Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  Yellow-garbed priests took the bodies of Solvi and Horik. Sven started toward the citadel, but Katla approached him in the middle of the walkway. The audience remained hushed, and even Nightfire seemed on his heels, ready to stop what appeared to be a challenge.

  “You are trying to boil soup in a wooden bowl,” she said quietly, stepping in very close as though congratulating him. “When it burns through, you will have neither bowl nor soup.”

  Sven leaned back and met her stony green eyes. He looked away, annoyed. “I refuse to show mercy to Marrishland’s enemies.”

  “Volund and his reds are not Marrishland’s enemies — only yours.”

  “Nor are they Marrishland’s allies — only your master’s.”

  She frowned. “The path you are taking prevents you from taking any other roads.”

  “Are you now my enemy, too?”

  “A fire does not refuse to bend in the wind. It bows that it might spread more quickly.”

  “A friend of mine tried that, once. The wind snuffed him out.”

  “Mother would have said ...”

  Sven’s patience slipped. This was an old argument. “Mother was enslaved by your precious dux before I was eight,” he said coldly. “Tyra Gematsud raised you, not me.”

  She closed her mouth. Her eyes glistening with tears, she teleported away.

  Sven marched toward the citadel, Einar at his heels.

  “Old lover?”

  Sven opened his mouth to answer but changed his mind. If he knows who she is and who she serves, he may yet turn against me.

  “I am in no mood, Weard Schwert.”

  Sven knew he should be horrified by the day’s activities, sick to his stomach for his behavior on the square. Two men dead by his hands, but he felt nothing.

  It was the only way to win three consecutive duels. My display of superhuman power today will keep other wizards from challenging me each year. My enemies will have to find other ways of fighting me, ways that don’t force me to give away my weaknesses.

  Sven removed the gloves from his utility vest and returned them to the pouch at his side. He had killed men who had done nothing wrong before, as he protected innocent people from the wrath of a magocrat. Horik and Solvi had deserved their fates.

  For Marrishland, I must beat those who would be her enemies. I must learn their strengths and weaknesses and use that knowledge against them. Now I am the most powerful wizard in Marrishland. I must use this position to my advantage.

  Slaves and mundanes of the Citadel stepped forward until they surrounded him, asking his command. Sven flinched slightly at this servility in fellow Mar.

  This, too, will I change.

  He gave them instructions patiently, asking for food and a room. Sitting at a table before a narrow opening, he ate the soup they brought. It was delicious and thick with meat. He ate it in silence, noting with some sadness that it was the best he had ever tasted.

  While many mundanes risk their lives daily in the swamps to feed themselves, the most powerful weards do not even have to boil their own soup.

  He vowed he would not allow such meals to become a habit. Wild rice and laurita soup with a little meat had sustained him all his life. There was no reason he should eat better food than that.

  If I did, I would be no better than Vigfus.

  When he had finished his meal, he withdrew to his quarters to rest. He stayed awake just long enough to offer a prayer of thanksgiving to his patrons for his success in battle that day, and for the gifts they had given him.

  Chapter 4

  “The oldest Mar stories are more symbolic than literal. Oral tradition loses details of fact in just a few generations, replacing them with details that reinforce existing values. When these stories are written down, it preserves them, but traps the tales in time. As the centuries pass, the symbolic details lose their strength as metaphors and come to be regarded as literal facts.”

  — Weard Eira Helderza,

  Unavoidable Problems in Literature

  Sven Takraf’s dramatic victories over three contenders for the Chair on his first day effectively ended all formal resistance to his ascent, and he faced no further challenges the next day. Existing political pressures, clever planning and turns of good fortune often attributed to divine intervention allowed him to lay the foundation for his rule after only one forty-five day month as Mardux.

  Sven chose an ideal year to seek the Chair — the same Duxfest when more than a dozen reds conspired with Dux Feiglin to topple Mardux Rorik Beurtlin. Five reds died at Rorik’s hands in two days before he fell to Ozur Betrun. Rorik’s old friend and master duelist Weard Einar Schwert arrived from the frontier to issue a challenge of his own.

