Dawn of Magic: Sea of Flames

by Sara C. Roethle

  “You are not one to act without motive,” he accused.

  Óengus laughed. “The barrier breaking changed us all, my lad. Once upon a time, I would have been at the center of a brewing war, now I find myself on the periphery. I am old, not the fighter I once was. I suppose now, I’d like to just live long enough to see how it all ends.”

  Iseult watched him for a long moment. Normally, he’d believe nothing Óengus said, but he’d displayed not a single hint that he was lying.

  Iseult’s shoulders relaxed, just a touch. “I suppose you and I are in the same situation, then. It seems all I can do now is wait, and watch.”

  “You’re not the idle type, lad, don’t fool yourself. You’ll fight for her until your dying breath. Perhaps you are wiser than I in that matter. I suppose we won’t know for sure until the end.” He snatched Iseult’s forgotten dram of whiskey and drained it in one swill.

  “You speak as if it will be the end for us all.”

  Óengus smiled, if the bitter crook of his mouth could be called a smile. “You may not feel it yet, but some of us see far more than others. Ask your friend Anna. It’s as if the land has a heartbeat. It’s been drumming faster and faster, like a rodent’s pulse, just before the viper strikes. It may not be the end of us all, but it will be the end of something.”

  Óengus’ shoulders straightened suddenly, though Iseult could not divine any change in their surroundings. He stood. “My friend is ready to go now. I’ve no doubt I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  With that, Óengus turned and walked away, and Iseult made no move to stop him. He waited a time, with the merrymakers standing near the hearth-fire casting looming shadows all around him, then finally stood to return to the estate.

  He didn’t need Anna’s magic to tell him that chaos was at its breaking point. He could feel it building, like a mighty wave ready to crash upon the shore.

  Epilogue

  Beneath the eastern prison in Sormyr, a group of men gathered with torches. All watched a single man, his hair shaved unusually short, his face littered with scars of battle. All men had heard tales of him. He’d toppled giants, battled mages, had even faced a dragon or two.

  Radley eyed them each in turn, just twenty men, but more would come. Perhaps some of the tales about him had been embellished, but he would not correct them. These men needed a strong leader if any mortals were to survive.

  “Listen,” he said, and all fell silent. There was no need to raise his voice here. In the underground tunnel, all sound carried. “The thing we’ve always feared has finally happened. The faie have formed an army, and Sormyr nearly fell—would have fallen, if the faie had not relented. I’ve little doubt we will never understand why they did not murder all within the walls of the city. They are bloodthirsty animals, incapable of seeing reason. The mages who tolerate them are just as horrible. Abominations of nature!”

  The men muttered words of agreement, then once again fell silent.

  “I have spoken with the Ceàrdaman.” He waited at another expected outburst of murmurs. To most, the Ceàrdaman were faie. Radley agreed with the majority, but at least the Travelers were sentient. They could be reasoned with. Alliances and treaties could be made.

  The men quieted again, waiting to hear more.

  “I am told their leader was slain, but their people yet stand in strength. They will make An Fiach great again.”

  At the mention of their fallen organization, the tone of the men’s mutters changed perceptibly. Any who had survived service had been appalled when the organization had disbanded, settling into the ranks of Sormyr’s soldiers when it became too dangerous to roam the countryside in search of faie to hunt.

  Radley knew without a doubt they would join up again when the moment came. “Are you with me, men? Will you face mages and faie alike to save the lives of the few mortals who remain?”

  More muttering. “But the Ceàrdaman?” one questioned. “How can we trust them?”

  Another anticipated question. One for which he’d already prepared an answer. “We have no choice. You saw what the faie can do. Our strength as men alone is not enough.”

  Silence weighed heavily as the men thought it over. His palms began to sweat. Had he been too bold? Would they skewer him where he stood for even considering an alliance with the Ceàrdaman?

  Gazes locked around the small space, as one by one the men nodded. The first one who’d spoken finally turned to Radley. “If the Ceàrdaman can grant us strength to kill the faie, then we will be strong enough to kill them too—when the time comes.”

  His words made Radley squirm. He doubted even with newfound strength any man here could defeat one of the Ceàrdaman—he’d recently seen first hand what they could do—but their agreement was all he needed, for now.

  For now, they would fight, and these battles would lead him to what he truly desired. He’d been searching for a particular faie all along. He saw her once at Garenoch, then again at the recent battle. He’d watched her at the head of the faie, and had spied as she fled to the woods.

  Yes, he’d sought the Snow Queen since he was a boy. His peers had mocked him, and told him she was only legend. But he knew, he knew by his grandfather’s stories of Oighear the White, who had pillaged his ancestor’s estate, in one fell swoop lowering nobles to beggars, with none willing to help should they incur her wrath.

  Generations later, he’d felt the effects of the Snow Queen’s icy grip in seeing his mother begging for scraps. In seeing dirt and muck kicked in her face for even being alive.

  His mother was long gone now, but Radley had not forgotten. With the help of the Ceàrdaman, and An Fiach, the Snow Queen would finally pay.

  Branwen

  Branwen stroked her fingers across the roughly carved stone. She was no mason, but she’d done her best to provide a memorial for her twin brother. His actual body had likely been left for the wolves, torn apart and forgotten. Hers would be the same, deep in the woods where she now sat, a bushel of snowdrops in hand.

  She placed the flowers on her brother’s marker, then curled up on the ground. Over the past days, she’d felt the magic of the in-between slowly leaving her. It had been Niklas’ will that animated her, and now that he was gone, his spell—for lack of a better word—was unraveled.

  She breathed the crisp night air, for the last time she was sure, and spared a final thought for Finn, Kai, and all the others still fighting. She wasn’t sure who had it better. Life was a gift, but to her, so was death. She was so very tired.

  She closed her eyes, ready to join Anders, wherever he was.

  “You’ve been a busy little wraith.” Words startled her back into awareness.

  She cracked open her eyes, beholding Belenus, as glittering as a shining star in the moonlight. “You are too late to do me any harm, god. Go away.”

  He tilted his head, trailing pure white hair across his chiseled cheek. “Part of you is still mortal, girl. Part of you can be touched by me. I can offer you a new life.”

  She pressed the side of her face against cold soil. “I do not want it. Leave me be.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut as he crouched beside her.

  His words were soft, barely audible. “I fear you have no choice. It is not for mortals to question the will of gods.”

  He placed his hands upon her and began to chant in an ancient tongue beyond her comprehension. Starlight seemed to trickle through her veins, cold, yet bright.

  In that moment, she understood why mortals had once worshipped the gods. For as cruel and terrible as they seemed, inside they were as vast as the stars in the sky. As unstoppable as the rising sun.

  And as vengeful as a the greatest maelstrom in the darkest expanse of the sea.

  Note from the author:

  I hope you enjoyed book seven in the Tree of Ages series. Book eight is on it’s way, but in the meantime, please consider checking out my newest series, The Moonstone Chronicles, by following the link below.

  THE WITCH OF SHADOWMARS
H - BOOK ONE