Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Ethics of Magic

  A hand touched Sven’s shoulder. His head stirred and rose up to look at the cold ashes in his hearth. An empty pot hung on a hook in the chimney.

  “He’s here, Sven,” his father told him, voice soft. His green eyes did not brim with tears, but tears were not Pitt’s way. All the pain of his loss lay in the circles under his eyes from lost sleep.

  Sven’s black hood bobbed once, and he stood up slowly, the hem of the cloak sweeping down to his booted ankles. He turned slowly to look one more time at his home, committing its appearance to memory.

  He had given away everything he could not take with him except for his plain rocking chair, and that would be his father’s now. Someone else would live here soon. There was no reason to leave a house empty for eight years.

  Sven picked up his travel pack and marched through the open door and outside.

  The people of Rustiford waited for him on the green, keeping a safe distance between themselves and the aged wizard in red. Sven walked along the aisle in the crowd that had been created for him. As he approached Nighfire, he realized Erbark was not there. For a moment, anger flashed through Sven, but it passed.

  He probably feels guilty that I’m going in his place. Lori and Hauk can’t even look me in the eyes.

  A great deal had happened in the last year — ravit raids and fatal accidents, weddings, births and homebuilding feasts. Sven had seen more joy than sorrow in his last year of life in Rustiford, but some sorrows fell harder than others.

  Lori had not fallen in love with Erbark as Sven had expected, despite Sven’s advice to Erbark and pleading with Lori to reconsider. Looking back, he had embarrassed himself in front of the entire town, but no one criticized him for it. They knew why Sven had volunteered to go with Nightfire, knew that this seemed to invalidate his reason for offering himself as tribute. They also knew Sven was too stubborn to reverse his decision and too proud to ask anyone else to go in his place when he had already let others know his choice.

  Sven passed the village green where the remains of the Weardfest bonfire still smoldered and occasionally released a flickering tongue of flame.

  Nightfire stood before him expectantly, red cloak spotless in spite of the mud that permeated Marrishland. Sven thought back to previous tribute slaves, recalled how terrified they had been of this moment. Eda had practically poisoned Vitharr mere days before her Weardfest in order to go in his place, but she could not hide her fear that morning. He understood that now.

  Every step was a burden. The weight of cloak and boots threatened to pull him to the ground. He wanted to flee, to run into the swamps — away from this wizard, away from the altar upon which he was about to sacrifice himself.

  Sven never fully understood what kept him moving forward. Perhaps it was the men and women of Rustiford, faces beaming with pride at his courage. Perhaps it was the children who peeked at him with curious eyes, begging him to teach them by his example to be brave. Perhaps it was his father — green eyes red from sleeplessness — who helped steady his son’s steps. Or maybe it was the force of the hardened eyes of Nightfire himself — eyes that concealed untold knowledge and power — drawing Sven to himself with unspoken promises of new experiences and adventures he could never have here in Rustiford.

  For whatever reason, Sven moved forward resolutely until he stood a few steps away from Nightfire.

  “This is Sven Gematsud,” Pitt said. “My son who comes to pay Rustiford’s debt to you.”

  Nightfire nodded slightly and beckoned Sven to follow him away from the green and through the gate. As they reached the edge of earshot, Sveld, Rustiford’s elder, cleared his throat.

  “Let’s remem’er Sven Gematsud volunteered to go with Nightfire to pay the debt we owe i’the ninth year after the Foundin’. We’ll never forget his love for his frien’s.”

  Sven only barely heard the last sentence, but it was enough. He pulled the hood of his cloak close to his face to hide the tears that slid along his unshaven jaw line as he left everyone he knew behind. He had told himself he would not look back, but his resolve broke as he followed Nightfire into the swamp. The black hood turned and looked at the walls of the town he was leaving.

  “You will never see your town like this again. We will be traveling far from here. Keep your eyes focused on where you are going, not where you have been, or you will fall.”

  I will never forget where I came from, Sven thought fiercely. An unsettling thought occurred to him. “Where’s Brand?”

  “He is making his own way home,” Nightfire said simply.

