Fields of Wrath

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Weile nodded his assent without, apparently, bothering to consider the ramifications of becoming separated from all of the mages. Either he did not consider the fact that the recovered prisoners would talk and that the mages could now contain Saviar and Weile, or those things did not worry him. He barely bothered to watch Netheron walk through one of the back doors, with Janecos and Paultan in tow, and close it behind him.

  Saviar opened his mouth to remind Weile of the disappearing doors and the mages’ ability to cast spells through invisible portals; but Weile shook his head ever so slightly, a clear instruction for silence. Saviar closed his mouth. Apparently, the elder believed the mages would spy, and he intended to give them absolutely nothing. He did not even bother to survey the room for possible danger. He simply sat, high in his seat, waiting patiently.

  Saviar pursed his lips and sat quietly as well, though every nerve and muscle felt tensed to bursting. He preferred motion to stillness, violence to ignorance.

  A moment later, all three of the doors shimmered slightly, but they remained in place, much to Saviar’s surprise. It appeared he and Weile could leave at any time, and the mages would make no move to stop them. The strategy made no sense to him, and he pondered it during what seemed like an interminable delay.

  Saviar found himself studying Weile, the only truly interesting object in the room and the one that ceaselessly drew his eye. More regal than any king, the Easterner seemed as comfortable in his chair as he had in the catacombs. As in all parts of the mages’ compound, the lighting in the room was a constant magical glow, yet it still seemed to gather around Weile, as if drawn to him. When Saviar looked away, he found all parts of the room equally visible, as if the effect only occurred with direct observation, apparently an illusion.

  Saviar knew more than his share of charismatic people. To a man, the Knights of Erythane kept themselves meticulous in every way, used a posture that made them seem bigger than life, and followed an honor so intense and vast it fascinated. Weile, on the other hand, radiated an allure that seemed entirely effortless. He had the same silky, black hair as most Easterners, carelessly tousled and liberally flecked with white. He wore standard travel clothing, nothing special or fancy, dusty and stained, a far cry from the impeccable uniforms of the knights. His dark eyes were unfathomable, reflecting a deep intelligence and nothing more. His spry movements seemed more suitable to a man half his age, yet he had seemingly infinite patience that others twice his age never learned.

  From experience, Saviar knew the man preferred silence, but never from lack of understanding or eloquence. Weile could say more with a well-placed word than most could with a paragraph, but Saviar had also heard him speak long passages with an articulateness that rivaled the king’s best advisers. He seemed to know everything and everyone, inside and out. Saviar wondered what sort of upbringing he must have had and also gained a new appreciation for Tae Kahn. It must have been arduous to be such a man’s only son.

  Tired of speculating about his companion, Saviar turned his thoughts to the Mages of Myrcidë. If anyone could barter his freedom from them, Weile could. Saviar had no doubt the two of them would leave together, with little effort expended on the part of Weile Kahn. The previous night, Weile had plied Saviar for information and got plenty of it, but Saviar’s own questions had gone mostly unanswered. He had given Weile puzzles to ponder: how to convince the mages to assist with the war, how to make them tolerate—if not appreciate—Renshai, how to handle the tricky question of Chymmerlee’s pregnancy, real or imagined. The Easterner had offered nothing useful, and Saviar wondered why he had not demanded more in exchange for the information he had given.

  It seemed like hours before the mages appeared, gliding through the doors in the same manner they had used to enter the walls during Saviar’s captivity. This appeared stranger, however, because it seemed easy enough to open the doors without bothering to waste magic. Saviar named them silently as they entered: Hevnard, a quiet beefy man with a balding head who had seemed intelligent and reasonable to Saviar during his first stay. A frail and wrinkled woman who appeared closest to Jeremilan’s age, Arinosta entered on the arm of Roby, another elder who leaned on a staff when he walked. Saviar had observed the man moving easily enough without it, on occasion, suggesting it was more affectation than necessity. Each of the mages spoke his or her name before taking a seat on a bench in front of Weile Kahn.

