The Sage's Consort (The Scholars of Elandria Book 1)

by Craiker, Krystal

  He walked out of the corridor through the stone arches into the courtyard. The wet grass under his feet felt refreshingly cold after his dream of burning. As he drew nearer to Amarice, he heard her weeping. He stood for a moment, unsure whether to leave her or approach. Finally, he spoke. “Amarice?” She turned, surprised to see him standing there. She pulled her hands from the fountain and wiped her eyes.

  “Did you dream?” she asked, a sob catching on her throat. Quinn nodded and told her what he had dreamed. “I dreamt the same,” she whispered. “I felt I was on fire, so I came to touch the water.” She did not speak for a few minutes. Quinn wondered what it all meant; what was this nightmare he shared with the Sage? Amarice cut across his thoughts. “Professor Quickthorn told me of your first dream the night those Scholars were murdered. I had the same dream. As far as I have learned, no one else but you shared this.”

  “Why?” Quinn murmured, his voice barely audible. “Why us?”

  Amarice shrugged her shoulders. “I wish I knew. Have you dreamt any others?”

  “No…yes.” He recalled the dream he had the night he went out with Jack and Rafe. He told her of the music and colors that had been swallowed by the darkness, and how he assumed it had been an alcohol-infused dream.

  “And the blast of a horn?” He nodded. She had dreamed the same dream. “That night, twenty Deyoni were slaughtered with no warning and no way to defend themselves. The King’s Inquisitors have no leads. And unfortunately, few people seem to care because they were Deyoni.” She sighed. “I fear what this latest dream means.”

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn did not see Amarice much the following day. She had sequestered herself away in her study, shutting all the doors that opened to the courtyard. At breakfast, she was cheery, but she did not speak much.

  Quinn spent most of the day exploring the grounds of the Villa. He went for a run along the river, enjoying the fresh mountain air. He relished in the quiet; for once there were no distant voices distracting him when he tried to be alone. He heard only the sound of birds and the wind, the braying of sheep down the southern slope of the mountain.

  He wandered through the verdant gardens, studying the plants. Someone, he assumed the Sage, had meticulously marked all the plants with stone markers, even those that were in hibernation until spring. He knew many of the plants, but others he had only read about in his textbooks. Jack would be ecstatic, Quinn thought. In the northern garden, he followed a stone path that led to a clearing with a lone tree. He ventured closer to determine the species.

  But it was not one tree; it was two. An oak and a pine had grown together. Their trunks curved, intertwined. They stood together, still two separate trees, but inextricably linked. Quinn studied the trees with interest. He had never seen such a phenomenon. Typically, if trees grew too close together, the stronger would take root and the other would fail to thrive. Not these. He ran his hand over the bark of each. These trees were old; he could feel their ancient connection to the earth.

  “It’s called the Consort’s Tree,” a melodic voice startled him. He turned to find Amarice standing near him. Her flowing green dress flapped in the breeze. Her hair was loose again and blew wildly around her face. She stepped closer to the tree and Quinn, reaching out to touch the trunks. “The story goes that when the Sage Gwen finally took her lover to her bed, these trees grew overnight from nothing. No one had planted seeds or saplings here. No other trees grow in this clearing. They discovered it the next day. Gwen, as I’m sure you know, became the first Sage to name a Consort.”

  “That’s impossible,” Quinn said. “Trees can’t grow from nothing. And the Sage’s bed is too far for earth magic to have any effect.”

  Amarice smiled. “Indeed. It does seem the stuff of folk tales. Nothing of the sort has happened since, despite several Sages naming Consorts.”

  Quinn recalled what he had learned from his history classes. Sage’s Consorts were rare; many Sages had long-time lovers and occasionally even spouses before marriage went out of style. But a Consort required an incredibly deep level of trust. They must be Scholars, and they must know the Sage well enough to act on her behalf. If the Sage names a Consort, he or she becomes the second-most powerful political and social force outside of the Royal Family, after the Sage. Indeed, many historians argue the Sage is in fact a more powerful force than the King or Queen. But the strength of the Gift of the reigning Sage coupled with the immense responsibility that comes with the role is isolating. Few Sages ever grew to trust someone so completely that they would be named Consort. When they did, the Consorts went on to become great leaders and voices in the history of Elandria.

