Light Mage

by Laurie Forest

  “I have to set the wards,” he says after a long moment, his words edged with lingering concern.

  I nod and draw away from him and his lulling pull and his hope for a different world.

  I’ll never have anyone and I’ll never be free. They’ve ruined that for me. Forever.

  Heavy with grief-filled exhaustion, I slump back against the cushions behind me as Ciaran leaves, and soon I drift off into a dark sleep.

  * * *

  I waken to the sound of Zeymir playing a mournful tune on a triangular stringed instrument, his low baritone warm as he sings in Ishkart. Ciaran is not in the room, and I immediately feel the lack of him.

  Za’ya is sitting cross-legged and still as a statue in front of her small altar, straight-backed and peaceful. A series of tiny oil lamps are lit in a semicircle in front of Za’ya’s goddess statue and send up a soft glow.

  I think of how my people would view this. Idolatry is one of the worst crimes possible in Gardneria—a crime my people are hoping to avenge with death someday. But...she’s so tranquil, her arms gracefully lifted, her palms up as she quietly chants in her language, as if she’s waiting for a gift.

  I settle deeper into the cushion and allow myself be lulled by Zeymir’s rich voice, by Za’ya’s gentle chanting, and I realize that they all did find a home here. Maybe not a home where they wanted it to be, but a warm, colorful new home.

  My eyes are drawn back to Za’ya’s goddess statue and the ring of purple flowers at its base. Her skin is patterned with emeralds like Za’ya’s, her arms open wide, her face serene. On her shoulder is perched a small, white bird.

  Za’ya grows silent and turns to look at me. I flush and look to the floor, embarrassed to be caught staring at her.

  Za’ya’s soft footfalls pad in my direction, and she sits down beside me. “I didn’t mean to be staring at you,” I tell her, abashed.

  Za’ya rubs the back of my hand. “What’s troubling you, Sagellyn?”

  “Watching you pray...” I trail off. “It’s just... I used to pray, too. All the time. And now... I’m cursed.” I’m suddenly overcome with the hopeless certainty of this, and a tear courses down my cheek. “I’m running from a sacred fasting, and now the Ancient One will cast me off.”

  “No,” she says gently, reaching up to stroke my hair. “Your people’s stories about the Ancient One have cast you off. Not the Ancient One. Not Oo’na.”

  Za’ya must see the confusion on my face, becuse she pulls her necklace off and hands it to me. There’s a beautiful white bird pendant hanging from it. “That’s your bird, is it not?” she askes me.

  I shake my head, not understanding. “No, it’s your bird.”

  “It is. And yours, too. Take it, ti’a’lin. A gift.”

  Unsure, I take it and examine the dangling pendant. The Ancient One’s white bird, I think. And her Goddess’s bird, too. Here. In this place. It’s such an outrageous thought, it sends a ripple of rebellious amusement through me that feels unexpectedly and deeply comforting. I slip the necklace over my head and tuck the small bird inside my tunic. Za’ya pulls me in and hugs me close, and I smile shakily at her. Then she rises, humming, and sits down before a weaving loom near her altar.

  I fall asleep again to Zeymir’s mournful tunes coaxed from perfectly tuned strings, to the soft clacking of Za’ya’s loom, my thoughts on ivory tree branches and beautiful white birds.

  “Sagellyn.”

  Ciaran’s warm, deep voice wakes me, his hand gentle on my shoulder.

  “It’s time,” Za’ya says to me from beside him, her tone low and cautionary.

  I nod, bleary-eyed, and grasp Ciaran’s hand as he helps me up, but am soon fully awakened by a rush of fear that speeds my heart.

  Nightfall.

  Ciaran keeps his hand firmly around mine and I make no move to pull away from him—instead, my grip on him tightens. I turn to find Zeymir and Za’ya taking in our clasped hands with a trace of unease, but they remain silent, a resigned, shadowed look passing between them.

  * * *

  I’m awakened a few hours later by the deep green searchlights pulsing through Ciaran’s room, sparking off the wards, feeling wildly disoriented as I struggle to wake.

  Retta? Clover?

