by Chris Evans
“Or a man, or anything else either, I mean!”
Her smile widened. “Then I am honored I will be your first, Renwar.” She reached out her hands and began unbuttoning his tunic.
“That’s my last name,” Alwyn said, not sure what to do with his hands. “My first name is Alwyn, not that it…matters…doesn’t my leg bother you?”
Nafeesah sat back and looked at him, tilting her head to one side. Curly locks of black hair fell across her face and Alwyn wondered if this was what falling in love felt like. He felt as if he was going to be sick, faint, and break out in hysterical laughter all at the same time.
“You are a soldier. These things happen in battle. You survived, and you are now here with me. Is this not a good thing?”
She leaned forward again, but Alwyn caught her hands in his. “I guess, I mean yes, yes it is,” he quickly said as a glint of steel flared in her eyes. “It’s just that so much has happened and I don’t…I don’t know who I am anymore.”
What’s wrong with me? Alwyn released his grip and started to get back up. Nafeesah pushed him hard in the chest, pinning his back to the wall. Alwyn half-smiled and tried to sit forward, then stopped. Her green eyes blazed with something that stilled his tongue.
“Who you are is someone who needs to relax.” She sat back and then reached for a small wooden box that had been between the large pillow and the wall. The wood of the box was very worn and its brass furnishings polished smooth with much use. She set it down between them.
“I’m not sure I feel like smoking or drinking anything else right now,” Alwyn said, hoping he didn’t offend her. “It’s just that my head’s a bit fuzzy at the moment.”
Nafeesah smiled at him. “Then we will fix that.” She waved a hand over the box and the lid popped open on its own.
“Neat trick,” Alwyn said, trying to peer inside.
Nafeesah said nothing, but reached into the box and pulled out a cloth-covered orb. Alwyn tried to keep the disappointment off his face. He wasn’t sure what she might have in the box, but it looked as if it was just a plain old crystal ball, and that didn’t seem all that…exciting.
She held the cloth-covered object in one hand while she waved the other over the box. Again, the lid operated on its own and closed without a sound. She then placed the orb above the lid and removed her hand. The ball, with its cloth covering over it, floated a few inches above the box.
“Okay, really neat trick,” Alwyn said, still not that impressed.
Nafeesah looked at him with an expression Alwyn couldn’t read. Finally, she smiled. “These are not…tricks.” She brought both her hands forward and began weaving them over the ball much in the way Miss Tekoy did when she practiced magic. The realization surprised Alwyn.
“Are you a witch?”
Nafeesah continued to weave the air. After a few more moments she spoke. “Remove the cloth, please.”
Alwyn reached out, grabbed the cloth in one hand, and pulled. A perfectly round ball of sand particles floated above the box. Alwyn looked closer. He could see grains of sand shifting and moving in every direction. He gently reached out a finger and touched the surface, expecting to find a thin glass shell, but his finger passed right through and into the ball itself. The sand swirled around his finger with a warm, ticklish sensation. “How are you doing this?”
“Put both your hands out, palms up,” she said, ignoring his question.
Alwyn complied. The orb of sand fell into his open hands and formed a thin sheet that wrapped around his hands as it continued to swirl. “That tickles,” Alwyn said, lifting his hands up to take a closer look.
“Keep your hands flat,” Nafeesah said, her voice stern. “If you move too much, you will break the spell.”
Alwyn brought his hands back down. “Sorry. So, this is magic, which means you are a witch of some kind, right?”
“I have some skills. Now, let’s see if we can find a way to relax you. I am going to slowly remove your worries and your pain until you are completely at ease, Alwyn.”
Alwyn started to object, but Nafeesah made a pushing motion with her hand. A small portion of the sand broke away from the mass and flowed up the sleeve of his jacket and formed a small circle on his chest. Pressure built at that spot until Alwyn was pinned against the wall. “Wait, you—”
Nafeesah made another gesture and another small amount of sand flew up his arm and stopped at his throat. He could still breathe, but he could no longer speak.
