by Jason Denzel
The fires within Shevia raged to an inferno. Her serpent tattoo itched. She could destroy him right now.
“Shiverbane works instantly and lasts anywhere from a few hours to several days depending on the dosage and the person taking it,” Sim added as he poked the fire with a stick. His onkai blades sat beside him, within easy reach. He flicked a glance at her but looked away as soon as their eyes met.
“Why?” Shevia demanded in Continental. Before he died, she had to know.
“Because it would’ve been a mistake for you to go to Fayün.”
Her eyes narrowed and the fire within her flared. “A mistake? You presume to know what is best for me?”
“Lagnaraste,” Sim said, ignoring her question.
Perhaps it was Shevia’s imagination, but it seemed as though the campfire momentarily had flared higher when Sim had spoken the name out loud. “What do you know of her?” she said.
“So it’s a she,” Sim said, nodding. “I’ve heard that name before. In Qin.”
Shevia waited for him to continue. The silence yawned between them like the distance between stars. In this silence she decided his next words would determine if she would kill him or not.
“Five years ago,” Sim said, “I came with my mentor to a remote village in the highlands. We sought a Mystic who could cure the plague I carried. Upon our arrival we learned he’d been kidnapped by a wivan. We tracked the creature to his lair and destroyed him, but not before he killed my teacher.” The fire’s reflection crackled in his black pupils. “Before he died, I heard him speak Lagnaraste’s name. And I saw an illustration that he had drawn in his lair. That.” He pointed to Shevia’s shoulder and the twisted-dragon tattoo upon it.
“I also found this,” Sim continued, and removed a handful of folded papers, which he handed to Shevia. “I cannot read Qina, but the symbol matched one I found in the wivan’s lair.”
Shevia lifted her tied hands and took the papers from him. Her chest tightened when she immediately recognized the handwriting.
To my esteemed colleague and friend, Bith Yab,
By the grace and vision of the Myst, it has come to my attention that you have undertaken research into the nature of the master of Fayün and the Reunion. Because such topics are the domain of the High Mystics, and of personal interest to me, I hereby command you to cease your explorations. Furthermore, you will immediately come to call on me at Shenheyna and bring this letter. Come alone, and tell no one of this correspondence. I expect your presence before the third new moon of the year. If you decline my invitation, I will see to it that your studies are concluded by other means.
Under the light, and from within the Myst,
I remain,
The High Mystic of Qin,
Bhairatonix Chanjoll
Below her master’s signature rested a black-ink rendering of the twisting serpent that adorned Shevia’s upper body. Her skin began to burn as the inferno of hatred for Bhairatonix raging within her threatened. She could feel Sim watching her, obviously curious as to the contents of the letter. Carefully, and with controlled breaths, she subdued her anger. The time could come soon.
“I hope you honored this Bith Yab,” Shevia said.
“As best I could.”
Shevia stared into the fire. What sort of “personal interest” did Bhairatonix have in Lagnaraste and the Reunion? She thought of the dragon tattoo spreading across his chest.
“My master is among those who seek to bring Lagnaraste into this world,” she said. “I believe he secretly opposes the High Mystics in this regard.”
“And what do you want?” Sim said.
“To be free,” Shevia said immediately. “To tear down the walls that imprison me within this world of servitude to my master and other Mystics.”
The flickering fire danced in his eyes as he considered her. “I know what it’s like to want to be free of Mystics,” Sim said. “And I, too, have heard Sitting Mother’s call.”
The fire within Shevia coiled tight, ready to strike. “You’ve said that before. What do you mean?” she said.
“She drew me to herself in the highlands,” Sim said. “I denied it for a long time, but at last, I came to her mountain and found her.”
Shevia’s heart raced, but she forced herself to remain calm as he continued. She wondered if he’d truly seen her.
“It was she who revealed the silver path to me,” Sim said. “Since that time, it has led me true.”
“Where does this path lead you now?”
“First to you, and now, back to Kelt Apar.”
“Why?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“How far from Kelt Apar are we?”
“About a day.”
