by Mike Truk
Returning to the cart to replace the ax, Hugh glanced at Morwyn. Her lower jaw was jutting out, the leg that was over the other bouncing at the knee, her arm crossed over her chest even as she raised the bottle to her lips. Still furious. Angry at herself perhaps for having displayed her ability? No way he was going to ask.
Hugh returned to the log, sheared off a few minor side branches, then hauled it up the bank and onto the grass.
“Seriously,” asked Anastasia, settling on the headboard of the cart. “What are you doing with that log? It’s too green to burn.”
“Not going to burn it,” he said, and crouched before it. Slid his hands under the log, and with an easy exhalation he rose and pressed it up into the air, arms straight, then lowered it onto his shoulders, draping his hands over its length. Wriggled it into a better position, and then looked up to her with a wry smile. “Going to take it for a walk.”
“Take the tree for a walk,” said Anastasia. “You can’t be serious. You look like you’re in a stockade.”
“Need to get some exercise,” he said. “This isn’t too heavy - I’d warrant under a couple of hundred pounds. But if I carry it ten or so miles, I’ll start to feel it.”
“Exercise,” repeated Anastasia, then turned to Elena as she climbed up beside her. “He’s mad.”
Hugh laughed. “I’ll go mad if I don’t work out this restlessness in my body. It does me good. And don’t worry. I’ll keep up with Bullnip.”
Anastasia leaned forward. “You slept three hours at most last night. After - well.” She glanced sidelong at Elena and blushed. Apparently, Morwyn wasn’t the only one to have heard. “And yesterday morning you slept only a couple more after being up all night at the Rusałka Inn. Over the last seventy-two hours or more you’ve only slept five or six hours. And drunk - what - a dozen bottles of wine? Killed a dozen men, had a marathon session of - you know - and now need to carry a tree for miles on end to get rid of excess energy?”
Hugh considered. “That sounds about right, yes.”
Anastasia sat back. Elena was staring fixedly at her hands, for all the world looking exceedingly embarrassed over Anastasia’s revelation.
“Incredible. No. Impossible.” The disciplus glared at him. “What aren’t you telling us, Hugh? Are you ensorcelled? Laboring under a curse? It can’t be chirography, so perhaps fae magic?”
That struck too close home. His smile faded. “I’m just in my prime,” he replied. A flash of memory from the Goat’s Wood: Birandillo screaming, the sound torn from his very depths, as if his soul were being shredded, his face running like tallow -
“Just… just looking for some exercise,” he said, looking away. “No harm in that. Best we got going.” And he walked onto the bridge, each end of the willow trunk clearing the stone walls, up and to the far side, where he set off at a fast pace, pushing himself, wishing he’d drunk another bottle or three before setting out. He glared fixedly at the highway’s terminal point. Forced himself to not think, not remember, not do anything but place one foot before the other, and with each step bring the horizon a little closer.
By unspoken agreement they traveled until darkness was beginning to fall. Nobody wanted to stop early; the mood was sufficiently tense that even Anastasia and Elena had fallen into silence, so that the last few miles were accompanied only by the creaking of the cart wheels, Bullnip’s occasional snort, and the distant sound of Fate Maker bells calling laborers home.
Hugh had ceased to feel the log athwart his shoulders, but when he finally conceded that he was having trouble seeing where he was putting his feet due to the gathering gloom he stepped off the road by a small copse of freshly pollarded trees and shrugged, letting the log roll off his back and thunk into the floor. Pins and needles stabbed into his shoulder muscles, and he realized that he’d carried the damn thing for hours longer than he’d intended; somehow, he’d fallen into a welcome fugue, welcoming the distraction, forgetting the log was even there.
Anastasia pulled the cart off the road and alongside the trees, upon which Elena leaped down and set to making camp. There was no welcome stream flowing nearby, so Hugh settled for tugging off his shirt and washing the dust and sweat of the road away with a water bottle, upon which he took up the wood ax from the cart’s side and set to chopping some firewood, welcoming the way the motion helped stretch out his back and shoulders.
