Ordinary? Mrillis choked on a sensation of mixed sorrow and laughter. I wish that too. Someday, when we are quite old and have given our duties over to our children--grandchildren, I hope--
That earned a tiny snort of laughter from her, unheard under the Star-mother's homily.
Someday, when the world doesn't need us, we can be ordinary. And most likely bored to madness.
I do love you, my Mrillis. Maybe we should hurry to safeguard the world for all eternity, so we can have more time being ordinary.
He choked on laughter, and nearly scooped her up to kiss and carry away right that moment, even though the Star-mother hadn't finished speaking.
Ceera silently scolded him to be patient when she caught the wish from his thoughts, but merriment danced in her eyes. They held still and pretended to listen to the Star-mother's words.
She likened the cords binding their hands to the different colors of the Threads that carried magic and strength throughout the world, binding all people and lands together. Bringing out a knife of polished black crystal, she rested it on top of their bound hands and questioned them, so all the witnesses could hear that they bound themselves together forever, even into the Estall's bliss. Just as the black knife would cut the cords but not cut the new bonds between them, so death would only separate them for a short time, and would never end the oneness they had chosen.
The ceremony ended with the Star-mother cutting the cords binding their hands together using the black crystal. As she raised the knife in one hand and the cut cords in the other, a fanfare of trumpets and drums and shouts from the Valors of their honor guard filled the air.
Then came the feasting and dancing. Mrillis wondered if anyone else noticed the irony that so much emphasis was put on the festivities, so much time devoted to the celebration, but so little time given to the making of the vows, the prayers, the weaving of blessing spells. An hour for the ceremony, and five days of revelry to follow.
"I don't much care what the rest of them do, as long as you and I are far away from here before nightfall," Ceera said, her words nearly drowned out by the first burst of singing from the teachers and students of the school of music established by Queen Elysion.
Afterward Mrillis couldn't remember what he ate or what the nobles surrounding him and Ceera said. He only cared that Athrar and his loyal, mischievous Valor friends had promised to fill the saddlebags of their horses from the feast, to provision the bridal couple for an entire moon. The Valors wove their limited strands of imbrose together to create an illusion and distraction, so Mrillis and Ceera were able to slip away hours before anyone expected them to attempt to leave the feast. Mrillis felt the touch of imbrose from many minds, trying to find them as they slipped through the throngs and servants and guests, dressed in peasant clothes.
The illusion of him and Ceera, sitting in a far corner of the celebration meadow with a fence of Valors keeping away intruders, didn't quite fool everyone. That didn't matter. Breylon himself had taught the two of them how to quiet their minds and still the cores of their beings, so the Threads didn't react to their presence, allowing them to vanish as effectively as if they had left the World.
That reminded Mrillis of his discovery of the Vale of Lanteer. He had so effectively put it from his mind, he had never even told Ceera. He told her now, once they had put a league between them and the meadow full of people and music, dancing and food. He described how he had discovered Graddon's hiding place in the aftermath of forging the Zygradon, and the way he had anchored the entrance of the magically hidden spot to the tunnel between Moerta and Lygroes, so only those who walked the tunnel could enter the Vale.
"Hmm, yes, we have been rather busy since then, haven't we?" Ceera murmured. Mrillis had thought she would either be momentarily irritated or laugh when he told her. He didn't expect this thoughtfulness, and that disturbed him.
"I should have told you, if no one else," he said, and reached across the gap between their horses to hold her hand, gripping her reins.
"Oh, no, I think that was wise not to entrust that secret to anyone." She shook her head, a few strands of pale hair coming loose from the simple cap she had tucked it into. "I think we will have need of the place, someday. The fewer who know about it, the better for the sake of the entire World."
"Ceera? What do you see?"
"Hope, lying wounded to the point of death. Sleeping, waiting, healing," she whispered. Her eyes didn't quite turn misty with a Seeing. "The Three Drops of Blood have come and shall bring about the Three Drops of Blood, and the blood drawn from the blood will rest in your hands." A tiny sob escaped her. "And I will be no part of it."
