The Frostfire Sage

by Steven Kelliher

  At first, Iyana had wiped the sleep from her eyes, thinking her mind was playing tricks on her or that it was the glow of her own eyes she saw reflected on the backs of rain-soaked leaves and bare stones. Ceth’s sudden tension was the only confirmation she needed. The Landkist stepped before them quickly and motioned for them to stop, going so far as to grab Kenta by the wrist and stop the older man when he ignored the Northman and made as if to continue on, Beast in tow.

  “Fires in the trees,” Ceth said, nodding ahead. He spoke in a harsh whisper, annoyed at having to do so. Iyana moved up next to him. She scanned the trees ahead as Kenta pulled his arm back sharply and rolled up his sleeve.

  “Yes,” Kenta said, “and of a most beauteous make.” He smirked as he watched the lights that seemed to bob and dance on small, oval paths that seemed too regular, too patterned to be the work of fireflies. “This is the Fell Road.”

  “The Fell Road.” Iyana tested the name and did not feel any of the dread it might be meant to conjure. Ceth, for his part, did not agree.

  “It sounds like the name of a place we should avoid,” the Landkist said. He looked as tired as Iyana felt, his eyes weighted down by swollen bags, gray-white hair that matched his sash and shirt damp and clinging instead of waving as it did in the open air.

  “Once, it was,” Kenta said. He spoke as if from a long way off, or a long time, and Iyana wondered again how he had come to know this place.

  “Don’t worry yourself so much, Ceth,” Kenta said. “That’s her job.” He nodded to Iyana, who didn’t have to pretend to bristle at the words. “Now, let’s get on with it. The way should be easier going from here.”

  It was.

  They passed through a horizontal line of tall, dark trees that seemed to form a sort of natural gateway that looked anything but, and once on the other side, the entire mood of the place changed. It was as if they had passed from the realm of the real to one of make believe.

  The ground was flatter here, and it was full of grass and moss, with a network of natural pathways branching out from the small meadow in which they stood. There were no tree trunks for several paces around but for those they had just stepped out from, but the forest canopy only thinned slightly, the reaching branches stretching far from their bark-covered towers and even farther from their moss-covered roots to form a lattice overhead. The bobbing lights resolved into bulbs and flowers, chutes and stems that glowed with a fluorescent radiance that bathed the land in dreamlike wonder, and Iyana saw black butterflies and yellow-and-orange moths fluttering from plant to plant. She heard crickets chirping and grasshoppers playing their instruments, and below it all, the gurgle of a brook that grew into the rushing of what must be a nearby river as they walked.

  Beast seemed to sense it as well, and apart from Ceth and Kenta, Iyana took comfort in the horse’s apparent calm in such a strange, uncanny setting. The charger moved through the ferns and cut a path away from Kenta through a gateway formed by a thin pair of trees. They followed, and saw the charger standing on a grassy shore, neck bent, muscular throat moving as he slurped from the rushing river.

  Iyana marveled at the opposite shore and let out an audible gasp. The bank was all dark mud with a green crest that was splashed with more of the fluorescent light. Iyana could scarcely have stood on the opposite shore, as it was choked with glowing plants and swaying cattails with ends lit and burning yellow like candles. Farther back, between the tunnels and arches formed by the dark trees, there appeared to be orange lanterns that Iyana had to squint to recognize as mushrooms sprouting in shelves from the trunks of the trees themselves.

  “Quite a place,” she said, both she and Ceth looking to Kenta, who observed it all with his hands on his hips and a pleasant glint in his eye.

  “Aye,” the healer said. “Aye. That it is.”

  Ceth remembered some of his earlier paranoia and began to pace around them, peering into the trees and craning to get a look down darker paths that had few of the glowing growths. The butterflies and moths and winged insects did not bite, landing on their shoulders as if they hadn’t a fear of anything in these lands, but when Ceth grew tired of them, she heard that faint buzzing that signaled the use of his power and saw a clutch of them detach from his clothes and tumble away in a floating panic.