It was dark by the time the tents were erected, the fire built, and the food served. Morwyn spent her time taking care of Bullnip and Blue, while Anastasia settled down cross-legged to read some more as Elena finished cooking a pot of stew, the two of them exchanging the occasional comment and laughing quietly.
Hugh, pulling on a rough woolen shirt that was loose about the neck, settled down beside the disciplus, smiled his thanks to Elena as she handed him a bowl, and lifted it to his nose.
“Hey, this smells pretty good.”
Elena gave him a shy smile, reflexively pulling a lock of blonde hair over her scarred cheek. “I told you it would be worth your while bringing me along, my lord.”
Hugh snorted - only to realize that for a moment he’d forgotten all about her true identity, had been thinking of her once more as if she truly were nothing more than a serving girl from the Rusałka Inn. Damn, but she’s an amazing actress. His smile faded away as he stirred his bowl. He looked sidelong at Anastasia. “What are you reading?”
“Hmm?” The disciplus placed a finger under her current line and tore her gaze away, smiling with vague politeness as if slowly translating the sounds he’d just made. “What am I - ? Oh. Chymical Harmonics, by Bozhidar.” She considered the creamy pages opened before her, and brushed her fingertips over the tightly written text which was broken only by complex diagrams of intersecting circles and lines of symbols. “I won’t bore you with its contents.”
“No,” said Hugh, waving his spoon airily. “Chymical Harmonics. I want to learn all about it.”
She considered him, raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Sure you do. Very well. This chapter is entitled On Concurrences and Coincidences in Chymical Structures. Bozhidar is attempting to deconstruct Zhemilir’s classic formulation that the composition of all matter follows the universal organization principle of the Sacred Triad -”
“Fortuna, the Fate Giver, and the Will of the Free,” said Hugh, more to show that he knew something and wasn’t a complete fool.
“Yes.” She gave him a complex smile, part hesitation, part amusement, as if deliberating how far to push this discourse. “That the ratios of chance, order, and self-determination determine the composition of any substance. Regardless, Bozhidar - he was one of my mentors at the academy, incidentally, hence my specific interest - is positing, or trying to claim, at any rate - that the substance of matter can better be classified by the categories of organic, metallic, liquid, and terranean, a quadratic system that allows for greater flexibility and thus more precision.”
“I see,” said Hugh, and thought that perhaps he might. “Quadratic. That can’t please the Fate Givers.”
Anastasia laughed. “If the academy worried about pleasing the Fate Givers, we’d never make any progress.”
Hugh raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you say that to their faces every time they come by to check on you.” He stirred his stew. Thought back on his own lessons, the obligatory lectures he’d been subjected to as a youth. “But you discipluses work your chirography using Zhemilir’s classic formulation, are you not? The Triad? Why fix it if it’s not broken?”
“Ah, my lord, you are wading into deep waters now.” Anastasia put down her book and reclined onto her side, resting her weight on her elbow, the light of the fire causing the gold trim of her uniform and the bronze patterns in her silk scarf to glimmer. “It’s one reason I’ve no wish to return to the academy. The politics. The backstabbing. The new guard versus the old, which, upon killing the old, replaces their opinions with their own and rapidly become just as ossified.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “
I could regale you for the duration of our expedition with academy politics, and still only scratch the surface. Because these politics, unlike that of the imperial court, have definite consequences upon Mendev; our philosophies direct our teachings, and our teachings shape our approach to chirography. Thus the factions never give up vying for dominance, and with the ascension of each new Servant Magister a whole constellation of new appointments are made, ushering in new cadres of philosophically united power brokers.”
Elena handed her a bowl. “And what do you believe, my lady? Are you a supporter of Zhemilir or does your old mentor convince you?”
Anastasia considered Elena as she took her bowl, a faint vertical line appearing between her bowls.
You slipped there, Zarja, thought Hugh.
“Let us say that I am seeking to be persuaded by Bozhidar, but am not yet wholly convinced that his formulation is airtight. His four categories don’t adequately explain in my mind the properties of gases or consumptive agents like acid or fire, but perhaps most egregiously I don’t see any attempt in his writings to explain the spirit, and by extension the formulation of magic itself. At the very least he’d need a fifth category, but then again, I’m only four chapters in.” She smiled. “There’s yet hope for my old master.”