  Amarice smiled her lovely smile and walked away to the river without saying a word. He saw her again, briefly, at dinner, but she did not go to the salon to socialize. Quinn did not feel like making small talk with anyone, either. He bathed quickly and retired to his room for the evening. He sat at his small desk and wrote in the journal Rafe had given him. Perhaps one day a book about apprenticing with the Sage would sell, he considered. He wrote down all he could remember from the last day and a half. He composed letters to Rafe and Jack, although he left out too much description of the Sage’s beauty; he did not want them to know they were right.

  That night, Quinn slept dreamlessly. The next day would bring the Feast of Fire, and then his apprenticeship would officially begin.

  ***

  The morning broke clear and bright. Quinn made his way to the veranda for breakfast, eager to see what the day’s celebrations would bring. The Feast of Fire traditionally did not start until sundown, and it had always been Quinn’s favorite holiday.

  He took his seat and greeted the table happily. Amarice sipped her coffee at the head of the table, chatting with Daisy about a friend from the capital. Quinn served himself some bread and cheese and listened to their conversation. Apparently, their friend had traveled abroad on a diplomatic trip and returned home with a husband from a distant country. “I just don’t understand why she would get married,” Daisy shook her head.

  “Well, marriage is expected in her culture.” Amarice poured herself more coffee. “Still, he must be something special if she’s willing to give her life to just one man. I can’t imagine.” She looked at Quinn. “What do you think, Quinn? About marriage?”

  He swallowed of bite of his breakfast. “I nearly got married once.” Daisy’s eyes widened; Amarice appraised him. “It…didn’t work out. But if she’s the right one, I understand.” He took another bite of bread and chewed thoughtfully.

  “How on earth are you supposed to know if someone is the right one?” Daisy asked, intrigued. Amarice stayed quiet, still staring at Quinn. This young man had some shadows in his past; she wondered what he failed to say.

  “I don’t know.” He smiled wistfully. “I haven’t figured that part out.”

  Amarice changed the subject, and Quinn felt thankful. He had not intended to share that; even Rafe never knew Quinn had planned to marry Elaine, nor what had transpired his last day in Corthy. He lost himself in his own thoughts for a bit.

  Quinn studied Amarice as Daisy droned on about nothing. He wondered if her village had been as anti-magic as his. He wanted to ask her, to know every detail of her life. He wanted to tell her everything about his life, every thought he had. Unsure from whence this desire came, he suppressed the urge and pushed his feelings down further.

  After breakfast, Quinn went for a run on the grounds again. Nothing cleared his thoughts like his feet pounding the earth, the crisp air filling his lungs. He once again found himself at the Consort’s Tree. He doubted the legend was true, but he was intrigued by the adaptability of the two trees. More leaves had fallen since yesterday in the winter wind. He reached out to a nearly-barren branch. He could not remember the last time he had tried to channel his Gift. He focused all his energy on growing a leaf, just one leaf.

  He could not. Revitalizing a dying plant by touch was considered basic earth magic. He could feel
the magic fill him, but he could not manipulate it to his will. “Damn it!” He banged a fist against the trunk of the tree.

  He gasped. Both trees had fully bloomed, bright green leaves contrasting with the warm colors of autumn surrounding him. In his anger with himself, he had made the tree look as if winter had never touched its branches. He felt a mix of both amazement and frustration. His magic only worked in fits of anger, and even then, he could not do what he intended. He studied the branches for a moment longer then turned to go back to the Villa.

  Amarice stood at the edge of the garden, watching. He met her eyes. She smiled, a look of understanding on her face. Then she turned and walked away.

  ***

  Quinn entered the courtyard a few hours later to find everyone preparing for the night’s celebrations. The dining table had been moved near the fountain, and several people constructed a pile of wood for the bonfire. Large vases of soil had been moved into the courtyard; Amarice moved among them, waving a hand over the soil. Green strands of magic energy flowed from her fingers, blooming chrysanthemums of vibrant red and gold. Chrysanthemums were important to the Feast of Fire; not only did they look like vases of fire, they represented grief and lamentation. At the end of the night, every person would name their grief and throw a flower into the flames.

