The Zi'veyn

by Kim Wedlock

  "And you think the artefact will be there?"

  Anthis managed a weak smile. "We should be so lucky. At best I'll find more information."

  "What do you know already?" Aria asked, her presence once again surprising all gathered as she took a careful step away from her father towards them. "Do you think you can find it?"

  Anthis blinked down at her. "...Well," he began slowly, wondering if it was worth simplifying his thoughts for her benefit, "from elven documents, journals and the like, there's reference to the ability to silence magic as a 'significant advancement', and that 'with further research and greater understanding of magic, endless possibilities could stem from it'. There's also more consistent mention of a 'great magical advancement' having been conceived in Mokhan, but I can't tell yet if that's in terms of someone having an idea or someone actually creating something. You see, many elven words have multiple meanings - like I said, elves were all about context - but in this case, while both meanings fit, they're both promising. And, finally, there's a name that keeps popping up around references to an object of cultural significance dated around the same time, and I know from past research that the individual is associated with the same place as the 'magical advancement'. I've believed for a long while that this 'advancement' is the artefact."

  Rathen shook his head at the vague, almost desperately gathered threads, but he said nothing about the likeliness of none of them being related.

  "I admit it's a bit of a stretch," Anthis said as he glanced at Rathen's back, "but I've been thinking about this for a while, and I usually have only a little more than this to work with at the beginning of most studies anyway."

  Garon nodded slowly, chewing it over for a long moment. "Well, if Rathen is right and mages can't remove this, then perhaps the elves can help us from the grave. It feels like a long shot, but it's either that or we sit out the effects of this magic and hope it resolves itself, but it will undoubtedly get worse before it gets better." He turned to the historian and inclined his head, his thoughtfulness replaced once more by formality. "Mister Karth, I thank you for your help, you and Rathen have certainly given me valuable insight. But, as this matter does directly involve magic, it can't be repaired overnight, so I'm afraid I must ask if you would be willing to lend me your continued support. You will be paid." He glanced to Rathen. "Both of you."

  Rathen froze just as he prepared to fetch Aria, mount the horse and be away from this nonsense, while a smile of disbelief crept across the young historian's face. A moment later he was nodding eagerly and beaming like a fool. "Certainly! Yes! I'd be honoured to continue helping your investigation, Inquisitor - for the good of everyone, of course," he quickly amended, but though his smile vanished momentarily in seriousness, he couldn't prevent it from creeping over him again. "And I admit I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited by the opportunity to put more work into the search for this artefact, at long last."

  "It may take some time," Garon warned him, but Anthis shook his head, grinning still, and again his infectious enthusiasm had fallen upon Aria as she bounced on the spot between them and her father.

  "That's fine - I don't like to stay in one place for too long anyway."

  "A restless historian?"

  "I study time," he clarified, "I don't wish to succumb to it. Any more than an hour in a library and I get antsy."

  Satisfied, Garon turned then towards Rathen, but the mage was already climbing into the saddle. Aria looked after him, disappointment filling her eyes, but though Rathen wanted to call her over, lift her up in front of him and leave the others to their wild goose chase, he found himself reluctant to speak. Reins in hand, ready to put the ruin behind him, he was suddenly racked with doubt.

  Try as he might, he simply couldn't shut out the voice of concern in his head. What Garon had told him of the lands to the north-east, and Kienza before him, had set him on edge already, but as he'd investigated this magic, a strange sensation had moved through him, a tingling through his veins as if his own magic was protesting its existence. This was true, raw magic, somehow completely disembodied, and if the Order had found some way to manipulate the magnetism, it was a reckless and foolish thing to do whether it was for the defence of the country or for use by rebels - though that theory was becoming less and less likely with every passing moment, as the magic's presence felt equally less intentional.

  And war was on their doorstep. Whether the Order was responsible or not, they would be obligated to turn their attention towards the impending battle; the Crown simply wouldn't allow them the opportunity to deal with internal matters like these. But magic as a whole was their responsibility, it was their duty to look into it, especially if it was putting people and whole settlements in danger...

  But, Rathen painfully reminded himself, the Order's actions were ultimately the Crown's decision, as lacking in intelligence as it might be, and if the Order wasn't investigating the matter - and neither Kienza nor the inquisitor had mentioned anything about them doing so - they weren't likely to start now.

  His eyes dropped down to Aria as she approached him, dragging her feet, clearly unwilling to leave but ready to do so all the same, and the corners of his mouth pulled downwards in further indecision. He couldn't let anything happen to her as a result of this, especially if he was capable of preventing it. Silverwood was only half a day's ride from the scowles; if the situation here worsened as it had in the north, it could come to affect them directly. The scowles could swallow his curious little home, with the both of them still in it.

  He hung his head and sighed wearily, then looked towards the inquisitor who had been staring at him all the while he'd been lost in thought. Anthis had wandered off to get another final look at the ruined arch. He sighed again, and his voice dropped in defeat. "What is it you think I can do in a search for an old relic? Stand there idly, waiting for someone to show me a brooch or something and sniff it for magic, then patch it up like an old maid? I was only a sahrot, I can't detect that kind of thing, and I have very little experience in repairing elven spells."

