There’s one more thing…
Vykers yelped in pain. It was nothing he couldn’t handle; he’d known pain of every kind. But the sudden shock of it caught him off guard.
Gods, I’m burning all over. What is that?
That, my friend, is the cost of channeling and shaping magic. It’s what we feel every time we make the effort. It is, in fact, the reason we’re called ‘Burners.’
Vykers was shivering, pulsing and shaking by turns. Thought it was because you loved fire.
Arune snickered. Hardly. Pain is the price for using magic. The more we use it, the bigger the effort, the more it burns throughout our bodies. More than a few of my brethren have been driven mad by it, others try to deaden themselves with smoke or drink.
I’m not surprised. Vykers thought in reply, wiping sweat from his brow.
But some, some become addicted to the sensation. They’re the ones you want to avoid. They’re the ones…
Vykers couldn’t understand the rest, wracked as he was with uncontrollable spasms. Eventually, all he could do was moan.
*****
He could stand. It was hard to believe, since there was no obvious means of support beneath his ankles, but it was hard to deny as well.
Vykers grinned. “That’s more like it!” He made a fist.
Can you feel that?
Yes. He laughed. It’s the damnedest thing. Feels just like it should.
Do you trust me now?
Again, he laughed. Not a chance!
What’s next?
I need a weapon.
Have you forgotten my other talents?
Let’s just say I’m not anxious to feel that burning again.
You’re smarter than you let on.
Part of my training. Now, I think I’ll make me a good, heavy staff and a couple of spears. Vykers said, looking out into the morning through the mouth of the cave. And then...then, the long slog back to civilization.
~ TWO ~
Long & Company, On the Road
What he’d done back in Corners, he could do just as well in Farnsley, Long figured. The women might even be better looking or more grateful. He damned sure wasn’t going to continue on this schoolboy’s fantasy, not with what happened to Short.
“Who’s up for a little warm brekkie?” Janks asked.
“Fuck that!” Long spat. “Let’s just get to Farnsley.”
Long saw Janks and Spirk exchange sullen looks, but he couldn’t have cared less. He glanced over at D’Kem; the cryptic bastard was as unreadable as ever. Once they got to town, they’d have a reckoning, Long thought. He’d never liked Burners, especially ones who didn’t pull their own weight. Finished saddling up his nag, Long didn’t wait for his companions’ consent, but started off down the road.
Janks watched him with a mixture of frustration and disgust.
“Everyone mourns after his own fashion,” D’Kem said softly. “Does him credit, in a way.”
Janks snorted. “He’d spit in yer eye for saying so.”
“Mmmm,” the old Burner nodded. “Nonetheless.”
By the time his fellows had mounted up, Long was a good quarter mile down the road. “Just get to Farnsley,” he told himself, “just get to Farnsley.”
Two days later, they did get there. At first glance, Long was not impressed. Spirk, on the other hand, seemed impressed by everything.
“Wouldja look at this place? They got a wall and a gate and everything! I mean, look at this place!”
“So long’s they’ve got beer, I’m happy.” Janks said. “I could really use a beer.”
“You could really use a bath,” Long retorted, in the closest thing he’d shown to good humor in some time.
“If I remember rightly, there’s an inn just off the Guards’ Walk, to the left over there.” D’Kem pointed.
Long glared at him and headed off to the right.
“’Course, we’ll probably find something that way, too.” Janks added, helpfully.
“No.” Long said firmly. “I need some time alone. You go off with the idiot and the Burner and I’ll catch up with you later.”
Janks was about to yell at him, but finally shrugged and headed off to the Guards’ Walk. “Suit yourself, Long. You always do in the end.”
Spirk and D’Kem stood between the two men and watched for a moment in silence as they continued off in opposite directions.
D’Kem turned to Spirk. “Well, boy?”
“Janks is better company just now.” Spirk said.
“Just now?” the old man asked. After a pause he said, “You don’t get irony and sarcasm, do you, boy?”
“It’s ‘cause I try to bathe at least once a fortnight.”
*****
Aoife, Remembering
In the intervening years, Aoife hadn’t come close to catching up with Anders, much less killing him. And even if she had, she still had no idea how to best him. From all she’d seen and heard, he had grown more influential and powerful by the day. Though she travelled more or less in his wake, she never ceased to be amazed and appalled by the magnitude of his dark talent or his hunger for destruction. Every new town, battlefield or corpse seemed even more uniquely defiled than its predecessor.
But what in Alheria’s name was he after? What did he want?
After leaving her parents’ home, Aoife had seen no choice but to enter the Sisterhood. Her brother – her own brother! –- had taken her maidenhead and spilled his seed inside her. She needed every tool at the Church’s disposal to insure that seed did not quicken. She would rather have died.
