Several of the mages behind Jeremilan held their breath. The silence deepened, tangible. The eldest face in the room screwed into a fabulous display of wrinkles. “Nice try. It’s one thing for us to help increase the food supply so people don’t starve. It’s another to put our own lives in danger by taking part in a war that doesn’t involve us.”
Weile nodded, as if in understanding. “So . . . death by starvation . . . is bad and worth rescue. Death by war . . . good?”
“No.” Jeremilan shook his head, as if trying to explain something obvious to an imbecile. “It’s just that saving someone from starvation causes us no harm. Saving him from war puts our lives at risk as well.”
Saviar wanted to break in but decided against it. Weile was doing fine on his own.
Weile tipped his head still farther, as if even more confused. “But I thought you’d been promised that anyone you sent would remain a safe distance from the front. You’d be protected.”
Jeremilan sighed heavily. For the first time, Saviar got the idea he wanted to help but felt incapable. Previously, it had seemed more as if the mages had no interest in assisting, only in remaining hidden. “We’re safest here, a great distance from any violence. We can’t afford to risk a single Myrcidian life. There are too few of us to lose even one.”
Weile bobbed his head, as if finally understanding. “Your lives are more valuable than ours.”
Jeremilan’s expression combined apology with a hint of pride. “I’m afraid so. There’s extensive value to the rare ability to use magic, and it’s not something easily found, created, or even bred.”
“Clearly.” Weile’s tone held a hint of something withheld.
Jeremilan turned him a look Saviar could not quite read. The emotions seemed mixed, jumbled, but he thought he saw at least a trace of annoyance and, maybe, fear.
If Weile noticed Jeremilan’s additional discomfort, he did not show it. He remained as unreadable and implacable as ever. “I’ve spent some time among royalty, so I’m familiar with the concept of differential value among human lives.”
It was gross understatement. Saviar knew Weile had served as king of the entire Eastlands for many years before passing the job to his son.
Weile continued, “I can’t deny agreeing with the underlying concept, though, admittedly, my notion of ranking and priority would be unorthodox. I judge the value of a human life by competence, intelligence, and strength of character rather than bloodline. A wise man is useless if he uses his wisdom in ways that benefit only himself. Competence of any kind is valuable only when it’s channeled for intelligent and useful purposes. Benevolence is misused by a fool.”
Weile turned his gaze to the Myrcidians behind Jeremilan, as if worried his words would be wasted on their irrational leader. “Having the propensity for magic might make a man special, but it doesn’t make his life valuable unless he uses it in a shrewd and compassionate fashion. The best swordsman in the world is worthless if he’s also a coward.”
Saviar did not like that word. It was a terrible insult in his culture, worse than any swear word. He knew others did not consider it so severe, yet he could not shake the feeling that Weile had insulted the Myrcidians deeply and subtly, in a way that might leave them wondering why they felt so offended.
Jeremilan tipped his head, studying Weile through half-slitted eyes. Clearly, he did not know how to respond. “What are you trying to say? That our magic is useless because we’re too afraid to use it to defend a bunch of savage strangers who would as soon kill us as look at us?”
Weile did not miss a beat. “I’m looking at you, and I haven’t killed anyone. You can’t deny I’ve had the opportunity. I won’t go into who’s savage and who’s civilized except to say that we’re the ones cultivating vegetables and fruit, creating works of art and architecture, tending livestock, educating our children, traveling, and dwelling in diverse communities interconnected with a common language. You’re the ones huddled in a hidden cave, sharing nothing, consorting only with yourselves and clinging to ignorance under the guise of our presumed savagery or demonic possession.”
Jeremilan rose, pulling himself to his full height which, even had Weile been standing, would have towered over the Easterner. His obvious age took any real menace from his posture. “Are you finished insulting us?”
“Insulting?” Weile’s brow crushed down further, as if he made no sense whatsoever of Jeremilan’s distress. “I meant no offense.”
