A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  As Milani entered the washroom, a trio of students arrived with their belongings—minus Milani’s sword and knives. By the time Mariyah was unpacked, Milani was finished, and with a thrash of her head that sent water everywhere, she quickly donned a set of worn leathers and low boots.

  “They’d better give me back my weapons,” she grumbled as they exited the room.

  They returned to the courtyard and asked a student, a dark-eyed girl in her late teens, for directions to the dining hall. She eyed Milani suspiciously, hesitating several seconds before answering.

  “Kylor’s beard,” Milani said, as they entered the main building. “What’s wrong with these people?”

  “They don’t see many outsiders,” Mariyah said. “I’m actually surprised they allowed you in.”

  “They didn’t want to,” she said, the memory of the previous night causing her mouth to contort and cheeks to twitch. “I had to agree to be blindfolded.” She flashed a smile. “It didn’t work. I know precisely where we are.”

  Mariyah knew their location too. Growing up in Vylari with a mother who loved hunting had given her a strong sense of direction. Disturbingly, Thaumas protocol dictated that their memories be changed, via a simple but effective charm that would be cast on them upon departure. But she thought it best not to say anything to Milani just yet, fearing her reaction. Better not to agitate her when the wounds to her pride were still fresh.

  “What about Gimmel?” Mariyah asked.

  “Waiting back in town,” she replied. “He’ll be fine until we get back.”

  The scent of spices reached them two turns ahead of the dining hall. Mariyah was famished, not having eaten in more than a day, and the rumbling in Milani’s stomach said she was also.

  The hall was through a tall archway on the right side of the corridor. Though the six rows of long tables that spanned the hundred-foot breadth and length could easily accommodate a large number of people, only a small group of six students were gathered near the far end.

  “Where’s the food?” Milani remarked.

  Mariyah took a careful look around, but could see nothing aside from the students and empty tables. “Maybe we’re supposed to sit down first.”

  “You’re new?” An older balding man in the black robes of a Thaumas instructor shuffled by.

  Mariyah nodded. “We just arrived.”

  “Loria Camdon’s student, yes?”

  “I’m Mariyah. And this is my friend Milani. We were told this was where we could get something to eat.”

  “Then you were told right.” He waved for them to follow. “We don’t keep traditional schedules here. You set your own. Or if you’re a student, it’s set by your instructor.” He tilted his head toward the students. “Those are mine. How is Loria?”

  “Quite well,” Mariyah said.

  “So much talent, that one. Too bad she was born noble. We’re in need of good instructors. Most of us are getting too old, you see.”

  A row of ten recesses were set into the back wall, each perhaps a foot high, twice as wide, and deep enough to reach inside up to the shoulder. Above, a glyph had been carved and filled in with a dark brown sap taken from a hyborius tree, then sealed with a clear paste that when dried, hardened like a smooth crystal shell. Mariyah was familiar with the technique, used primarily to bind magic to common household items, but she did not recognize the glyphs.

  The man placed his hands over one of the glyphs and closed his eyes. A moment later there was a sharp pop and a flash of light from deep within the recess. To the astonishment of both Mariyah and Milani, there appeared a plate of roasted beef and an assortment of vegetables, along with a half loaf of bread and a cup of wine.

  The man chuckled at their reaction. “It’s simple magic, actually.”

  Milani reached out, stopping short of the glyph. “How … how does magic … cook?”

  The man retrieved his meal, held it up, and inhaled the steam wafting off the plate. “It doesn’t. A simple transport spell. Well, not simple, I suppose. All of our meals are prepared in advance and kept in the kitchens. This heats the food and brings it here. Clever, yes? Saves the cooks hours of work.”

  “Who made it?” Mariyah asked.

  The man shrugged. “It’s been here as long as anyone can remember. You might ask Felistal when you see him.” He bowed politely. “If you’ll excuse me, I have students to torture with my dull banter. Just think about your hunger when you touch the glyph. But next time, I suggest reviewing the menu. Otherwise it’s random.”

