There was no time for due thought or consideration, and not the slightest margin for error. She knew that she now possessed the power required for healing even a mortal wound but she couldn’t dally over any of them. The task had to be accomplished with this single rush of blood and flame, one complete circuit of her body from heart to heart to make herself once more physically whole. Thankfully, her earlier failures now proved beneficial, allowing her plenty of opportunity to examine the wounds and determine the necessary treatment.
No problem was the first thought to make itself clear amidst the chaos, surprising her silly because it was accompanied by a laugh, no worse than juggling a multitude of balls—only to have them grow spikes in midair.
And juggle she did, supremely well, with a joyous abandon she hadn’t felt in what seemed like ages. Rage paled within her, the mountains of the Malevoiy receding almost to insignificance, there was neither doom nor destruction to her work. By her own force of will, she shaped this fire into a force for creation, strengthening some patterns, reweaving others altogether, treating her own body the way she would a pour of molten metal. There came a moment, late in the process, as the wild tide swept through her head, when she faced the choice of every forgemaster, whether to bring forth pure metal, unsullied by any impurities or flaws, or find a way to turn those same potential liabilities to his benefit, as with an alloy. She could purge the Malevoiy taint from her soul, with such a blast of fire that it would never return.
Thou art the Danan, the Malevoiy had said, and a gust of rage sparked such prominences of flame at how like Its voice her own sounded speaking Its words that she almost lost her balance and tumbled from the crest of her wave. After a brief, fierce struggle, she managed to restore herself to a semblance of grace for the final surge of effort. The experience left her shaken, but more determined than ever to prevail as she repeated the rest of what the Malevoiy told her: The Thirteenth Realm—that binds all the others.
The Malevoiy were no domain, like the Nelwyns or the brownies, or even the firedrake demons. They were a Great Realm entire, the pinnacle of the Circle of the Flesh, the point of linkage between that Circle and that of the Spirit. Cast them aside, Elora’s cause was lost.
Thought and action occurred as one, just as her wave crashed once more into the heart that was its source.
It was a memory of Torquil that pointed the way for her, working the fingers of one hand through the bushy tangle of his beard while his other hand fingered the pipe he always carried but almost never smoked.
“Purity’s an ideal,” he said, his voice deep and rough-hewn, as befit his barrel chest and hands that could bend steel as easily as forge it. For all of that, like all Nelwyns, he stood barely half Elora’s height. “So’s perfection. Something we strive for, but like as not never achieve. Tha’s f’r the best, an’ you ask me. How c’n y’ have perfection, when y’ve a mind to consider the possibility of somethin’ new an’ mayhap better? The most pure an’ perfect thing c’n carry within it the seeds of its own destruction. Someroads, it’s the flaws that make the difference. An’ make a body interesting.”
Life is growth, she thought to herself, or so she believed until she realized her lips were moving.
“Growth is change,” she continued, breath hardly stirring across the tongue that shaped the words.
“Change is chaos,” she finished.
“I hope that’s a good thing, Elora Danan, what you just said.” A familiar voice, but not one immediately placed beyond the realization that it was neither Drumheller nor the brownies. “But I’d have t’ warn ye, my master, he’d challenge yus square on any proposition that chaos were good.”
The voice came from one side of her. From the other, her hand registered sensations that were at once cool and warm, in both cases damp and of a fair weight, resting on her palm. Hot breath blew up her arm, accompanied by a gruff underbark, exhorting her to open her eyes and rejoin the world.
She did precisely that, saw who was there, and promptly closed them, wishing for the strength to curl herself into a tiny ball and retreat under the covers until both she and the young man perished of old age.
“Oi,” she heard, “wha’s all this, then?”
“Go ’way,” she wailed.
There was a long moment’s silence, while her admonition was considered, then the sound of boots and claws moving from the bed.
She reached after him, but her hand got tangled in the duvet, forcing her to call out.
“Luc-Jon, where are you going?”
