic. From this district, fused orc bones formed the Biomancy steps to the pyramid’s summit. It served as a warning to any orc who thought to steal the Dragonstone and summon their vile gods’ flaming chariots.
It didn’t deter Brehane. Near the apex, she faced the bone door to the high conclave chamber. She clasped the crystal hanging from her neck, which had given her the standing to study at the university when other members of her father’s tribe were banned.
“Brehane, daughter of Gadise,” a sonorous voice announced. “You may enter.”
Her lips tightened. Her mother, Gadise, had fallen in love with the wrong man and had been disowned by her tribe. Still, the Conclave recognized her Pyromancer heritage, which Brehane herself had renounced in favor of a loving father’s tribe.
A tribe whose members no longer had the magic to open the bone doors. With Biomancy studies limited to a simple cantrip, Brehane had to use her hands.
Inside, the room sparkled light blue from Makeda’s Tear. The multifaceted Dragonstone hung high in the air of its own accord, above the font where the Resonance coalesced and fueled magic. Its subtle vibrations echoed in Brehane’s core. Her hand strayed to the crystal at her neck again. Here were two Dragonstones, two more than in Kirala’s blank book.
Which buzzed again.
Ignoring it as hostile gazes fell on her, Brehane entered the ring of twelve seats, each made from a unique material, each occupied by a bejeweled matriarch, bedecked in the colors and jewelry of their respective clans—save for the bone chair of Biomancy, where no one had sat in three hundred years. She’d once hoped to claim it for the tribe that had raised her, and maybe even recover the dragonskull headdress of the Biomancers.
Underneath Makeda’s Tear, a tall man turned and faced her. Teacher Dawit, her former instructor in Neuromancy, favored her with a frown. The students all whispered about how handsome he’d been as a youth. Now, even black pearl powder couldn’t smooth his rough skin, nor could dyes fully hide the grey peppering in his tight curls of black hair. His ceremonial grey loincloth, embroidered with black and white stitches and sparkling with clear gemstones, exposed too much of his sagging torso; and the matching armbands exaggerated the flaccidity of his arms. His silver jewelry did little to distract from the physical toll of age. Still, he was one of the most powerful Neuromancers, and might’ve been promoted to Master had he been a woman.
Brehane’s heart sank. Perhaps he’d lodged a complaint about her advances, giving the Conclave one more reason to expel her. Men were such funny creatures. So demure and proper.
“Makeda, daughter of Kidist,” the page called.
If Brehane’s heart could sink any further, she’d have to pick it up from the base of the pyramid. The ugly assama was no doubt here to testify. Expulsion seemed imminent. She turned to look at the Pyromancer door of flames—the entrance she would have used herself had she not stubbornly refused to adhere to matrilineal customs.
The fire blazed brighter, then parted. Outside, Makeda hunched over her knees, not because the rose-gold tiara and earrings weighed down her head, but rather from the strain of magic. Lifting her chin, she strutted in like a pigeon savoring a victory. Her gold bracelets and necklaces glinted and jangled as she marched to the center, her red and orange silken robes swishing like fire made solid.
Such a beautiful robe, which only the wealthiest could afford. Brehane shuffled on her feet. The rough cotton of her own white robes seemed to chafe even more in this moment.
Makeda bowed. When she rose, her lip curled into a sneer as her eyes met Brehane’s. Again, her gaze shifted to the crystal around Brehane’s neck. Brehane’s hand strayed there. Money and influence could buy silken robes from Cathay, but not a contested heirloom.
The Head of the Conclave, the old Summoning matriarch who disliked Brehane only a little less than the Pyromancers did, cleared her throat. It did little to make her voice less gravelly. “Candidates Makeda and Brehane. You have been assigned to accompany Teacher Dawit on his mission.”
Brehane’s heart, just at the bottom of the pyramid, might’ve leaped into her throat. Apparently, this wasn’t an expulsion hearing. They were still referring to her as candidate. She turned to find Makeda’s narrowed eyes fixed on her. Burying the first question that came to mind, Brehane looked back to the head. “Why are candidates accompanying an adept?”
The Illusionist matriarch, adorned in iridescent robes and metal jewelry of multicolored gemstones, held up a colorful cotton cloth and opened it. Five glass baubles clacked together.
Makeda scoffed. “Do you wish for Brehane to infuse them with light? She might be up for the task one day.”
Such disrespect! For Brehane, and the Illusion tribe. Sure, their clan had never recovered from the Biomancer betrayal and was limited to mass-producing light baubles, but that was no reason to mock them. And unlike the Biomancers, their matriarch was still allowed to wear a ceremonial headdress. Brehane shuffled on her feet again.
The Illusionist glared at Makeda. “These belonged to Adept Melas. He has gone missing.”
Brehane sucked in a sharp breath. Melas was the most talented Illusionist in three centuries—a kindred spirit who’d researched and experimented to revive a neutered school of magic. With such promise, he’d been one of the few males ever allowed to leave the safety of Aksumi lands, for research only he could do. Last anyone heard, he’d been in Vyara City, searching for Illusion texts that had been stolen by the Ayuri Empire just before the Hellstorm.
