by Sean Hinn
She continued to walk, turning down the path that led to the stables. She found the idea of horses most fascinating: an entire species allowing itself to be used for the transportation of another. She imagined an army of ants riding into battle, mounted on the backs of flies, or moths. Well, why not? she thought, giggling to herself. She considered that perhaps someday the ants would rise up and discover there was an easier way to ferry their bits of food from one place to another. It was no less likely than the things she had already witnessed since she left G’naath.
G’naath, she thought. The gnomes had certainly done something terrible, something evil. She could not help but be ashamed of her people. She certainly knew that not all gnomes were evil. She wasn’t. Her parents weren’t. Lady Cindra wasn’t. But many were. She had experienced the meanness of her people first-hand, her entire life. She contrasted what she knew about the gnomes of G’naath with what she was learning about the dwarves, about the elves. All her life she had been told that dwarves were not to be trusted, that elves were an aloof and haughty people, possessing wicked magics. She had been taught that Men were the most dangerous of all, murderous and greedy… she could not say one way or the other about that, but Lucan did not seem particularly evil. As for the elves and dwarves, however, they seemed honorable. Decent. Good.
But yeh have only met a few, she reminded herself. Time will tell. She set the thought aside as she approached the stables. Pheonaris stood before one of the horses, brushing its mane.
“Hello, Shyla,” she said as the young gnome approached from behind.
“How did yeh know it was me?”
“I did not. But Spirit did.”
“Spirit?”
She turned to face Shyla. “My horse. Would you like to greet him?”
Shyla nodded. Pheonaris pulled a stool up to the gate and helped the gnome climb it. Spirit nuzzled into the nook between Shyla’s neck and shoulder, extracting a gleeful laugh.
“He likes you.”
Shyla continued to giggle, stroking Spirit’s neck and face.
“I like him! Oh, Mistress, he’s so beautiful!”
“Don’t tell me, tell him. He likes being flattered.”
“Does he understand me?” Shyla asked.
Pheonaris smiled. “Ask him.”
Shyla did. “Do you understand me, Mister Spirit?” she asked. “You sure are pretty! Yes, you are!” Shyla continued speaking, petting the enormous animal, uttering kindnesses and compliments. Suddenly, her eyes went wide, and she lost her balance. She would have fallen from the stool had Pheonaris not caught her.
“What did you see?” the mistress asked.
“Oh… I… I mean, I dunno! All of a sudden I saw me, lookin’ back at me! Well, no, I mean, looking at Spirit, ’cept I wasn’t… well…”
Pheonaris laughed. “You saw through his eyes, Shyla. He chose to Bond with you.”
Shyla resumed petting her new friend. “It was a little scary,” she said to the Mistress, then to Spirit: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump, I just got scared is all.”
“You do not need to speak aloud to him. If you speak with your mind, he will hear you. But use images, or feelings, not words. He does not speak our language, but he understands your thoughts better than you could imagine.”
Shyla smiled and tried to send her thoughts to the horse. It was easier than she would have guessed; within moments, she and Spirit were communicating. She could sense the horse’s joy and curiosity; she found Shyla to be special, different, beautiful, kind. He loved Pheonaris, enjoyed his life at the Grove, preferred apples to oats, loved to run, particularly with other horses. He feared snakes, was curious about Wolf, hated being alone. He was terrified of lightning, nervous when the skies went dark, and had never been so afraid as when the last quake struck.
They continued to share one another’s thoughts; Shyla was scarcely aware of anything aside from her Bond with the horse until she again saw through his eyes.
“Hello, Lucan,” Shyla said, as he approached from behind.
“How’d you know it was me?”
Shyla and Pheonaris shared a secret laugh.
“I thought you would be resting,” Pheonaris said.
“I’ve been asleep for what, a quarter cycle? I think I’ve had my fill. Besides, Trellia snores.”
