The Rise of the Fourteen

by Catherine Carter

  Sorem grins, proud of her mahi. Barely missing a beat, she returns to the position of the announcer. “Now, Erus, your next opponent is Anima. Her prima magic is wards and shields. Her gift is loyalty.”

  The fighting has been exhausting, but mostly for Erus. Each of the ten mahi that had fought had beaten him easily. Probably the most memorable fight was with Nuntios. His prima magic is teleportation, and the fight consisted mostly of Nuntios evading Erus until Nuntios managed to appear behind the other boy and bash him over the head.

  It took Erus some time to come around, surprisingly long considering how many times he’d been knocked out in the past twenty-four hours.

  Another memorable duel was between Terrance and Erus. Terrance took no chances and mere seconds after the duel started, springing branches began growing out of the floor beneath Erus’s feet, ensnaring the boy until he could barely move. Erus began to spout some nasty insults in French but, with a flick of the wrist, Terrance had grown a branch over Erus’s mouth.

  Demetri was (somewhat) dismayed, but Sorem took it as a chance to place an iris at the base of Erus’s throat. Opportunity comes to those who seek it. She thought ruefully. But the fight they had all been looking forward to was about to begin.

  “Erus, your next opponent is Lacria. Her gift includes varied talents such as stealth and knife throwing.”

  “No magic from you then,” Erus says tauntingly. “Do your masters not think you’re good enough?”

  Terrance sees a flame flicker in Lacria’s eyes. Erus is just asking for it. Terrance smiles at the thought. Watching Lacria beat him will be even more satisfying.

  Erus shrieks as a knife whistles past his ear, lodging firmly in the wall behind him. “You missed me!”

  Terrance shakes his head. He’s less confident maybe, but still just as arrogant. Lacria lets loose a stream of knives coming at Erus from all directions. Erus ducks and dives in a ridiculous fashion doing his best to avoid being hit directly. But as soon as he regains presence of mind to go on the offensive, Lacria is holding the collar of his shirt and pressing a knife to his throat.

  “When I miss,” she whispers calmly, “it means I’m not trying.” Erus breathes harder, trying to think of an escape. “So, no, I don’t need magic to prove that you’re a prat.” She lets go of his shirt roughly, letting Erus crumple to the floor. Lacria makes her way across the room and stalks up the stairs as Erus lies across the wood in disbelief.

  He had it coming, Terrance thinks with satisfaction.

  34

  casual tourism that ends in tears

  The Fairy Chimneys of Cappadocia

  That is the next stop on this insufferably long bus ride, according to the brochure. Mortas and Ferula have made up, but only in the strange way that close friends do.

  They have not spoken, but Mortas will always save a seat for Ferula on the bus, even if she pretends not to. Ferula will ignore her during the journey, but will still buy her a bag of chips at every rest stop.

  Such is the nature of their friendship. But this is also the source of Ferula’s concern. He does not know how her “withdrawal” has been going. But, judging by the circles beneath her eyes, not well. He turns again to watch the raven-haired girl beside him. She stares out the window, gazing loftily over the rocky landscape. He sighs in frustration and sparks briefly shoot out from the tips of his finger before dissipating into the air.

  The weary group of students exits the bus after it grinds to a halt in front of a series of stone pillars. The bus driver sneers as they walk by, hiding his expression with a cup of coffee. Insufferable wretches, the lot of them. No matter. Soon, the two mahi will be dead. He exits only after the last student has gone down the steps and locks the door behind him.

  “Now,” the driver says to the assemblage of people, clapping his hands together with mock excitement, “I want to give you guys some time to explore these beautiful rock formations by yourselves before we talk about the geological history of this site.”

  The man inhales sharply, as if restraining himself. “I want you guys to split into pairs and meet back here in thirty minutes. After all, we don’t want anyone getting hurt.” His gaze seems to linger on Mortas for a moment too long. It is barely noticeable, but it is enough to perturb Ferula.

  “Hey,” he calls to Mortas. “Partners?” He desperately hopes that his probably paranoid concern doesn’t show in his face.

