by Beth Alvarez
“Isn’t it glorious!” Lumia cried, wheeling to face Tren with a brilliant grin, her hands outstretched in invitation. Thick plumes of smoke rose overhead, painting the night sky with a ruddy glow. Burning leaves sloughed off onto the temple’s roofed buildings, wooden beams crackling and groaning as they caught fire.
Tren stood at the gate as if rooted to the ground. She’s no mage. She can’t be! The thoughts roared in his head, though with the undeniable flames blinding him and smoke filling his lungs, he didn’t know what else it could be but magic. If not a mage, what was she?
“Come to me!” She beckoned him with both hands.
“You’re mad!” he shouted, the heat and smoke searing his throat.
“And beautifully so!” Lumia laughed as she closed the distance between them. She took hold of his arms and twirled with him, squealing in delight. Angry, Tren tore himself from her grasp.
A breath of icy air burst from the Archmage’s tower and whirled across the courtyard, threatening the flames that engulfed the garden.
Lumia spun to face the white-robed figure that appeared in the doorway. Snow-white curls fell about the mage’s shoulders and her mouth was set firm, a frigid fire burning in her ice-blue eyes.
“My, my, my.” Lumia swept into a graceful curtsy and spread her black cloak to either side in mockery. “The Archmage herself. What a wonderful surprise.”
“Don’t offend me with your false bravado.” The Archmage’s voice was cold, her expression unshaken and serene. One slow step after another carried her into the courtyard.
Lumia brushed her skirts into order, her eyes never leaving the white-clad woman. “Oh, but Archmage, it’s such a pleasure to be in your presence once more. And to imagine, raiding your beloved temple at the same time.” A dark laugh escaped her throat, a glint in her eyes.
“Leave her be, Lumia.” A cold sense of dread hit Tren’s stomach like a dropping stone. “She’s not our target. She’s alone. One mage won’t stop us.”
“Alone, yes,” Envesi acknowledged with a slight nod. “But no one ever said I was defenseless.” Frigid wind howled through the temple grounds, a flash and glimmer too fast to be followed with the naked eye. A handful of Underling soldiers stepped from the storehouses and collapsed with muted cries as jagged spears of ice burst from their throats.
“Impressive,” Lumia giggled, voice filled with admiration. The bodies of the fallen exploded in flame, their spilled blood catching fire as if it were oil. Fire streamed between the cobblestones. A darting gesture from the Underling queen’s hand sent it racing toward the Archmage, igniting everything in its path.
Tren recoiled in horror as his soldiers around him stopped, frozen solid. Lumia’s flames licked around them, their bodies crackling as heat warped the ice. Limbs broke and fell into the fire, leaving grotesque mannequins behind. As quickly as the fire thawed the dead, their dripping blood erupted into new streams of flame that threaded across the temple grounds like serpents.
His stomach turned. “Lumia, stop!”
“What are you aiming to do?” Envesi flicked her fingers. The gesture halted Underling men in their tracks. Lances of ice burst from between the plates of their armor.
“What I was always meant to do!” Lumia screamed. A ring of fire wound itself around her feet, its ruddy light casting misshapen, monstrous shadows across her face. “Destroy everything you have, everything you’ve forged, everything you hold dear!” Her words were emphasized by a heavy crunch and rumbling groan as a building behind her collapsed in ruin.
“You’ve already taken what mattered to me.” Envesi directed veins of frost across the ground with a whirl of her hands. They darted up the walls of buildings and billowing clouds of steam joined the smoke in the air as a heavy layer of ice met each blaze.
“The child meant nothing to you!” Lumia screeched. Twin balls of fire ignited in the palms of her hands. She flung them one after another, shrieking in rage when they impacted an invisible barrier surrounding her opponent. Flames curled outward from the ward and dissipated harmlessly.
Tren spat a curse and darted for the open doorway of the Archmage’s tower. He hadn’t seen where all his men had gone, but the tower seemed the safest bet. Only a handful of soldiers stood inside. He cursed again. Even here, flames licked upwards, crawling over the spines of a thousand books. “Get out, now! Abort the mission!”