“Terribly,” Pheonaris agreed. “As does Aria. Well, today at least. She was snoring before her head hit the pillow.” Shyla laughed. “Did Trellia fall asleep in the clinic?”
“Yeah, took the cot Aria slept in. Said she didn’t trust me in there alone. But I think she was just worried about me.”
“Should we worry about you, Lucan?” asked Pheonaris.
“Naw, I’m much better. Feel great, actually.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Lucan frowned. Pheonaris and Shyla each met his gaze.
“I thought Barris straightened that out. I’m no thief.”
Pheonaris nodded. “I know. But aside from that, we know little about you.”
Lucan was offended. “And what do I know about you, Mistress? Or you, Shyla? Or the princess, or Prince J’arn, or any of you? Should I be worried?”
Pheonaris nodded, somewhat embarrassed. “I see your point.”
“I’ve about had it with everyone looking at me with suspicion. I came over to say hello. So, ‘Hello.’ And goodbye.” Lucan turned away, shaking his head.
“Lucan, wait…” Shyla tried to stop him.
“Let him go. I have offended him,” Pheonaris said.
“Well, yeh didn’t mean to.”
“I did not. I will tell him so before he leaves tomorrow. Now, tell me, how do you like Spirit?”
“I adore him. He’s amazing!”
Pheonaris smiled broadly. “I agree. How would you like to ride him to Eyreloch?”
“Uh, I dunno how to ride a horse, Mistress.”
“But you know how to speak to one.”
Shyla shook her head, still awed by the concept. “Yeah, I s’pose I do.”
“He will teach you. You and J’arn. I would have you ride Spirit together, if you agree.”
“But he’s yer horse, Mistress. Won’t yeh miss ’im?”
“Very much.” Pheonaris reached to stroke her friend. “But he and I discussed it. He would like to visit Eyreloch.”
“He would?”
Pheonaris nodded. “He does not like the clouds that loom, and I will be tending the Grove for the foreseeable future as Trellia goes with you. Spirit would have no opportunity to travel, and he very much likes to. I would be pleased if you would accept him as your companion.”
Shyla beamed. “I’d like nothin’ more, Mistress. Thank yeh!” She threw her arms around Pheonaris’ neck. The two new friends shared an embrace as Pheonaris gently lifted Shyla from the stool and set her down.
“Now go. Allow me a bit of time with him, if you would.”
Shyla nodded. “Of course. Thank yeh again, Mistress. I promise I’ll take good care of ’im. Bye, Spirit! See yeh tomorrow!”
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the ash of Fang finally began to fall on the Grove, Shyla Greykin skipped merrily away from the stables, happy as she had ever been.
~
Despite his exhaustion, J’arn slept little. The day had brought many revelations, not the least of which was the notion that he harbored some degree of magic deep within himself. But where’d it come from, for Tahr’s sake? Magic was unheard of in Belgorne; the only example he could recall was the legend of Brenn Silverstone and the vision of Stonarris he had shared with his people, many centuries past. His people were not ignorant when it came to magic; they knew of the wizards of Kehrlia, of the innate talents of the elves. It was precisely those talents Jarn’s party had hoped to call on in coming to Thornwood on their current journey. But dwarves did not possess arcane gifts, if gifts they were. They never had.
Until now.
As the hours wore on and J’arn tossed and turned, he found it exc
eedingly difficult to accept the idea. He allowed that yes, something had happened as Trellia inflicted him with pain. But was it magic, his magic, that had injured her hand? Could it not have been her own, somehow rebounding to her, rejected by his body or mind? If so, was that rejection a form of magic in itself? If not, why had he never before sensed it within himself?
Not never, his mind whispered.