  Hevnard nodded politely as he sat; Arinosta fussed over the arrangement of the pillows. Roby fixed his gaze on Weile Kahn so intently he seemed not to notice he had leaned his staff against Arinosta’s leg rather than the bench. Weile glanced at them each in turn, his features expressionless, his demeanor oddly casual, as if he had nothing to fear from three mages in their own home. If he noticed the oddity of their entrance, and he surely must have, he gave no sign.

  As those three settled into place, another trio of mages entered without opening the door. Blenford had hair as orange as a well-washed root, worn halfway down his back, and a matching spray of freckles. Saviar knew his clownish appearance hid a quick wit. He looked younger than nearly all of the other mages, mid-thirties perhaps, and as ivory-skinned as any Northman. It occurred to Saviar that most of the Myrcidians suffered from the unhealthy pallor of men and women who rarely ventured outside.

  Recently returned from captivity, Paultan followed Blenford, gaze dodging Weile while the others chose to study him. Beside the small, blond man walked Chestinar. Saviar had never conversed with the last man but knew him on sight by his skeletal figure and sickly countenance. He had brittle, colorless hair so thin it revealed patches of greasy scalp. His eyes were a watery beige, his cheekbones jutted from a gaunt face, and his lips were cracked and scabby. He sniffled almost constantly, and the heel of his hand rose frequently to brush the tip of his nose. Saviar suspected the man had left the womb with a nasal discharge, had probably never known a healthy day in his life.

  These three settled into places on either side of the first group, Chestinar and Paultan on a couch to their right hand and Blenford on a well-pillowed chair to the left. The best seat remained open, a comfortable-looking chair at the front and center of their group. As they settled into position, Jeremilan floated through the doors using the same magical method as the others. Stiffness affected his walk, and age thinned and colored his skin in blotches. Nevertheless, he managed to convey a stately bearing nearly as impressive as Weile’s own, if not quite as effortless. Silence reigned as Jeremilan took his seat, broken only by a haphazard cough from Chestinar.

  Saviar chewed his lower lip. He had no intention of saying anything; he had spoken his piece multiple times and had nothing more to add. Jeremilan might well have been a stone for all Saviar’s prior words had moved him. He wondered what possible arguments Weile Kahn had that he did not and if they would leave this room alive. Suddenly, he appreciated Weile’s decision to hold Chymmerlee back. She might be the only reason the mages had not already blasted them to pieces.

  Abruptly, Saviar realized Jeremilan’s attention was riveted not on Weile, but on him. He froze, lip caught between his teeth, mid-squirm, and followed the direction of the elder’s stare to the sword at his hip. It was the only obvious weapon in the room. Surely Weile carried something sharp as well, but he kept it hidden.

  Jeremilan’s snarl broke the hush. “I knew you would betray us.”

  Weile responded before Saviar could. “He didn’t betray you.” Jeremilan’s gaze flicked to the Easterner as he continued, “You betrayed him.”

  Jeremilan stiffened, and his eyes blazed. “How dare you!”

  “Speak the truth?” Weile added, as if finishing Jeremilan’s thought. “You promised those boys they could come and go freely, yet you locked this one up like an animal.”

  Jeremilan glared at Weile, as if he had forgotten Saviar and his newly acquired sword. “That was on the condition that they released my great-granddaughter.”

&nb
sp; “Which they did.”

  “Which they didn’t!” Jeremilan countered forcefully. His features darkened noticeably, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. “They kept her, forced her to help in a . . . a war.” The last word fell from his tongue like lead, viler than any blasphemy. “Then the demons raped her.”

  Something flickered through Weile’s eyes, then disappeared. For an instant, Saviar thought Subikahn’s grandfather would leap to his feet and wave his arms, would become as verbally violent as his opponent. But, as usual, Weile did none of those things. He remained as calm as ever, the only sign he took offense at Jeremilan’s accusations the quirking of a dark eyebrow. “None of that is true, Jeremilan. And everyone in this room knows it.”