She and Makeda met each other’s gaze again. It was becoming clearer why they’d been given to this most unusual task. Many students had tried to sleep with Melas, in hopes of absorbing some of his skill. Like most males, his virtue didn’t come easily, and it was well known that only she and Makeda had succeeded.
The Illusionist matriarch picked up one of the baubles from the cloth. As soon as her bare hand touched the glass, her form shifted from a middle-aged woman with dark skin and coarse black hair, to a young woman with olive skin and flowing fair hair. Her colorful clothes, jewelry, and headdress remained the same, however.
The hairs on Brehane’s neck stood on end. Creating such a detailed illusion was beyond the skill of all but the most talented of that tribe. To capture and sustain it in a glass bauble was inconceivable. Melas—a man, no less—had progressed far in the art of illusions. She extended a hand. “May I, Matriarch?”
Pred
ictably, Makeda interposed herself and plucked one of the beads. Her form shifted, too, this time to a skinny but pretty young Cathayi girl, with silky black tresses and a yellowish skin tone. Still, she spoke with Makeda’s grating voice as she grunted words of magic and spun her finger in a circle. Her shoulders slumped as the patch of air she’d demarcated took on a mirrored surface. When she looked at her new reflection, she chuckled.
The Illusionist matriarch offered a bauble to Brehane. From what she could tell, craning over Makeda’s shoulder and looking at the mirror, her image had transformed into the same olive-skinned Estomari as the matriarch had.
The Head of the Conclave cleared her throat. “Melas has progressed far beyond what any other Illusionist can do, so it especially concerns us that he has lost contact. Teacher Dawit has been searching for him. He bought these from an Estomari merchant in Vyara City, who claimed to have acquired them from Melas in Tokahia.”
Brehane shuffled on her feet again. Dawit served the Conclave, using his unique Neuromancy skills to track down fugitive males—two who'd slipped their chaperones in Tokahia while on a sanctioned visit to the old pyramid still remained at large. A minor Pyromancer and mildly talented Transmuter. “Why us?” Besides their carnal knowledge of Melas?
Exchanging glances, which sent their jewels dancing in sparkles, the matriarchs shifted uneasily in their seats. They were hiding something.
Teacher Dawit turned to Brehane and nodded. “I requested you, the last female descendant of the First Mystic.”
The Pyromancy matriarch shook her head, an amazing feat given the weight of her rose-gold headdress. “Not the last descendant. That is why the Conclave insists that Makeda joins in as well. She has excelled at all the schools, especially enchantment, I am told. Teacher Dawit might need help as he tracks down his friend.”
Friend. Brehane’s eyes widened. That was it. Despite his proven loyalty and service, they didn’t fully trust Dawit. She had been chosen not just to help, but to keep an eye on Teacher Dawit. And Makeda had been chosen to keep an eye on her. Despite all the pretty words, the truth was, it wasn’t worth risking an adept when a candidate from the shamed Biomancy tribe would suffice. She started to speak.
The Head held up a hand. “You must be careful. The Divining magic of the Estomari is different from ours—not just the ability to see the future, but perhaps even alter it. If Dawit has somehow learned any of it…”
The hairs on Brehane’s neck stood on end again. All magic was fascinating, and she theorized that they all had similarities. After all, Paladins could supposedly see the future in combat, which sounded a whole lot like Estomari Divining. And wasn’t it the elves who’d taught humans magic before the War of Ancient Gods? It was amusing how Kirala’s blank books had sparked the hypothesis, which would border on blasphemy if the teachers and masters didn’t just dismiss Brehane as the crazy Biomancer candidate. Perhaps experiencing it firsthand would allow her to challenge the sacrosanct fundamentals of magic, and also piece together the lost magic of her tribe.
The head pointed toward the harbor. “The Conclave has booked passage for you on the Serikothi ship Intimidator. It will depart this evening. Prepare for your journey. If you succeed, you will have earned the right to study higher levels of magic. If you fail, Candidate Brehane…”
Brehane gave a stiff nod as the head master trailed off. If she failed, it meant expulsion. It didn’t matter, because here was the opportunity of a lifetime, to visit another pyramid, and perhaps experience Estomari Divining.
After dismissal, Brehane hurried back to her house. Her pulse fluttered.
Two hands on her shoulders stopped her in her tracks. So absorbed she’d been in thought, she hadn’t noticed Kirala standing there. The elf pulled Dragonstones from Brehane’s robe and opened it.
Brehane sucked in a sharp breath again.
Completely blank before, the book now had two new entries: Makeda’s Tear, illustrated in vibrant color; and Aralas’ Heart—the clear gemstone looked exactly like the heirloom hanging from her neck.
Brehane looked up to meet Kirala’s gaze.
The elf grasped the necklace and drew it close to the book. With a nod, she pointed at Brehane, and then to the harbor. A black-hulled ship, likely the Intimidator, was coming into the docks.