Alwyn struggled to free himself, but now his hands were immobile as well. He looked at Nafeesah, trying to make her understand, but she only smiled and concentrated on the swirling sand.
“Now, we will banish this pain you carry.” She stared intently at the sand as her fingers traced increasingly complicated designs above it. Frost fire sparkled among the sand. “Ah, you are a wielder of the black flame,” she said. “You are one of the oath takers. I have heard rumors about this, but did not think it true.”
Alwyn tried to shake his head, but the pressure against his chest and neck made it impossible.
Nafeesah smiled and leaned in close. The smell of her perfume washed over Alwyn and he felt the heat of her skin on his. Her lips brushed his right ear. “There is more here than meets the eye, but I will set things right.” She pulled back and held out her hands.
Two perfectly round orbs of white flame danced in her palms. She gently blew on one and it tumbled from her hand and floated down to land on the burning sand covering his hands.
White fire! Alwyn tensed, expecting the pain he’d felt on the island. The black and white flame danced across the sand, intertwining but never becoming one. The sensation was as if Nafeesah herself were massaging his hands in hers.
“Stop fighting it,” Nafeesah said, directing her focus to the flames in his hands. She made a quick motion with one finger and the sand on his throat flew back to his hands.
“You have to stop…you don’t know what you’re dealing with!”
Nafeesah pouted, but continued to weave, tightening her pattern as she did so. The white flame grew, clearly trying to overwhelm the frost fire. “I have never seen anything like this, but do not worry, I can help you. Mine is a subtle power, but potent nonetheless.”
Alwyn banged his head against the wall and let out his breath with a huff. Mist formed in the air. “You need to stop, now, before it’s too late.”
Sweat beaded on Nafeesah’s forehead, but she refused. “Just a little bit…longer…”
“Please, stop. I can’t control this much longer.”
“…I can help you…”
“No,” Alwyn said. The room grew frigid. Shadows stretched out on the walls looming over them. Alwyn recognized Meri, and saw the black blade in his dead hand. The other shadows moved closer. Alwyn knew he had to stop Nafeesah now or the shades would. He willed the power to him and black flames surged in his hands, consuming the white fire in a flash. The sand on his chest froze with black frost and shattered, as did the sand covering his hands.
“What are you?” Nafeesah asked, looking between Alwyn and the shadows around her.
Alwyn closed his eyes and the frost fire died and went out. The shades lingered, but Alwyn shook his head and they, too, vanished. When he opened his eyes again, Nafessah was still looking at him. She had not backed away.
“I am bound by an oath,” he said, the enormity of it coming back to him in a rush. “I wish I’d never…I just…” Tears filled his eyes and began to run down his cheeks, which only added to his misery. Faces of the dead swam in and out of his vision, and he couldn’t tell if it was memory or hallucination. So much death. So much pain. And for what?
Alwyn expected Nafeesah to run, or call for help, or yell at him to leave, but she did the most unexpected thing: She leaned forward and kissed him.
“I don’t understand,” Alwyn said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“You didn’t ask for this, and that is why I am still here,” she said.
Alwy
n nodded. He felt thin, as if the only thing keeping him together was the sound of Nafeesah’s voice.
“What…what is your power?” he asked. He had to keep talking to her. Her voice was the last anchor keeping him here, keeping him sane.
Nafeesah dipped her head, then brushed the hair from her face. “Nothing like yours. We use it to cure small injuries and to soothe troubled spirits. We call it KamRha, after the ancient Kaman Rhal, ruler of the Expanse.”
Alwyn’s heart beat a little faster. “Wait, wasn’t he the one who built that library? Our Prince talks about stuff like that all the time.”
Nafeesah brightened. “Yes, one and the same. Kaman Rhal was a sorcerer and pursued knowledge wherever he found it, no matter what the cost.”
Alwyn closed his eyes. “Seems everything old is new again.”
“I hope not,” Nafeesah said. “Rhal was a great king, but also a terrible one. It was said that in his day he could command the power of the sun to burn his enemy’s shadows to ash, capturing their souls for all eternity.”