  Jeremilan snorted. “Because of a truth detection spell?” He snorted again. “Anyone with an inkling of magic knows it doesn’t work the same on . . . demons.”

  Saviar glanced around the room, at each mage in turn. Chestinar bobbed his head in agreement, but the others remained in place, utterly still, as if some artist had quietly replaced them with perfectly replicated statues.

  Weile tipped his head. “Saviar is as human as . . . me.”

  Saviar had expected him to use the common phrase “you or me,” and the missing pronoun was conspicuously absent. Apparently, the mages had anticipated the same because a murmur swept through them. Even Jeremilan contemplated the lapse, then responded to it. “Are you saying he’s only as human as yourself, not us? Are you also Renshai?”

  Weile laughed, the sound strangely joyful in an otherwise tense situation. “I’m Eastern to the core: born, bred, and raised. No blood is more common than mine, and I’m no more Renshai than you are.”

  Jeremilan settled back into his chair, apparently willing to play the game, at least for the moment. “Then why did you not claim Saviar as human as everyone in the room rather than only as human as yourself?”

  Weile kept his gaze on the ancient, though he gave no other sign of his thoughts. “Because I’m not convinced you’re human.”

  “Ah.” Jeremilan sat back, tenting his fingers. “Prejudice, I understand. Because we use magic, we’re something other than human, something Outworld. Elves or giants or demons, perhaps. Something . . . not you.”

  Weile leaned toward Jeremilan. “What I question is not your powers; I consider elves people. It’s your humanity.”

  That led to total silence. No one seemed to know how to answer that claim or even whether or not it needed answering. When Jeremilan finally did respond, it was with something totally inadequate. “What?”

  Weile dutifully repeated. “I question your humanity, your ability to empathize, your understanding of what it means to care about those who are not yourself, to see value in other intelligent beings.”

  Jeremilan leaped to his feet. “What nonsense is this! We’re the most peaceful people in the world, the ones most dedicated to the prevention of suffering and the only ones who have never deliberately harmed another.”

  Weile laughed again, this time with a contagious mirth that left Saviar grinning for reasons he could not wholly explain.

  The mocking only further angered Jeremilan, whose features turned nearly scarlet with fury. “How dare you laugh at me? There’s nothing funny about what I said.”

  Weile stopped immediately, as if moved by Jeremilan’s words. “I’m sorry,” he said, though without a hint of apology in his tone. “Weren’t you joking?” He glanced about as if everyone in the room surely understood and sided with him, although none of the mages had joined the laughter. He swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, as if the immensity of the jest had brought him nearly to tears. “I’m always amazed at how those who commit the most monstrous crimes can unabashedly label themselves pure. How the most vicious of the intolerant dare to call themselves victims of the selfsame prejudice.”

  As if his jaw had suddenly grown too heavy to close, Jeremilan let his mouth fall open. “What are you suggesting?” The words sounded strangled. His fingers twitched, as if they intended to cast magic of their own accord.

  “Sit down,” Weile commanded. He added softly, “I know what you did.”

  To Saviar’s surprise, Jeremilan obeyed. For an instant, the Renshai considered magic, until he remembered which one of them was the mage.

  A sharp intake of breath came from the direction of the Myrcidians, but Saviar did not try to discern which one had made the sound. He was too fascinated by the events unfolding in front of him. He had no idea to what Weile referred, but Jeremilan surely did.

  Weile had everyone’s full attention now. He spoke barely above a whisper, and as every person in the room clung to his words, the quiet around them grew as deep as death. Arinosta leaned forward, tipping her ear in his direction, clearly not fully trusting her aging hearing. “You justify your seclusion with the claim that humans would harm you if we knew of your existence. You simply assume we’re evil.”

  “No.” Jeremilan would not accept the statement. “We don’t assume all humans are evil. There will come a time when we live among them again, when we’re strong enough to defend ourselves, when our numbers have swelled to a tolerable level. Until then, we must protect ourselves from the few who might wish to destroy us for no better reason than our differentness, our power.”