~
There had been a time, a single episode he tried desperately to forget and eventually had. When he was younger, still in his lessons, he had sparred with his brother, Dohr. The two practiced axeplay often together in their youth, fighting with blunt wooden weapons. One day, however, the day after J’arn’s official coronation as Firstson, their sparring match had turned violent. Dohr’s jealousy of his brother had bubbled to the surface. When sparring with axes, even wooden ones, injuries were common if great care was not taken to pull a blow, or turn a bit sideways before striking. That morning, Dohr had found an opening and struck J’arn viciously with the bit of his training axe, severely bruising a rib and knocking the wind from his brother. J’arn did not complain, assuming the strike had been unintentionally fierce, but when he caught his breath and the two resumed their match, Dohr feigned high and struck low; J’arn raised his shield in defense, but the fierce blow was redirected, catching J’arn on the hip. A wicked smile from Dohr made plain the truth: the younger sibling was out for blood.
The pain was intense, but J’arn would not, of course, call the match. His pride was at stake, and he intended to teach his little brother a lesson. The two fought fiercely as their mêlée wore on, attracting a small crowd in the center of the main corridor. Normally tempered blows were replaced with wild, powerful swings, any of which would, if landed, had broken bones. At one point, such a blow had knocked the shield from J’arn’s left hand. Rather than allowing his brother to retrieve it, Dohr heaved a brutal overhand strike at his brother with both hands.
J’arn reacted on instinct, swinging his own axe in a mighty one-handed arc to deflect the incoming blow, but he did more than that. The two axe heads collided with an impossible degree of force; Dohr’s axe shattered, splinters flying in all directions, and J’arn’s axe continued its arc towards the stone floor. Upon striking the stone, his axe also should have shattered, but it did not. Instead, the wooden practice weapon embedded itself three fingers deep, cracking the very stone upon which they stood.
Dohr eyed his brother with hatred and stormed away. J’arn pulled to free his axe from the stone, but could not. It took three dwarves pulling with all their strength to budge it at all, but the force eventually broke the handle. It had been Boot to finally cut the axe free and repair the cracked stone.
~
J’arn shuddered at the memory that years had all but erased. He had been frightened that day, recognizing that something unnatural had occurred. Yet time has a way of eroding recollections, even extraordinary ones, and J’arn had come to believe that, as in most things in life, the most likely explanation was probably the truth: there must have already been a crack in the stone. Dohr’s wooden axe must have been weakened by use. A lucky strike, no more. But as J’arn replayed the event in his mind, particularly in light of the day’s events, he knew better. Something extraordinary had happened, and it happened when J’arn was afraid. Just as it did earlier in the day, when Trellia ignited his fear.
Some magic, thought J’arn, only works when me cowardice sets in.
~
Lucan not-Thorne sat beneath a pine, watching the ash of Fang begin to blanket the Grove. Something about the grey flakes felt seemly. He imagined the drably colored particles matched the hue of his melancholy, if a mood could have a color, but it was more than that. The flecks of grey seemed to fit the whole of what was happening to Tahr, as if they were a herald, a presage of the disaster Barris had warned of earlier in the day. He supposed they were just that. “Ash will portend thy fate,” he had said. Well, here was the ash, and it certainly seemed that fate had fallen in step with it.
Lucan was not surprised to learn that he had magic. In fact, he decided, it was a bit daft of him not to have realized as much sooner. He had avoided meeting a fateful end of his own too many times to count, always managing to land a lucky punch in a fight, often sensing danger just in time to avoid it. And there was his skill with a knife… he had never practiced. He could simply find the target, every time. Even as he had ridden Earl’s back at the Wench, if he had wanted to nail that last throw, he would have. He did, in fact: the knife struck precisely where he had aimed it, handle-first as he intended.
He wondered what his life would have been like to that point if he had discovered his own magic earlier. He might have been wealthy, he imagined. Or certainly less impoverished. Yet, as he considered the notion, he would not have felt right using his magic to deceive others, or gain unfair advantage. Such behavior would have broken his self-imposed code, and his code was the only thing Lucan had to be proud of.
