The Zi'veyn: The Devoted Trilogy, Book One

by Kim Wedlock

  He nodded slowly in agreement, noting the absence of peacefulness.

  "Could you not just be mistaken about no spells being cast here?" Petra asked, but they both shook their heads again.

  "The Order wouldn't miss it. This is a lot of magic, and the accumulation is too sudden to be from an undetected spell - even if it was cast in secret, we would have known about it in very short time." The concern in Owan's tone had worsened and hesitance was creeping in to join it, growing more prominent with every word he spoke. He glanced doubtfully to Rathen, but the look of involved concern in his eyes seemed enough to convince him to continue, if just for his sake. "This magic did come from somewhere else - but it isn't human."

  The connection fell into place in Rathen's mind the moment he said it. "No...it's elven. Of course it is. There's a resemblance between the magic here and what remains in M--Kulokhar," he amended quickly.

  "It's being drawn to elven ruins," Petra frowned, "why is that a surprise?"

  "Elves built on the sites out of faith; they're not responsible for the magnetism pulling it there - but, they're really fragments of an elven spell?" Anthis's eyes glittered weakly as he tried rising to his feet, having grown tired of sitting at Aria's level during such a crucial conversation, but the pain in his stomach was still too sharp to fight against for pride alone, and his head, though clearer now, began to swim from the exertion. He sighed and leaned back against the wall. "How is that possible? Shouldn't elven spells have disintegrated long ago? Or has the Order recently stopped maintaining one?"

  "They should have, and we haven't. That's why I'm here: to find out why and how it's happening."

  "So the Order has no idea what's going on," Rathen summarised in defeat, and Owan gave only the slightest of nods, as though afraid to confirm it in front of non-mages.

  "Unfortunately, for the moment, this is all we have on the matter."

  Rathen released a long and heavy sigh. If the Order had no idea, how was he supposed to work anything out? Up until ten minutes ago, he didn't even have this much, and he'd doubted it all even as he'd felt it. But he was grateful, at least, that he'd had the unexpected opportunity to confirm it all before that doubt could stretch its roots.

  "What about the raw magic?" He asked suddenly, even while the thought was still forming in his mind.

  "What about it?"

  "It's interacting with the chain, isn't it? A small, single spell-chain couldn't be this powerful on its own, regardless of what kind of spell it had been a part of."

  "No," the mage frowned, "but since I can't work out what the chain itself is, I also can't be certain on that point, either."

  Rathen sighed heavily once again. The others watched them uneasily, listening to the words even if it was clear that not all of them understood them. Owan glanced towards them, but as Anthis hissed in a sudden pang of pain and stole back some of their attention, he returned to Rathen and gestured to one side, leading him to the far end of the near-empty and long-abandoned home, provoking a renewed sense of dread.

  "What are you doing here?" The mage asked, his voice suddenly low and grave in a manner that Rathen deemed uncharacteristic even despite the passage of time.

  "I told you," he replied flatly, but a similar hint of unfamiliarity flickered through his eyes.

  "No, you told me something. Come on, Rathen, we were friends once. You've been gone for over a decade, we all thought you were dead - no one's seen sight nor sound of you, at any rate - and all of a sudden here you are, in a place like this, alongside an inquisitor to boot." His aged eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

  "Trying to fix this."

  "Why?"

  "Because the Order isn't."

  "Forgive me, Rathen, but what can you do against this?"

  He stared at him for a long moment, considering the challenge in his voice and simmering in his eyes. His jaw tightened in indecision, but his tongue moved on its own. "We have a plan."

  "You have a plan? You and the others?" He glanced beyond him briefly. "You're the only mage among them."

  Rathen's eyes hardened. "We have a plan."

  "...And you're not going to tell me what it is."

  He shook his head regretfully. "I can't."

