by Ross Kitson
***
On the third day of flying they left the coast of Azagunta and flew over the sea. A gentle wind was trailing them and Emelia began to actually enjoy the journey, despite the jolts that sent her face bashing off Sir Unhert’s metal clad back. They soared over the frothing waters of the Whitewater Strait. Emelia saw a group of dolphins break the waves and play with chattering excitement in the surf. Unhert turned and pointed and Emelia wondered whether he smiled beneath his full-face visor.
“The girls in the Keep thought I was part mermaid,” she said over the wail of the wind.
Unhert laughed and yelled back, “Would you like me to drop you in with them then? For a quick swim?”
Emelia pulled a face and he chuckled again. A curt glance from Sir Minrik curtailed any more pleasantries and the pair slid into silence again.
For most of its course between the horse lands of Kanshar and the isle of Azagunta the Strait was approximately a hundred miles across. It widened naturally at its southern end as the southwest coast of Azagunta curved away. In this area the waters were particularly treacherous. Jem had taught Emelia only a tiny amount about seafaring but she recalled that many of the seas around Nurolia required a member of the Guild of Navigators to safely guide the ship. A few even required the magic of the Water-mages to avoid a short trip to the ocean floor. Jem had explained it was something to do with the drag of the four moons and Emelia had lost interest at that point; she couldn’t think of the moons without thinking of the times when she feared she had the Moon’s malady.
The griffons had begun to tire by late afternoon with the additional weight of the captives. As they flew lower and lower, the choppy waters below seemed more and more menacing. If any of them fell they would not swim for long with their hands bound and the knights would undoubtedly sink like a stone.
The knights had become serious in the final hours of the journey, pulling hard on the reins and bridle to encourage the griffons to rise. At mid-afternoon Ekra-Hurr rallied the winds with his magic and the additional boost of the gale he created elevated them another two hundred feet above the ominous waters.
Dusk approached and they finally came within sight of land—a strip of golden sand edged by green. Emelia could see early spring flowers flecked like paint across the grass. A delta of shining blue rivers weaved like a spider’s web across the landscape below them as they dropped lower to land.
The grasslands were damp and boggy and moisture impregnated the air. Thin columns of smoke weaved skyward to the south of them and when Emelia nodded inquisitively to Jem he said, “Anor’s Delta, it’s a town at the southern edge of the Goldorian Delta.”
Jem did not volunteer any further information and Emelia could sense a tension within him, so she did not enquire.
The campfire was welcome that night as the chill of the journey had worked down to the bone. Once more Hunor fed the other two, whistling as he did so. Emelia’s wound was stinging much less and Jem seemed comfortable with his shoulder too. Sir Robert stood watch as Ekra-Hurr approached to dose Jem and Emelia with the Pure Water. One arm was tucked close and clawed.
The potion was still bitter and daily dosing had not eased the astringent taste.
“Does this vile draught come from the waters near us?” Emelia asked with a scowl.
Ekra-Hurr sneered at the query. “Does your little pet know naught about magical lore, Wild-mage?”
“She knows a great degree more than you could fathom, Air-mage, as indeed do I. It’s my misfortune to hail from these pious lands and you would do well to rein in your sharp tongue whilst we travel across them.”
Ekra-Hurr looked furious but then surprisingly turned to Emelia. “The Pure Water comes from the Holy Spring in Goldoria City, little maid. It is the source of the unique power that has made the Goldorians the bane of the magical world over the ages and indeed gives them the arrogance to feel they can stipulate that none of a magical bent may cross their lands.”
“Or they will toss them on a large fire whilst singing praise to the sun god,” Hunor said.
Emelia’s eyes evaluated Ekra-Hurr. “Air-mage—exactly why do you hate us so? Inkas-Tarr the Arch mage appeared quite civil the time I saw him at the Keep.”
“Inkas-Tarr no longer holds the position of Arch-mage,” Ekra-Hurr said with a smirk. “The scandal that erupted after your theft of the crystal with my own covert presence in the Keep forced his standing down and his position was taken by master Bardit-Urr, who it must be acknowledged is far more forward thinking. Certainly he would give no mercy to the likes of the Wild-mages.”
“Or probably to your Codex, I’d imagine,” Jem said. “The reason that the four schools of magic dislike us so passionately is one of simple prejudice, Emelia. The schools sit atop piles of gold and silver gleaned from all the profit their magic can bring them, whether it is Air-mages altering the weather or Water-mages the tides. There is a good reason the majority of their Orders are simple bureaucrats. They are populated by the privileged but not always the knowledgeable, the riches of their pompous mothers and fathers securing them a place. If they have a spark of aptitude then they are embraced and relieved of more gold. Why do they hate us? Because I am a clockmaker’s son and you are a servant. Our magic comes from within us—something that was never thought possible when the god Umar the Wise gave the first Gems of Power to those four pilgrims in the Monastery of Helix. Ekra-Hurr cannot wield his spells without that diamond seared into his flesh and that makes him bitterly jealous of us.”
Ekra-Hurr was flushed and angry, his bald head covered in bulging veins.
“You go too far, Wild-mage,” he said. “How can one who has dedicated his life to the furthering of knowledge such as I do so with just a bag of gold and societal connections? The magic burns within me; the gem is simply the gods-given focus. Your kind knows no rules, knows no boundaries. You were turned over to us by a Wild-mage, with less loyalty than a rat on a floundering ship. How can I respect a mage who knows no discipline?”
“Not being dictated to by those with naught but pecuniary interest is not lack of discipline, Ekra-Hurr,” Jem said. “I was taught meditation by a Galvorian monk and it is that calmness and focus that guides my magic. You would do well to seek tranquility yourself for your anger consumes you like a pestilence.”
For an instant Emelia considered Jem may have pushed the mage too far, and then she saw a flicker on his face that made her think that Jem’s astute observations had cut deep. He turned and stalked off from the three, then sat brooding by the campfire.
Sir Robert who had watched the debate with interest, smiled to himself. “Your tongue is as sharp as any sword, mage. Perhaps we should have bound that as well. Take care. Ekra-Hurr has been as of the storms these last few years. You and your friend left him with scars both obvious and concealed, and it has turned him from a reasonable man to the one you see today. If he chose to kill you it would not be within my ability to stop him, mission or no.”
“With all due respect, Sir Robert, it would be my judgment that it is he who should take care,” Jem said. “This land you travel through, the land of my kin, would soon see his tattooed head on a pike, stormy temper or no. As I pointed out I am a clockmaker’s son and Emelia a former servant; who would ever know we were magi?”
Robert shrugged and returned his attention to sharpening his sword edge. He had removed his vambraces, exposing his chainmail-covered arms and had also removed the coif, sweaty from a long day’s flight. He had already redressed Jem’s burn that eve.
Hunor was grinning after Jem’s tirade and Emelia could see the atmosphere between them relax as it inevitably did following their arguments. That was as well. For the dangers they were encountering were mounting by the day: Dark-mages in cemeteries, Air-mages with grudges, knights who planned to take them to lifelong incarceration and now a nation full of witch burners.
If Hunor didn’t come up with a master plan soon she very much doubted they would get back to Coonor.
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