  Volund’s allies were still implementing a revised plan to take the Chair when Sven Takraf arrived in Domus Palus. By the end of Sven’s first day of duels, nearly a third of all the reds in Marrishland lay dead in the year’s battle for the Chair. If he had not spared Weard Schwert, though, he may still have faced more challengers. However, while the remaining reds could not know with certainty that Weard Schwert would issue a fresh challenge against anyone who defeated Sven Takraf, no point of Law forbade him from doing so. Dux Feiglin and his surviving supporters decided not to take this risk.

  Minutes after Nightfire announced Sven’s ascent to the chair, the four hundred seventh-degree wizards belonging to the priesthoods of Domus Palus’ temples arrived at the citadel without warning or explanation to swear loyalty to Sven. The priests had not given an oath of loyalty to a Mardux in a century, and few people knew that one of Sven’s friends, Weard Horsa Verifien, was behind it. Some saw divine approval of Sven’s rule in this gesture, but no one could ignore the magic resources hundreds of yellows represented.

  Sven acted quickly to consolidate his power within Domus Palus. The Mardux was little more than a dux of duxes. He was the dux of Domus, equal rank in rank to all the other duxes, except that by law and tradition, the ruler of Domus led the Council. His authority ended at the edge of Domus. But as a stranger to Domus, he wanted to make certain of his people’s loyalty.

  He ordered all wizards to attend a banquet celebrating his ascendancy to the Chair. During the days-long celebration, he greeted all in the government, stripped them of their ranks and titles and demanded an oath of fealty like those the priests and Einar had given him. He banished anyone who refused from the Duxy of Domus and confiscated their property — the Law wouldn’t let him execute them. While his education and experience had not equipped him to analyze and restructure the bureaucracy of the capital after banishing so many wizards, he gave Einar and Horsa full authority to act on his behalf. Sven personally and severely punished any magocrat in the capital caught committing an act of bad faith, and the others soon learned he had no patience for the tears and pleas of corrupt officials.

  Eighteen days into his rule, Sven met with the Council to tell them of his plan to unite Marrishland. He met fierce resistance from Volund. Nightfire and the Duxess of Pidel reiterated their neutrality. The Dux of Wasfal offered suggestions but would not declare his loyalty outright. The Duxes of Skrem, Gunne and Piljerka swore fealty with little encouragement.

  Little noted but of great importance to the course events would take was the arrival of the Traveller and storyteller known as Pondr. He played only a minor role in spreading the Mardux’s legend, but his stories had a profound effect on Sven that may have altered the course of Mar history.

  * * *

  The celebratory banquet evolved into something else during the fifth nine-day span of Sven’s reign. He stood on a balcony overlooking the revelry, viewing the celebrating crowd. Einar stood at his shoulder.

  “I should stop this soon,” Sven mused. “It is devouring resources we will need later.”

  “Food and drink can be replenished,” Einar said. He swept an arm out over the crowd below. “These are the resources you must watch most closely.”

  “They have all sworn their loyalty to me before th
e Oathbinder. Even a mundane knows the consequences of breaking such an oath.”

  Einar chuckled.

  “You do not trust their word.”

  Einar shrugged. “I trust it for what it is — a promise to obey you as your position demands.”

  “Many of the faces out there are my students and friends. They did not have to come all the way to Domus Palus to swear fealty to me.”

  “Wizards flock to powerful leaders for many different reasons,” Einar said, leaning against the crumbling stone rail of the balcony. “Some are here for you. Some hope for money or advancement. Some may even join you because you share an enemy with them. Most just want to keep the positions they have here in the city, and they really did not have any choice but to swear fealty to you.”

  “Will they resist me?”

  “Some may, but most will not risk your wrath. They did not keep their posts this long by refusing to bend in the wind.”

  Sven gazed down at the colorful crowd of magocrats.

  Normally, the greens would have outstripped any other color, but at this function, the bright green had soon been weeded out and ambers and higher colored the room. Amber, cyan, lavender and yellow made lively patterns across the floor. Among them, Eda Stormgul — the woman who had led the patrol the night Sven had arrived — wandered, no doubt currying favor from her new superiors while commanding those now below her.