The soldiers abandoned their stolen goods and fled toward the ruins. Tren turned back to the courtyard and the women outside, powerless to stop the flames, unwilling to leave until he recovered his soldiers.
The Archmage’s expression darkened as she moved forward, jagged patterns of frost radiating from each footstep. “I will not be trifled with, Lumia of the Underlings.”
Lumia’s jaw tightened. With a slow, fluid motion, she drew a pair of long knives from beneath her cloak.
Envesi lifted her chin, her lips pressing to a thin line. “So be it.” She stretched her arms to either side and curled her fingers into her palms. Dark, crackling scimitars of ice formed in her hands. Wind and snow spiraled against them as if to hone their edges.
The women moved almost faster than Tren could see. Cloaks and skirts and sinuous bodies crashed together and whirled apart with blinding speed. Clashing blades sent showers of shaven ice through the air. Slivers and icicles sprinkled the ground beneath the women’s feet. Misting rain mingled with melting ice and billowing steam. Pools of water on the stone reflected the blaze so the ground, too, seemed afire. Tren bounded across the puddles in his search, but the only men who remained were dead.
So much for the rumors that the Archmage was aged and frail. Envesi darted closer, her scimitar meeting Lumia’s blade only inches from the Underling’s face. Each time Envesi’s fragile weapons shattered, they reformed in her grasp without so much as a gesture to command it. Her footing was precise, her expression serene.
Lumia clenched her teeth, her lips curled in a grimace. She neither gained nor lost ground in their elaborate dance, no matter how wild her strikes became. Heavy smoke settled close to the ground, though neither combatant showed signs of withdrawal. A clumsy block left a stinging gash across Lumia’s cheek; the Archmage took a hair-thin slice across her bicep. Envesi made no sound, her step light, her arm strong.
Faster, now, slices and swipes connected with flesh. Crimson trails stained Envesi’s white robes and Lumia’s porcelain skin. A sudden jab shattered Envesi’s scimitars and the Archmage stumbled back. Lumia lunged into the opening and shrieked when Envesi caught and wrenched her wrists, forcing her to drop her blades. She twisted her arms in the Archmage’s grasp and clawed at the woman’s face in desperation. Envesi jerked an elbow into the Underling queen’s stomach. The proximity allowed nails to rake across her cheek and the white-haired mage stifled a cry.
“That’s enough!” Tren lunged forward and grabbed the corner of Lumia’s cloak. He hauled her off the Archmage, surprised at how much strength it took to separate them.
“Let me go!” Lumia strained against his arms, glowering at the white-haired woman before her. Envesi glared back and spat blood.
“We’ve overstayed. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but you won’t achieve it tonight. You’ve done enough!” Tren forced her head up, forced her to look at the burning temple and the bodies of their fallen men around them.
Lumia screamed. She screamed as though beaten as he dragged her from the temple grounds, screamed like a child after candy. “It’s never enough!” she shrieked, fighting harder as she watched the Archmage push herself to her feet, alone in the middle of the temple’s ruins.
Unrelenting, Tren continued toward the ruins, though smoke burned his throat and eyes.
“It’s never enough,” Lumia groaned, and her head dropped in defeat.
A gnarled hand clamped shut on Firal’s shoulder and jostled her awake. She squinted against the light of the banquet hall and the adjoined ballroom. The faces she saw were grim; even Nondar’s mouth had a hard set t
o it. The couples on the dance floor stood deathly still. No one said a word. Firal’s eyes felt gritty and she rubbed them with the side of her hand. She’d only meant to rest her eyes a moment; she hadn’t expected to fall asleep.
Rikka and Marreli sat at the other side of the table. Both had removed their masks and their faces were pale. Shymin and Kytenia stood a few paces away, but their backs were turned to where Firal sat.
“Master?” Firal grimaced at the rasp in her voice. “What’s going on?” She reached for the cup she’d left on the table and frowned when she saw it was empty.