But the Church and Alheria smiled on her. The Sisters bought the sad tale she told them of having been waylaid by bandits on the way to market, bandits who killed the rest of her party – including her parents – and then took turns raping her. The Sisters ministered to Aoife’s physical and spiritual wounds for months, and then one day the Mother Superior came to her cell.
“Aoife,” she said, gently, waking her from a day dream.
“Mother Superior!” the girl gasped, shocked and surprised to see the head of the order in her room.
“I hope I am not intruding…” the Mother trailed off.
“No, no. Not at all. I am honored.” Aoife answered.
“Thank you, child. The Sisters tell me you’re as mended as you’re like to be. And so the time has come for you to make a choice.”
Aoife said nothing, afraid she was about to be turned out.
“Though it may not be the choice you’re expecting. I am told you have some talent, but you may be unaware of it.”
“What?” Aoife asked, feeling stupid. “Talent?”
“Don’t be alarmed. It’s not a major talent, but it’s more than sufficient for our work, here.” The bemused look on Aoife’s face was so comical, the Mother Superior couldn’t suppress a grin. “You exhibit some beneficial energies that can be trained to aid in healing. Elsewise, you probably wouldn’t have recovered as quickly as you have. The Sisters have recommended I offer you the rank of initiate.”
Aoife remained dumbfounded.
“Which carries with it a life of service and marriage only to the Faith.”
And still Aoife was silent.
The older woman finally bowed her head. “That,” she said, “is too long a pause. In such cases – and we do get them – I recommend the girl in question return to the village until such time as her thoughts on the matter are more clear.”
“Yes, Mother Superior,” Aoife replied, deflated.
“Our door is always open to you, child. Remember that. We have many sisters who did not join the order until much later in life. You can come back, if you wish. When you’re ready.”
And ready she was, for better or worse, with the passage of six long, heartbreaking years. Aoife had accepted the hand of a tinker’s apprentice in marriage. He was not a wealthy man or ever like to be one, but he loved her – or said he did – and, being a young woman without family, name or dowry, Aoife believed she could do
no better. She tried to love him in return, how she tried! But when year-after-year brought no children, her husband lost interest, grew distant, apathetic and then downright hostile. Divorce was not common in their village, but when a wife proved barren, a husband was invariably forgiven his vows and allowed to move on.
With a profound sense of regret and not a little bitterness, Aoife realized that motherhood and romance were not to be part of her destiny. For a few days, perhaps even weeks, she was lost, unsure what to do with herself. And then she remembered the A’Shea and the Mother Superior’s offer. Yet there remained a shadow over her future, in the form of her brother. Aoife felt such anger towards him, such need for vengeance. It frightened her how much she hated him. At the same time, perhaps healing was her only option to counter Ander’s destructive nature. And, in her previous sojourn with the Sisterhood, she’d come to like and respect more than a few of the A’Shea. Also, she felt…safe.
Finally, nervous and with great humility (as if she needed more), Aoife returned to the Mother Superior.
The older woman raised an eyebrow upon seeing her and sported a wry smile. “This is a good day, an excellent day. Welcome to the Sisterhood.” And that was it.
And the Mother Superior was right: it had been an excellent day, but those that followed in its wake were long and hard. It seemed to Aoife that she spent every waking moment learning the names of useful plants, minerals and other natural substances, in addition to various bodily organs and their functions, along with more menial tasks like mopping floors, carrying firewood and cleaning the jakes. And, of course, there was always plenty of praying to be done.
The first of her teachers – and by far her favorite – was the Tarn A’Shea, Henta.
“My job,” Henta told her one day, “is to teach you as much as you can absorb…” Then she trailed off laughing. “Absorb! As much as you can absorb about water!”
“Is there truly so much to know?”
Henta giggled again. “Of course. It’s water that humbles the mightiest mountains, carves the widest riverbeds, quenches the fiercest fires. It’s water that cleans a wound, satisfies the thirsty, nurses the seedling.”
“I see.”
Henta’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Do you?” She strode to a nearby table and snatched an apple from a wooden bowl in its center. Opening her hand, she let the apple rest in the flat of her palm. Slowly, the apple shriveled until it was less than a quarter its size. Juice oozed out its top and coalesced into a small, sparking sphere just above the stem. Henta let the apple fall away, keeping her focus on the free-floating pool of liquid above her hand. Suddenly, it froze and plopped into her palm. “Open up!” Henta commanded, pointing at Aoife’s mouth. Nervously, the girl did as ordered, and Henta popped the grape-sized sphere between her lips.
“Mmmm!” Aoife smiled, her eyes wide as saucers. “That’s delicious. And chilly, too!”