"That's good, then. You won't be endangered." Mrillis offered a crooked grin when she turned sharply to look at him, questions in her awakening eyes. "It also means the situation won't be so dire, if I can handle it without you."
Ceera laughed and reached across to punch his arm. Mrillis pretended to be wounded, and they laughed and teased for the rest of their flight to the secret cottage in the private, hidden valley belonging to the royal family.
But he thought about Ceera's words when he woke in the gray stillness before dawn and held her in his arms and watched her sleep. Too many believed that Endor and his sisters were the Three Drops of Blood of the prophecy. But how would they bring about the Three Drops of Blood? Their children? Were they the good, hopeful portion of the prophecy, and would their children be the evil, who would threaten the very heart of the world? And who was the blood drawn from the blood, who would rest in his care?
He didn't get out of their bed to write down Ceera's words, because he knew she would awaken if he let go of her. Mrillis waited until the next morning, while Ceera bathed, before opening up the thick, battered journal Le'esha had given him just before her death. He wrote down Ceera's words and his own speculations, but was careful not to mention Graddon's fate or the Vale of Lanteer, not even to hint that he knew those two precious secrets. Even though he wrote in a cipher in his journal, and guarded it with magic, there was no guarantee that someone wouldn't come along someday and break the protection to read what he had written.
* * * *
They had four days of quiet walks in the trees and lazing by the stream, or wading in it. Four days of talking about the future like ordinary people, only concerned about children and friends and learning how to adjust their routines and habits and expectations. It amused Ceera more than it did him, to realize that although they had grown up together, had merged their minds since adolescence, there were still some surprises to make them pause and think.
Ceera woke fully in the morning, but she liked to lie still and think--and snuggle close--as long as Mrillis would let her. In contrast, he woke slowly, but once he was fully awake he couldn't lie abed no matter how hard he tried for her sake. Ceera knew very little about cooking, while Mrillis enjoyed working with food. The fancier and more complicated the dish, the more he liked it. This was because her duties in the Stronghold had kept her away from the kitchens, while he had spent moons at a time out in the field, eating whatever he could forage or catch, and they laughed while he tried to teach her the simplest domestic skills. She preferred doing as much as she could without magic, while he used his imbrose for the simplest tasks, to save time and thought and effort.
They both liked to laugh, making up riddles and puzzles and playing simple games with coins and knucklebones and skipstones. Ceera loved to sing while Mrillis preferred playing his small traveling harp or flute. They talked about long years into the future when they would teach their children these same games and songs, and then their grandchildren. When they woke in the morning, they compared their dreams, looking for similarities, proof they had slipped into each other's dreaming minds.
On their fourth day in the hidden cottage, Mrillis woke restless, with that odd sense of having forgotten something vitally important that lingered after strange dreams had faded into the night. He marveled at the strangeness of waking completely before Cee
ra had even stirred, and his thoughts slid away from that vague uneasiness. When he slid out of bed, she murmured sleepy protest and reached for him. Mrillis nearly suffocated, fighting not to laugh, as he pulled on a pair of trousers, then slid Ceera out of bed and carried her outside, to the stream that curled around the cottage and filled the night quiet with laughing music.
Ceera shrieked when her heel touched the water and she scrabbled to catch onto him before she was fully awake. Mrillis lost his balance and tumbled into the stream almost on top of her. She sputtered and thrashed and managed to land her fist in one solid thump against his nose before he could slow down his laughing and choking long enough to grab hold of her hands. She continued to struggle, blinded by her hair plastered over her face. Mrillis pulled her halfway onto his lap and wrapped one arm around her waist. Memories of fierce little tussles in childhood and how swiftly her fists could fly when she was infuriated, gave him a pleasant little shudder of fear among the laughter. Mrillis suspected he had gone a little too far.