Hugh extended his empty bowl for a refill. “And what you come to believe will affect your chirography?”
“In time, yes, as I adopt these changes into my own formulations. Doing so would require extensive experimentation, of course, and in a sense, the success of those experiments would determine the veracity of the theories. Should Bozhidar’s quadratic harmonics result in a noticeable boost in my powers, then - well. That’s answer enough right there.”
“Please excuse me,” said Elena, handing Hugh back his bowl. “I hope I’m not out of place. But I’ve never seen chirography performed before. Is it… I mean -”
Anastasia smiled wryly. “You would like a demonstration.”
“Oh, I’d never presume! But if it’s not too much bother…”
The disciplus sat up. “A small demonstration won’t tax me. That and I’ve not performed anything in weeks. Here.” She took up a twig that had fallen out of the fire, and from a slender leather case at her hip drew her wand.
Hugh leaned forward to examine it more closely. Hers was a slender rod of dark wood, eight inches long, its tip thinning out to such a sharp point that he couldn’t tell exactly where it ended. Its surface was covered in countless minute engravings, with metallic wires wound about the base to provide a grip.
“Now, using Zhemilir’s classic theorem, I can choose to strengthen the Fate Giver’s ratio in this twig at the expense of the other two elements. I inscribe my formula like so -” And holding the twig close, she used the sharp tip of the wand to neatly write a series of symbols so small that Hugh could barely see them along the twig’s length.
“There. I complete it with my personal seal, and - here. Try to bend it.”
Elena took the twig with obvious nervousness, examining the tiny formula with fascination. She then tried to bend it - and failed. Upon which she laughed, delighted, and tried again, putting more strength into it.
“Wonderful! Here, Sir Hugh - surely you can break this twig in twain?”
Hugh took the twig from her and turned it about his hands. It felt normal, but strangely rigid. Grasping it in both hands, he tried to snap it - and failed. The slender twig was as hard as a rod of steel. Gritting his jaw, he exerted more pressure, and then more - until the twig snapped with a clear report.
Anastasia smiled. “Impressive, my lord. But if I’d desired, I could have made it so that no mundane force in Khansalon could have snapped that twig. By varying the formula, a disciplus can change any number of physical properties on anything upon which they can inscribe.”
Hugh considered the twig halves, then tossed them into the fire. They burned just as easily as any other. “You specialize in hardness, then?”
“I do.” She was clearly trying not to sound smug. “I specialize in hardness and velocity, and am slowly making headway in the field of opacity. It’s slow going, of course, so far from the academy. Hence my constant need to read. Without my books and the time to study them, I’ll never develop my powers further.”
“Velocity?” asked Elena. “You could make Bullnip faster?”
“Bullnip? Elena! No.” Anastasia laughed. “That would be awful. No, we never practice chirography on living beings. They’re far too chaotic to be uniformly affected. The poor horse would literally tear himself apart as he raced down the road.”
“What about the cart’s wheels?” asked Hugh.
“Better, but still tricky. The wheels themselves would spin faster, but in doing so would become unnaturally responsive to Bullnip’s pulling. Without careful calibration and time spent training Bullnip to handle the cart, it would constantly be slamming into him as it accelerated faster than he’d expect. It could be done, but it’s not so simple as that.”
Hugh handed his bowl back to Elena for a third refill. “Well - then tell me a useful enchantment you can effect with velocity.”
“Arrows can be made to fly faster, meaning they fly farther before falling to the ground and hit harder. Weapons can be gently enhanced to leap in one’s grasp. Shoes and boots, cart wheels as we discussed, plows and scythes - oh. Here’s a wonderful example of ingenuity. A disciplus by the name of Vsevolod enchanted the stairs of Owl Tower, which is over fifteen stories tall. After much experimentation and padding of the walls, he was able to make it so that people can climb the steps at four times their usual speed, reducing effort and increasing efficiency. That was just five years ago. Last I heard he’d been summoned to the imperial court to explore the possibility of so enchanting certain sections of the imperial highways.”