The young scribe had already reached the door to her room. The fire was hot embers, and only a few candles were lit, plying the space mainly with shadows, but her MageSight revealed his features as though he stood in noonday sunlight. She saw puzzlement but no anger, nor any sorrow at her abrupt dismissal.
“Seein’ as y’re awake, ’Lora, I figured I’d summon Master Drumheller.”
“If I’m truly awake, he’ll know it and come along himself in his own time. As will the brownies.”
She wanted to sit up but wasn’t sure she had the strength. More to the point, she didn’t want Luc-Jon to see her wearing her sickbed nightgown. Bad enough, her face and scalp were on view.
“I look a fright,” she muttered, using her fingers as a comb and finding tangles even in her close-cropped hair.
“Life is chaos,” agreed Luc-Jon, offering her own catechism back at her.
She gave him the response he deserved by sticking out her tongue and trying to disappear into the deepest recesses of bed and covers. Unfortunately, his hound demanded some attention of his own, which Elora was delighted to provide.
“Puppy!” she squealed in delight as a pair of massive paws, very close to the size of her own hands, landed beside her on the bed. Luc-Jon’s wolfhound levered himself up and over to run his great tongue across Elora’s face, which brought forth a terrible attack of the giggles.
She wrapped her arms around the hound’s neck, burying herself against his wiry, grizzled heather-gray fur, and hugged him close with a strength that matched his own. He obliged by lowering his chest to the bed, pinning her beneath chin and one long leg.
“Someone looks fair proud of himself,” chided Luc-Jon as he hunted up a chair.
“He’s feeling cocky,” Elora said. “He thinks he’s got the girl.”
The hound cocked an eye her way, which made her wonder how much of what was said this ancient breed of hunters could actually comprehend. There was no real comparison between these hounds and other dogs, any more than between dogs and wolves; for all their outward similarities, they were very much a breed apart. In the oldest of olden days, the Great Highland Wolfhound—for that was the breed’s official title—was conceived for one supreme task, to stand against the Death Dogs of the Malevoiy. And ultimately against the Malevoiy themselves.
“It was you, puppy,” she murmured, pitching her voice deliberately for the dog alone, too quietly for Luc-Jon to hear. “The growl I heard when the Malevoiy reached out to me.”
His eyes were the pale blue of an arctic ice sky, unique to his canine species. Hers, also blue, were more of a sapphire jade, the only spot of natural color on her otherwise argent body.
“Puppy’s the reason I’m here,” Luc-Jon said.
“Such a compliment.”
He blushed and seeing his reaction, so did she, praying the shadows of the thick quilt hid the sight from him.
“Don’t be like that, Elora Danan. Y’ve had the whole stronghold in a state, what with y’r takin’ sick again when everyone figured y’ were on an uptick.”
“I feel better.”
“Y’ look it, an’ tha’s no error. Anyroad, y’ weren’t in any proper sleep this last time, an’ nowt tha’ Drumheller nor the physicians could do would break y’ from it.”
“How long?”
“Fair part of a week, all told.”
> She made a face, then took a conscious experimental breath. There was no pain, none of the phlegmy hollowness, the copper-tasting bubbles at the back of her throat as the wound produced a bloody froth. She filled her lungs until they were close to bursting, then held them as long as she could, which turned out to be not very long at all. On the plus side, she felt no ill effects from the attempt, nor any aches and pains beyond the stiffness caused by staying too long abed.
“I’m hungry,” she announced.
“Considerin’ how long y’ve not eaten, tha’s no surprise. What shall I bring yus?”
“Porridge to start, with raisins and cinnamon, and then…”
“We’ll see how you feel,” announced Thorn with his entrance, balancing his joy at seeing her awake with the more professional mien appropriate to one of the foremost magi in all the Realms.
For the time it took to produce the porridge, Thorn subjected Elora to a comprehensive medical examination, employing the purely physical skills of a physician as well as the more esoteric and specialized tools of a sorcerer. Both disciplines pronounced her fully recovered.