Alwyn opened his eyes and sat forward. “He had this power?”
Nafeesah nodded, her eyes wide as she looked into Alwyn’s. “He was most feared for this, but that was hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago. Then a great sandstorm is said to have raged for a hundred days and a hundred nights, and when it was over Kaman Rhal, his great library, and even the town of Urjalla were gone. His power, however, is said to have been carried on the wind of that storm, and those of us who practice the art today are said to possess a little bit of it, but it is nothing to what he once wielded.”
Alwyn pressed his left fist into the side of his stump, using the pain to help him focus. “Are there any wizards or witches with more of this power, enough to be able to kill someone? Could enough users band together to do it?”
“No, no one. Not by themselves and not in a group. It doesn’t work that way. What few of us there are only use it for good. I told you, it’s a subtle power. It gently burns away that which troubles a spirit, no more. What you speak of is impossible. Only Kaman Rhal commanded power that great.” Nafeesah’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Why do you ask this?”
“No reason,” Alwyn lied, looking down at his hands. “I just was curious.”
Nafeesah reached out and touched his face and forced his head up to look at her. “Why do you ask me this, Alwyn?”
Alwyn knew they were not supposed to talk about it, but the idea of following one more order when it was orders that had put him—put all of them—in this situation churned up an anger he couldn’t ignore.
“We…we met someone, or something, using Kaman Rhal’s power. It was on an island off the coast. There was white flame, not a little like you use, but a lot. Enough to…burn the shadow of a soldier and kill him.”
Nafeesah’s eyes widened. “What? This cannot be! Rhal is…dead. His magic is lost to the ages, save the small spark a few of us carry. Surely you are mistaken.”
Alwyn shook his head. “I felt it. I felt it deep inside me, burning, scouring away the oath that binds me to…that I took when I joined the Iron Elves.”
“Gossip travels fast in a city like Nazalla, especially in a place like this. We have many pillows for such talk,” she said, nudging him and smiling.
Alwyn didn’t smile back. “You said the flame burns away troubles. If there was enough of it, could it burn away more?”
Nafeesah stopped smiling. “No. A magical bond is a complex thing. It ties the living to the natural world in ways we cannot understand. The weave would be too entwined with your spirit. To burn one would be to burn both.”
Alwyn shook his head. “I know, but with enough power, it could be controlled. Just enough…”
Nafeesah shook her head violently. “No! If this is Rhal’s magic, then nothing but pain and suffering would await you. You have had your power how long, months? You are no wizard, Alwyn; you are not even an apprentice. Kaman Rhal’s power is old, as old as the sand.”
“Then I need to learn more,” Alwyn said. There must be a way to use it. “The soldier that was burned did die, but his bond to the regiment was cut.”
“Yet he is still dead,” Nafeesah said, softening her voice. She started to weave her hands together above the scattered sand, reforming it into an orb. “Did you cremate his body?”
Alwyn hadn’t expected that. “No, we gave him a burial at sea.”
“How far away were you from here?”
“I don’t know, not that far. It was the last island before here. Why? What does it matter. He’s dead.”
Nafeesah muttered a curse. She quickly gathered up the last of the sand, and waving a hand over the box lid, put the sand back. “There are worse fates than death in this world.”
“I know,” Alwyn said.
“No, not everything you don’t. Rhal was said to be able to hold sway over creatures that could move between land and water. Great beasts gifted with his fire. Some say they were his children by a she-drake, but as four-legged creatures they were not suitable for his designs, so he sent them out to kill and bring him back the bodies.”
Alwyn remembered the shallow trench on the island. “Why? Why would he want bodies?”
Nafeesah shuddered. “Before he was wiped out by the storm, Kaman Rhal was building an army.”
“Why? Who was he going to war with?”
“All those from whom he had stolen knowledge.” Nafeesah sat up and turned to look at Alwyn. “Don’t you see, his library was so vast and his power so great because he took knowledge from wherever he could. It became an obsession. All that mattered was acquiring more.”
“Believe me, I understand that kind of thinking, but I still don’t understand the bodies.”
