Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Finally, Chymmerlee prepared to leave. Still, Saviar waited, though he no longer understood why. It seemed so much easier to abandon his quest. Chymmerlee had already made her position clear, and it seemed dangerous and futile to continue. Still, his heart and mind urged him forward. He needed her to look him in the eyes and tell him she no longer wanted him in her life. If they could not rekindle the romance, at least, he hoped, he could revive the friendship. For the sake of every human and elf on the continent, he needed to talk to the Mages of Myrcidë, had to get them to at least agree to consider assisting in any further wars against the alsona and their masters.

  Chymmerlee shoved into the woodlands once more. This time, Saviar set a collision course. When the young mage pushed through a clump of underbrush, she found Saviar standing in her way.

  Chymmerlee hissed. She sprang backward, light flaring to life in her hands.

  “No.” Saviar grappled with her, catching both wrists in one hand. “Please. For once, just listen.”

  Chymmerlee screamed, kicking and twisting. Clutching tightly to her wrists, Saviar protected his privates this time. He spun around her, dragging one arm with him and pinned the back of her struggling body against him. He closed his arms around her, viselike.

  “Chymmerlee, cut it out! I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

  “Let me go, you demon, you Renshai!” Chymmerlee continued to fight wildly, long after it became obvious she could not break Saviar’s hold. “Let . . . me . . . go!” Scream after scream wrenched from her throat.

  Other than holding her securely, Saviar did not try to stop Chymmerlee. The knights could no longer hear her, and they were a long way from any open road or town. Quietly, he held her until her shouting ceased and she finally stopped squirming.

  “Can we talk now?” Saviar asked, his voice gentle and soft as a breeze.

  Chymmerlee let out a hoarse, angry noise and stomped a foot. “Let me go.” Her voice sounded strained, husky.

  Saviar took no pleasure from the warmth of her body against him. “I’d like to let you go, but you’ll throw magic at me. Or kick me in the groin. Or run.”

  Chymmerlee could scarcely deny it. She had done all of those things.

  “I just want to talk. Please, can we talk?”

  Chymmerlee stiffened suddenly, raising her head.

  Cued, Saviar glanced around the woodlands, seeing nothing but the trees and weeds, the striped shadows shifting with the wind. He tipped his head, trying to listen.

  Chymmerlee talked over any sounds. “If I agree to hear you out, will you go away and leave me alone?”

  Saviar hesitated. Once he released her, he might not manage to recapture her. “If you promise to stay right here, look at me while I’m talking, and hear all of what I have to say, I’ll release you.”

  It was the best deal Chymmerlee would get, and she surely knew it. “All right. Let me go.”

  Reluctantly, Saviar released her, then tensed to give chase.

  True to her word, Chymmerlee merely turned to face him. Her cheeks were reddened with exertion and anger, and her pale eyes narrowed in irritation.

  Saviar tried to appear as earnest as he felt. Though anxiety always drove him to clutch a weapon, he kept his hands away from his hilts. Holding them would only remind her of his heritage. He opened his mouth to start his prepared speech, but three unexpected words slipped out instead. “I love you.” It was the first time he had said it, aloud or to himself. “And I know you loved me, too, not long ago. I could read it in your eyes, your kiss . . .”

  Saviar expected Chymmerlee to say something, anything, but she only stared at him, hands clenched to her hips.

  “I’m the same Saviar, and you’re the same Chymmerlee. What has changed to make you feel so bitter toward me?”

  Chymmerlee had promised only to hear him, not to reply. Nevertheless, she gave him that much. “You’re Renshai.” She fairly spat the word.

  “That hasn’t changed.” Saviar allowed a slight smile, careful not to let it become smirky or teasing. “I’ve always been Renshai. I was Renshai when you took me to your people, Renshai when I lay in a helpless coma, and Renshai when we held hands and ran together through the grass. I was Renshai when we threw mud balls at one another in the stream, Renshai when we kissed, and still Renshai when you held off the giant and saved so many lives in the war. You’re a hero, Chymmerlee; and heroes don’t judge people in stereotypes. I am the selfsame Saviar you loved.”