“Impressive,” said Hugh. “People could flit around town as fast as riding on a horse. You’d want designated lanes, I imagine, to stop people from crashing into each other at those speeds -”
Anastasia raised a spoon of stew. “You begin to grasp the complexities of his assignment. Still, I imagine he is content. What a wonderful challenge to dedicate one’s life to.”
“And you, disciplus?” Hugh handed the bowl back for a fourth refill. “What are you dedicating your life to?”
Anastasia’s smile grew brittle. “Serving your brother, of course. In time, perhaps, I shall make my own discoveries.”
Elena handed his bowl back and smiled warmly at her. “I’m sure you will. I’ve never met anyone as smart as you are, my lady.”
Anastasia gave a bitter smile. “Alas, that may say more about your upbringing than my intellect. But thank you, Elena. I appreciate the sentiment.”
Morwyn stalked over, having finally finished taking care of the horses, took up her bowl, and strode off to sit by herself within the copse.
“Why… I’m sorry,” began Elena. “Why is she so upset?”
Anastasia slowly shook her head. “I’ve not interacted with her enough to say. I’d wager it’s her being forced to come on this expedition.”
“Yeah,” said Hugh, finishing his bowl. “Let’s open up a bottle of wine? To convince her, I had to defeat her in combat. Completely. I think that’s gotten under her skin.”
“Now, in all seriousness,” said Anastasia as Elena rose to move to the cart. “My lord, you can’t expect me to not ask about your condition. Nobody has defeated Morwyn in combat that I know of. Nobody. It’s a point of great pride for the castle guard. Last year she fought and simultaneously defeated three champions in the informal tourney Duke Annaro held at Subrogation Day. Men of great skill and reputation. Yet you defeat her and only take a minor cut - which you heal, and -”
“Anastasia. You don’t need to list everything you find odd.” There was no avoiding this conversation. She’d keep badgering him until he gave her something to chew on. “I don’t like speaking of it. But you know that I was once a member of the Lost Reavers, and that they are no more. That t
his caused my - shall we say - fall from grace. Thavma magic was involved. Ever since I have had greater appetites and skill. Please. Leave it at that.”
“Thavma magic?” She grew even more animated. “I find that hard to credit - fae magic, yes, but the Thavma haven’t been seen in centuries.”
“I’m not going to debate you, disciplus,” said Hugh stonily, staring into the fire.
“All I’m saying is that authentic Thavma magic - magothélisi, as it’s called, would have worked far greater changes than merely increase your appetite and so on. Fae magic, wondrous as it may seem, is much more in line with what you’re describing. Did you consult a disciplus on the matter? Do you recall -”
“Anastasia,” said Hugh, voice raw and harsh. “Enough.”
She paled and immediately bowed low. “My apologies, my lord. I overstepped my bounds. I shant do it again.”
“Wine!” said Elena, sitting down with a smile. “My lord, will you pull the cork?”
“With pleasure,” Hugh said grimly. “But we need another bottle.”
“Another - you’ve not even opened - yes. Of course. Which is why…” Her smile brightened as she pulled her hand out from behind her back, “I made sure to bring two to begin with!”
The cork came free with a pop. “You learn quickly, Elena,” said Hugh, raising the neck to his lips.
“That I do, my lord,” said the lisica. “That I do.”
The meal ended shortly thereafter. Hugh finished three bottles of wine in a methodical fashion, draining them with practiced pulls, and then crawled into the tent. Despite the long walk with the log on his shoulders, he felt himself uneasy; Anastasia’s words had stirred up old memories, and he could feel them surging and seeking to break through his iron control, hammering at the locked doors in the recesses of his mind.
The sounds of the camp were subtle; the shiftings and scuffling sounds as Anastasia and eventually Morwyn entered their own tents; the clacking of bowls, the hiss of the fire as Elena doused it with water, the other, less obvious sounds as she finished tidying up the camp. Then the flap to his tent parted, and the scent of vanilla and caramel filled the air.