  “Sure,” she replies, a weak smile on her face. They walk off together down a rocky trail.

  The bus driver curls his lip in satisfaction as he sees the pair retreat into the distance. He thinks he is protecting her. What foolish thoughts. Mahi are so predictable. Stealthily, (seemingly impossible for a pudgy, elderly bus driver) he slips behind a nearby SUV.

  What emerges from the shadow can only be described as a pale wraith. Barely visible, perhaps only as a shimmering of the air, and explained as the effects of the extreme heat, the translucent specter rushes to follow Mortas and Ferula, leaving a rush of hot wind in its wake.

  Mortas, I’m sorry about what I said. Mortas, I’m sorry. Mortas, a hundred different variations of an apology must have flown through Ferula’s head as the gravel crunches beneath their feet. I should just say I messed up. I just gotta. I just—

  “You okay?” Mortas asks. She raises her lightly tanned hand to adjust the collar of Ferula’s shirt.

  Ferula is suddenly very self-conscious and reddens slightly. Just apologize; you can do it. “You look like you’re—constipated, for lack of a better word,” Ferula snickers. This is the Mortas he knows and loves; the one who can read him like an open book.

  Mortas’s face turns a little more serious “Listen, I’m sorry about how I reacted. I … didn’t mean it.”

  “You totally did, don’t deny it.”

  “Well, yeah, but I didn’t mean to be rude about it, not to you anyway.” They laugh together this time and a little color returns to Mortas’s face.

  “We cool now?”

  “Of course.” Mortas’s eyes then narrow slightly, as if straining to look at something in the distance. “Ferula, look.” She points to a series of shallow scoops on the side of a shadowy rock face. “They lead up to that cavern.” She points to an opening in the rock face.

  Ferula looks at her worriedly. She’s about to do something stupid, isn’t she? She walks up to the rock wall in a trance-like state and runs her fingers over the rough edges of the scoops. She places her foot in the one lowest to the ground and begins to climb. I hate it when I’m right, Ferula thinks. Mortas gropes for another handhold and pulls herself up higher, gradually getting further and further from the ground.

  “Mortas, this could only end badly and in several different ways.” Ferula calls after her. She ignores him, her ebony hair swishing in defiance. She’s nearly to the top when Ferula realizes she’s not coming back. “Oh, wait for me,” he says, his defeat evident. With great reluctance, he reaches for the first handhold and hoists himself up after her.

  When he reaches the opening, he is surprised to discover it is indeed a cavern, even if it is a very strange one. A stone floor slopes downward from the opening towards a sandy bed. The walls are unnaturally smooth, as if cut by diamond blades. The entire cave glows with a milky white light, far too bright to just be supplied by the meager illumination from the entranceway. Ferula cautiously makes his way towards the sand at the far end of the hollow where he finds Mortas cradling the body of an old woman.

  “Oh, there you are,” Mortas says sharply. “Give me your water bottle.” She holds out her hand impatiently.

  “What?”

  “Her brow is on fire,” Mortas says, gesturing at the old woman “I have to try and get her fever down.” The woman moans softly. Ferula silently reaches into his bag and removes a blue Nalgene bottle.

  Mortas all but snatches it from his hand. She removes a shawl from the old woman and proceeds to wet the fabric and dab the woman's brow with it. Ferula stands over her and studies the old
woman. She appears to be wearing a multitude of worn shawls in shades of gray and red over a dirty skirt that might once have been white. Her face is withered and cracking, framed with a curtain of stringy white hair, and her eyes are shut tight.

  The woman moans again and begins babbling in a strange language.

  “Did you just—find her here?”

  “No, I pulled her out of my backpack, Ferula.” Mortas says, still dabbing at the woman’s forehead. Ferula has no response to that, and watches wordlessly as Mortas grows visibly distraught. “Her fever’s getting worse.” She dips the fabric into the water again, her motions shaky with agitation.

