by Sean Hinn
Barris and Aria entered the cabin. “Oh, Mistress – I am sorry, we thought you would be sleeping–” Aria backed into Barris, attempting to correct her mistake.
The Mistress rose and offered a slight bow. “No, please, come in, Princess.”
“Mistress, you need not…”
“As we discussed, Princess.” Pheonaris offered her a wink. “I am so glad to see you are well. It was a failure on my part to not warn you…”
“There is no harm done,” said Barris from beside Aria. “And perhaps some good has come of this. We discussed her error on the walk over; I do not think Aria will find herself breaking the link so quickly again.”
“You can believe that, Bear. I will need your help learning to use the Bond as you do–”
Pheonaris interrupted. “Lessons later. Now, I believe your duty requires you to greet the Firstson of Belgorne. I have laid a dress on my bed for you. We are nearly the same size; it should fit well. Hurry now, and run a brush through your hair. There is no time for a bath, but Petahr brought you some hot water and a cloth.”
“Ah, yes, thank you. I’ll just…alright.” Aria hurried to the Mistress’ bedroom to change.
“You knew we were coming,” Barris observed. “And you feel a need for haste.”
“I did, and I do.”
“I had hoped you would still be resting, Mistress.”
“I am rested enough. We need to speak with the dwarves, quickly. Petahr has brought me up to speed, and I am concerned. If Aria had not awakened I would have gone to greet the prince myself, but if she is able, it is her place.”
“Why the concern? You know why they are here. They seek our wisdom. We will offer it, such as it is.”
“I know why they think they are here. And I suspect I know why the gnome girl thinks she is here. But do you not find it odd, Barris, that we should all arrive at the Grove at the same time? The boy from Mor, the Firstson of Belgorne, Shyla, Aria? Has this not struck you as the least bit strange?”
“Well, I suppose it has, now that you mention it.”
“Stranger still, the Vicaris believes that Shyla is the granddaughter of Cindra Sandshingle.”
“You have spoken to Trellia?”
“Not yet, no, but you know Petahr. He knows everything that goes on here.”
“Hmm. Cindra’s grandchild. I did not even know that her daughter had given birth before she died.”
“It was kept a secret. Only Trellia and I knew. Scinty died in childbirth, and Shyla was raised by a couple who found her outside the gates of G’naath. She was to be wolved.”
“Fury, no. I thought that barbaric practice had ended ages ago.”
“It had. The Elders brought it back, just for Shyla.”
Barris frowned and considered the implications.
“So, they feared she would possess Cindra’s talents.”
“I think it is more than that, Barris. Add it up. Remember your lessons.”
The Knights of Thornwood were well and necessarily schooled in the histories and legends of the races. Barris sat beside Pheonaris to ponder the question. Clearly, the Mistress did not wish to speak of it aloud; perhaps she feared that Aria would overhear. What, then? He searched his memory desperately, but came up empty. He looked to Pheonaris, puzzled.
“Consider the omens,” she said gently.
Fires. A tahrquake. Dying trees. Hunger to the south. Strange arrivals, meetings of chance, or was it providence? Magic and fire…ash and fury…the power of five… Barris’ eyes widened.
“That was just a story, Mistress. A poem written by a maddened old elf. And in any case, it is far too soon.”
“Is it? How long has it been?”
“Well…” Barris frowned. “Certainly not long enough.”
“Sixteen hundred and twenty-three years since the Days of Fury. Add to that a millennium, at least. Perhaps longer; the exact dates are not known. It could very well have been three thousand years by now.”
“Fine, perhaps. But it is just a legend, Pheonaris. They could not survive undetected for three thousand years.”
“Who says they have? Just because we have not detected them does not mean they are undetected.”
Barris shook his head. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Refuse all you like, it changes nothing, Barris. It is as it must be. There is only one way to know.”
“No, there isn’t. Assume you are right–and I assume no such thing—there would be five. Shyla, then? Silverstone? Aria, perhaps? And who, the thief?”
“I believe so.”
Barris shook his head. “That one doesn’t exactly impress me as a hero.”
“And the rest do?”
The knight sighed. “Even if you are correct, there is no fifth. And to learn the truth, there must be. Who would it be?”
“That, my friend, is the question. We must find out, and soon.”
“What must we find out?” asked Aria, emerging from the bedroom in a delicate egg-white gown, very near to the color of her long, flowing hair. He and Pheonaris exchanged a glance.
“We must find out, Aria,” said Pheonaris, “why the prince of Belgorne is here at the Grove. You look to be refreshed; shall I accompany you?”
“Please. Where is he?”
Pheonaris closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating.
“Cooking, it would seem. Come.”
VI: THE FARMLANDS
“Have him brought to me.” The Incantor closed the thick leather journal, her production reports for the season finally complete. With a gesture, she sealed the journal with a Locking; none but the master of Kehrlia would be able to read its contents. “And give this to William with my instructions to present it to Sartean on his arrival in Mor.”
“At once, Incantor.” The farmer hurried from the room to carry out the orders.