“Bah!” Henta laughed. “A cheap parlor trick! Still, it illustrates my point: those who know how to command water and its cousins are never without resources.”
Aoife was less fond of Zaff, the Gale A’Shea, who seemed in a permanent state of irritation and impatience. Perhaps both her magic and her personality came from the winds.
“Pay attention, girl!” Zaff yelled, batting Aoife about the ears. You will either master the winds or they will master you.”
“M-m-master?” Aoife managed. “The Mother says I’ve only a small talent.”
“Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black…” Zaff muttered, sourly.
Aoife was shocked at such disrespect.
“Oh, don’t look so stunned, you idiot child! Myeen’s a wonder at administrative tasks, but she’s far from the most gifted among us.”
“But…but…”
“’T’ain’t me, neither, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Then who? Aoife wondered. The Green A’Shea? The Blood A’Shea? Or the ever-imposing Ember A’Shea? Surely not the ethereal Moon A’Shea. Perhaps there were others she hadn’t yet –
“Oh, stop that. You’re transparent as one of Henta’s ice crystals. It’s Shestie you’re after.”
Aoife could not have been more surprised if the Baker’s man had stripped himself naked, painted himself purple and danced around the courtyard singing “All Ye Wenches, Dance A the Daye.”
Shestie was, from all appearances, touched in the head…and not much else in the head. She was short, round and rather homely. She was missing several teeth and her stub nose veered decidedly to the left, which might have explained her painful shyness. Shestie spent most of her days waving at dandelion fluff (when the season was right) and chasing dust bunnies (when it was not). Aoife was embarrassed to think she’d mostly regarded the older woman with pity, but now…Zaff claimed she was the order’s most gifted A’Shea? Such a thing could hardly be credited, had it not come from the largely humorless and never generous Gale A’Shea.
“W-w-what is her…I mean, what does she…?” Aoife began.
“That’s just it: she seems to be able to do just about any damned thing she wants. None of us has the first idea how she does it, or why she chooses to spend her time as she does.” Zaff scratched her somewhat hairy chin and turned away. “Begone, urchin! You’ve ruined my mood. There’ll be no more lessons today!”
As Aoife turned to go, she marveled at these mysterious Sisters she’d chosen to dedicate her life to serving.
Unlike Shapers, for whom channeling mystic energies was painful at best and excruciating at worst, the A’Shea felt euphoria as long as their casting endured. In its aftermath, however, they felt emptiness, despair, even occasionally suicidal. For some, this caused a desire to begin casting again immediately. Others decided the boundless pleasure of casting was not worth the bottomless depths of depression they felt afterwards, better to keep an even keel.
*****
Vykers and Arune, In the Forest
“So, you think you can get us back to some peopled lands?” Vykers asked Arune as he strode out of the cave and into the morning sunlight. “I’ve got folks who owe me favors just about anywhere we might go.”
Yes, along with just as many or more who’d want your head on a spit.
“They want it, they’re welcome to try and take it. It’s been a long time, but I’m in a killing mood, now. A little bloodshed to wash the dirt from my skin would suit me fine.”
Don’t get yourself killed, Tarmun…
“Vykers, to you. Vykers.”
Vykers. Remember: it’s my body, too, for the time being.
“Heh.”
It was good to feel tall again, the big man reflected, good to be able to see a ways into the forest, good to be up where an honest breeze brought him more information than was otherwise available to one slithering across the ground. He clenched his jaw and grinned; the urge to do violence was upon him in an almost sexual way.
You’re not right in the head.
“Oh, and your being up there has nothing to do with it, I suppose?”
When Arune lapsed into a sullen silence, he could feel it. But…she must know that, so perhaps she was trying to manipulate him. Laughter.
You learn fast.
“You’re the first to say that, believe me.”
Somehow I doubt that.
The forest ahead of him sloped slightly down to his left, and Vykers followed. “Listen, might be as there’s things in my head I don’t want you spying on.”
And you’ve done a good job of keeping me out.
“Or so you’d have me think.”
Can you read my thoughts and memories?
“Not so much, no.”
That’s how it is, then, with us. For the moment, we can talk and…that’s about the extent of it.
The warrior forded a large stream, its icy waters sending an invigorating shock up his legs and lower torso.
I felt that!
“Did you, now?” Vykers felt Arune urging him to the right. “This way?”
Yes.
“Huh. I’d have gone the other.”
Interesting. There are people that way, too. Eventually. If you call Sholdorn Heretics “people.”
Vykers stopped short. “I’ve got a score to settle with the Sholdorn.”
Which is why I suggested the other direction.
“Ah, maybe you’re right. This once. I need about a week’s worth of good meals, a decent bed and a good sword before I get to settling scores.”
Steel, Blood & Fire (Immortal Treachery Book 1) Page 5