  Milani took a small step closer. “You can create such things?” she asked Mariyah when the man was out of earshot.

  “No. Well, maybe. Transport spells are dangerous, not to mention unpredictable, and the magic fades quickly. Whoever did this must have had enormous power.”

  Mariyah placed her hand over the glyph. Her palm tingled for a moment, and after another crack and a flash, more food appeared. This time it was baked chicken and rice. Milani took several seconds before screwing up the courage to do the same, and produced a plate of rice and an assortment of vegetables.

  “I’m surprised you’re so frightened by magic,” Mariyah teased.

  “I’m not frightened,” Milani said, looking warily at the meal. “I just don’t trust it.”

  This was a common sentiment. Though not reviled as in Vylari, magic was not highly regarded, and the practitioners were at minimum mistrusted, sometimes feared outright. The nobility found it useful to have a Thaumas in their employ if possible, mainly to decorate their halls with glamor. But some, like Lady Camdon, infused their entire manor with various spells and charms. It was a testament to Loria’s power that her spells, such as the floors and lights, lasted for a year or more before needing to be recast. Skill with transmutation was required for the magic to endure beyond a few months—eighth ascension at least.

  They’d not yet finished eating when a young girl in student’s robes hurried over to their table.

  “Master Felistal has sent me to escort you to his study,” she said between gulps of air. “Your guard cannot come, I’m afraid.”

  “Then Mariyah isn’t going,” Milani blurted out before Mariyah could respond.

  “It’s all right,” Mariyah said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “No one is in danger within these walls,” the student assured. “We are well protected here. You have my word.”

  “As I have no idea who you are,” Milani said, her tone cold and threatening; even without a blade she could be intimidating, “and that Mariyah’s safety is my responsibility, I won’t be taking your word.”

  “Loria trusts Felistal,” Mariyah interjected. “And I trust Loria. Please. I’ll meet you at the room afterward.”

  Milani cursed under her breath, but grudgingly nodded her acceptance. “Tell him I’d better get my weapons back.”

  Mariyah gave her arm a fond squeeze, then followed the student from the dining hall and back into the garden. From there they entered the building to the right. Felistal was awaiting them in a room a short walk beyond the entrance. Unlike everyone else she’d seen, he was clad not in Thaumas robes but a light green shirt and pants. He was sitting, legs folded, reading in a chair beside an oblong glass table where a bottle of wine and two filled glasses awaited.

  He smiled over the edge of his book. “I see you have arrived unscathed.”

  Mariyah gave him a respectful bow. “Lady Camdon sends her greetings.”

  He gestured to a nearby chair, but before she could oblige, the door opened and Aylana stepped inside. Mariyah’s fury returned in a mad rush.

  “You sent for me?” Aylana said, her eyes flitting to Mariyah.

  Felistal stood and quickly positioned himself between the two women. “Yes. I wanted you to tell Mariyah what you told me.”

  She planted her hands on her hips and sniffed. “Could you not tell her yourself?”

  “I could,” he conceded. “But given the history, I thought it might be an opportunity for the two of yo
u to let go of the past.”

  “Begging your pardon,” Mariyah said. “But I’ll decide for myself what to let go of.”

  “It might be difficult to accept,” Felistal said calmly. “But Aylana only did what she had to do.”

  “I’m aware of that. It does not change what happened. Or how I feel.”

  The old Thaumas sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t. But as our allies are dwindling, we must find a way to work together. I cannot permit turmoil among our own ranks.”

  “You’re wasting your breath,” Aylana said contemptuously. “Look at her. If the wards didn’t prevent it, she would roast me where I stand. I should leave.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Mariyah said, barely able to maintain a level tone.

  Before Felistal could stop her, she stepped around and rushed at Aylana, landing a solid punch to her jaw. The woman staggered into the door and slid to her backside, dazed. Mariyah did not continue her assault, however.

  Tugging her robe smooth, Mariyah nodded sharply and let out a satisfied sigh. “Now we can leave the past behind us.” She turned to Felistal, who stood wide-eyed, mouth agape. “You said she has something to tell me?”