  “Mortas, you don’t even know this woman. You don’t know what’s wrong with her, or how long she’s been sick.” Ferula says. “I mean—”

  “I can’t let her die.” Mortas glares at him defiantly, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “Not how I let … them die.” She returns to her nursing duties as Ferula watches sadly.

  She sees her granny Taylor in that woman. She sees her mother in that woman. The woman cries out again and begins shivering. But I’m afraid that, like her mother, the woman will die. And if that woman dies, Mortas will never forgive herself.

  The woman continues talking, repeating her words (if they could be called that) over and over. Is it a name? The name of someone she cannot help? He rips off another piece of cloth and dips it into their dwindling water supply, bracing himself for a grueling next few hours.

  The woman dies slowly, lapsing further and further into incoherence. In the end, she’s not even speaking. As Mortas holds the woman in her arms, the woman’s lips only move open and closed, her thoughts a soundless whisper. Her eyes have not opened in the hours they have spent there. And they will not open again. With a few last shuddering breaths, the woman goes limp and still.

  Mortas releases her grip on the woman and backs away, letting the body sag to the floor. Her breathing is heavy and fast. If Ferula could see better, there would surely be tears dripping from her face.

  “I couldn’t save her,” Mortas says breathlessly. “I let her die.”

  “You did everything you could, it wasn’t your—”

  “Of course it was my fault! They all died because of me! You better leave, Ferula, or you’ll die too!” Her last words are choked out, her voice thick with anguish.

  “Mortas, don’t—”

  “Dead. Dead, dead, dead!” She stomps about the cave, kicking up sand as she goes. Ferula cover his eyes, shielding his face from the flying granules.

  In the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of a pale glow. “Mortas,” Ferula urges.

  “What?”

  Ferula gestures towards the end of the cave. They both watch in horror as a shimmering ether rises out of the woman’s mouth. “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  Ferula and Mortas both freeze in place, their throats dry. The wisps of light are just beginning to coalesce. Soon, a ghostly man in white flowing robes is sitting by the woman’s body, clapping enthusiastically.

  “You are the last I see. Good, good! You are the ones who must guide the twelve! Your powers are truly remarkable,” the apparition says affectionately, as if looking down at his grandchildren. Ferula splutters, producing noises, not words, in his attempts to comprehend the current scenario.

  Mortas, on the other hand, cautiously steps towards the specter. “What do you mean, powers?” she asks, her firm tone not betraying her quaking knees. The man frowns as if the answer to her question should be obvious.

  “You are to guide the other twelve mahi. It is only practical you be gifted with the powers of fire and death.”

  “Fire!” Ferula exclaims.

  The man frowns again, as if his statement should be imperative. “Fire and death, of course. Fire to light the way and death to darken the path behind it.”

  “Death,” Mortas say calmly, in a dreamlike state. “So, that’s why they died.” She is smiling and crying as she hears his words, suddenly understanding everything.

  Mortas is eager to know everything. She walks over to the shimmering being, drinking in his presence. He can tell me why she thinks gleefully. He can tell me why they died. And he can teach me how to control it.

  She sits willingly, letting the spirit’s words wash over her as he explains the history of the gift and the arrow challenges. She accepts everything unquestioningly, blinded by her thirst for answers, even as the specter explains her ultimate purpose.

  “You and Ferula must accept your arrows of power or the other mahi cannot perform the ritual and the gift will not be restored.” Mortas grins, tears no longer falling. My deaths had a purpose. I do not have to be a shade of cairns. She holds her hands up, and an onyx arrow materializes, the stone inlaid with a golden cornucopia—a symbol of life.

  Ferula watches this exchange with disgust. He sees the light in Mortas’s face. He sees the hope that the apparition’s words give her. And they’re all lies. Surely, this is just some trickster with no special effects budget. Right? I can’t let her listen to this. But, as Ferula watches Mortas accept her arrow, he knows that he may be too late.

  “Ferula, you must come too.” Mortas gestures encouragingly, eager to share her newfound wisdom with her friend.

  Ferula walks over to stand protectively in front of Mortas and addresses the alabaster man.

  “What is your name? You who spins lies to hurt my friend?”