  My chest tightens as I frantically search for my sisters before remembering where I am. Fear surges through me as I gasp for air and sit up, panic swiftly overtaking me.

  “Sagellyn.”

  Ciaran is kneeling by the edge of my cot, his hand on my arm as he looks at me with the same pained understanding that was there last night. I struggle for breath and it all comes rushing back—how I’m permanently cut off from my family, my people. From my sisters.

  His hand comes to my shoulder as he murmurs to me in another tongue, his thumb gently brushing along my neck, and I hear the word ti’a’lin.

  My breath shudders and I reach out to grab onto his arm, holding tight to him, my hand trembling. Ciaran pulls me into a comforting embrace, and I cling to him as the search spell pulses and fear whips through me.

  “Ti’a,” he murmurs, caressing my hair. “You’re safe.” He holds me tight until my ragged breathing steadies and I get hold of myself again.

  “I can’t go back,” I say into the crook of his neck, my whisper rough with rebellion. “I won’t go back.”

  Ciaran’s lips brush against my hair. “You won’t have to, ti’a.” He strokes my back, holding me close, and it feels so right—so completely right and safe to be held by him.

  I take another deep shuddering breath, my lips brushing against his long neck as I do so, my Mage lines pulling toward him. “What does ‘ti’a’ mean?” I ask him, suddenly even more aware of his comforting warmth, his solidly masculine presence, his hand splayed out on my back, his breath against my hair.

  I draw back slightly and hold his gaze, fractals of green light sparking in my vision in response to his rune-sorcery, my affinity lines tingling warm and bright as I let myself fall into his magic and he lets himself fall into mine.

  “It means ‘beloved,’” he says, an impassioned longing in his eyes.

  I don’t know who initiates the kiss, but his mouth is suddenly on mine, soft and seeking, as I draw him close. I don’t know who initiates our second kiss or our third or our fourth. I only know that kissing him is everything I’ve ever longed for. Everything I’ve ever wanted. Like coming home to a place I was always meant to find.

  We cling to each other and kiss deep into the night, soft and gentle, lingering and careful. And then not so careful, as the search spell pulses around us and all through the surrounding darkness.

  Chapter 9: Rune-Blade

  When I stir from sleep, Ciaran is already gone, the blankets around me mussed in a fitful tangle that mirrors my emotions at finding him absent. I touch my lower lip, my face warming as I remember the feel of his mouth on mine, the two of us wrapped around each other for most of the night—a new thrall cast over me that has nothing to do with his rune-sorcery.

  This sudden strong attraction to him is what I was supposed to feel for my fastmate on the day of my sealing.

  A thought jolts through me with staggering force.

  It’s today.

  Today is the day I was supposed to be sealed to Tobias. I glance down at my spidery fastlines, my heartbeat kicking up. Nausea sweeps through me and I grip at the edge of the bed, feeling like I’m about to retch.

  * * *

  “We’ll need to move you soon,” Za’ya tells me gently over breakfast.

  Zeymir and Za’ya are sitting inside with me while everyone else is off working. Na’bee has been sent to do lessons in his room. The low table holds a teapot full of amber tea and a platter of fried breakfast cakes made from leftover nu’duls, colorful cave mushrooms, eggs and spices.

  “We have a safe house in Eastern Verpacia,”
Zeymir tells me, setting down his tea. “Ciaran is there now, warding it against search spells.”

  “I can’t leave for good without my sisters,” I remind him.

  “There is nothing you can do for them now without endangering yourself, Sagellyn,” Zeymir says. “Your family has reported you missing to the Verpacian Guard and to the Vu Trin forces, as well as to your Mage Council. The Verpacian Guard is going to allow Fifth Division Gardnerian trackers into Verpacia to find you. Postings with your face on them are being hung everywhere.”

  Za’ya’s hand comes to mine. “Do you understand now why you need to be moved, ti’a? And quickly?”

  I struggle to blink back the tears that well up at the thought of leaving Retta and Clover behind...and the thought of leaving everyone here. But I also don’t want to place them at risk, especially when they’ve done so much to protect me.