  Sven waited for the wizard to elaborate, but he didn’t. Nightfire made no other remarks that morning. He nimbly climbed over and crawled under fallen trees, ignoring the mud and briars that clung to his cloak. Sven struggled to keep up, even though he was younger and smaller.

  As the sun rose higher in the sky, Sven’s stomach growled, and he realized he hadn’t eaten since before the Founding Festival the night before. Confident Nightfire would call for a midday halt, he said nothing.

  Nightfire led the way through a much more tangled part of the swamp. Trees were less common here, giving the underbrush a better chance to flourish. The wizard produced an unusual sword from a shin sheath beneath his cloak. It had two blades, one on each side of the pommel. The front blade was more than a foot long and about two inches wide, curving in at the very tip to create a very sharp and abrupt point. The second blade was considerably shorter, about three inches, with the same abrupt point. One edge of the longer blade was toothed, while the other was smooth and sharp.

  He only had enough time for wonder before Nightfire raised the weapon and sliced through a patch of thorny shrubs. Again the cloak stirred as the blade moved upward and then the arm of the red cloak brought the blade into the brush on the other side. Nightfire began cutting a narrow path into a deeper portion of the swamp.

  “It is called a marsord,” Nightfire explained in a lecturing tone. “It is the weapon of powerful wizards forged entirely by mundane means. No magic may go into the creation of a marsord.”

  Why is he telling me this? Sven wondered.

  Nightfire instructed Sven on the best way to use the dual-bladed weapon so as not to cut himself. He described the ideal angle for swinging to chop brush down with the sharp side. He explained how to saw through thick vines with the toothed edge. He emphasized the angle of the wrist so the shorter, gouging blade would not cut the wielder. He illustrated all as they went.

  The water grew deeper, and the mud stickier, sucking at their boots and dirtying their cloaks. The mosquitoes and biting flies became bolder, flitting up sleeves and down hoods for a chance to eat. For almost three hours they traveled in that manner, swatting away insects as they progressed deeper and deeper into the wilder parts of the swamp. Sven followed Nightfire closely, uncomfortably looking over his shoulder for any sign of Drakes.

  Perhaps the wizard’s red cloak would keep them at bay, but it might also attract the attention of an over-confident ravit with steady aim and poisoned barbs. Sven felt a dull stinging sensation between his shoulder blades at the thought.

  Nightfire stopped abruptly. Sven only barely kept from running into him. The wizard held the marsord out to him. “Here. Show me what you have learned. Clear our path.”

  Sven looked at the weapon in surprise, unsure of how to react. Is this a test to see if I will attack him? A trap to make me break some law so he can extend my slavery?

  “Take it.” The face had hardened in challenge, daring Sven to disobey or attack him.

  Sven took the weapon cautiously, almost as though he expected it to transform into a poisonous snake. When it did not slither in his hands, he held it firmly in his left hand. He swung the blade experimentally at a patch of vines. The clump shuddered with the first swing and came apart on the second. He smiled to himself. No one in Rustiford has ever held a weapon like this one.

  “You will regret h
aving it soon enough,” Nightfire said with a smirk, rubbing his arm through the sleeve of his cloak. He pointed forward. “Keep moving. Night is coming.”

  Sven moved forward and took an experimental slash at the underbrush in their path. The vines and thorns gave way. He raised his arm again and brought the blade through the vegetation. Soon, he was moving through the swamp almost as quickly as Nightfire had.

  The wizard talked endlessly as they walked. He identified every tree and herb they passed, explaining their medicinal properties in great detail. The only exception was the kalysut, which he simply named without further comment. Nightfire did the same with the animals they encountered, describing each one’s anatomy, habitat and behavior.

  Weary from the lack of food and the exertion of walking through nearly a foot of water, Sven barely heard him. His boots were caked in thick layers of mud, adding several pounds to each step.

  He will stop soon for sure.

  But the wizard did not pause for a rest and made no suggestion of doing so in the near future. So Sven continued leading him, sweating, gasping and waving away insects futilely. The sun set, and the wizard’s ceaseless explanation of the world around them only grew more spirited.