  “As good a place as any to make camp,” Kenta said, pointing at the borders of their small riverbank. He nodded toward the darker eastern trails Ceth was focused on. “Not much farther in, well as I can remember.”

  “And how well is that?” Ceth asked. Iyana did not think he meant to be callous, but Kenta did not look amused.

  “Well enough, newcomer,” he said, emphasizing the last word. Iyana winced and Ceth grimaced, glancing her way before he swallowed away a retort.

  Kenta had already guided Beast to an open patch where the grass on the edges of the bank was long enough to chew without ripping up clods of earth. He laid out his bedroll, sat down and sighed in apparent satisfaction before closing his eyes.

  Iyana and Ceth looked at one another, and when the Northman did not look away, Iyana only shrugged. “He says he knows the place,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” Ceth allowed, “but does the place know him as well as he seems to think it does?” He didn’t try to keep his voice as low as hers, but Kenta did not so much as twitch an eyelid.

  “We could use the rest,” she said, pulling her own bedroll from the pack hanging off Beast’s saddle. She paused as she regarded the bowed form of Sen, all covered and hanging, unceremonious. She looked to Ceth, who was leaning against a tree, arms crossed.

  “Help me, please,” she said. He frowned at her at first, and then, seeing the direction of her sorry gaze, moved over without complaint.

  Together, they slid Sen from the saddle and laid him down a short distance behind where Kenta slept and away from Beast’s hooves. The horse watched them, seemingly curious as to what sort of package he had been carrying and what they planned to do with it now that they had temporarily relieved him of its burden. Iyana reached for the covered head and felt a hand on her shoulder, or thought she had. When she turned her head, she saw that Ceth’s was inches away, and yet, as he withdrew a little more sharply than she would have expected, the wrinkles in her shirt returned as the smoothed folds rose again.

  “He is at rest,” Ceth said, turning away. Iyana watched him until he lay down—he did not use a bedroll, but rather lay on the soft, damp grass and turned onto his side, away from her and all the better to see the way ahead—and then she turned back to Sen’s prone, covered form and watched him for a while. She imagined the cloth below the modest ridge of his nose puffing up, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. But he was still, and Iyana wiped a tear from her cheek as she lay down and looked up into the night sky through the canopy.

  The stars were faint, washed out in the glow of the land around them. Iyana felt a deep sadness that she retreated from, and soon enough, it returned to that swell she had first felt upon seeing the glowing growth. She nearly shook her head, shocked that she did not know of it, that none of the Emberfolk seemed to, and that those who had been to this part of the Valley never seemed to speak of it. It seemed a land of bounty and wonder, to her, with nary a predator’s roar or an unhappy prey’s scream echoing in the dark like so often happened on the borders of the Untamed Hills to the west, not so far from Last Lake.

  Iyana supposed there was a reason for that. She knew her people had fought primarily with the Rivermen during the Valley Wars, and that those barrel-chested, hard-nosed men and women of the Fork had started the fighting with the Faey. At least, that was what she had been told. The Emberfolk, it had been said, had only had a few run-ins with the Faey. An ambush when their fighters strayed too far into the Eastern Valley. And, of course, a series of brutal, short and violent incidents at the close of the conflict, when revolutionaries from her own town and from Hearth and the Scattered Vi
llages had sought to take revenge on Faey who had done nothing to them, and less to the parents they had lost in the Valley Wars and whose memories they purported to uphold.

  Before she knew what had happened, Iyana closed her eyes and fell into sleep. She dreamed of her sister, seeing her in a far-off land that seemed indistinct, blank like an unpainted canvas, and cold. She saw others around her, but they were as indistinct as their surroundings, only the great shadow of Baas Taldis possible to guess.

  Iyana called out to her, reached out for her, and as Linn turned toward the sound, she faded from view. The howl of that faraway wind sounded closer, and Iyana woke with a start, or thought she did.