Chapter 3:
Smoke and Mirrors
Standing by the aft bulwark on the Indomitable, Yan Jie was about to let personal affection get in the way of a mission for the first time in her life. With effort, she tore her gaze away from the handsome foreign prince giving orders from the quarterdeck, and looked across the stone quay to the black-hulled, five-masted behemoth she was supposed to infiltrate.
The Intimidator might’ve been the Indomitable’s twin. Its crew had already withdrawn the gangplank and were busy casting off the moorings. Meanwhile, she fidgeted on the Indomitable as it finished docking procedures. There was no time to cross the wharf and board the other ship, which she suspected harbored the assassin who’d murdered two lords back home.
But if anyone could do it, it would be her, an orphan half-elf raised in the Black Lotus Clan.
She looked at Aryn one last time, his refined features a vestige of his people’s traces of elf blood. He was so handsome, and charming, and amazing between the sheets. And above the sheets, or with the sheets twisted into bindings. He’d been a fun diversion, to keep her mind off a certain clan brother back home, who never saw her as anything more than a little sister.
He turned, a smile blooming on his face. Oh, that handsome face! There was no time for a long, passionate farewell kiss—their fling had been a secret to his crew, anyway.
Fixing her expression to vapid girl in love with a prince, she waved back, all the while gauging the distance from deck to dock. At about forty feet, it was much too far to jump without leaving a bloody splatter of half-elf on the grey stone. However, the dockworkers had already moored the ship, and the calm harbor kept the lines taut. Even in the cute pink dress, she’d be able to tightrope-walk down one of them, while giving the sailors and dockworkers a view of the lacey undergarments Aryn had given her. Then again, a display of acrobatics would compromise her identity as a simple translator sent from Cathay.
Or maybe she could hedge her bets, just in case there really wasn’t enough time to get down, grab a pole, dash up the dock, and pole-vault to the Serikothi ship's stern gallery.
Aryn turned his head to one of the deck officers. No one was looking.
Gathering her skirts in the crook of her elbow, she turned and dove over the gunwale. She hooked her elbow over the line. The dress’ smooth satin slipped down the rope—
—A little too easily.
The dock rushed up to meet her. Her billowing skirts must’ve put her flat body on display for the likely undiscriminating sailors and dockworkers who might happen to look up. In seconds, she’d become the aforementioned bloody splatter of half-elf.
She pulled herself up and wrapped her legs around the line. The fibers, while fine, first warmed, then seared into her thighs and calves. Nevertheless, rope burn was far preferable to death, and her descent slowed to a manageable speed. At the last second, she tucked and rolled several times over the dock’s seamless stone, bowling over a couple of laborers along the way.
Despite preventing a concussion, her head swam from the spins. The dock was cold beneath her back…and smooth. Dwarf-carved, perhaps? Seagulls cawed above, either mocking her, or in disappointment of being denied half-elf splatter for dinner.
Shouts erupted. Burly dockworkers in baggy pantaloons and white shirts joined other men with black armbands in rushing over and crowding around her. The stench of man sweat and stagnant salt air did little to clear her head.
“Are you all right?”
“Anything broken?”
“Stay still.”
She'd saved time by sliding instead of tightrope walking down, but now hands held her down. Feigning disorientation—or perhaps not feigning it—she peeked ou
t from the throng at the Serikothi ship. It was free of its moorings, and a tug was pulling it clear of the dock. There was still a chance, when the Intimidator set oars to guide it out of the harbor and into open seas. Maybe she could swim out, climb up an oar, and squeeze through the oarlock before the sails took over.
Right. Getting off one ship had required the skills of an actor and an acrobat—maybe a career change to opera singer would be safer—but getting onto the other ship with that harebrained scheme would need talents beyond even her wide-reaching abilities. In retrospect, not even the clan's three legendary-but-long-dead young masters could've accomplished the feat, given the exceedingly slim window of opportunity.
With a sigh, she brought her focus back to the center of the commotion and splayed out on the dock. Another opportunity to get aboard the Serikothi ship would present itself at the next port. Perhaps that would be her last chance to root out the conspirators. In the meantime, she could spend a little more time with—
Prince Aryn and his marines pushed the gawking bystanders aside. He waved his hands back, then knelt beside her. “Stand back. Give her space.”
Men grumbled, but otherwise complied.
His eyes roved over her in a more professional way than she was accustomed to. When he spoke, his Arkothi accent mangled her name in the most sensual way. “Jyeh, are you all right?”
Her insides twisted in delightful ways. She propped herself up on one elbow while covering her forehead with the back of the other wrist. “I…I think I’m okay. I tripped over the gunwale. Only my butt hurts. And I seem to have some rope burns.”
Aryn blew out a breath. “You are so clumsy. That could’ve been a nasty fall onto concrete. You’re lucky you managed to catch the dock line.”
If only he knew. At least for now, she hadn’t betrayed her cover. “Concrete?”
“Yes. Quite ingenious.” He stamped on the ground. “It’s used throughout the North, since the Arkothi Era.”
She gingerly staggered to her feet. Aryn shot out an arm to support her.