  Owan stared at him, trying to read his once-familiar eyes, and Rathen found himself trying to read his in turn. What was he thinking? Did he think he didn't trust him? That he thought Owan could be a part of a rebellion? Or was he thinking in kind, that Rathen may be involved instead? Owan's eyes flicked past him towards the others again, and he knew they'd fallen upon the inquisitor. He watched them narrow, and something within them changed when they turned back onto him. "As it stands," he began with a sudden note of detachment, looking away again as though he wasn't speaking to him but merely thinking out loud, "the Order doesn't have a plan. Our attention is occupied by the impending war and the Crown won't spare us to look into this matter as we should. Some in the Order think the Crown suspects we're responsible for it and wants to keep us away, while others think they're just worried we're preparing to rebel. But magic is very much our obligation, so we've been forced to work outside of orders just to do our job. We've been restricted to looking at sites within two days of Kulokhar so our absences won't be noticed, but that has also made it easier for a few to have been caught investigating it. Fortunately things aren't so bad that the Order's jurisdiction over its mages has been revoked, so the elders have been allowed to seem to punish them, but even so, it's a difficult situation, and in this time all we've managed to gather is this meagre information and we have little idea what to do with it." He finally looked back to him again. "Whatever plan you have...all I can do is wish you luck."

  "You've already done more than that just by confirming my own findings."

  The briefest, familiar smile flickered across his face. "That almost makes me feel a little bit less useless, and most certainly like I've defied the Crown - not that that's a bad thing," he added distastefully. Rathen frowned in understanding.

  "What is happening in the Order?"

  "Things are...tense, to say the least," he replied with a puff, folding his arms heavily across his chest. "The rumours and reports of mages in other countries are straining people's trust towards us much more than usual...and if I'm honest, I'm not certain that none of our own are guilty..."

  Rathen's frown twisted further. "What does that mean?"

  "A few mages seem distracted."

  "Well, given the martial state of things right now, that's not really surprising..."

  Owan's lips slanted in doubt. "I'm not so sure it's that..."

  Rathen stared in another futile effort to read him. He'd been easy to work out once, but now he seemed only increasingly closed off. That moment did absolutely nothing to reassure him.

  "But," the scholar continued with a sigh, "I can't say anything for certain. It's just conjecture." He cocked an eyebrow. "As for the conjecture about you..."

  Disinterest suddenly fell over the black-haired mage. "What conjecture about me?" He frowned as a smile of fascination tried to grip Owan's lips.

  "No one believes what happened to you is as simple as non-magic folk think. Not even the most complex curses or spells could result in such a thing - but as for what it could be...no one has been able to work it out..."

  "Well, I'm afraid I can't help you, there, either."

  Disappointment tripped his hopeful stare, but he smiled apologetically a moment later, and nodded his acceptance even though it was clear he didn't believe him. "Very well. Then at the very least you can tell me where you've been this past decade."

  The group watched the two mages as they spoke quietly together, expressions of shock, assurance, relief and incredulity passing between them, but, infuriatingly, none were able to catch their words.

  Petra was the first to give up trying. She turned her attention onto Anthis instead and poked his wound through the bandages. He winced and looked back at her with shock in his eyes, but shrank immediately ben
eath her sharp and disapproving stare. "You are an idiot."

  "Why am I an idiot?" He asked, unreasonably hurt, looking past her towards Aria and Garon for defence but found both focused on the distant conversation with similar looks of concentration.

  "If you had just moved when we told you to--actually, no, if you hadn't run off in the first place you wouldn't have gotten hurt at all."

  "Or," he began slowly, "would I have been killed?"

  Her brow dropped and she turned her attention decisively onto Garon instead. "You, however, endangered us all."

  His grey eyes flicked towards her, but his attention was fleeting.

  She rose back to her feet and approached him. "You knew this place was dangerous but you led us in anyway."

  "It was a calculated risk," he replied flatly, his eyes fixed to the mages.

  "Anthis got hurt."

  "I'm not a babysitter and he's a grown man. He can look after himself."

  "How very responsible of you."