Shevia held up her bound wrists. Sim nodded and reached for a belt knife. Without thinking, Shevia incinerated the ropes and let the embers fall away.
Sim watched them fall, then put his knife away.
“Nobody will ever bind me again,” Shevia said.
“Then where will you go next?” Sim asked.
“Crow Tallin arrives tomorrow. I will see Sitting Mother. Fulfill your duty, ranger. Follow your path, and take me to Kelt Apar.”
* * *
They arrived with the late-afternoon sun, which still burned with the ferocity of deep summer. A massive gathering crowded the wall that the Green Man had raised. Shevia wove a hooded cloak of silvery Myst and receded into its depths. Sim strode ahead of her, leading Pomella’s horse. At the first signs of the gathered commoners, he’d shifted one of his onkai from a walking stick to a readied weapon. Shevia doubted he would actually lift it against them. He had risen from their caste, after all.
He and Shevia moved without speaking, just as they had since finishing their campfire talk the previous night.
Sim led her across the river to the northwest side of Kelt Apar where the crowd was thinnest. There he struck through some dense underbrush, lifting branches for her to walk beneath. Walking through the foliage reminded Shevia of traversing the Thornwood. The hidden path snaked its way through the thicket until it terminated against the hedge wall.
Sim placed a hand on the wall and said, “Oxillian.” A heartbeat later the leaves and branches twisted beneath his palm, then pulled away, revealing a passageway through. Shevia went first, leading Sim. As soon as she stepped foot onto the dry grass beyond, another surge of power rolled through her.
The ground rumbled and the Green Man emerged from the soil. His eyes of stone narrowed upon seeing Shevia.
“You should not be here,” Oxillian said.
“She’s under my protection,” Sim said.
“Where is Mistress Pomella?” the Green Man asked.
“She is safe,” Sim said. “She chose another path. We seek the High Mystics.”
The Green Man shook his massive head. “The High Mystics are gathered in the tower, but command that they are not to be disturbed during Crow Tallin.”
Shevia strode past the Green Man, not bothering to reply. He moved to stop her, but Shevia’s look radiated such power that even the Green Man hesitated.
Satisfied she would not be hindered, with her Myst-cloak billowing behind her, Shevia strode toward the central tower and its green conical top and windows spiraling up the side. It struck her how deceptive the whole structure was. A little wobbly tower located in a peaceful pasture marked the heart of the world’s most powerful location. By rights it should’ve outshone Shenheyna. As she crossed the lawn, she wondered what the dwellings of the other High Mystics were like. It was just another bit of knowledge that Bhairatonix had denied her.
A circle of foreign Mystics and their apprentices sat in a circle near the tower. One of them—a Rardarian—eyed her and Sim as they entered the central tower.
Vivianna and Hizrith, the laghart Mystic, stood outside the tower’s main entrance, conversing in low tones. Vivianna’s expression darkened when she saw Shevia. “What are you doing here! Stay out of—”
Shevia didn
’t twitch a single muscle as she threw both Vivianna and Hizrith against the tower’s outer walls, pinning them against the stone. Vivianna cried out in pain while Hizrith clutched his throat. His serpent tongue whipped out and lashed the air.
Sim’s hand landed on her cloaked shoulder. “This isn’t the way,” he said.
For him, she stopped. For him, and only for him this once, she turned and said, “For what we’ve shared and discussed, I will spare you. But if you ever touch me again, I will kill you.”
She flared the fires within her, and her cloak erupted into flame. The fire did not burn her, for she was born of fire now. Sim snatched his hand away. Shevia entered the tower.
She strode up the stairs, carrying a firestorm within and around her. With every step, her righteous anger grew. Now was her time. Crow Tallin was upon them. Her old friend Sitting Mother, Lagnaraste, the Queen of Fayün, the fay dragon, graced her with fires and power no human had ever possessed. This was her tower now.
Her world.
She blasted the door to the uppermost chamber off its hinges. It flew less than halfway across the circular room before incinerating into ash. She stepped through the ruined doorway wreathed in fire.