  Felistal crossed over to Aylana, who was slowly recovering her wits, a dribble of blood staining her chin. She waved him away, stubbornly determined to stand on her own.

  “That’s why I tied her hands,” she said, wiping the blood on her sleeve. She stumbled back, gripping the doorknob for balance.

  “Was that necessary?” Felistal demanded in reprimand.

  “Yes,” replied Mariyah flatly.

  Felistal shook his head, groaning. “Then please do not do it again.”

  Mariyah dipped her head and smiled, but offered no reply. It had felt good. And she was not sorry.

  Aylana slowly made her way to the sofa, taking care to sit as far from Mariyah as possible.

  “Now that the nonsense is out of the way,” Felistal began, once reseated, “Aylana has been gathering information for us for many years and at great personal risk. That she is originally from Ralmarstad, along with … other factors … has allowed her to position herself within the church, as you know. Unfortunately, she was recently discovered and has been forced to flee, along with three of her friends and fellow Thaumas spies.”

  “My sympathies,” Mariyah said unconvincingly. “I’m sure the Hedran won’t be the same without you.”

  Aylana rolled her eyes. “You see? There is no talking to this girl.”

  Felistal shot Mariyah a warning look. “I thought it was over.”

  Mariyah reached out and took one of the glasses from the table. “It is.”

  “The Archbishop is afraid,” Aylana said. “The followers of Belkar, once allies he hoped to use against the High Cleric, are now threatening to take over the church. He has become paranoid. Reclusive. In other words, dangerous.”

  “This is news?” Mariyah scoffed. “We already knew Belkar was working through Ralmarstad. I hope all those years of torturing people gained you more than that.”

  Mariyah knew she should stop. But she was having trouble resisting the chance to dig at the woman.

  “They did, in fact. I know the locations from where they would launch an attack. The names of some of Belkar’s followers. Those whom we can approach and possibly turn to our cause. But most importantly, I know that they are definitely preparing a force to strike.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to know when, would you?” Mariyah asked, receiving an angry glare in response. “So you really don’t know anything. You just needed to escape.”

  “Aylana has been a tremendous asset,” Felistal chipped in, seeing Aylana begin to rise and fearing another altercation. “Had she been captured, they would have tortured her in unspeakable ways. So, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m sure she’s a wonderful person,” Mariyah remarked, over the rim of her glass. “Please. By all means, continue.”

  “The Archbishop has sent his Blade after me,” Aylana snapped. “Do you know what that means, girl?”

  Mariyah cocked her head. “If you are referring to the Blade of Kylor, I do. It means your time is nearly up.” From what she’d learned, the Blade was a ruthless killer. Uncompromising. And never failing. “My condolences on your forthcoming demise.”

  “Are you sure?” Felistal asked, concerned, and rightly so if half of the stories were true.

  Aylana nodded, her eyes still fixed on Mariyah. “Positive.”

  “You don’t suppose the High Cleric has a Blade as well, do you?” Mariyah asked.

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d say no,” Felistal said. “The position of the Blade of Kylor has been vacant for a long time. But it’s possible, if not likely, that he’s filled it. I would were I in his position. But it’s not High Cleric Rothmore we need to fear, or his Blade if he has one. He was once one of us, and I know him well. No. It’s the Archbishop who concerns me. Marking Aylana for death by using the Blade of Kylor is irrational if his enemies are closing in around him. Which makes him all the more dangerous.” He smiled reassuringly at Aylana. “Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”

  Aylana returned the smile, though Mariyah could see the fear lingering in her eyes. “I know. I’m not worried.”

  You should be, Mariyah thought. But she held her tongue this time.

  “Do you have at least a rough idea when the attack will come?” Mariyah asked.

  “No. But if they’re preparing, it won’t be long. What’s more disturbing is that it means Belkar’s followers control the Ralmarstad army. The Archbishop hasn’t been advocating for war. And the King is getting too rich from trade to want any disruption.”