  His eyes burn with defiance.

  Mortas punches Ferula in the arm for his impudence, but the old man replies calmly. “I am Sapienter, the protector of the gift and the last survivor of the golden age.”

  Ferula gives him a disinterested look. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

  The specter seems to double in size, bursting with fury. “You should be! I know more of your destiny than you may ever know. I have survived all of the horrors of the dark ages only to be mocked by a mere child.”

  The man pauses, as if taking a second to breathe, then continues with his tirade. “Learn your power fire mahi. Light your way or suffer in the dark to the ruin of all.” The spirit vanishes and the pale glow that once encompassed the cave flickers and dies.

  “I can’t do it, Mortas.”

  “Yes, you can!”

  “Mortas, I can’t.”

  “Well, maybe you could if you stopped acting so self-righteous!” The conversation had been going in circles like this for some time now with Mortas continually insisting that Ferula use his “fire power” and Ferula continuously refusing.

  “How many times do I have to tell you Mortas, that thing was just playing tricks with us. You don’t have magic any more than I do.”

  “Don’t you dare say that!” Even in the dark, Ferula can imagine the hurt expression on her face. “Magic has given me an answer. I know only now that there is purpose in life and in death. I know only now that my deaths were not in vain. Don’t you ever turn your back on magic Ferula Smith, on the magic you know is inside all of us! Do not let the world seem twisted because of magic. Your magic is what you make it.”

  Ferula feels a firm hand grab his own. It gives his hand an encouraging squeeze. Ferula lets out a deep breath, one that he didn't realize he had been holding. The breath travels down his other arm, the energy extending past his limbs until a flame begins to grow in the palm of his hand.

  Still grasping Mortas’s hand, he holds the flame high and leads the way out of the chamber. The sloping pathway has been replaced by a stone door, which opens at Mortas’s touch. They spill out of the cave, taking great gasps of sweet night air.

  “I knew you could do it,” Mortas whispers, her hand still holding his. With a sputtering, the flame flares up and dies out. It is replaced by a red arrow carved with fiery symbols. Ferula holds up his arrow, and it glows brightly, sending up sparks of red. Mortas in turn holds up her arrow and sends ebony sparks up into the sky.

  Their celebration is short-lived, however, soon interrupted by the sound of two voices. They must be park rang
ers or something Mortas thinks. We’ll get in some kind of trouble for sure. A man of gold and a woman of silver emerge from behind a tree, their eyes wide with surprise.

  “You’re not of the twelve. Who the hell are you?”

  “You know, Demetri, this is why we don’t have friends.”

  35

  two guests accidentally invite a spirit into the training room

  “Where are Demetri and Sorem?” Nuptia asks boredly, cleaning her fingernails with a knife. “They’re supposed to be here for training.”

  “We can still spar among ourselves,” Lacria says, almost distracted. She’s not about to say anything but, after the fight with Erus yesterday, she would rather do anything but train.

  “Yeah, Nuptia,” Anima chimes in. “I’m sure Ámpelos would spar with you anytime.” Callida and Luna snicker as spots of red show in Ámpelos’s cheeks.

  “What’s so funny?” Faber calls to Callida. “At least Nuptia can hold her ground in a fight.”

  “Is that a challenge, Faber?” Callida replies coyly.

  “Perhaps, Callida.”

  “Single combat, till the other yields.”

  “Real swords?”

  “Hell no!”

  “You scared, Callida?”

  “I know you can melt metal blades, idiot.” She rolls her eyes as Faber simply shrugs his shoulders.

  “It was worth a try.” The pair each grabs a drill sword from one of the racks, and the duel begins.

  Callida is lightning, striking hard and fast. Faber gains three new bruises on his ribs before he can get a blow in edgewise. Callida grins. The fight is already over. Their swords meet once or twice before Callida sends the wood flying out of his hand. Faber stands, breathing hard. Callida holds the point of her drill sword to his throat, grinning in triumph.

  “Rematch, then?” she asks. Suddenly a shudder runs through her body and the smug expression is gone from her face.