“Didn’t you?” Sarcasm coarsened Jeremilan’s tone. “You’ve essentially called us worthless and selfish because we won’t share our power, cowards for avoiding war, and barbarians for the way we choose to live.”
“Did I?” Weile glanced at Saviar, pretending to read whether or not the Renshai was also confused by Jeremilan’s claim. He rolled his gaze to the ceiling as if in deep consideration, then beamed like he had come to a great epiphany. “And here I thought the name-calling had come from your side.” He tapped the words off on his fingers. “Savages, demons, inferior beings.” He considered further. “Thousands of our lives not worth risking even one of yours.” He nodded sagely. “I wonder if this is how wars start? Each side sees the other as less than human, thereby justifying inhumane treatment, even extermination.” He continued to speak as if having just discovered a concept never before considered. “Yes, I’ll bet that’s it.” He shrugged to suggest what followed was a foregone conclusion. “Come, Saviar. Apparently, we have another war to fight.”
Saviar shook his head slightly. His vows, whether reinforced with magic or not, kept him from leaving. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve promised to stay. A man is no better than his word.”
“Ah.” Weile scratched his chin. “Well, then. I guess this session is finished.” He stood up; and, though a head shorter, he seemed to tower over the leader of the mages.
“Wait.” Jeremilan stepped between Weile and the exit. “You can’t leave.”
Weile gave no indication he took the words as a threat. Saviar’s heart rate quickened enough for both of them, and it was all he could do to keep his fingers off his hilt. “Can’t I?” the Easterner asked. “What’s stopping me?”
“Do you see any exits?” Jeremilan made a gesture with both arms to indicate the entire room.
The approach surprised even Saviar, who had no trouble visualizing the doors and even a single window behind Chestinar that he had not noticed earlier.
“Three,” Weile said calmly. “Four if you count the window, though it seems a bit of a squeeze.”
A loud murmur swept the mages, cut off by an abrupt gesture from Jeremilan. “You can see the doors?”
Weile’s gaze traveled from one to the next to the next, then back to Jeremilan. “Can’t you?”
“Well of course I can,” Jeremilan said impatiently. “But I’m a . . .” He broke off suddenly. “You are Renshai, aren’t you? You must be demon seed.”
“Must I?” Weile snorted. “Because I’m neither.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I carry mage blood, too? Or, maybe, I’m carrying something powerfully magical.”
The mages stared at him, and the hum of myriad conversations filled the room. Nothing Jeremilan said or did would stop that now, but their leader did not seem to care. He was fully focused on Weile. “Are you?”
“Mage-blooded?”
“Or carrying something powerfully magical?”
“Yes,” Weile replied.
Jeremilan realized his mistake. “Which of those?”
Weile shrugged and headed for the door through which they had entered. “Does it matter? I thought we’d finished our negotiations and decided to remain enemies.”
“I never said that,” Jeremilan insisted. He retook his seat and gestured for Weile to do the same. “You have my full attention.”
Weile returned to his chair and sa
t on the edge, as if ready to leave at any moment. “I returned two of your mages in good faith. Now, I’d like to barter for the third.” He spoke as if kidnapping was the most natural thing in the world, its victims a commodity for trade.
Jeremilan leaned forward, his expression skeptical. “Let me guess: you wish to trade one mage for our promise to risk all the mages by assisting in your war.”
Put that way, it certainly seemed like a lopsided bargain, made all the more ludicrous by the fact that Chymmerlee had never truly belonged to Weile.
“I prefer my proposal.” Weile’s tone and phrasing suggested he found the previous proposition unfair on his end instead of Jeremilan’s. “I trade your great-granddaughter, and your unborn son or daughter, for Saviar.”
Saviar contributed to the gasp that filled the room. Weile had said more in thirteen words than most men did in entire conversations. He had immediately shot down any complaints of unfairness twofold. The mages could scarcely claim Weile was only giving back something he had stolen when they had done the same to Saviar. Weile offered a two-for-one exchange and added a piece of information that the Renshai, at least, did not know. And that bit of news held him spellbound.