  Chymmerlee’s stance did not soften. Her lips remained pursed in a tight frown.

  He waited, every moment torture. Subikahn had told him that Chymmerlee had raved about Saviar’s beauty from the moment she saw him, fevered and comatose. She had been attracted to him long before she knew anything about him but his appearance. Now, he hoped, that might work to his advantage.

  Chymmerlee finally spoke. “Stereotypes are based on truths, and the stories of Renshai ferocity are not embellished. True, you have not harmed me. Yet. But your people murdered my people, not for any cause but for the thrill of battle. That savagery is in you.”

  Saviar could not deny it. “Channeled only against enemies, Chymmerlee. Centuries have passed since that massacre. The Renshai have changed. They’ve grown.”

  “No.” Chymmerlee’s reply fell like a stone. “When we believed your aura meant you carried mage blood, you and I together worked. But now that we know it comes of demon seed—”

  “No!” Saviar had to clear up that myth. “Renshai are not demons. We’re human.”

  Chymmerlee fell silent. “Then why do you have an aura? How can you see ours?”

  Saviar knew the answer but did not want to tell. His mind went back to the day of his mother’s death. When he had first taken Motfrabelonning in hand, he had seen a Valkyrie come to take Kevral to Valhalla, had heard his mother’s soul tell him to keep the sword. She had given her other one to Calistin and had only advice left for Subikahn.

  Until the moment Saviar had touched the sword, he had seen neither the Valkyrie nor his mother’s soul. Calistin, however, had experienced the same impossible things without a magical device. If any of them carried intrinsic magic, it was Calistin, the brother with whom Saviar had always believed he shared a full bloodline. Although, Saviar realized, even other Renshai might suppose Calistin was a demon.

  The hesitation proved Saviar’s undoing.

  “Good-bye, Saviar.” Chymmerlee turned on her heel. “I trust you have kept, and will continue to keep, your promise not to reveal us.”

  “Wait!” Saviar had not yet finished.

  Chymmerlee continued walking.

  “Wait!” Saviar shouted again. “I haven’t told anyone. I’ve never broken my word, and I never will.”

  Chymmerlee whirled back. “What about your brother?”

  Saviar’s most recent brotherly thoughts had centered on Calistin. He froze, wondering how she knew, whether she might have the ability to read his unspoken mind. Only then, he realized she meant Subikahn. Saviar would not lie. “Subikahn is not as . . .” he struggled for words that would make his point without insulting his sibling. “. . . rigid as me about such things. But he’s bound to keep quiet on my honor, and he would not undo me.”

  “Good.” Chymmerlee started off again.

  “Wait!” Saviar wished he did not have to keep shouting that. “I’m not done.” He needed Chymmerlee to understand. “And you promised to hear all of what I had to say.”

  This time, Chymmerlee did not stop. “I’ve heard enough.”

  “Wait!” Saviar shouted. “Wait!” When that did not work, he chased after Chymmerlee. “You have to wait!”

  She didn’t, and she made that clear by ignoring his command.

  Saviar broke into a run, swiftly gaining on Chymmerlee. His hand dropped instinctively to his hilt. Light flared around him, at least a dozen
auras and a brilliant hedge of fully formed magic that must have served to muffle the mages’ movements and hide their presence even from a wary Renshai. Abruptly alert to threat, Saviar drew his sword.

  Pain slammed through Saviar, and his muscles twitched. Song filled his ears in a soft, gently pitched female voice. The ground under his feet became impossibly slippery.

  Saviar clenched his sword, whirling on the mages. The spasms in his muscles intensified until it felt like every part of him rocked and clamped in rhythmical sequence. He pitched to the ground, slopping mud across his face and cloak. He rolled, trying to free himself from the magic, but it only clutched him harder. His muscles tightened and released, throwing him into seizure. He could feel his temperature rising, his cheeks violently hot, sweat pouring from him. It took all his concentration just to hang onto his sword. The voices around him became lost beneath that infernal singing. The pain in his muscles became an agony that scattered his thoughts. Helpless and vulnerable, detached from his logical mind by torture, he lashed out at anything that approached him. His sword thrust wildly, his other hand swept in manic circles, and he would have bitten anyone who came within reach of his gnashing teeth.