  "You heard Anthis," the inquisitor replied patiently, taking a step towards him, "your knowledge would help in his research; you could shed light on his findings and the matter would be dealt with all the quicker for it."

  "But I was a soldier, not a researcher."

  "Even so, you are still our best chance, and your knowledge of magic is most certainly superior to any of our own - and likely to most other mages. You were, as you said, a sahrot. That's equivalent to colonel, isn't it? It may not be sahrakh, but it's close."

  Rathen sighed again, and though he thought he'd come close to making a decision, he was discovering otherwise. "I've told you that this is magic, I've done as you've asked. What is it you expect from me now?"

  "What I would like from you," he began simply, "is to help us identify the artefact, repair it--"

  "I hasten to add that I was not a preserver, either. I can't say how much I'll be able to do until it's in front of me, and I may well not be able to do anything."

  "I realise that, but I'm confident you'll manage. And I would also like you to find a way to remove the magic without the use of the artefact, in case we can't find it."

  Rathen's eyes suddenly flashed. "Remove raw magic?!" He cried, startled, confusion spilling over him and making his first request seem suddenly quite reasonable. "It would be like taking magic from a mage! If the artefact did exist and was indeed capable of such a thing...well, there's a reason the elves would have gone through the trouble of making a vessel for the spell rather than just casting it directly themselves! It would be far too complex to weave, if anyone even had the magical capacity to complete it--in fact it very probably took several elves and quite some time to even get it into the artefact!"

  "But they had to create the spell before it could be stored inside it," Garon pointed out calmly.

  Rathen merely blinked. "Well...yes...of course they did," he conceded, "but--"

  "Then, in theory, such a
spell is possible."

  Despite all of his preliminary investigations, this inquisitor clearly hadn't bothered to do much reading on how magic worked. He spoke of it as if they were discussing the best placement for sewing on a new button. "The spell," he specified, rubbing his head, "yes, but, as I said, there's a reason the spell was stored in an object."

  "Part of that reason would have been elven flair and arrogance, remember," Anthis said from nearby, still studying the worn stones.

  "How would the spell work? In theory? Would it cause spells to disintegrate faster than natural? Stop magic from responding to the caster? Catch and trap released spells?"

  "Spells aren't butterflies, Inquisitor," the mage replied wearily, "and I really can't tell you how it could work. I suppose any of those could be possible, but it would be a very, very, very tall order; it would take a lot of time, a lot of study, and a lot of experimentation."

  "But," Garon said again, "it's a possibility."

  Rathen sighed. "Yes. It is - for the right person."

  "Well, I'm afraid only you can be that 'right person'."

  "Yes, yes, Order, rebellion, I remember." Rathen sighed again, then mumbled 'I was only supposed to confirm it was magic' before looking down at Aria, who peered back up at him with eyes that revealed a muddle of a thousand thoughts. There was one among them that he couldn't mistake: the hope that he wouldn't disappoint her. 'Or anyone else.' He cursed as he realised he was only adding more weight onto his own shoulders.

  His eyes shifted back onto Garon. "I really don't know how you expect me to achieve this," he told him with firm belief in his own limits, "but...I don't like the things I see when I think about turning away from it. If the Order isn't already investigating this, they're not about to start. And, as much as I desperately wish otherwise, I'm the only one exempt from their orders and with the time to see to this."

  "So you're with us?" Anthis asked hopefully as he stepped back up beside the inquisitor. He'd either forgotten their previous clash, or now viewed Rathen as merely a means to complete what would apparently be a ground-breaking study.

  But even as his mind continued to turn under the burning gaze of three pairs of eyes and their varying degrees of hope, Rathen slowly nodded. "Yes..." His gaze turned reluctantly onto the inquisitor. "If all previous conditions still stand."

  "Until you're safely back home," Garon assured him.

  Rathen sat a little taller in the saddle and gave a single, decisive nod. "Then...I suppose I'm with you."

  Aria squealed in delight and hurried over to be helped onto the horse, but though Rathen smiled, pleased she was pleased, the weight that settled upon him as he lifted her into the front of the saddle was uncomfortably familiar. It seemed he was once again facing another's heavy expectations for him to exceed himself.

  He deeply wished Kienza was around to offer a suggestion.

  "Most of my notes are at my home in Kora," Anthis informed them as he hurried over to the horses, tucking his little book back in the saddle bag before climbing onto his own, "but I can work without them for now."

  "Kora is only three days away, it would be worth heading over. You surely can't recall every detail from memory."

  "You'd be surprised," Anthis grinned, "but I suppose I can't know what I'd need to cross-reference. Plus I've not been there in...seven weeks?"

  "How can you call it a home if you haven't been there for seven weeks?!" Rathen asked, stunned, and Aria stared back, open-mouthed at the absurdity.

  But Anthis only smiled. "It's part of the job."

  Chapter 6

  It was late; midnight had come and gone, but Salus continued to pace up and down the length of his office, his movements so constant the candles seemed to predict them, their flames flickering back and forth with him in perfect synchrony. But the shadows shifting along the walls were of little distraction, instead they lulled him deeper into his worries, and his folded arms tightened across his chest.