Mila Felsin, Incantor of Kehrlia, swiveled in her chair to await the new arrival from Mor. She sat within a small living room in a modest farmhouse that she had established as her office for the past several seasons. She had been ordered to oversee the extensive production of Flightfluid and its ingredients; the task had proven monumental, beyond even Sartean’s calculations. Nearly a full third of all the farmland west of Mor had been appropriated to facilitate the growth of the rare plants required. Commandeering the land had been simple; doing so in secret had required a coordination of dozens of Incantors, bribes and threats to neighboring land owners, and a complete halt of all road traffic west of Shale Bridge. Complicating the operation was the need to magically simulate specific growing conditions for the rarest of Flightfluid’s ingredients, phenarril. It had been Mila who discovered a method to grow the purple plant in a laboratory setting, magically synthesizing the temperatures, gas concentrations, elevation and lighting found at the mouth of Fang, where phenarril grew naturally. No fewer than sixty wizards of Kehrlia rotated duties each day to maintain a bubble of elemental containment over the squarefields of phenarril - and in the first season, not a single sprig of the plant had grown to maturity; even momentary lapses of climactic containment proved lethal to the delicate plant.
Other, less rare ingredients had been required to be grown in quantity as well, and what had originally been a scheme to utilize a hundred squarefields of Mor farmland to produce several hundred thousand doses of Flightfluid had quickly become an operation that required twice the land to produce half the yield. Laborers died, subjected to harsh conditions, limited food, and steady doses of Flightfluid to enhance their productivity. Wizards went mad with exhaustion, and though all Incantors and apprentices had been forbidden by order of Sartean D’Avers to use the potion to alleviate their fatigue, many had succumbed to the lure of the drug. Many of those eventually died.
Mila had not intended to preside over a piling count of bodies when she had first perfected flightfluid. She had merely wished to win a contest among apprentices and secure her promotion to Incantor. Her life’s objective required it; she had chosen her path before reachin
g adolescence, knowing that to succeed, she must do things she would find distasteful. And so she did. Nothing would stop her. Nothing had.
As she awaited her new arrival she pondered the costs. She had no illusions about her culpability; Sartean was the ringleader here, no doubt, but it had been her short-sightedness that had allowed this abomination to come to pass. When the first laborer was brought to her in the throes of an attack of the heart, she had done what she could to save him–and even tried to wean him gradually from the potion over a course of days. He had been released from her care for less than an hour when he had stolen a lethal dose of the substance from her stores. He was found the next morning, crumpled in a closet, his eyelids stuck shut with coagulated blood; the vessels had hemorrhaged and bled freely before his heart finally and mercifully pounded its last beat.
Mila had assuaged her guilt with the idea that the man had caused his own demise; all things could be deadly in sufficient quantities, she rationalized. How many men of Mor had drunk themselves to death, or stuffed themselves to an early grave with rich, sugary foods? Should a winemaker be held accountable? A purveyor of sweetcakes? No, she rationalized, man’s choices were his own, and all had been warned that Flightfluid was a powerful potion before they were offered their first drop.
It was not until Kaylan had come to her, five seasons past, with a request for access to more land, that she had begun to accept her role in the horror she had created. The apprentice had told her he would need an additional squarefield for his tasks. She had argued against the request for several turns, citing analyses of yields and growth rates, when he had finally interrupted her: the additional land he required was not needed for more farming, but rather for more graves.
Mila heard the front door to the farmhouse open and close. The shuffling of footsteps announced that the new arrival was being brought before her. Without conscious intention, she crossed one leg over the other, allowing a toned thigh to escape the snug silvery fabric of her gown. She leaned forward and rested her elbow on her knee, chin in her palm, one painted fingernail playfully curling around a wisp of light brown hair. The angle of her seated body exaggerated her acutely curved shape. She was not in the mood to be seductive, by any means; on the contrary, she was feeling quite subdued. But Mila Felsin had developed a habit of presenting herself as a woman to be desired, and rarely, if ever, did it require conscious effort.
Her eyes widened as the three men entered the room. Two were her subordinates, Incantors of little consequence. The third, flanked by the two, was perhaps the largest person Mila had ever seen. The behemoth of a man wore a scowl beneath his shaggy black hair; he appeared to her as an angry mountain of pure muscle. He shook himself free of his escorts’ hands as he walked into the room. His brown eyes met Mila’s, never wandering. Uncommon, Mila considered.
Mila returned his stare silently. After a moment, she nodded to the escorts, who departed without a word.
“I understand that you’re not particularly pleased to be here, sir.”
“Here’s fine. Fine as anywhere else. It ain’t the where that’s got me riled, sorceress. It’s the what.”
“Mila. Call me Mila.”
“Fine, Mila. Don’t matter much what I call ya, I ain’t gonna be here long anyways.”
“You’ll be leaving us, then? Surely you will recall your agreement, Mister…”
“Earl. Just Earl. I agreed to load some wagons, I loaded ‘em, and I’ll be headin’ back to Mor now, with or without your permission.”