Unborn son or daughter? What did he mean by that? Saviar did not want to contemplate it, but his mind ran with the information. Is he accusing Jeremilan of rape and incest? Abruptly, outrage exploded through Saviar. He felt himself leaving his chair, and only Weile’s piercing gaze kept him from leaping upon the leader of the Myrcidians. Instead, he lowered his head to hide his expression, clenching and unclenching his hands but keeping them away from his hilt. Despite the easy tone of the conversation, it would not take much to spark a battle they could not win. Saviar knew from experience that the mages’ magic would undo him. No matter how enraged he got, he needed to let Weile take charge. He had a feeling the Easterner was always four steps ahead of the conversation, his strategy more detailed and targeted than any general’s.
All of that dashed through Saviar’s mind in an instant; and, for all their inherent wisdom, the mages did not seem to process the information any quicker than he did.
The eyes of every mage swept to Jeremilan. If Weile’s quiet accusation was true, they gave no sign they knew about it.
Jeremilan’s face purpled, but his lack of other evidence of indignation implied the truth, or near-truth, of Weile’s accusation. Suddenly, everything fit together in Saviar’s mind. The mages had initially claimed the baby his. However, when he had suggested testing Chymmerlee’s virginity, they had seemed uncomfortable. They had known she would not pass, whether or not Saviar had raped her, which meant they knew she had slept with someone. Given the secrecy of their society, it had to be a mage, and only another Myrcidian could have done such a thing without her knowledge.
Saviar wondered why he had not considered the situation more carefully before; it should have been obvious to him. Jeremilan had lamented the difficulty inherent in creating more mages multiple times; and, when she still liked him, Chymmerlee had suggested the mages secretly wished they would sleep together. At the time, they had believed him mage-blooded because of the aura, and they had not known of his Renshai background.
Another wave of blistering resentment boiled inside Saviar. How many times did the males of the tribe defile Chymmerlee and clear her memory of the assault? How young was she when the process started? Did she have any idea what they had done to her? Abhorrence overtook Saviar, and nausea bubbled through him. Driven to sate his rage and revulsion with swordplay, he envisioned hacking his way through the Mages of Myrcidë, mangling their bloody corpses, and wondered how many he could strike down before they subdued him with magic.
“We will trade Chymmerlee for Saviar, so long as she is alive and unharmed.” Jeremilan’s gaze had fallen to the floor, and he seemed to have difficulty looking at Weile. “And you must let us bind you both to secrecy.”
“No,” Weile said.
Jeremilan managed to raise his head ever so slightly. “Are you refusing to carry through on your own barter?”
Weile fastened his attention on Jeremilan, granting no quarter. “We will not submit to magical constraints of any kind. Too many people now know of your existence to silence them all. Saviar and I are the least of your worries.”
Jeremilan clamped his jaw shut. He seemed even older, if that were possible, long past his time. He no longer looked strong to Saviar, just a tired and ancient ruler of a people long forgotten. “Fine, then. We can always move.”
Weile did not dwell on the point, but Saviar had a feeling he knew something he was not saying.
“Are we finished?” Jeremilan demanded.
Weile started to rise. “I suppose we are. You need only remove your magic from Saviar so he can leave as well.”
Jeremilan glanced behind him. “Only after we have Chymmerlee back safely.”
“Very well.” Weile finished standing.
Saviar looked quickly from one man to the other, his own business still outstanding. He had not come this far, not suffered through this much, to leave without obtaining magical allies in the war against the Kjempemagiska. Thus far, he had let Weile do all the negotiating. Now, he needed to say something before he lost all opportunity. “Wait, sir, please. We still haven’t settled the most important detail.”
Weile turned Saviar a mild look. His expression evinced curiosity, but a twinkle in his dark eyes suggested even his grandson’s twin had played into his hands. For the first time, Saviar found himself irritated by the Easterner’s smug assurance. It was one thing to watch him handle others, quite another to be handled.
A bit shaken, Saviar continued. “I came here for a purpose, one that imprisonment, torture, and suspicion could not shake. I will not abandon my mission.” He attempted to stare down Weile. “I am no distressed damsel waiting helplessly for rescue.”