  Sven cut through underbrush and sawed through vines more slowly, praying to Marrish for a second wind of his own, one that would make the journey end before he died of exhaustion. Dinah must have been jealous, for at that moment, black spots clouded Sven’s vision, and his head grew light. His knees buckled and he fell earthward.

  When Sven woke, he could not tell if he was awake. He saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. He felt no hunger or pain; he had no physical sensation at all. Not only could he not feel the ground beneath his body, he could not discern up or down. He was disembodied thought floating in darkness. Time had no meaning in this non-place, but Sven thought for sure that days had already passed, if not years or centuries.

  Then the hallucinations began. His family. His friends. They worsened. Ravits and gobbels. Drakes without names. They changed. Faces of gods. Mysteries of a world unfolding before his blinded eyes. There were voices, too — the whisper of Swind, the thundering voice of Marrish, the laughter of the Bald Goddess.

  Am I dead? Sven thought. Is this Domin’s duxy? Is that why Brand didn’t return?

  But no. There was no cleansing fire here, no pain. Broken images and breaths of sound pressed in on him like memories of dreams forgotten even by Seruvus. Sven’s consciousness flickered like lightning in a storm — sometimes aware and sometimes not. Sometimes he dreamed, and sometimes he merely saw and heard things that were not there.

  Years later, Sven would recognize it as his first experience with teleportation. The darkness through which he had passed was the Tempest, whose deprivation sometimes inspired visions in those traveling through it. He would recognize the intense overstimulation of the senses and resulting disorientation and nausea that seized him when he returned to the material world as the symptoms of teleportation sickness.

  Nightfire provided him with no such explanations as Sven dry-heaved on hands and knees, however. “Rest for awhile. It will pass.” Then the wizard took a seat under a tree and calmly sharpened his marsord with a small whetstone.

  Once his stomach settled, Sven noticed he was no longer hungry or tired. He lay on his back and looked at the sky through the canopy above. The moon and stars were too bright tonight, their colors too vivid. He blinked, waiting for the sensation to pass, softly reciting the names of the constellations he knew to keep his mind off the strange experience of having a body again.

  He could see Kaliher, the brightest of the stars, quite clearly from here. Kaliher never moved in the sky the way the others did, showing travelers the way north. The Guardian had just begun to rise in the east, most of its stars still well below the trees of the swamp. The Lone Thief wandered across the autumn sky. Right behind it chased the Corrupt Judge. The other constellations were foreign to Sven. He knew the Wild Prince and the Generous God were somewhere in tonight’s sky, but he wasn’t sure where to look for them.

  Every star had a story, and he had heard almost all of them. His flawless memory could recite them for him at will.

  A dark shape flickered across Niminth’s green face, and a cold wind blew from the north. He could not help but shiver in the icy breeze. He pulled his cloak tightly around his neck. A tree creaked overhead in the wind, and leaves plummeted from the treetops.

  Then Kaliher winked out as an approaching storm consumed the night sky. Niminth’s light disappeared. The Lone Thief faded away and the Corrupt Judge vanished. Even the gleaming stars of the Guardian submitted to the growing storm clouds as they seemed to heave with their burden.

  A flash of lightning lit the clouds, their light burning the image of a face into Sven’s vision. A few seconds later, a distant rumble sent ripples through the still pools in the swamp. The wind grew stronger, and leaves began abandoning their homes by the thousands — just in time, for a fork of lightning struck a tree on the horizon and laid it low. The first raindrops fell heavily, helping the wind bring the trees to their knees before the power of the storm. Many of the trees acquiesced, bending low in preparation for the god who would soon walk among them. Those that rebelled were slain by forks of lightning from the storm god’s fists.

  Sven lay in silence — fascinated, afraid, invigorated. Water streamed through the opening of his hood, dousing his face and hair, the concreteness of it like sweet pain against his nose and cheeks. Wind tore at his cloak, trying to rip it from his body. Lightning arced into the ground from the clouds, threatening to burn him to ash. Then the storm’s fury subsided, and it turned its attention to the lands to the south and east, leaving the land changed by its passage.