  She joined me because mine was the winning side, Sven thought.

  Rustiford had given eight others besides Sven to Nightfire’s Academy, and none would have gone willingly. He frowned as the thought crossed his mind.

  I went willingly, he thought, a part of him trying to recall why. For knowledge, he decided, and to protect Erbark, who is not as intelligent as I am.

  Below, a man of middling years gained the stage and gathered his grey cloak about him in a flourish. Sven peered at him. The man was no Mar, but it was hard to place his origin.

  He began speaking and then singing in adhi tetrads, and the crowd became fixated.

  “Oh come sit by my hearth tonight

  And warm your hands near golden flames.

  Here, have some meat and soup as well.

  Sit, eat, and hear what I will say:

  I am not ready yet for sleep.

  The night is just as long as day.

  What stories do your people tell?

  Who are your heroes? Give their names.

  For it is hours ’til morning’s light.”

  We are known for our love of the legend, Sven thought, smiling. Perhaps that is another reason so many have sworn to serve me — to be a part of my story.

  The crowd, too, from lowliest slave to highest yellow, was mesmerized already. The speaker raised his hand toward Sven and appeared to stand taller.

  “I tell of our Mardux’s humble beginnings,” he cried, and the crowd roared approval. The storyteller appeared to be waiting for Sven’s permission.

  Sven was surprised by the choice. Is this a story to tell now? But the people below do not know me well yet. Let them hear what I have done. They will see soon enough what else I can do.

  He waved the storyteller on, and the man bowed extravagantly as the wizards cheered.

  “Sven Takraf was born i’the wild’ress of Gunne, a secret child of Marrish an’ Fraemauna. Seekin’ to protect her lover from the wrath of his wife, Dinah, Fraemauna aban’oned her son. Seruvus, who sees all, took pity on the babe, blessed the boy with his own memory an’ gave him to Pitt Gematsud to raise as his son.”

  All worries of the storyteller vanished from Sven’s mind. The man certainly didn’t know any truths, if that was how he began. And though he spoke in the rural, uneducated Mar dialect, he certainly could have picked that up. Trained storytellers could do many things.

  “Pitt an’ his wife had no child’en, an’ they were happy to do as the god asked. But they didn’t reckon on the jealous wrath of the Bald Goddess. Dinah called a ban’ of damnens to raid the villages of Gunne, promisin’ them all the slaves they could catch as lon’ as they killed any child with Marrish’s eyes of green fire.”

  Now Sven found Eda, her back to the storyteller, her brown eyes seeking him. Another face was turned toward him, a man not three years older than him, wearing yellow. Horsa Verifien, Sven thought. There were six of us who finished: Brand and Tosti, who are dead, Eda, Horsa, Katla and myself. Is it coincidence these two are here now? The gods have played their games with me before.

  “The list of people taken an’ green-eyed child’en killed grew daily, an’ th’ones left lived in fear of Dinah’s child’en. The people of Gunne cried out to the gods for deliverance, an’ Seruvus heard them an’ brought the message to Fraemauna.

  “She sent her servant, the great wizard Nightfire, to spirit her son to safety in his Academy. The son of Fraemauna would receive the gifts of Marrish an’ become a wizard who would be the Guardian of Marrishland — the one who’d lead the Mar to vict’ry over Dinah an’ Domin.”

  Sven started at the line. Can he know that I believe this too? The storyteller paints myth as truth, and truth as myth. What does he really know?

  “Marrish objected. This wasn’t how wizards chose their students. Fraemauna’s son would have to prove himself worthy of his father’s gifts, first. The goddess saw the wisdom i’this, but she didn’t wish to leave Sven an’ th’other towns to Dinah’s damnens. Actin’ as her han’s, Nightfire led Pitt Gematsud an’ all the other Mar through the Dead Swamps an’ to a new place near his Academy. Many didn’t survive the journey, but those who did foun’ed a town at the edge of ravit territory, which they called Rustiford.