  The slightest crease formed in his brow and he seemed to flinch at the venomous remark - but it was so brief and so slight that she wasn't sure she hadn't imagined it.

  Anthis cocked his head as he, too, observed the mages. "Seems to have been worth the risk, though. Rathen's uncovered a few things which should prove useful for all of us."

  "But at what cost?"

  "Little, I think. He seems to trust this man and I don't think he does that kind of thing easily."

  Garon grunted, but there was a flicker of concedence in his voice.

  Almost ten minutes passed before the mages concluded their quiet but animated conversation, and the newcomer didn't hang around. After a simple and suddenly rigid handshake, Owan Mal headed towards the door and stepped back out into the unnatural wind without even a polite nod in the group's direction.

  Quizzical eyes fell upon Rathen as he joined them.

  "What did you tell him?" Garon asked him critically the moment the door had closed.

  "Ultimately, nothing. And as far as either of us are concerned, this encounter never happened. He didn't see me."

  "Did you get anything else from him?" Anthis asked as Petra frowned at the precision of Rathen's statement. "Or...from the air in that corner of the room?"

  "No. He told us everything he and the others have on the matter. But as little as that is, at least I've got reliable confirmation."

  "Can you do anything with it?"

  "At this point, I don't know, but I'm sure it'll help in time." He glanced uneasily towards the door as the wind roared against it, attempting to force its way back in. "For now there's nothing more to learn here, and the longer we stay the more certain I am the wind is only going to worsen. We'll end up trapped in here."

  Garon cut him off before he could make a single step towards the door, and he was pinned under the inquisitor's careful, scrutinising stare. "Are you sure you can trust him?"

  "He was sneaking around," Petra agreed.

  "He was not sneaking around."

  "Then how did you not notice him? Garon noticed him."

  "My attention," he began with growing urgency, "was on the magic itself; I could have sensed his magic if not for the chaos around us. But Owan can be trusted. He's...an old school friend." A momentary frown pulled at his brow as he realised how silly the statement sounded, but he shook it away and looked down towards Anthis. "Are you fine to walk?"

  The young man forced himself to his feet, biting back a wince as he did so, and Petra quickly lent him her shoulder. "I'll manage."

  Collecting the bags, they moved to leave, and Aria frowned thoughtfully up at her father while a small smile played on her lips. But she didn't voice her thoughts as Garon dragged the door back open, instead bracing herself against the incessant wind as they all stepped back into its assault.

  They moved doggedly, most of their focus limited to where they put their feet, though Anthis was acutely aware of the danger of flying branches as he limped along beside them. But the turmoil had improved: little was carried through the air but leaves, the weakest limbs having already been torn away, and as they contended with the force, it underwent another abrupt shift and provided them with a tail-wind. The cover of the trees quickly loomed before them and their feet moved faster at the promise of safety.

  Until the world fell silent in the wake of a shrill squawk loud enough to rival the gale, and their hearts turned to ice.

  "Run!" Garon yelled as Petra turned to search in horror for the source. "Don't look, just run!"

  "What is it?!"

  "Harpies," Rathen growled, though he hadn't spared a glance over his shoulder either.

  "Harpies?! Did that mage summon them?!"

  "Of course not! We have...business with them - just run!"

  They barrelled in amongst the trees, but the copse was sparse and young and their soft limbs could never restrain the winged beasts. Suddenly its protection seemed far less certain.

  Their assailants darted in behind them, weaving far too easily between the thin trunks as though they rode on gusts rather than their own wings, and they dove upon them at every opportunity, their long, sharp talons reaching out for skin, hair, cloth and bag straps. They were delayed only by Petra's quick thinking; falling to the rear of the group and pulling branches back, she loosed them when they were close enough, whipping them back into place and forcing them to pause or divert to avoid the recoil. But they were persistent. They had no intention of simply chasing them off.