  She sat upright and looked around, feeling the presence of others. Kenta dozed without snoring. He was in the same position he had been when she had lain down. She looked to Ceth, who was still on his side. She thought he might be awake before she saw the steady rise and fall of his arm and ribs, too rhythmic to signal anything other than sleep. Beast gave a snort and she smiled at him. His brown eyes seemed to search her, imploring or wondering what had her so bothered.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she said, standing. She brushed away some of the loose blades of green that had clung to her and saw that she had left a chaotic impression in the grass, having rolled off her padding. She went to Beast and stroked his neck. The horse blinked long, getting what rest he could. He seemed hypnotized by the river, and looking now, looking closer, she couldn’t blame him.

  The water passed by in a rush, and though the lit plant life on both sides of it had dimmed some, it only made the brightness of the water stand out more. Iyana looked up into the sky, thinking it must be the work of the moon and stars, but clouds had come in from the east, blanketing the area and casting the canopy into shadows that were long, reaching and made her uneasy to look upon.

  She knelt on the river’s edge and pressed her palms into the spongey bank, fingers curling over to touch the wet soil just a foot above the water, and peered down into the shallow depths.

  Not so shallow as she thought.

  The water was remarkably clear. So much so that Iyana could see spurs deep down, where the submerged banks fell away. In the place of a gravel-strewn bottom, she saw what looked to be a spiked trench of glittering bluestone that reminded her of the caves in the deserts, though not so dark. At first, Iyana thought that perhaps the water itself was glowing, lit by some strange algae that grew along the surface, but when she dipped one hand in and raised it, her full palm held nothing but clear, cold water. There were shapes moving below, small fish darting from one curling eddy to the next, sheltering in tiny kingdoms of spurs and rocky hillocks. Far below, beneath jutting shelves and miniature cliffs, she thought she could see larger shapes moving like clouds below the surface.

  Iyana was so enamored with the sight, she leaned and nearly went over, her heart leaping as she caught and steadied herself. And though the shock of the near fall frightened her, she could not quite understand why her heart did not slow as she steadied herself.

  She felt the urge to look around, but felt frozen at the same time, held by the fear of being watched. She wondered if the Eastern Woods had any of the silver lions she knew wandered in the west. Perhaps a bear—or a gnashing badger, large, strong and set with sharp teeth and long claws—watched her from its nearby burrow. A shadow passed over her, and she whirled, lancing a hand out, palm up and fingers splayed, choking back the scream she wanted to unleash as her eyes flashed and threw green light onto the form that stood over her.

  Ceth froze, stiff as a plank, teeth gritted against the bondage she held him in. Her own tether was wrapped tightly around his. She had cast it out like a fishing line without intent, and saw his silver thread thrumming with the need to be free of it. His eyes were ahead, on the opposite bank, though she could see them quivering as he attempted to guide them down toward her. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and she heard the drone of his power and saw the blur along the edges of his skin.

  She gasped and released him, and instead of striking out at her or even looking in her direction, he spun toward the north. Beast whinnied and stamped at the sudden commotion, and Kenta began to stir too late. Ceth was off, and Iyana heard the shouts as he tore into the brush, which lit up in his torrid wake like a magical river of growth. They were high-pitched and frantic, and accompanied by the twang of bowstrings and the whistle of what she imagined to be slings with weighted stones.

  “Ceth!” she yelled, scrambling to her feet. She reached out and nearly snatched for him again, but cursed as Kenta tripped on his first attempt to rise.

  The shouts seemed to be coming from all around, and Iyana spun, the plants, mushrooms and even the vines of the nearby trees pulsing with flashing light, as if they were shouting along with their attackers, or perhaps sounding some silent alarm. She froze as she felt a closer presence, heard the parting of leaves and the slide of branches along metal.

  She turned back toward the river and saw a man standing on the opposite bank who looked stranger than any of the Faeykin she had seen before. Stranger because he was not like her, but was of this land, undeniably alien and undeniably wild. At least, that was how he appeared.