  He helped Matthew and some of the others construct the bonfire. Though the Feast of Fire was a holiday of death and grief, everyone was cheerful. The holiday was cleansing, drawing the year to a close and helping to release each person of their burdens. Tomorrow, a new year would begin. Quinn loved the introspection and symbolism that came with the Feast of Fire. Today, especially, felt significant. Not only would a new year begin tomorrow, but a new chapter of his life as his apprenticeship with the Sage commenced.

  The appearance of a young man no one knew caused everyone to stop their tasks and stare, confused. He wore the blue tunic of the Messengers. Even Messengers did not work on the Feast of Fire, yet this young man looked harried and held an envelope in his hand. Something must be wrong. Amarice approached him, a look of concern on her face.

  “My lady Sage.” The Messenger drew his hand to his brow in greeting. “An urgent message.” The young man looked as if he would collapse any moment.

  “Are you well?” Amarice took the envelope but did not open it. Her concern for the Messenger outweighed her concern for the message.

  “With the holiday, I rode my horse twice the normal distance. There were few Messengers to be found along the road. We’re exhausted, my Lady.”

  “You must rest. I’ll have my gamekeeper see to your horse, and my head-of-house will take you to a room to sleep. You can spend the Feast of Fire with us.” He bowed his head in thanks. The gamekeeper and Madge hurried forward and escorted him out of the courtyard.

  Amarice studied the envelope for several moments before opening it. The residents of the Villa watched her silently, barely daring to breathe. Quinn saw her hand shake slightly as she opened the letter. Her face turned stony as she read. She turned slowly and began to walk in the direction of her study. “Quinn,” she said. Quinn met Matthew’s eyes in surprise; Matthew shrugged. Unsure why Amarice wanted to see him, and only him, Quinn followed her to her study.

  “Shut the door.” She sat behind her large rosewood desk. Quinn obliged, not sure what to do next. She held out the letter for him to read. “Our dream.” She pressed her hands against her eyes.

  Quinn took the letter. He read it three times, hoping he would understand. The Forest of Seluya had been burned. An estimated quarter of the third-largest forest in Elandria was gone before enough Scholars gathered to control the flames. Burning a forest was one of the highest crimes in Elandria. Indeed, for every tree that is even chopped down for building or firewood, a new sapling must be planted. A quarter of the forest! Quinn could not fathom it. Judging by the Sage’s reaction, Amarice could not fathom it either. His heart ached for the loss of the trees.

  “Did we…foresee this?”

  Amarice shook her head. “No, it seems every dream we have had happened while the attacks were occurring.” She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.

  “But why?”

  “I have a theory, but I have no proof.” Quinn waited for her to continue. “These attacks are on earth magic itself. Our Gift is so much stronger, so we can feel it happening.” She laughed dryly, no humor to be heard. “I hope you have no more doubts that you are quite powerful, Quinn. For better or worse.”

  Quinn sank onto an armchair and examined the room. Her walls were lined with books and brightly colored tapestries, contrasting with the darkness he felt. No fire burned in the fireplace; she had not anticipated working today. He shivered, making the Sage aware of the cold. She held a hand toward the fireplace; a small flame grew from the logs inside. Amazing, he thought. Even the more powerful Scholars he had met had to be within a foot of the fire, and there had to be embers to grow a flame. He wondered what else she could do that no one else could.

  He looked at her, her eyes darkened with grief. Despite her obvious grief, she was still beautiful. She clutched the Scholar’s pendant at her breast, as if for guidance. Quinn broke the silence. “What do we do?”

  She opened her deep, grey eyes and met his brown ones. “Tonight is the Feast of Fire. We grieve.” She stood. “Tell the others what happened. We will continue the holiday as planned.” She crossed the study and disappeared through the door that led to her private rooms.