“Get up, child. We’re returning to the temple. Now.” Nondar’s tone hardened as he rose to his full height, as if the stiffness in his joints no longer pained him. She’d never realized how tall he was.
“What? Why? What’s happened?” And why had she slept through it? Firal scanned the faces of the other girls again before she looked toward the ballroom. Kifel stood atop the balcony overlooking the dance floor. His voice echoed in the stillness as he gave orders to armored men. Her stomach twisted.
“The temple’s been burned, Firal,” Rikka said in a hushed tone. “The king just announced it. He said...” She swallowed, her voice both conflicted and confused as she went on. “He said men came from the ruins, but not men from Alwhen.”
“What?” Firal squeaked and stood so fast it made her dizzy. “But Daemon is—” She bit down on her tongue the moment she realized what she’d said. Kytenia wheeled to face her.
Gulping, Firal shook her head and sank back to her seat. “Nevermind,” she croaked. “I must have been dreaming.”
Kytenia’s expression grew dark.
Nondar watched with what might have been neutrality, if not for the steely glint in his mage-blue eyes. “The magelings are being gathered. King Kifelethelas has called together an army that will accompany us.” The old Master gripped his cane as if he feared it would abandon him, his jaw set.
“But the temple is days away from here,” Shymin said, glancing between the Master mage and her friends.
Nondar grunted. “There are enough Masters present to eliminate that problem. We only rode to Ilmenhith because the king could not spare his court mages. Now it seems he must.”
He had no more than spoken when a woman in white joined them. Firal recognized her as Anaide, Master of the House of Water.
“Do you suppose—” Anaide began, blinking in surprise when Nondar raised a hand to silence her.
“Yes, I do. But we have company,” he said, his head tilted toward the girls.
A sharp crackle sounded from the other end of the room and a hot gust of air poured through the palace. People retreated from the ballroom and Firal’s eyes widened when she saw the source of the noise. Dozens of mages in Master white stood in a half-circle before a wide portal. Through it, she saw the gates of the temple. Everything beyond was too dark to see. Thick, acrid smoke flowed through the portal and into the palace.
“A Gate!” Marreli cried, her expression a mix of fright and awe. Gates of that size were rarely used, and for good reason. A Gate—even a small one—required a devastating amount of power. To call Gates dangerous was an understatement. To think of how carelessly Daemon had called one forth made Firal shudder.
Men in armor, weapons sheathed at their sides or strapped to their backs, marched across the ballroom beneath the blue and silver banner of the king. It was hard to see them past the bodies of the mages clustered around the Gate, but Firal thought she recognized several faces from the dance floor.
Nondar had already started toward the Gate, not to pass through it, but to join the half-circle of Masters that held it open.
“Come along, then. All of you.” Anaide gestured for the magelings to follow.
Firal inched after the Master, though she cast a worried look over her shoulder. Behind her, Rikka took Marreli’s hand and offered comfort as the smaller girl wiped tears from her eyes. Kytenia and Shymin fell in beside them to form a bubble of protection.
The crowd slowed them down, murmured apologies and complaints everywhere as they pressed together in a mass of thick skirts and clumsy feet. Firal held her own skirts clear of being trampled as the Gate loomed before them. Anaide did not give them time to gawk.
A tingle shot through Firal like a bolt of electricity as she passed through the Gate’s energies. All around her, magelings gasped. The sensation was wholly unpleasant, yet it was nowhere near the searing might Daemon had exposed her to before.
Smoke and shadow enveloped them the moment they were through, the light of the palace ballroom gone. Stifling heat threatened to steal the breath from Firal’s lungs. She glanced over her shoulder and gaped in amazement. From the opposite side, the Gate was invisible. Magelings and Masters seemed to step from the air itself, flanked on either side by the soldiers Kifel sent with them. Was that what happened when there was no anchor on the other side?