  For the moment, Weile conceded the point to present another. “You call all Renshai demons. You believe in a blood libel long dispelled as myth. Even when your own magic proves you wrong, you find reason to dismiss the results in favor of your prejudice.”

  “It’s not prejudice to hate avowed enemies!” Jeremilan found his temper again. “The Renshai nearly destroyed us entirely. No other group of humans is expected to embrace a mortal foe, one that nearly caused their extinction for no better reason than sport.”

  Weile hesitated just long enough that Saviar worried he had lost the upper hand. “It does not give you the right to spout falsehoods as facts nor to hide behind a war that ended centuries ago. The gods, in their infinite wisdom, gave mankind a finite lifespan for a reason. Hatreds have a limited time to fester. Old enemies pass away, and their offsprings’ offspring become friends, even lovers, with or without apologies. Hundreds of years ago, the Renshai and Myrcidians battled for reasons we can never truly know. We can only surmise based on historical references and old tales laced with, and colored by, our own biases and those of our ancestors. Since the demise of the Cardinal Wizards, evil and good, law and chaos are no longer such clear and absolute things. So long as you hold tight to the fallacy that all Renshai are demons, you can believe yourselves wholly pure, utterly right, and condemn those you dislike as monsters in human guise.” He looked into the eyes of the leader of Myrcidë. “Isn’t that the very definition of bigotry?”

  Jeremilan blinked, very slowly, very deliberately. “Are you actually trying to say there’s ambiguity in the Renshai destruction of Myrcidë? That anyone could look at what happened there and find fault and righteousness on both sides?”

  “I’m saying that’s true of any conflict. No one rushes into war, or even an argument, believing he holds the moral low ground. The enemy is always to blame. Only a traitor would stand against his own people, at which point, his people cease to be his own.”

  Jeremilan’s brow crinkled. Weile’s point clearly was not as obvious to him as it was to Saviar. “But one only need look at the outcome to see who was right and who was wrong.”

  Weile’s expression remained mild. “So, the loser of any conflict is, by definition, right?”

  “Well . . .”

  Weile continued, “So, if my men assaulted your compound, and you repelled us, we would be good and you evil merely by virtue of our loss?”

  Jeremilan rolled his eyes, waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. The instigators of the war are always the ones who are evil. Good people never start wars.”

  “Never?” Weile knea
ded the arms of his chair, still focused on Jeremilan.

  Saviar fought down a smile; the master was back in control.

  “Two adjoining cities exist. One is stricken by a flood, losing all its crops, while the other is spared. The flooded city asks for assistance from its neighbor, but is rebuffed, leaving them with the choice of whether to let its citizenry starve or force the spared city to share its bounty by force. If they choose to attack, which side is good and which is evil?”

  Jeremilan had no answer. “That’s an artificial situation.”

  “Hypothetical situation,” Weile corrected. “But one that has occurred often throughout history, with varying responses, solutions, and outcomes. Surely, one could argue the spared city is the evil one for not being willing to share. Others might point out that, if the spared city did share, its own citizens would suffer for a tragedy that does not belong to them.” He tipped his head, his expression inviting. “Indulge me for a moment, if you would, please. What’s your solution to the problem?”

  Jeremilan’s eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. Apparently, he suspected a trap. “There’s always a way to stretch scarce resources. Everyone might endure hunger, but no one would have to die.”

  “Stretch resources.” Weile mulled the words far longer than they required. The suggested solution seemed straightforward, even simplistic, to Saviar. It might not take into account the fundamental nature of human beings or alliances between different villages, but it was an obvious theoretical resolution to the presented scenario. He added contemplatively, “Like with magic?”

  Jeremilan shrugged. “If necessary.”

  If Weile was about to pounce, he gave no sign. He still seemed intrigued by Jeremilan’s counsel. “So, you would agree that, if someone had the magical means to assist in a dire situation, he should do so? I mean, if his not assisting could result in unnecessary deaths?”