  Sven said nothing, merely gasping for breath and willing his heart to slow its terrifying pace. Was that Marrish’s face? What interest does the Creator have in me?

  A bright white light bathed him, and this time Sven didn’t wince. He lifted his head and saw Nightfire standing, his red cloak the source of the light.

  Imagine what it must be like to wield power like that, Sven marveled, and for a moment he wasn’t sure whether he meant Nightfire or Marrish.

  “What happened?” Sven asked. “We weren’t in a clearin’ before.”

  Nightfire quirked an eyebrow at him. “You fainted. I brought us elsewhere.”

  “Those dreams … that was magic, wasn’t it?” Sven’s tone was almost accusatory. Like the passage from my birth town to Rustiford, with the wizards helpin’ us move faster.

  “Why do you think that?” Nightfire asked with the hint of a smile.

  Even though Sven’s eyes had adjusted, it was difficult to look directly into Nightfire’s aura of white light. “If you’d walked to Rustiford, there’d be a path to follow, an’ we wouldn’t be cuttin’ a new trail through the swamps.”

  Nightfire’s smile crept farther into his cheeks, but he didn’t answer Sven’s question. “It is not far now. Follow me.”

  Sven stood up, only a little dizzy, and staggered after Nightfire. The trees and underbrush seemed to bow down before the glowing wizard, making a straight path for him and the slave who followed in his wake. An hour passed, and then two. The swamp abruptly gave way to a rise of land. Nightfire’s cloak of light made it difficult to discern distant shapes, but Sven could just make out the massive shadow of a large, walled town far to the west.

  Nightfire stopped, and whirled on Sven, all secret smiles replaced by an imperious frown. “You have sworn by the Oathbinder to serve me as a slave for eight years. Is this correct?”

  Sven was a little taken aback by this sudden challenge. “Yes.”

  “Address me as Master Nightfire,” the wizard commanded.

  “Yes, Master Nightfire,” Sven said.

  “Remove your cloak and throw it to the ground at my feet.”

  Sven couldn’t keep the confusion off his face, but he did as he was told. The cold of autumn bit into his already chi
lled flesh.

  “Now kneel before me.”

  Sven did as he was told, but it rankled him. Doesn’t he trust me enough to believe I will keep my oath?

  “Now take off your boots.”

  Sven hesitated, not certain he had heard correctly, Seruvus’s memory or no. “What, Master Nightfire?”

  “Your boots. Take them off. Then you will walk on the earth with bare feet. I command it of you.”

  “But Dinah’s Curse,” Sven stammered, suddenly afraid.

  Nightfire pointed down at Sven, expression imperious, voice cold. “Does your oath mean nothing to you?”

  “Please, Master Nightfire. I’m your slave, but you’ve no reason to take my boots!”

  “If you will not obey, you will suffer,” Nightfire said sharply.

  Sven felt a great pressure around his body as though a huge hand had grasped him. Suddenly, he was kneeling several inches off the ground.

  “And even as you suffer, you will still obey.”

  A gout of flame burst from the earth below Sven, engulfing him. His clothes caught fire. His boots burned away, the leather peeling away from his feet like wood shavings. With a foul whiff of smoke, his hair burned and the skin all over his body blistered from the heat.

  Sven screamed in pain. The flame vanished. The invisible hand released him. He fell naked to the ground, writhing in pain through the mud. He moaned in agony. The blisters burst, sending new fires of pain along his nerves.

  “I am an eighth-degree wizard!” Nightfire thundered, pointing down at where Sven squirmed on the ground. “I can reduce you to ash with as much effort as it takes you to scratch an itch. If you displease me, I can inflict such pain as you cannot even imagine.” The wizard crouched down and whispered into Sven’s ear. “But I am not without mercy. I can heal as well as kill, soothe as well as torment. This is what it means to be a wizard — choosing how to wield power.”

  Sven could only manage a whimper as he quietly prayed for death. He had heard that a deep enough burn was painless, but these certainly were not.