“Don’t dilly-dally!” Anaide herded them forward with a wave of her arms. They hurried onward, into the temple’s courtyard, where a handful of Masters lit mage-lights in their hands. Firal squinted against the brightness. When her vision adjusted, her stomach lurched.
The fires had been extinguished, but thick piles of ash and charcoal still smoldered. Some of the temple’s buildings were little more than empty husks, their stone exteriors blackened from smoke. The dormitory—Firal’s room—was destroyed. The gardens were gone, save the scorched remains of the trees that had been in full bloom only a week or two before. In the middle of everything, a woman in white stood alone.
“Who is that?” Rikka whispered beside Firal’s ear.
“I think it’s the Archmage,” Firal replied, reverent. The other girls were silent, though their faces showed an equal amount of awe.
The Archmage never left her tower, and magelings were not allowed in the upper floors where the woman lived and worked. None of them had known what to expect. While the Archmage looked a great deal younger than Firal had imagined, it was clear she could be no one else. Though small of stature, the woman bore an air of authority, and even from a distance, the presence of the Archmage’s Gift weighed on Firal’s senses so heavily she thought she would crumple.
Anaide gestured for the girls again. The magelings followed and the Master led them to the Archmage, who appraised them with a quick, cold glance.
The ice in her silvery-blue eyes made Firal shudder. She’d heard rumors about the Archmage, about eyes that chilled to the bone and a healing Gift that bit like winter, but she had never expected them to be accurate. Something in the woman’s eyes unsettled her and, though Firal couldn’t imagine where, she was positive she’d seen that piercing look somewhere before.
All but forgetting her manners, Firal belatedly swept into a curtsy and spread her skirts wide. The others followed suit as more magelings clustered around them.
It was not until the last soldier took his place in formation behind the mages that the Archmage moved. Her black-rimmed eyes narrowed as her gaze swept across the gathering of Masters and magelings. She lifted her chin and gestured behind her with a broad sweep of her arms. Two Masters stepped forward and drew the great doors of her tower open wide.
Firal gasped, tears springing to her eyes.
Beyond the doors, the library had burned.
Her throat tightened and she blinked hard as she stared into the soot-filled darkness beyond the doors. The temple’s records had been kept in the library. If Ilmenhith’s records had been there, too... Her knees threatened to give way beneath her.
“All mages are to come inside,” the Archmage announced, her voice pure and clear, as strong as Firal expected and yet somehow more feminine. “We must prepare arrangements for our guests. With all accommodations burned, the tower must be rearranged to hold everyone. Collect every remaining artifact, weapon, book, and scroll and take them to the top three floors. Stack everything neatly. Pack trinkets and loose papers into boxes. Play with no artifacts. Open no remaining books. Within this towe
r are many objects of yet untold knowledge. This knowledge is not to be shared with anyone outside the temple. I will be waiting on the third floor from the top to direct organization.” Abruptly, the Archmage turned on her heel and glided into the tower.
Too numb to act on her own, Firal let the movement of the crowd carry her into the library. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, the ash of countless books like snow beneath her feet. It was all she could do not to sob.
“It’ll be all right,” Rikka murmured, patting her arm.
“You don’t understand,” Firal choked, tears tracking down her face. “It may not.”
In only a few hours, she had gained hope, counted her blessings, then lost it all again.
The walls were as charred and black as the rest of the library. From the looks on the faces of the magelings ahead of them, the second floor was no better.
“Sweep up all of this rubbish and throw it outside,” Anaide ordered. She whisked past the magelings and raised her voice. “All Masters are to report to the Archmage’s office. Immediately!”
Mages in white slipped past them and crowded their way up the stairs.
Firal made it to the center of the room and then sank to the floor, hot tears tracing down her cheeks. “They just have to be somewhere else,” she gasped softly, unable to fight the dread in the pit of her stomach. “Oh, please, let them be somewhere else!”
19
Changes
“What have you done?” Daemon slammed the door behind him, rattling it on its hinges. His eyes glowed an angry red, their light reflected on the inside of his plain steel mask.