  ***

  Candles illuminated the piles of food on the table as Quinn entered the courtyard. The sky shifted from blue to shades of orange and pink as the sun prepared to sleep for the night. The aroma of smoked meats mingled with the scent of rich spices. Carafes of crimson fire-wine lined the table; Quinn longed for a drink to warm himself in the wintry evening.

  He ran a hand through his hair to make sure it lay in place. He had opted for his finest attire in honor of his first holiday at the Villa: leather pants and tunic the color of midnight over a red silk shirt. As he had dressed with care, he had tried to tell himself his motives were solely the holiday. Truthfully, he had imagined Amarice as he combed his hair and laced his tunic.

  No one sat at the table yet; instead the Villa residents stood in small groups, whispering. The mood at the Villa had shifted significantly when Quinn re-entered the courtyard and told them the news of Seluya. They had finished the preparations in silence. Now, hours later, Quinn noticed the young Messenger standing alone in the corner of the courtyard; he looked more rested but nervous. Quinn approached him and greeted him kindly. He, too, still felt out of place. Amarice had not arrived to grace the holiday with her calming presence; in fact, no one had seen her since she disappeared into her private quarters that afternoon.

  The Messenger, Brian, told Quinn how he and a colleague had sat in their post, waiting for sunrise when they could go home for the holiday. Another Messenger approached, his horse stumbling from the strain of the ride. “One to the King and one to the Sage,” he had told Brian and the other Messenger. “Don’t stop until it’s in their hands.” Brian and his horse rode 100 miles without rest to get to the Sage’s Villa. Quinn could sense his concern for his horse and assured Brian the gamekeeper would take good care of her.

  The sun set further. With the last hint of light in the sky, Amarice entered from her study. Quinn and the Messenger both gasped. For the first time since his arrival, Quinn saw her as the immensely powerful legend he had always imagined. Although, he never imagined the degree of her beauty.

  Her full skirt, which had been dyed the colors of fire, swirled red, orange, yellow as she moved. Above her bare midriff, her top jingled with coins and shells. She had painted her lips a deep red and decorated her face with jewels that shimmered in the low light. She had pinned her luscious brown hair on the top of her head and tucked a red flower behind her left ear. She carried a burning torch and approached the bonfire.

  Drums played as she walked. Quinn looked for the source of the
music; the gamekeeper and a farmhand were dressed in full Deyoni garb—wide pants in vibrant colors paired with velvety vests on their bare chests. Two of the maids approached the fire, dressed in the same fashion as the Sage, hips swaying to the slow rhythm of the drums. Amarice’s voice rung clear across the courtyard: “Adawe draba mulo galisa—oyua atsila!” She flung the torch onto the wood; the drums beat faster. She raised her hands from the earth to sky, and the fire spread over the whole pile instantly.

  She turned, and began to dance. The other two followed her in perfect time. Quinn could not peel his eyes away. These were not the folk dances with which he was familiar. Her hips bounced and swirled, quicker than the drumbeat. When she turned, her skirts swirled as if she were the fire. The beats slowed; she slowed. Her body waved with the ease of the ocean tide. When she slowed, the fire slowed; when she danced faster, so did the fire.

  Quinn felt overcome with emotion, but for once, he felt safe in it. As he watched, darkness poured from him and fire entered him, not to harm, but to cleanse. His feet seemed to grow into the earth; he felt the earth’s magic flow through him and unite with the magic that emanated from the Sage’s dancing and into the air around him. The wind blew loudly, so the drums grew louder. The bonfire crackled, the fountain spit, and the earth vibrated. The elements made their own music, and the Sage matched their rhythm with her hips.

  The dancing and the drums stopped. The earth stopped moving. Amarice gathered an armful of chrysanthemums from a nearby vase. She spoke the names of the two slaughtered Scholars and tossed two flowers to burn. “The innocent Deyoni,” she said. Twenty flowers flew into the flames. A few more went into the fire without a word. She held one last flower in her hand and gazed at it a long time. “The Forest of Seluya.” She tossed the last flower into the bonfire, gazing as it incinerated. She turned away, and one by one, the others brought their flowers and named their griefs. Some spoke audibly the names of loved ones lost; some only whispered, because only the fire needed to hear their grief.