Sadly, that pronouncement didn’t prevent Elora from nearly falling flat on her face as she clambered out of bed, intent on the bathroom and a long, luxurious soak in steaming water as she scrubbed herself clean. Thorn caught her as she stumbled and supported her easily to her destination. That was where Nelwyns invariably surprised other folk, who assumed that strength walked hand in hand with stature. Every now and then, some Daikini—usually pig-drunk and at the urging of equally soused comrades—determined to have some fun by picking on one of Thorn’s race, only to find himself generally upended in a horse trough and wondering what giant had swatted him upside his head.
The tub was delicious, sized large enough so that she could actually float in it. Sensibly, however, Thorn had provided a stool for her to sit on in the water, to keep her from drowning. He also stayed in the room with her.
The bath was hot enough to produce a fair volume of steam, yet as always Thorn proved impervious to the elemental extremes around him. Both Nelwyn and his clothes appeared completely unaffected by the humidity and Elora knew both would be dry to her touch. For a rude moment, she was tempted to splash him just to see what would happen, but common sense got the better of her. He was probably expecting it anyway.
“I can manage here on my own,” she protested.
“Certainly as well as you managed to alight from your bed and cross the room,” he agreed. “You’re no longer sick, Elora, but you won’t be fully recovered until you’ve regained your strength.”
“Yes, Uncle,” she grumped, using the term of endearment she reserved for him when she was in a mood.
“I’ve cared for you, girl, since you were in diapers,” he said, by way of explanation. “It’s an old habit I’m loath to give up just yet. Sorry.”
“Sometimes that may not be enough.” She’d meant that in jest but the words held an unintentional edge of seriousness that made Thorn nod.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t keep trying, Elora.”
She had no answer that made her feel comfortable so she took refuge by dunking herself beneath the surface. He wasn’t joking about her recovery, the bath soon provided proof positive of that. Before she’d soaped the top half of her body she felt like she’d been working a full day in Torquil’s forge, shifting massive blocks of ore and slabs of finished metal by brute body force alone, without the aid of winches and pulleys. She was actually grateful when the Nelwyn shrugged off his surcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and took a scrub brush to her back. When he went to work on her scalp, with shampoo and massage, she began to purr.
She felt pampered and delicious—this was a treat she didn’t want to end. Because the sensations were all positive, because she felt safe and secure, but mostly because she was still underestimating how deeply fatigue was ingrained in her body, she didn’t notice when her awareness began to drift. Thorn did, of course, he was on the lookout for just such a lapse but seeing that she was in no real danger he took no action.
For Elora, the water changed texture around her, flowing where it had been still, burbling where it had been silent, refreshingly cool where it had felt warm near to boiling. There was life around her, as well, made plain by the tickling of fingerlings and minnows along the length of her body and between her toes. Her perceptions had widened from her tub to the Cascadel running past the fort.
She felt the water racing over the riverbed and, at the same time, was one with the earth that formed that bed. She felt grains of dirt being carried downstream, perhaps ultimately to form some of the silt banks that bedeviled boatmen trying to navigate their way to and from Sandeni. She felt new channels being etched in the river bottom, which in turn created wild new currents and rills to make these upland rapids even wilder and more untamable. At the same time, the water picked at both banks, at earth and stone together, gradually wearing them down to widen the course of the river. It wouldn’t rush so quickly then, it might even prove manageable.
There was a heaviness to the earth that was new to her, a strange and continual sort of pounding. Intrigued, she pushed her perceptions upstream, noting as she went a growing absence of all but the smallest of fish. The farther she progressed, the more curiosity turned to outright concern and she felt Thorn’s awareness focus alongside hers. He was still content to let her take the lead but now he was an active partner in their journey, ready to bolster her strength with his own or, if need be, cover any retreat.
They both noticed when the water turned foul, and not long after she identified the reason why. Waste matter, a lot of it, transforming this once-pristine stream into such a monumental sewer that it would be years before nature could flush it clean again.