  And I want a chance at a new life. A life that I can truly call my own.

  Za’ya’s emerald hand tightens on mine. “Sagellyn,” she says softly. “We are not abandoning you. We know what it is like to be alone in a strange place. With nowhere to go, and no way of ever going back. We are all headed toward the Noi lands eventually, and there may be a way to get you there as well, since—like all of us—you possess something that is very rare. And potentially very useful to the Noi military.”

  I wipe my tears away with the palm of my hand. “I might have quite a lot of light magery,” I tell them. “My parents wouldn’t tell me my Mage level, but I’ve overheard things... I know they were concerned about the Mage Council finding out about my level of power.” My tone takes a bitter turn. “They felt that following The Book of the Ancients was more important than my being a Council Light Mage. Because The Book says that females aren’t supposed to have wands.”

  Za’ya considers me thoughtfully. “Rivyr’el was able to ward you. Which means you must have significant power.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Barrier wards, like the one he warded you with, can only be drawn in by a strong magical pull. Magic is like a magnet to those wards,” she explains. “So you must be a powerful Light Mage and rune-sorcerer.”

  I blink at her as her affirmation of what I’ve always suspected sinks fully in.

  “But unlike us,” Za’ya continues, “you will be able to work the runes of any system and link them together into new powers, because Light Mages can fabricate any rune. The Noi will have a strong interest in this, and for this reason would most probably accept you, even though you are Gardnerian.”

  “They would likely enroll you in the Wyvernguard,” Zeymir says.

  “What’s that?” I ask curiously.

  “The Noi military academy,” Zeymir tells me. “Where they train the Vu Trin soldiers.”

  Shock roils through me at the idea, followed closely by a clutch of sudden distress. “I have to save my sisters,” I insist, desperation rising. “I can’t leave for the Eastern Realm without them. I just can’t.”

  Za’ya takes a deep breath and tilts her head slightly in acknowledgment and agreement. “You will save them—someday. But first you have to save yourself.”

  * * *

  At midday Rivyr’el shows up, his flamboyance dampened to a chastened wariness, as if he’s trying to regain Za’ya’s favor—and perhaps win mine. He gives me a dazzling glass prism that dances with rainbows as it catches the light, the beauty of it stealing my breath away.

  “So you can remember,” Rivyr tells me with a wry grin, “that there’s more than black in this world.” He winks at me, his eyes flashing with glitter.

  I look down at the sparkling prism, the diamond-cut crystal sending a prickle of delight through my affinity lines and prompting an entrancing rainbow of sparks to appear in my vision. I glance up at Rivyr, who momentarily appears covered in rainbows, and smile. “Thank you,” I tell him, touched by his kind gesture.

  Rivyr dips his head with graceful formality, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You are welcome, my sweet rune-mage.”

  Za’ya watches Rivyr with her arms crossed tight as he strides over to Na’bee, pulls a wrapped package from under his cloak and hands it to him. Na’bee excitedly pulls open the parchment wrapping and exclaims something happily in Ishkart as he holds up a black stallion toy and a whimsical stuffed bear wearing Keltic clothing to sit astride it. Na’bee launches himself at Rivyr, hugging both the young Elf and his new toys tightly. Rivyr looks sidelong at Za’ya, an impish grin on his face, and Za’ya snorts. She motions for him to sit, then roughly sets a bowl of nu’duls down in front of the Elf with a clatter.

  Later, after Rivyr has taken his leave, a rumpled, ash-sullied, leather-aproned Wyla briefly stops in to grab food and talk to Za’ya in Ishkart. Their eyes dart toward me occasionally, and my ears pick out my name a few times. Finally, Wyla strides over to me, a fiery look in her eyes as she pulls one of her daggers from the holster on her thigh and hands it to me, handle out.

  It’s a gorgeously wrought Ishkartan rune-blade, with deep violet leather wrapped around its hilt and glowing golden Ishkartan runes set along the length of the blade.

  “For you,” she says. “You will learn to use your wand and you will learn to use this blade.”

  “I can’t...” I protest.