“Your agreement was more specific than that, Earl. No, please, do not speak for a moment. Here.” Mila stood and walked to a short tea table that stood between her and the large man. She bent at the waist, slowly, to reach for the parchment. She allowed the front of her dress to hang, just a bit, and lingered at the deepest point as she bowed to retrieve the contract. The effect was lost on Earl, who had been staring at the ceiling, gnawing his lip, clearly struggling to remain silent. Mila maneuvered beside him and raised the parchment to eye level–to her own eye level, specifically–barely shoulder-high to Earl. She directed his attention to the agreement.
“This is your signature, Earl?” She brushed against him as he looked down to the document, nodding. He inched away.
“That’s my mark. But I can’t read the rest. I can make out numbers, though. Says right there,” his finger stabbed at the parchment, “fifty scales for the lot. And I loaded the lot.”
Mila pulled away and returned to her chair, motioning for Earl to sit in the sofa across from her. “Please, sit. Come now, I will explain your mistake, and we can resolve this simply.” Earl glanced at the sofa, but did not move. Mila’s long lashes fluttered as her green eyes widened, lending sincerity to her plea. “Please, Earl, join me. There is no need to be angry, I will not cheat you.”
He looked her up and down for the first time, his scowl remaining. “No, ya won’t. Don’t matter to me what kinda spells you got, lady, and it looks like you got plenty. I’ll hear you out, as a matter of bein’ polite, but then I’ll be on my way, with my pay.” Earl sat on the sofa, his heaviness bowing it somewhat at the center.
“Fair enough, though I will try to persuade you otherwise. You see, this contract does not state payment of fifty scales for ‘the lot’ as you put it, but fifty scales per cycle, for two years. Was this not explained to you?”
“Oh sure, yeah, your wizards tried to sell me that. ’Cept I know better. Ain’t a wagon loader in Tahr makes that much on the steady. I told ‘em, one job, fifty scales, and I’ll load the whole damned caravan myself. Which is what I did. No offense, lady–”
“Mila.” The sorceress smiled sweetly.
Earl huffed. “Mila. No offense, but I’m nobody’s fool. Been workin’ all my life loading one thing or another, and I know what a job’s worth, and what I can expect to get paid. ’Sides, this operation you got going here… there’s something odd about it. All the secrets, all the wizards. I don’t like it.”
Mila turned in her chair towards her desk and opened a drawer. She reached in, retrieved something small, turned back and leaned over to place it on Earl’s knee.
“Here. Perhaps this will help earn your trust.”
Earl picked up the gold coin, his expression softening for the first time since he had entered the room. “What is this?”
Mila smiled. “It’s a coin, of course.”
“I can see that. It’s a gold coin. This is a hundred scales.”
“Yes. It is. And you may keep it. Consider it an advance on your first two cycles’ labor.”
Earl cocked his head. “You’re gonna pay me in advance? What’s to say I don’t just sneak out in the middle of the night and get gone with this?”
“Will you?” Mila asked sincerely.
“Well, no. I don’t cheat nobody. Won’t find more work if I do.”
“It would be inadvisable, Earl, I agree. The consequences would be more severe than a tarnished reputation, I assure you.” The sorceress’ tone cooled slightly.
“Alright. Say I stay. Two years, though? That’s a Fury of a long time.”
“Is it, Earl? In two years, you’ll have saved up enough to buy a small manor. You need not spend any of it; we will supply you with food and clothing, and even a ration of ale while you remain with us. Have you another opportunity as promising in your future?”
Earl thought for a moment. “No, I don’t. But something still tastes funny here. The other men… they keep talkin’ about this flight potion they been takin’. Sayin’ they’re working dawn to dusk, and more, and got plenty of fire left in ‘em at the end of the day. That don’t sound right to me. Is that what I loaded into those wagons? Potions?”
“It is. It is called Flightfluid, and you are welcome to try some, though I warn you, it is quite potent…”
“I’ll pass, lady… ah, Mila. I’ll stick to my ale.”
“You may find it difficult to keep up with your peers, in that case. There is the possibility that you could earn
your own crew while with us, and double your–”
Earl stood abruptly. “Oh, I heard about that part, too. Don’t you worry. I don’t need no potion to outwork anybody. You’ll be comin’ to see me with that pretty little smile of yours before this cycle is out and givin’ me that crew.” Earl slipped the coin into his pocket with a wink to the sorceress.
“So you think I’m pretty, then?” Mila stood as well, folding her hands before her, doing her best to appear shy.
“Sure I do. Problem is, you already know you are.” Earl turned and walked from the room.
“If you change your mind about the potion–” she called to him.
“You’ll be the first to know,” he called back, the door to the farmhouse closing behind him.
Mila smiled. A strong man, she thought. A genuinely strong man, inside and out. So rare. She felt a moment of remorse as she imagined how he would appear in a cycle or two.
VII: THORNWOOD
Neral abandoned his view of the gardens outside his window, closing the shutters against the chill night air, and limped to his bed. The clouds of smoke and ash had finally stretched far enough north to obscure the light of the Twins; there was nothing to be seen but blackness. He changed into his nightclothes, careful to maintain balance between his remaining foot and his staff. Three hundred years of undressing himself before bed made him well practiced at the task, yet he did not take even this small bit of independence for granted; the revered knight had fallen more than once over the years. While he was not yet too feeble to right himself, the thought of being discovered while struggling to do so filled him with shame.