Still, he couldn't stop laughing. The louder he laughed the fiercer she struggled, until she suddenly twisted around on his lap and threw him off balance. With a shout, Mrillis went over backwards. The stream where they tangled only went past his waist when he sat on the bottom, but it was enough to cover his face when he went under. He let go of Ceera and she shifted instantly to sit on his chest and bounce, fighting to hold him under. He erupted out of the water with a roar, partly in panic, choking and thrashing, and flipped them onto the bank.
Ceera sputtered laughter and wrapped her arms and legs around him, kissing him when he was still breathless and half-blinded with water. Mrillis dissolved into laughter, broken with choking, and returned her kisses. He tried to roll her onto her back and she resisted him, so they tumbled across the moss and covering their wet bodies with debris and dust. They were still laughing as they slid back into the stream to wash.
And kiss.
And pretend to keep wrestling.
The laughter lingered into the night. Just before she fell asleep, Ceera whispered threats of using magic to fling him out of their bed and into the stream in the middle of the night.
Only a few hours later, Mrillis struggled up from a sound sleep when he felt the first tremor of pain ripple through Ceera. He opened his eyes at the same moment a soft moan escaped her. Mrillis sat up, careful not to disturb her, his heart racing in panic.
Then an echo of what she experienced, what still dragged her up from deep sleep, rang through his mind and body. He saw Brictan, sprawled on his belly just a few steps from his blankets in the shelter of the hedge where he had camped. He saw the horse, a smoking pile of scorched blood and torn flesh and shattered bones. He saw the writhing tendrils of power that slid past the safeguard wall woven of Threads. The invader wasn't any color at all, held no light. Non-color and non-light and something that made his mind and instincts cringe and try to turn away.
"No!" Ceera moaned and sat up, reaching out with trembling hands before her eyes opened. Mrillis wrapped his arms around her, sure now she was unharmed.
He felt the reverberation through her as Brictan's bond with the Zygradon snapped and Ceera suffered the whiplash. Fury prompted him to act without thinking, and he interposed himself between the bowl and her, wrapping the Threads around himself to absorb the aftershocks, trying to cushion her body and soul.
A hollow ache echoed through his body, threatening to twist his joints apart, tearing the breath from him. Mrillis clung to Ceera and fought not to move. She dug her trembling fingers into his shoulders and wept, drowning his tingling flesh with her tears.
He wanted to let her cry and curl up around herself and let the pain run its course. He wanted more than ever before for Ceera to be just another talented woman, not Queen of Snows. Not the one who hammered the Zygradon from barely tamed star-metal, leader of those who had forged it into being with their will and with song.
Ceera wiped her face with hands that still trembled. She sat up and crossed her legs, and closed her eyes to help herself concentrate. Then she reached through the Threads to touch the other ten remaining members of the band of the Zygradon's forgers. Treston and Aillon were closest to the place where Brictan had died, and didn't have to be asked to go find his body and bring it to the Stronghold.
The night hadn't advanced much further before the sad duty ended, their band had reached out to each other in loss and grief again, and agreed when to meet to say farewell to the second of them to die. Mrillis made sweet, strong tea for Ceera and fought the temptation to dose it with something to make her sleep. He knew her too well, after all.
They curled up in their bed, drinking tea and taking comfort in being together. "The odd thing is...rather ironic, I suppose," she said after a long silence. She seemed about to say more, then stopped, a considering frown wrinkling her mouth and around her eyes.
"What?" He held out his hand and his journal somersaulted off the table where he had left it yesterday afternoon and flew into his hands. "If you've discovered anything that can help, any clue to help us fight it, we need to know."
"Not anything I discovered." She sighed and offered him a weak, trembling little smile. Ceera raked her fingers through her hair and shifted around so she sprawled against him, her head against his chest. She relaxed a little bit, the tension seeping out of her face as she looked up at him. "You discovered it. Something else you've miraculously accomplished quite by accident. I wonder if history will remember us as the Accidental Enchanters."
"What is it?"
"You are bound to the bowl, just as we all are...but when you put yourself between it and me, you dulled the effect, filtered it, I suppose. For all of us. I asked, and they all agree it wasn't half as traumatic. None of us feel as if our skin was half-scorched off our flesh. Not even you, who took the brunt of it."