~
He recalled the day he had been taught that code as if it were yesterday. He could not have been older than twelve, perhaps younger. He had been caught stealing a rack of salted boar meat from a locked market stall one evening. The man who caught him wore a cowl over his face and called himself Tom. Lucan had seen the man before, skulking about the streets late at night, and feared him. The street children of Mor knew to avoid those who would lurk alone, be it night or day. Bad things happened to children who did not adhere to the unwritten rule. Terrible things.
But Tom did not mean him harm, Lucan soon discovered. He did force Lucan to return the meat, but fed him from his own pouch of dried fruits. Tom wondered at how skillfully he had picked the lock in the first place; he had been watching the boy, and saw that the task had taken less than half a turn. To Lucan, picking a lock was as easy as tying a shoe, not that his shoes had any laces. He showed Tom how he had done it and the two made a game of it; they walked throughout the city, Tom would show Lucan a lock, and Lucan would pick it. Each time he did so successfully, Tom would give him a cent piece. By the time dawn came, Lucan’s pockets were full.
“Lucan, I will make you a bargain. You are very talented, far too talented to be a thief. My friends and I occasionally need a lock picked. I will employ you, and every night, I will give you a tenth piece. Some nights we may need your services, some nights we will not, but I will pay you nonetheless. One on condition: you will never steal again. You must promise me.”
Lucan made the promise quickly. A tenth piece per day! he had thought. He would never want for anything! Lucan smiled as he recalled the naïve idea.
But the promise had stuck, and a tenuous friendship had developed between Lucan and the hooded man. “Every man needs a code,” he had said once. “Lines he will not cross. Things he will not do. Cleverness is no crime, but to take advantage of those less fortunate, to steal, to murder, to lie… these things stain a man’s heart,” Tom had said. “And the stain of such acts can never be washed clean.”
Lucan picked many a lock for Tom and his friends over the course of the next few years, though he never once saw their faces. When Lucan came of age, Tom informed him that he would no longer require his services. At the time Lucan was devastated; he relied on the income. But he came to understand that Tom had only meant to provide him employment until he was old enough to gain his own. He occasionally did see Tom after that night, prowling the streets of Mor in his hood, but they never again spoke.
~
The elves and dwarves of the Grove would not know of his code, of how thoroughly ingrained it was in him. He did not fault them for their suspicions; he had been found running from Mor on a horse that was not his own, and they had no cause to trust him. But he suspected their mistrust was more due to the fact that he was a Man than owing to the circumstances surrounding his arrival, and the prejudice angered him. Yes, Mor was a cesspool. But the place he was from did not define who he was, any more than Shyla was responsible for the evils her people were co
mmitting. Yet even as he felt himself becoming angry, he allowed that perhaps their dislike of him was more personal, for he did not particularly like himself. He lived his life treading the line between trickery and thievery, and perhaps it was not enough merely to adhere to the strict interpretation of his code of honor; to be honorable, he imagined, was not to avoid crossing a line, but never to tread near it.
The elves have magic. Perhaps they sense your nature, Luc, he supposed.
He thought briefly of Aria, hoping he was mistaken.
XXX: THE MAW
The Twins hovered like two watchful eyes just above the mountainous horizon, peering down into the Maw, bearing witness to two frightened and freezing gnomes making their way precariously across the foothills. A northeasterly wind blew bitter columns of air down the mountainside; powerful gusts seemed to target the two purposefully, daring them to fall, penetrating their thin clothing, piercing their skin with icy fingers that clawed to reach the bones within.
Dawn was approaching, but Oort and Thinsel did not notice. They knew only cold. Freezing feet. Chapped fingers. Ears that burned from the wintry blasts that assaulted them from behind. It was as yet too dark to see; they stumbled repeatedly in the meager light of the Twins, their small, delicate hands painfully bruised and scraped as they caught themselves on the rocky ground. They did not know how far they had walked, only that they must continue walking, or they would die.