The High Mystics sat in a ring on their cushions, all facing the pedestal holding the glass sphere encasing the moth. The little fay creature within the glass rested at the bottom, its wings drooped to its sides.
As Shevia had expected, it was Yarina who rose to her feet, burning with outrage.
“How dare you?” the High Mystic demanded.
“Get out,” Shevia said in a deadly quiet voice.
“Crow Tallin is upon us and the critical moments approach,” said High Mystic Ollfur. Shock and fear clouded his normally cheerful face. “Please, there are essential tasks we must accomp—”
Shevia roared fire across him. He fell back, writhing for mere seconds before crumbling to ash.
“Who else stands against me?” Shevia screamed.
“You have no idea what you’re doing!” Yarina yelled, her hair coming undone from its intricate knot above her head.
“Get out!” Shevia screamed, and a ring of fire encircled the room. A wave of the Myst assaulted her, likely thrown in a pathetic attempt by one of the masters to harm or stop her. The attack would’ve overwhelmed any other Mystic on any other day, but now, beneath Treorel’s glow, nothing could pierce her. She shrugged it off like water splashing against rock.
Most of the remaining High Mystics rose as one. Master Ehzeeth struggled but managed to find his feet.
Master Willwhite, now appearing fully as a woman, gaped at her. “What have you become, child?” Her face shifted with silvery light, as soft and gentle as the moon.
“I am the Mystic Dragon,” Shevia said, and roared more fire.
The High Mystics hurried for the doorway. Cowards, Shevia thought. In the end, they were all cowards. “Not you,” she said, pointing to Bhairatonix. He still sat, seemingly unconcerned or unsurprised by the atrocities occurring before him.
To her surprise, a tiny smile played at the corners of his mouth.
“You cannot do this,” Master Angelos said from the doorway.
“Lagnaraste, the fay dragon, will destroy the world,” his sister, Mistress Michaela, added. “You cannot stand against it.”
“I have no time for you,” Shevia said, and obliterated them. The twin High Mystics screamed and fell to their knees. As they died, their hands reached for each other but fell short before incinerating.
“Sitting Mother has called to me, and I will be free,” Shevia said to the remaining High Mystics. “Leave, or I will burn you all.”
Smoke choked the room, venting out the small window. Yarina’s eyes narrowed in determination. The High Mystic reached for the glass sphere, but Shevia jabbed her staff at her hand, knocking it away. “Leave it!” Shevia snarled.
“We must protect it,” Yarina intoned.
“Your knowledge and traditions mean nothing anymore. The Reunion is upon us,” Shevia said. “I do not wish to destroy another High Mystic.”
Yarina stood tall. “This is my duty and my tower. I will not abandon either.”
Shevia sighed. “So be it, Mistress,” she said, then screamed fire at Yarina.
The High Mystic was ready, however, and threw her hands and Mystic staff up. An arc of silver light circled upward to protect her, but the concussion of the attack blasted her backward and through the tower wall. Stone exploded outward along with Yarina. She hung there in midair for a moment before plunging downward and out of sight.
Shevia reached out her hand and the glass sphere flew to her. The Myst stormed around her, billowing her robes and hair. Her dragon tattoo burned like hot coals on her skin, but rather than harming her, it invigorated her.
Bhairatonix stared at her calmly from his cross-legged sitting position. “Well done, apprentice. You are fulfilling everything I planned for you.”
Shevia ignored him and gazed into the sphere in her hand. The moth within stirred its wings feebly. It gave no indication that it saw her. “Such a small thing, so feeble,” she mused. “But small things have a way of becoming powerful when they are set free.” She held out her arm as if to drop the glass.
Bhairatonix’s smile grew. “Do it. Break the glass and discover your purpose!” Bhairatonix snarled. “You see me as a tyrant. You believe yourself broken under my cruel malevolence. But do you not see, Shevia? In my wake you’ve become one of the most powerful Mystics to ever live. Through my mastery of the Deep I’ve guided you here to this moment to fulfill plans made nearly a thousand years ago by grandmasters who are alive in the Myst and watching you this very moment. Embrace the gift I’ve given you! Fulfill your destiny. Destroy the glass!”