“Kaman Rhal couldn’t trust anyone. The more knowledge and power he acquired, the more he came to view it as his own. In the end, he trusted no one, save the she-drake, and their offspring, but they were not an army. So he collected bodies.”
“And did what with them?”
“He made an army he could trust, because he controlled them completely. Kaman Rhal created an army of the dead.”
EIGHTEEN
Tyul, now garbed in black, followed from a distance as the body of Kester Harkon was carried through the maze of back streets and alleyways of Nazalla. Several times the figures he pursued would pause and turn, looking back the way they had come. Each time they saw nothing out of the ordinary and continued. Had they looked up to the flat rooftops they still would have seen nothing, but they would have at least been looking in the right direction.
Tyul jumped lightly from roof to roof, his movements little more than a wisp of shadow. It was an odd sensation to be this high and not be surrounded by trees. Tears came to his eyes at the thought of the forest. In some part of his mind, he knew that following Chayii Red Owl had been the right thing to do, though that part receded deeper into the darkness with each passing day. As an elf in the Long Watch bonded with a Wolf Oak, he willingly took the solemn oath to protect the great forest from the Shadow Monarch. That the oath would take him so far from home had never occurred to him.
He leaped across an alley, then crouched low, as the figures below stopped and looked back again. Tyul remained motionless, waiting for the group to continue. Images of Black Spike came to his mind. To see the body of a Wolf Oak so desecrated pained him deeply. That Jurwan offered up his ryk faur to be used as a ship’s mast mystified Tyul, but then so much of the world made no sense to him. More tears welled up in his eyes. The pain enveloped him and it took all his concentration to block it out. The Wolf Oak was dead, yet something of it remained. Tyul felt it with every breath.
He knew, as all elves knew, that to have a Silver Wolf Oak as ryk faur was to risk your very sanity. Now, though, he saw it differently. His bonding with Rising Dawn had opened his mind to a plane of existence few elves would ever experience. He was closer to the natural order than most living things, and it was intoxicating and at times overwhelming. He knew, as few othe
rs ever would, that the spirit of the Wolf Oak really felt sorrow in its death as its limbs were slashed, its roots cut, its crown shorn, and its body desecrated with iron and made to serve on a sailing vessel, instead of being returned to the mukta ull, Mother Earth, to be reborn.
Tyul understood pain. He sensed it in Jurwan, too. They shared a bond, each affected by a Silver Wolf Oak, though Jurwan’s experience was very different. Tyul wondered again why they followed these men. He sensed nothing of the Shadow Monarch. But Jurwan had told him it was important, so for now he would track them as only he could, and when necessary, he would return them to the mukta ull.
The small group with the body moved on again, crossing an open space where several alleys met and disappearing around a corner. There were no buildings near enough to jump on. Jurwan chittered in his ear and Tyul leaped to the ground, landing softly on the hard-packed dirt. Instinctively he reached down to grab some earth, but came up with a handful of sand. It was cold and strange to the touch. There was power here, but different from the warm, vibrant energy of the great forest of the Hyntaland, different even from the force in Elfkyna. The grains of sand stung and he flung the handful away. He stood and ran silently across the open square and into a pitch-black alley, though with his elven eyes he was able to see enough to guide his way.
That saved both his and Jurwan’s life.
A dull, white sword swung out of the darkness aimed directly at his head. Tyul easily ducked the stroke and stepped forward, a wooden dagger, a bond weapon given to him by Rising Dawn, now gripped firmly in his left hand. The wood gleamed with energy, and a voice as if from a great distance filled the air as he plunged it into the heart of his attacker, the sound of wood scraping bone echoing off the walls around them.
The feeling of a thousand bee stings attacked Tyul’s hand. He let go of the dagger and withdrew his hand. As he did a rasping scream sprang from his assailant as the hood of its dark cloak fell back. Tyul looked with wonder into the eyes of the man he had just killed.
A grinning skull with black runes carved into it stared back at him. Each eye socket was aglow with a small, white flame.