  The uncontrollable thrashing became even worse, bending Saviar double, then throwing him backward until his feet and buttocks touched his head, then swinging him frantically back. Pain racked his entire body, from his spine to individual fingers and toes. Nothing worked as it should, and the mud filled his mouth, eyes, and nostrils. Incapable of coherent thought, far beyond speech, he surrendered to darkness.

  Saviar awoke on a tightly knit blanket that barely cushioned a smooth, rock floor. Cold seeped from the ground to encompass him. His whole body ached dully, including his head. His hand went naturally to his belt, where he found his swords missing. An icy shock speared through him. He wanted to leap to his feet, to run in crazy circles, to hammer and kick at anything that might stand in his way. Instead, he remained as he was, aware any sudden movement would only intensify the agony throbbing through him.

  Recognizing panic, Saviar battered it down. Cautiously, he sat up, muscles screaming even from that slow, deliberate movement. He was alone in a room with no obvious door. Two windows on adjacent walls afforded him different views of Western mountains and untamed forest. He knew from his previous time with the Mages of Myrcidë that, while he could see through them, the windows did not appear to exist from the outside. He would find no escape through them, only images of the real world brought to him in some odd, magical fashion.

  Saviar wondered how the mages had gotten him into the room. His parents had insisted magic followed logical patterns, a fact they had learned by traveling with a pair of elves. It had limits and required proper constructs. Even Chymmerlee had once explained that magic did not allow the manufacture of real objects. For example, the mages could not summon food from air. Therefore, they could not have just plopped him down and created this room around him.

  Or could they? Saviar had no idea how long he had lain unconscious. Perhaps they had had time to build it, stone by stone, without an exit. It seemed unnecessary and foolish. If they wished to kill him, they could have done so when they took his swords.

  Saviar found his hands at his belt again, and his cheeks flushed with humiliation. He would have felt less violated had they stripped him naked but left a sword, any sword. Delicately, he rose to his feet, clinging to the wall to ease the riot of pain elicited by something as simple as movement. Many elders guarded their motions as carefully as he did now, and they clutched at backs or limbs with clear discomfort on their faces. Idly, he wondered if they suffered daily what he felt now. If they did, he never wanted to grow old. Valhalla could claim him any day. But to get to Valhalla, Saviar had to die in glorious battle. Locked in a box, swordless, he had no chance of doing so.

  They’re watching me. The thought intruded into Saviar’s head and refused to be banished. I’m probably on the wrong side of several “windows.” If he had designed the structure, he would have put them on the other two walls. It explained why the mages needed no bars, no jailors. Saviar had no idea if and when others stood over him or who observed what he did. He wondered how long he could hold his bowels and bladder. Those bodily functions he wished to do entirely in private.

  Once Saviar thought of them, the urge to go began growing on him. He immediately explored the room, before his impulse became need. He first discovered a dish and a decapitated gourd. The first held a cold mash that smelled of starch, probably some sort of roots for him to eat. Water filled the gourd, and it appeared fresh. At least, he saw nothing floating in it. He supposed those might do for toileting once he finished the contents, but he had no idea how, or even if, they intended to replace his sustenance or remove his waste.

  The floor contained one other object, an oval opening that seemed barely wide enough to admit his wrist. He might cup his fingers to squeeze in his hand, but he doubted the muscles on his forearm would fit, at least not until he lost a lot of weight. Clambering back to hands and knees, he peered into the opening, seeing only darkness. No smell wafted up from it, not even the distinctive musk of a rat or wisule. No rodent had made this hole. It would take steel tools or, possibly, magic to create an opening through solid stone, particularly one so smooth-sided.

  Though worried for his fingers, Saviar clenched his hand tightly enough to wedge it down the hole. As he suspected, he got hung up on the muscles of his forearm, but he did manage to grope a bit deeper into the opening. As far as he could reach, the sides remained solid stone, and he could not feel a bottom. He pushed harder, trying to gain as much distance as possible, until the sides of the opening abraded his skin and he had to stop before finding a bottom.