  He was tall and lean, with arms that seemed too long for his body and legs that seemed a hair too short. His chest was broad, but not well-muscled, and his torso narrowed down toward his waist. His face was angular and painted with light blue streaks that sparkled so it seemed like the blood of the very plants they stood among, and his ears below his short and spiky black hair were large and horizontal, with the pointed tips stretching back behind his neck. He wore what looked to be cloth inlaid with swirling silver metal, and as his chest rose and fell, Iyana imagined it was weightier than it appeared—some sort of woodland armor. He carried no weapons in hand, but a black bow was looped around his back and green-fletched arrows stuck out from behind his shoulder.

  Iyana heard the snap and crash of the trees around them and resisted the urge to turn again, to give her back to this stranger on the opposite shore, who watched, poised and unflinching. Kenta stepped before her and held his hands up in a gesture of peace, but she saw them begin to tremble as another shout and crash sounded from behind.

  The Faey man on the other side of the river leapt across, landing beside them. He made no move to strike out at them or to reach for them, only looked at them with a harsh, humorless expression. His eyes were darker than Iyana would have thought, given all the light around. Purple deep enough to appear the color of midnight, and he was even taller up close than she had imagined. Far taller than she thought the Faey were wont to be.

  He squared to meet them as Iyana and Kenta took an involuntary step back, and before Iyana could speak, she heard a grunt from the left and saw the trees part—break, more like—behind the Faey to admit the blistering charge of Ceth, who tore through the undergrowth like a spear of wind, peeling bark from the twin trunks and uprooting bushes in his wake.

  Iyana lent her voice to the chorus of shouts and called warnings, realizing Ceth’s run had been meant to draw this one out rather than spelling any true assault against those crouching on branches or hiding in bushes along the trails around them. The Faey turned too slow—none save for an Ember would have been quick enough—and Ceth snatched him by the throat in a blur, his whole form seeming to shimmer and shift as if he were standing in ten places at once, but each of them mere inches apart.

  The buzzing sound that signaled the use of his weighty power intensified as he lifted the Faey from the ground as if he were a child. The archer locked his hands around Ceth’s wrists as he choked. He braced his light brown boots against Ceth’s thrumming chest and pushed, and when that didn’t free him, he started kicking, thrashing, all to no avail.

  “Put him down!” Kenta screamed it before Iyana could. “Ceth! Set him down, now!”

  Kenta rushed around the struggling pair—the struggling one, rea
lly; Ceth seemed remarkably calm under the circumstances—and spread his arms out, seemingly to shield Ceth’s back from the forest itself.

  Iyana saw Ceth’s grip relax ever so slightly. He became less a blur and more a single image of the man she knew, though the buzzing only dipped by a few aching degrees. He lowered the Faey enough so that the tips of his boots brushed the grass, but did not set him down. Ceth’s gray eyes shifted toward Iyana and then back at the struggling man who was powerless in his grip. All she could do was shake her head, slowly, as she saw the rest of them detach themselves from the shadowed paths and hidden alcoves all around.

  There must have been a score—maybe more—all holding bows or gray blades that looked to be made of stone but whose sharp edges glinted in the dream light like only forged blades could.

  “We come as friends,” Kenta said, taking half a step to his left as one of the Faey—a female who looked no taller than Iyana—stepped forward more boldly than the others. She had an arrow nocked and raised it, pointing at Ceth’s side while Kenta attempted to shield him. She had a look that told Iyana she would have no trouble piercing the healer’s chest to strike the Landkist behind him. Iyana knew Ceth could turn aside bolts and missiles when he faced them head-on. She had no idea what would happen if he was shot from behind, if his attention was divided.

  “Stop,” Iyana said. Ceth frowned, thinking she was speaking to him, but when she said it again, the female archer—black of hair like the one struggling in Ceth’s grasp, like the majority of the rest, none of whom had the same silver-white strands as Iyana—spat into the grass and pulled the string of her bow, the fletchings beginning to slide forward as her steadying hand trembled.

  “Stop,” Iyana said for a third time, and now she flashed into her greensight. It was disorienting, at first, seeing so many threads, and those of the Faey were brighter than theirs, though they still came in all the varied hues she had come to expect from all living things. They were blue and green and sun yellow, with a few that were deeper reds and sapphires.