  This meant that for all they knew, Ralmarstad could have already launched an attack. “I need to warn Loria,” Mariyah said.

  “Word is already being sent,” Felistal said. “I need you here for a time. As you unwisely told Aylana, you’ve seen Belkar. If his interest in you has increased, the need for your training to advance is urgent. You can learn what you need here faster than you could with Loria.” Before Mariyah could offer an explanation for her loose tongue or come to Loria’s defense, he held up his hand. “This is no reflection on Loria or her ability as an instructor. Were she here, I know she would agree.”

  “So you’ll teach me?” Mariyah asked.

  Felistal laughed. “Me? No. I don’t have the stamina for instruction.”

  “Who, then?”

  Felistal’s eyes slowly drifted to Aylana, who stiffened in her chair.

  “You can’t be serious.” Aylana said.

  “Do I look serious?” he replied.

  “I agree,” Mariyah said. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad idea,” Aylana countered, still glaring at Felistal. “But the girl won’t learn from me, and you know it.”

  “Don’t tell me what I will or won’t do,” Mariyah said.

  Felistal clapped his hands. “Then it’s settled.”

  The two women gawked at the old man, then stared at each other for a long moment, neither wanting to avert their eyes.

  Felistal cleared his throat conspicuously, drawing their attention. “Trust me. There is no finer instructor than Aylana. And as she is marked for death, she won’t be leaving the enclave. A perfect match, if you ask me.”

  Reluctantly, Aylana bowed her head. “As you wish, Master Felistal. I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will, my dear,” he said, then turned to Mariyah. “And I hope you will also.”

  Mariyah gave a curt nod, then leaned over to pour herself a second glass of wine.

  Aylana rose and bowed to the old Thaumas. “I should prepare the lessons.” She strode out, casting Mariyah a final spite-filled look on the way.

  “I can see why Loria has taken a liking to you,” Felistal said once they were alone. “You and she are very much alike. Passionate and willful.”

  “I usually have more self-control,” Mariyah said. “But that woman …
what she did to me…”

  “I understand. And I realize knowing the truth doesn’t make it easier to take. If it helps, I’ve known Aylana for many years. She came here shortly before I was made master of this enclave. Believe me when I tell you that she’ll spend most of her time weeping over what she had to do. You might think she enjoyed it, but you could not be more wrong.”

  An uncomfortable sensation of guilt was trying to inch its way through her hatred. It was easier to think of Aylana as a selfish fiend of a person, not a tortured soul forced to do things for which she could never forgive herself. “I … I’ll try to remember that.”

  “Good. Now, I want you to tell me everything that happened with Belkar.”

  Mariyah recounted her experiences in as much detail as possible. Felistal’s expression darkened as the minutes passed, the lines on his face deepening as he pressed his fingers to the tip of his nose.

  “Loria should have informed me of this,” he mumbled, eyes downcast.

  “The first time was when one of his followers tried to assassinate her,” she explained. “But most of what I told you happened recently. It’s why she sent me.”

  “Still, it was reckless to keep you there,” he said.

  “So do you know how Belkar is doing it?”

  “Yes. At least I understand the magic involved. It’s called Illuminora. Part of the thirteenth ascension.”

  Mariyah cocked her head. “I thought there were only twelve.”

  Pressing himself up, Felistal winced at the cracking of joints. “Come. It’s easier if I show you.”

  Taking Mariyah’s arm, he led her to the rear of the chamber, where he pressed a tiny indention on the wall between a pair of bookcases. With a clack and a metallic squeal, the wall slid aside, revealing a narrow doorway. Beyond lay a chamber, perhaps twenty feet long and half that across, the floor covered with red marble tiles and the ceiling peppered with multicolored crystals which illuminated the room by distributing a dazzling spectrum of light from a dimly glowing orb fixed in the center. At the far end stood a stone circle with the runes of the twelve ascensions carved along the edge and a polished black disk set into the hub. On either side was a statue—one of a young woman playing a lute, the other a man with his hands spread wide as if casting a spell.