  "They're gaining!" Petra warned, and Rathen glanced towards Garon for his decision. But the inquisitor was silent, his brow creased in thought as he led the way. Petra shouted again, this time with greater urgency as she loosened the bolas from the small of her back, but still he didn't respond.

  Rathen stole a look over his shoulder. The raptorine figures were barely ten feet away.

  Panic and helplessness suddenly swelled his heart and lungs, his chest fit to burst at the inquisitor's indecision. His blood ran only colder as he found the sensation horrifically familiar.

  'Oh, sweet Vastal, not now!' He pleaded. 'Not now!'

  "Garon!" He roared as he battled against himself. "Make a decision!" A shriek from directly above them jerked a growl from his throat, and before Garon could finally make the call, Rathen made it for him. His fingers shaped seals and three quick, successive blasts of air burst from the final formation he twisted and aimed towards the harpies. The first felled a tree, crushing the trunk as it met the opposing wind, and a startled caw rose as one collided with it as it dropped into its path, while the second blast missed any chance mark. But the third hit directly, cutting through the feathered waist of one pursuer and sending it crashing into the ground, squawking in pain and alarm. Collective shrieks of fury rose from the rest, and suddenly their chase intensified.

  "What the hell are you doing?!" Garon yelled towards him, his grey eyes finally aflame. "You're only making them angrier!"

  Rathen didn't respond. His jaw clamped in regret, but he shook it off. Injury wasn't his intention; a show of retaliation, something to encourage them away before it grew worse than even they could imagine. It had been a foolish hope, but at least taking action had returned him some control over himself.

  'In for a penny,' he decided with resignation, and began forming another series of seals. Fire sprung to life and hung in the air inches from his crossing fingers before arcing up and over the heads of the fleeing group. It torched the trees easily, as though their leaves and branches hadn't seen rainfall for months, and spread over the feathers of the two fastest harpies whose haste carried them straight into the unnatural inferno. The rest managed to reel to a short stop and avoid the same fate, and they shrieked in panic, either for their kin or for the forest's destruction - which, didn't matter. This time it had been enough to divert their attention and hold them at bay, and Rathen breathed slightly easier.

  "Keep going," Garon commanded, "run!" They followed his sharp right without question, and within moments the fo
rest darkened and thickened. With barely the room to run half abreast, the harpies could never manoeuvre amongst them, and the canopy veiled the sky so entirely that tracking from above was impossible.

  But before their triumph could set in, the ground gave way quite suddenly to a broad and impassable body of water.

  Petra growled in frustration as they skidded to a halt, but Rathen considered it tactically. Just as in Mokhan, their pursuers would assume they'd continued in their original direction and sought to hide in the widest, thickest region of the forest, not move towards its most open edge - though, this time their pursuers could take to the sky. It would be little trouble for one of them to break off and check the lake.

  They would just have to hope that they were underestimated.

  Garon whirled on him as Anthis dropped to the ground, struggling for his breath under the strain of his wound, but once again neither the inquisitor nor the duelist seemed too ruffled by the exertion. At the very least, Garon still had breath enough in his lungs to rage at him.

  "If he hadn't taken charge, we'd all still be running," Petra challenged from beside the mage before he could find the breath and mind to make his own defence, tucking her unused bolas away, "assuming Anthis was even able to keep up for much longer. And I didn't see you doing anything about it."

  "I didn't want to make the matter worse," Garon returned, his voice strangled by his own restraint. "Apparently we've gotten ourselves involved in a war, and it is certainly better that we get attacked and do nothing about it than give them any real reason to pursue us by incriminating ourselves! And we don't want to leave any kind of trail for anything to follow!"

  "And that would be just fine if those things weren't actually trying to snatch us!" Rathen finally shot, his panic only just subsiding and giving way to exasperation.

  Petra shook her head and breathed a long, frustrated sigh. "Well, it's done now," she reminded them wearily, looking back the way they'd come. "We can't undo the actions."

  "Is it done? As far as I can see, we've only given them fuel for the fire!"

  "We did more than that - I can still smell chicken."