Weile made a palm-up gesture clearly intended to encourage Saviar. Jeremilan sighed and shuffled his feet, apparently weary of Saviar’s repeated request.
Neither swayed Saviar. “As everyone knows by now, our world is under siege by a magical band of giants bent on destroying everything human for the apparent purpose of taking our land. For the first battle, they sent their nonmagical, human servants and only one of their own kind. We were able to defeat them, at the loss of many brave lives, but only with the magical aid of Chymmerlee and our elfin queen.” Saviar lowered his head and blew out a savage breath. He had explained this before, without much success, but he hoped the change in circumstances brought about by Weile and his gang might aid him. “It’s expected their next attack will feature many more giants, perhaps thousands. Without magical assistance, we have little to no chance for success. They will sweep across our continent and, being magical, will not miss this compound.” He directed his last comment at those who sat behind Jeremilan. Perhaps they would see the logic that the eldest of them did not.
The group studied Saviar in silence, most with arms crossed over their chests. They were waiting for something, perhaps for him to restate his request. “As you know, I came to convince the Mages of Myrcidë to assist us with this battle.”
As before, Jeremilan shook his head, without any obvious consideration. Before he could speak, however, Weile chuckled. “Surely, there’s no need to barter for such a thing. Why anyone with common decency would—”
Jeremilan interrupted as if Weile had not spoken, “And, as you know, we have refused your request time and again. In that regard, nothing has changed. Nothing can change.”
Weile rolled his eyes. “I forgot we are not dealing with a group that practices common decency. Men who would rape their own daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters cannot be expected to consider the needs of others, to understand even the grossest morality and ethics.”
Several of the mages behind Jeremilan leaped to their feet. Others stared at their sandals. Jeremilan looked defeated,
near tears. Saviar worried someone would lose control, hurling magic that started a fight that would surely end in several deaths.
But, apparently taking their cues from Jeremilan, the mages did nothing worse than clench jaws and fists.
Jeremilan’s voice was small, barely audible and childlike. “I can’t expect others to understand the desperate measures to which we must resort to keep the magic alive. It is not a course of action we embarked on without many years of agonized discussion. It is easy to judge what you do not understand, actions others have undertaken for which you were not present for the decision-making process. We proceeded with enormous misgivings and in a method designed to shield Chymmerlee as much as possible from any negative effects. No one took any but the necessary liberties. She doesn’t even know.” He turned Saviar a sincere look that beggared explanation. Saviar could not imagine any situation, any amount of desperation, any possibility in which he would ever allow such an atrocity to occur.
Apparently, Jeremilan believed he had made his point, because he stopped attempting to defend what was, to Saviar, wholly indefensible. “So, you can surely see, we cannot risk even one of our members. We have too few and no reasonable means to create more.”
Acid crawled up Saviar’s throat, and he had to fight to keep from vomiting. His oath compelled him to return Chymmerlee to the mages, and Weile had also agreed to do so. Yet, the idea of placing her back into the situation Jeremilan described left him painfully ill. He tried to think like a Knight of Erythane but found it impossible to reconcile the dilemma. What did an honorable man do when his word clashed so horribly with his ethics? Never had he wished more fervently for the counsel of his father and grandfather. “Surely.” The word emerged hoarsely, and he cleared his throat. The effort made it feel raw and uncomfortable. “There must be another way . . . than this . . . this . . .” He could not finish. No word seemed suitably horrible; and, even if he found the right one, would only offend.
Up until that moment, the other mages had remained silent. Now, Arinosta, the ancient female, spoke up. “Of course, there’s a simpler and kinder way. The collective intelligence of all the world’s mages, using all the forms of magic available to them, can’t see it; but a naïve young man can. Don’t you think if there were another way, we’d try it? We’re talking about the sole means for survival of our people. I’d willingly donate my body, as many times as necessary, if I was still capable of bearing babies.”
Fields of Wrath Page 42