  He was wasting his time by fretting, but though he knew there could be only one outcome, he still wrestled with the what-ifs and worst case scenarios, wondering almost desperately if there wasn't still something he could do to change it. Only the steady knock at the door managed to freeze his feet, but he equally knew he didn't need to hear the news his visitor had brought with him.

  "Come in," he said anyway, moving behind his desk with a sigh, and Teagan silently stepped inside to stop rigidly in the centre of the room as the door clicked shut behind him. Salus waved his hand for him to begin, though he didn't sit down. This wouldn't take long.

  "The decisive blow came three hours ago," the portian told him dutifully, neither wasting a moment nor delivering the words with any trace of caution. "Kalokh was already weak in forces, and when their general was killed, their morale shattered. They've fled; Skilan is victorious."

  Salus growled and slammed his fist on the desk despite his identical expectations, but he said nothing, and Teagan didn't react. The keliceran leaned upon his fists and stared down at the table for a long while, his eyes surely boring a hole through the polished wood, while the portian waited patiently, keeping his hard eyes fixed respectfully on the wall. Perfect silence enveloped them until Salus finally sighed.

  "The world is a mess," he said at last, his shoulders slumping, "and though we can see what's coming, all we can do is defend against it." He shook his head and pushed himself upright, folding his arms and pressing his fingers into his biceps again. "The Arana stops most things before they're even set into motion, but for some reason, as soon as something does manage to begin and the public gets wind of it, the Crown holds us back, even if there's still something we can do to stop it."

  "The Arana is adept," Teagan agreed, "but we can't stop everything. And at least by allowing things to happen from time to time, the Arana is kept out of public knowledge. That makes it harder for enemies to know where to find us, or to know when we're involved. The military is a public force; if they were never put into action, Turunda would seem suspicious even in the view of its own citizens."

  "As true as that may be," Salus sighed, "I wish there was no need for the Arana or the military. Lives are lost in service to both." He shook his head again and finally dropped into his seat, calmed by his own frustration, and though he gestured for Teagan to do the same, he, as always, declined. "If only there was a way to safeguard the country without it costing any lives..."

  Teagan's gaze slipped to rest briefly upon him, and noted the distance in his superior's eyes. He was already staring a thousand miles away from beneath the frown that had plagued his face for the past few weeks, and it took ever longer for the keliceran's attention to return.

  "Inform the general," he finally sighed, fully intending to provide suggestions to the Crown for the Arana's usage though he knew they'd be pushed aside, and he leaned wearily back in his chair as he, too, pushed the matter out of his mind. "How many agents are still out?" He asked, moving on to his next thought.

  "Six of those recalled are still to arrive."

  "I hope they do arrive. Dead men can't exactly send word of their demise, and we can't do without them."

  Teagan continued to study him. "When did you last sleep?"

  The papers on his desk suddenly screamed for his attention. "Two nights ago," he replied with disregard.

  "Then perhaps you should go and get some rest."

  "You're dismissed."

  He rearranged the papers, setting them in a tidy stack without dignifying Teagan with a glance. But, of course, his favoured operative didn't react to the attitude. A portian could never take insult, it was beyond what little of their humanity remained after their conditioning. Instead he inclined his head, bid the keliceran goodnight and left on silent feet, his report concluded.

  Salus stared down at the now jumbled reports as the door clicked shut, but he quickly stopped seeing them, his attention lost again to his equally muddled thoughts.

  Despite all of his best efforts, war was finally falling
upon them, and certainly for no good reason. It was little more than a grudge being indulged while high on winnings, and the Crown would surely reject any proposals to stop the situation before Skilan even began marching their way - just like they had his request to increase the Arana's presence along the borders. But he couldn't help wondering if, despite how patient King Thunan had been with King Jalund's attempts to stir up trouble over the past few years, he equally yearned to clash with him. In fact, he'd found himself wondering from time to time if the king didn't actually seek the country's downfall himself with each of Salus's proposals he turned away - but on each of those occasions, as he did now, he was also forced to concede that they'd had worse rulers in the past, individuals who must truly have made his own predecessors wonder if their efforts weren't for nothing.

  The more he thought about it, the easier he realised his job must have been compared to that of the keliceran in charge under King Ellory just twenty five years ago - not that that changed the weight of his present ordeals.

  In the end he could only do so much, and if the king held the Arana back, he surely had a reason beyond a childish desire to respond to the Skee King's constant jibes and insults - and keeping the organisation out of public knowledge was certainly not something Salus wished to change. Ultimately, whatever came of it, the Arana would be prepared to handle it from the shadows while the military maintained the public's attention, offering the simpler folk pride in their country's sense of honour to handle issues face to face while the more grisly tasks were left to 'ghosts'.

  A tired spasm forced his leg to jolt upwards, tearing his mind back to the office as his kneecap struck the underside of his desk. His lip curled resentfully at the brief, dull pain, but he sighed to himself and sat straighter in his seat rather than concede to his weariness, and looked back down at the reports. He still had work to do.