"Not even me," he whispered, and nodded. Mrillis snorted, admitting silently that the label of Accidental Enchanters was far too apt.
* * * *
The remaining twelve forgers gathered together after Brictan's funeral pyre had burned down to ashes, while the Valors who requested the duty waited for the ashes to cool. With Master Breylon and the most experienced and wisest elders of the Rey'kil, they discussed what had happened, the things they had seen and experienced when Brictan died, to find the identity of his attacker, and to find some way to take advantage of what Mrillis had discovered.
First and most vital, they agreed that what they discussed there that day, and anything they learned about the Zygradon in the future, would be discussed with no one else.
Finding and identifying their enemy was a useless exercise. They could speculate that the Nameless One had arisen with new magic, but that was all they could do. No one could be sure until someone saw him. They had no idea how to protect themselves from such malevolence until they saw his magic in action again.
With Mrillis' actions, however, they did come to agreement. Because he had been somewhat on the outside, guarding and guiding the forging of the Zygradon, focused on protecting the others, his bond with the star-metal bowl was different. The function of protection was already woven into it, and putting himself between Ceera and the worst of the shared sensations of Brictan's death activated that magic. The bowl protected him.
"If only we could find some way to turn that to our advantage," Nixtan said, when they had talked themselves dry. "Right now, the bowl becomes our enemy when someone is killed. We need to find a way to fold the magic over, protecting us like...like..." He let out a groan of frustration and raised his hands in the air in a gesture of total helplessness.
"Metal conducts heat," Patros offered slowly, "but if you get a thick enough layer, it protects from the heat, too."
"Exactly." Breylon looked around the table. "The Zygradon can be used to defend its makers, not merely bind them together into a unity that harms all. We simply need to find the way."
"Simply, he says," Patros muttered, prompting snorts and grins from so
me at the table.
They were still pondering the idea and the puzzle, individually and discussed through the Threads, when winter returned.
* * * *
The Nameless One--if he was the enemy--ceased his attacks, and that worried Mrillis. When he and Ceera traveled to the Warhawk's fortress and conferred with Afron, his Council of Lords, Master Breylon and the elders of the Rey'kil, they all agreed. The rogue enchanter had pretended to be dead for years before he emerged with the plague that killed hundreds before they roused the power of the Zygradon against him. He had likely retreated to lick his wounds, hoard his strength and change his method of attack.
Mrillis resented the quiet whisper of caution that rose up at the back of his mind at some of the happiest moments. He knew it was better to live on the alert than to grow complacent and be attacked in his sleep. Still, was it too much to ask that he and Ceera could enjoy some simple domestic happiness without the leaders of the two continents sending them messages asking for advice, for judgment, for medicines, every other moon?
The years slowly slid past.
Athrar proved himself as a talented leader in the field of battle, though he never lost his love of reading histories and digging out the tales and mysteries of the land. There was nothing he liked better than to put on disguises and travel among the remotest farms and mountain villages, meeting people and gathering up stories. Afron Warhawk approved of his nephew and heir's actions, because it taught him about the people and the landscape that he would protect when he wore the helmet of the Warhawk. However, he asked the boy to spend more time on Moerta, as it grew more populated and the people took back more cleansed land every year. That was the land that would eventually fall under the Warhawk's sole domain. Perhaps not until the days of Athrar's sons or his grandsons, but it would happen.
Despite the relative peace that had fallen after the Noveni and Rey'kil banded together against the plague attacks, undercurrents of restlessness and resentment still flowed. There were no more attacks by rebel Rey'kil, driving out Noveni from Lygroes, burning farms and manor houses and castles, destroying crops in the field or poisoning the cattle. Still, whispers and arguments and memories of past aggression by both sides lingered. For every five or ten families eager and excited to return to Moerta to claim the land held by their ancestors, there was one family forced to leave Lygroes because of the prejudices and unfair treatment from their Rey'kil neighbors.
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