  “Yes, you can,” Wyla insists, pushing the blade forward. “Take it. You have cried much over this terrible thing that happened to you. But it is time to stop crying, Sagellyn.” The burn in her eyes becomes a blaze. “Soon it will be time to fight them instead.”

  I take hold of the knife, the Ishkartan runes glowing brighter as I take it in hand. The circular aspects of the rune design widen and fill in with more intricate runic markings, the blade and hilt suddenly pulsing with every color imaginable. The blade is lighter than I would have expected, with a wickedly sharp edge, and I can make out some aspects of the golden runes that are coming to life on its hilt and blade, remembering them from Gwynn’s grimoires.

  Accuracy, conflagration, decimate.

  * * *

  I don’t see Ciaran again until just before nightfall. It turns out to be a quiet night—no search spells. The runes in his bedroom are peaceful and still as I sit on the cot by the window, immersed in one of his books about the history of the Eastern Realm.

  Ciaran’s eyes immediately find me when he enters the bedroom, and his face lights with a quiet elation. My heart starts a slow, pounding rhythm in response to his nearness and the intensity of his attention, my affinity lines drinking in his deep red hair, the vivid green of his eyes, the handsome lines of his face.

  I have a million questions to ask him, but all my thoughts tangle in on themselves as I remember our wonderful, heated kisses.

  Ciaran sits down next to me and opens a palm on his knee in invitation. I set aside the book and slide my hand into his, shivering with delight when his fingers close around mine. I smile at him as warmth slides through my lines.

  “I missed you,” I tell him shyly as he trails his thumb over mine, my heartbeat tripping over itself in response to his caress.

  “I missed you, too,” he says, the green light in his eyes sparking, his magical pull wrapping around me. “We’ve only known each other for a few days, but... I want to be with you all the time now.”

  “I feel the same way,” I breathlessly tell him, loving his calm, reflective manner and how he listens to me in such fully absorbed silence. “When I’m with you, I don’t feel so alone anymore. I feel...understood.”

  He gives me the trace of a smile. “Maybe we should always stay together, then.”

  My mouth twitches into a besotted grin. “I like that idea.”

  Ciaran’s smile widens, mirroring my own, and I feel like we’ve just made a quiet, unshakable declaration, the two of us aligned now, from here on in.

  Ciaran’s gaze lights on the rune-blade that’s now
sitting on the small table at the head of my cot. He looks to me questioningly. “You’ve a rune-blade now?”

  “Wyla gave it to me. She wants me to learn how to fight with it. Along with the wand.” I gesture toward the belt-sheath that sits on the table beside the blade. “She gave me a sheath for the blade as well.”

  Ciaran’s lip lifts at this. “Wyla likes her weapons.”

  “How did she come to live with all of you?” I ask curiously. “I heard a rumor that Zeymir’s married to both Za’ya and Wyla. That’s not true, is it?” I’ve noticed that Zeymir has a paternal manner around Za’ya, and he looks old enough to be her father.

  A shadow passes over Ciaran’s face. “Zeymir is married to Wyla. On paper, at least. It was the only way he and Za’ya could rescue Wyla from a brothel she’d been sold to. She was fourteen.”

  Shock blasts through me, and I draw in a tight breath, horrified.

  “He married her as a formality,” Ciaran explains. “It was the only way to get her out of Issani territory. Zeymir and Za’ya had traveled there because it was the only place that would allow them to marry. While they were there, they happened upon Wyla, who begged them for help. So Zeymir married Wyla as well, which broke the brothel’s legal hold on her, and then Zeymir and Za’ya took her in. She’s like a daughter to them.”

  I understand this thing that was done to her. Wyla’s impassioned words flash into my mind, and an even fiercer gratitude for her help swells inside me—and a bone-deep sorrow for what Wyla’s probably endured.

  “Why wasn’t she able to free herself with her magic?” I ask him.

  “Her rune-sorcery didn’t surface until a few years after her rescue.”

  I consider this. “What would have happened if Zeymir hadn’t rescued her?”

  Ciaran inclines his head in thought. “Probably an arranged marriage to a warlord, once her rune-sorcery became apparent.”