“You’ve given me nothing!” Shevia snarled. “You claim to have mastered the Deep, yet I see through your obvious lies. You’ve denied me a Mystic name and a proper Mystic staff. Your own powers wither while mine grow. I healed the ranger Simkon AnClure from the plague that you could not touch. I conquered the other High Mystics. You are nothing. I am the master now.”
“You have strength, but that is nothing compared to the will of the Deep.”
Myst and fire pooled in Shevia’s hands. Her heart thundered in her chest. “Then it is time for you to join your predecessors in the so-called Deep.”
She roared fire over him. It surged from her hands, shifting from red-orange to a shining blue. The stone in the tower glowed red and wavered as it turned molten. The roof above them burst into flames, but Shevia ignored the falling embers.
When the fires in her hands vanished, Shevia stared at the devastation she’d wrought. Bhairatonix sat, completely unharmed amid the still-molten stone. His robes were incinerated, leaving him naked. His black tattoo seemed to mock her. Another portion of the tower wall behind him had fallen, exposing the open air. He lifted his gaze and Shevia actually felt a trickle of fear. Bhairatonix stood, unfolding his long body. He gathered his mangled left hand to his chest. Shevia had to force herself not to step away.
“There is no power you possess that will harm me. As my apprentice, you are bound to me, and prevented from harming even a hair upon me.”
An old and familiar panic welled in Shevia. He was going to punish her again. She screamed and breathed more fire across him, but when she ran out of breath he still stood there, untouched. He strode toward her, and she saw death in his eyes.
“Do not touch me!” she screamed, and swung her staff at him. He caught it mid-swing. The staff trembled between their grips, then suddenly shattered. Shevia screamed, and Bhairatonix threw the useless shards onto the ground.
“I, Bhairatonix, First among the High Mystics of this world, do hereby, in the name of the dragon masters of old, command you to break that sphere.”
He seized her throat. Shevia gripped his hand with her free one, still holding the sphere in the other. His grip was like iron. She scrabbled at it. She reached for the Myst and called to Sitting Mother,
but her powers melted as she tried to pry him off her.
“For nearly a thousand years the High Mystics have guarded this sphere during Crow Tallin, pooling their powers in order to keep it intact. But they don’t realize how wrong they are. The dragon Lagnaraste must be let loose. The Reunion she brings will change the world forever. You do not see it, but our world is broken. By reuniting with Fayün, we will bring a new era of glory in which Mystics are properly revered by all, human, laghart, and fay.”
The corners of Shevia’s vision darkened. The Myst melted away from her, and as it fled she felt her body breaking. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that she couldn’t help from forming. She couldn’t let it end like this. Not after how far she’d come. She would gladly accept a thousand other deaths, but not like this. Not at the hands of this man, of all people. She called again to Sitting Mother but heard nothing. Why did she not answer?
“Shevia!” called a voice.
Shevia managed to crane her neck to see Tibron standing in the doorway, his hand covering his mouth from the smoke. She tried to scream at him to flee, but she could not make a sound. She had no idea how or why he’d returned to Kelt Apar, but she didn’t want him to die.
Or to see her die in Bhairatonix’s grip.
Tibron drew his sword and rushed toward Bhairatonix. “Release her!”
The High Mystic dropped Shevia and used the Myst to throw Tibron toward the gaping hole in the tower. Tibron screamed but managed to catch the ledge to prevent himself from falling.
“I release you from my service,” Bhairatonix sneered at Tibron. “You and your brothers were useless anyway.”
Shevia coughed as she tried to catch her breath, but the thick smoke made it difficult. She still held the glass sphere in her hand. Her broken staff lay nearby. Only now, as it lay broken in front of her, did she realize how attached she’d become to it. Like her, the former broom handle had gone from a feeble object to a mighty artifact that made towers and High Mystics tremble. And now, like her, Bhairatonix had broken it.