At the same time, Elora’s perceptions caught little evidence of landborne life. No deer close at hand, though this was their normal range, no elk, not even rabbits; all that could be classed as prey had fled, and as well the predators who hunted them. Save one.
She stopped, so suddenly that Thorn was caught off guard.
In the tub Elora lay still, barely breathing with but an intermittent pulse, while Thorn knelt, hands gently cupping her head. They weren’t alone in the room: Franjean and Rool hunkered watchfully on the counter by the washbasin while Luc-Jon stood just inside the door, the promised bowl of porridge growing cold in his hands. At Luc-Jon’s feet, pretty much filling the available floorspace, crouched the puppy, but his attitude was deceptively casual. He was as alert as the others, as poised for action.
Far upriver, an astral projection of Elora crept ashore. By rights, in this form, she should be absolutely undetectable, especially given her inborn immunity to magic, but she took no chances regardless.
“There’s nothing here,” Thorn reported, after casting wide his own InSight.
“I know,” she agreed. “That’s just it. There’s nothing. Not only are there no animals for as far as we can perceive, where are the peoples of Lesser Faery? Why haven’t any naiads reported the poisoning of the river? It’s their home, Drumheller, and we’ve the Liege Lord of Lesser Faery in residence at the fort, the overlord of their entire Realm. At the first sign of this, someone should have come screaming. No dryads, either, the trees around us are hollow, without any spirit at all. They’re—just wood. No brownies, sprites, fairies, boggarts. What there is here is what we see with ordinary sight. Nothing more.”
“How do you want to proceed, Elora?”
She smiled, broadly in spirit, reflected by the barest quirk at the corner of her physical mouth in the tub. The fact that he sounded so casual told her with banners how concerned he truly was for her welfare. She responded in kind.
“Carefully, old duffer.” She looked around them, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What’s so special about this stretch of the river, I wonder? Why draw us ashore here?”
“Isn’t the road yonde
r?” he asked.
She nodded and was taking her first step toward it when his astral hand caught her arm, the shock as strong, the warning as urgent as if real flesh had come into contact.
“Wait!”
She heard nothing but that was no surprise. Her enhanced senses notwithstanding, Nelwyn ears were still keener than Daikini, even in phantom bodies. Dimly, at a fair distance, she caught the rhythmic tread of boots moving in a quick military cadence that she identified as a jog trot. A dozen men, of good size, approaching from upriver. In the darkness, separated from the road by both forest and underbrush, she’d never get even a glimpse of the strangers, much less a useful look at them. But she stayed in place. Thorn had made no move since his first warning and instinct prompted her to follow his lead.
A new sound presented itself as counterpoint to the marching feet, that of tiny bells, a baker’s dozen of them, thirteen in all, the pattern and stroke of their chiming telling Elora they were part of something being carried.
“They move fast,” she commented as the party drew abreast of them.
“Be ready to run” was Thorn’s reply and she had the sense to confine her own response to a furrow of the brow, a purse of the lips.
With a start, she realized the night had fallen silent once more around them. Nothing disturbed the suddenly still air.
A faint chuff stirred the evening, the sound of a palanquin being set on the ground, followed by a ripple of bells as its passenger rose from his seat. The marchers began a chant, one that Elora had never heard before, low and sonorous, far deeper in pitch than she’d ever imagined a human voice could project, striking resonances more in common with a horn.
Whatever the men were carrying was tall and it took long, solid strides, planting its legs like pilings that could never be dislodged. Despite the evident risk, Elora shifted her position, moving forward from her hiding place and to the side, deliberately masking Thorn from view, hoping her immunity to magic would stand her in good stead. The stratagem was sound, but unfortunately there was a risk—that the stranger might seek them out with ordinary sight. Her astral form was as striking in appearance as its physical counterpart. Even in these heavily shadowed woods, she stood out like a beacon.
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