  The answer came to Saviar in a rush. He had just stuffed his arm into his toilet. A faint smile slipped onto his lips, and he jerked back, only to find his arm securely wedged. The shock the sudden movement sent through his body set nearly every muscle screaming. Saviar went still, waiting for the agony to settle back into its normal, dull ache. Once it did, he twisted his arm gently. The rock cut into flesh, but it gave slightly. He continued to move it this way and that until he finally freed his arm.

  That was stupid. Saviar wondered if the mages were watching him, laughing, but doubted it. In the months he and Subikahn had spent with them, they seemed an unusually serious and somber people, not given to mirth. Still mindful of his overtaxed muscles, he rose to check the only remaining part of his prison, the walls. He found them apparently solid, with no hint of hatches or openings. Again, he wondered how they had gotten him inside and how they intended to continue feeding him . . . if they intended to continue feeding him.

  Saviar considered the possibility that the gourd and the dish contained a self-filling magic. Perhaps no matter how much he ate or drank, they remained full. Then, he remembered something else Chymmerlee had told him: “Magic is a single event, a spectacle grand or small that lives only for a brief period of time. Permanent magic, imbued into an object, does exist; but it’s countably rare and always ancient.”

  Saviar sank to the floor and picked up the gourd. For an instant, he wondered if it held poison instead of water. Ultimately, it did not matter. At some point, he had to drink or die. Tipping it back, he drank the contents: definitely water at a comfortably cool temperature. He continued to hold the gourd long after he emptied it, watching to see if anything changed. It did not refill itself. Only the remaining droplets clinging to the sides sank back into the bottom. Saviar put the gourd aside.

  The deeper recesses of his mind brought more information from his studies. Renshai did not place much emphasis on schooling, but they did insist all of their children learn to read and write certain languages, know the history of the Renshai, and understand the underlying physical principles of swordcraft. Subikahn’s father had also insisted that his son read as much as time allowed. Always one fact behind Subikahn, Saviar had developed a competitive
interest in learning as well. On his occasional trips to Béarn Castle, Saviar had taken it upon himself to visit the library. After Subikahn’s suggestion that “an invisible city seemed like the kind of incredibly difficult feat that would require the efforts of several magical beings working together as well as a receptive place,” Saviar had taken another brief visit. Then, information about the defunct system of the Cardinal Wizards had seized his attention.

  Saviar knew only a handful of items imbued with magic existed, the Pica Stone that tested the worth of Béarn’s heirs to serve as its next ruler was most frequently cited. The Sword of Mitrian was a Renshai curiosity also rumored to have once contained magic in the gemstone eyes of its wolf-shaped pommel. It now sat, blind, in a place of honor, its eye sockets empty.

  Saviar recalled from his reading that each of the Cardinal Wizards had lived in a magical dwelling that kept him safe from the others, for the four Cardinal Wizards, named for directions on the compass, had championed wholly opposite forces: law and chaos, good and evil. The world’s balance now lay in the hands of Béarn’s rulers, thus the Pica Test to assure whoever took the throne could rightly serve as fulcrum.

  As Saviar thought, he idly reached for the bowl of mashed roots. It did not contain a spoon or other implement, and the memory of stuffing his hand down the toilet hole made him loath to use his fingers. So, he brought the bowl to his face and used his mouth and tongue like an animal. It had little taste, especially cold, but it would have to serve as fuel for a body that currently seemed to hate him. Renshai were supposed to practice hard enough every day to leave their muscles sore, but the agony caused by the full and repeated contraction of every sinew in his body went beyond anything he could inflict upon himself.

  Saviar had the bowl licked clean sooner than he expected. The contents had had the consistency of paste and far less flavor; yet, when he finished, he missed it and wanted more. He put the bowl aside and looked at the gourd again. It was still empty. He sighed. Eating, drinking, toileting. The Mages of Myrcidë had addressed all of his basic needs but nothing more. He wondered how long they intended to keep him in this empty room with no company and nothing to do but simulated sword practices without a weapon.