  “Grateful to Nightfire for deliverin’ them from the damnens, the villagers asked how they could repay him. ‘Every year on Weardfest, you must give me a slave,’ he told them. ‘The slave must be eighteen years old an’ must volunteer to serve me for eight years.’”

  Sven’s hands gripped the stone in front of him, his knuckles shading to white. His chest rose as he took a deep, calming breath, and when he exhaled slowly, he thought his breath moved the storyteller’s cloak, so far away. The memory rose in his mind like a bubble of marsh gas.

  The green of Rustiford had seemed so large to Sven when he had set himself on the path to Mardux, years ago. The mood that night was a mix of somberness, relief and fright. The elder told the story during Weardfest, and this time, it was Finn’s turn to play the role of Brand. Sven would get his chance, though.

  I remember ...

  Chapter 5

  “Each color of the cloaks worn by wizards corresponds with those of the eight kinds of myst, which is the source of Mar magic. Green is for Energy, which is used to create or negate heat, light and sound. It can also increase the duration of other spells. Most Mar find Energy the easiest magic to use, and producing a tongue of flame at the tip of the finger is almost always the first application taught to an apprentice.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Nightfire’s Magical Primer

  “The villagers heard Nightfire’s terrifyin’ words an’ flinched,” declaimed the elder on the green of Rustiford. “The price the wizard asked was too much! Many townsfolk grumbled, an’ it may’ve come to blood an’ fire, but Bran’ Halfin shouted over them all.”

  “Hold, neighbors!” Finn Ochregut called tremulously, walking forward from his seat in the crowd and reciting his part of the story. “We couldn’t have made it here without Nightfire, an’ we would’ve died if we’d stayed. We know the Law an’ what it demands for a life preserved. We must do as he asks.”

  “But who’ll go with him?” the villagers demanded as one.

  “I’ll go first,” Finn announced in an uncertain voice.

  A younger Sven watched Finn from a log near the fire. Cloaked in black, he sat with three others, all one year younger than Finn. Across from them, two villagers sat. They were Finn’s age — safe from slavery to Nightfire and torn by guilt at Finn going instead of them.

  “Nightfire h
eard the boy’s words an’ smiled,” Sveld, the elder, continued. “He allowed Bran’ a few hours to bid his family an’ frien’s farewell before takin’ him from us.

  “Ev’ry year, Nightfire has come to collect, and ev’ry year, a brave young man or woman has stepped forward to pay Rustiford’s debt. Bran’ Halfin was the first. He was my gran’son, the son of my daughter, Tora Halfin, who fell during the passage to Rustiford.”

  All the names were repeated, as they were every year. Rustiford had sacrificed seven young men and women to Nightfire, and now an eighth would go. None had ever returned.

  The names were branded on Sven’s soul, and his eyes were rooted to Finn.

  Had I thought, eight years ago, that I could be the one chosen? Maybe I did know.

  Eda’s eyes were still liquid brown in his mind, and Katla’s fiery green. Brand was a distant memory, a young man more like an older brother than a playmate, but strong and stern.

  The first to choose.

  And Horsa, who had taken Sven in like a younger brother when his sister had made her choice.

  The elder paused for a long time, looking at the small crowd that was the whole population of Rustiford.

  “This year, Finn Ochregut has offered himself as the tribute to Nightfire. This town is in his debt an’ the debts of all who’ve gone before him.”

  To Sven, Finn looked more like a man who would sooner plunge his head in a marsh pond than do this. Whether he had made his choice to gain honor or because he owed a debt, Sven could tell that the ceremony was the only reason Finn wasn’t fleeing. Though Mar distanced themselves from immediate family at a certain age — community was key to survival — Finn’s mother was crying.

  “The Weardfest has en’ed with the night. Today comes the wizard who will take our tribute an’ leave us t’our grief.”

  The crowd did not stir as Sveld walked slowly away from the dying embers of the bonfire. When he reached Finn, the elder raised his right hand, palm open to near his own shoulder in a deferential blessing and salute. Finn returned it automatically, sweat rolling down his face despite the cool air. Others in the crowd did the same. Some spoke to him in hushed tones, but most could not find words.