The Seventh Magic (Book 3)

by Brian Rathbone

  "Mark the line," a voice said from nearby. Mael remained mostly submerged, only breaking the surface enough to see and hear. "Twenty-five paces and mark it. Walk it twice."

  A young woman staked the white string line and walked back to where the older man stood. Then she paced off the distance, marked it, and verified it. The two repeated this process until a rectangle had been delineated. At least the impatient creatures had the sense to keep things straight and plumb. Whatever humanity remained in the mage had long since been overwhelmed by his time in dragon form. While he knew he'd once been one of them, he took no pride in that heritage, realizing he'd chosen a far superior species. He was not jealous of natural-born dragons, for few had access to real power and none had the benefit of truly understanding humans. It was this connection that allowed him to control them so easily. There was perhaps one dragon in existence with power to challenge Mael, but he was a pitiful creature--far better to be the first of your kind than the last.

  "Why do we need another mill, Papa? It was prettier here without them."

  "Perhaps. The hold must support itself. If we're to reopen the mines, then we need a hammer mill to break down ore-bearing rock. Perhaps the Arghast can just dig up salt in blocks, and on the Firstland they pull gemstones from pockets in the ground, but here we have to do things the hard way. Sacrifices must sometimes be made."

  "Can't we use the other mill?"

  "The grist mill doesn't work the same way and is used for food. The air mill provides compressed air for half the hold. The hammer mill will break down nonfood items."

  "If you say so," the girl said, kicking at the grass. When her gaze turned toward Mael, he froze, suddenly uncomfortable and afraid a little girl might see him. Cursing himself and his pounding heart, the dragon mage nonetheless remained perfectly still. Human frailty simultaneously played to his advantage and disadvantage. Bored, the girl expected to see nothing, and that's what she saw.

  "We need to mark out a roadway."

  Sighing, the girl turned back to her work.

  No matter what he told himself, seeing the young woman stirred something within him, something long since lost. Her scent triggered deeply repressed memories. With them came shame and rage. Mael suppressed the feelings, dipped beneath the water and glided silently from the cavern. When light poured through the water next, change was once again evident. This, however, was his own doing. The destruction of the Fifth Magic left part of the river exposed to open air and passing through what was now a park and marketplace. Though it appeared all had gone to their beds, parting clouds allowed enough light to illuminate vendor carts shuttered for the night. An alluring smell emanated from one, and for an instant, he considered taking the cart with him, but that would surely spoil all his efforts at stealth.

  When at last amber-hued light colored the water, Mael felt himself relax for the first time in years. It wasn't that he was afraid when outside since there was no one in the world as powerful as he, yet he did not feel comfortable or at home in any of the places he'd dwelt since leaving. No matter how perfect the locations might have seemed, each lacked something.

  Now he was home--such a bizarre feeling. His heart rate slowed and eyelids drooped before he'd even fully pulled himself from the water. It was as if he'd been off on a grand adventure and finally made it back to safety and warmth. Too many fish crowded the waters. With two bites, Mael reduced their number. For so long, he'd maintained the balance in this place, caring for the fish and deer and other creatures, most of which he'd rescued from the rushing water. All were there for a reason and were part of the ecosystem. In an environment this small, any shift in the balance could be catastrophic. With any piece of the puzzle missing, the rest would slowly fall apart; it offended the dragon's sensibilities.

  Snapping up three deer in a single strike, Mael took them with him to the nameless god who'd kept him company across the ages. Seeing the massive visage spewing water into the cavern soothed Mael like nothing else. Change had come to his cavern as well. Humans had cleaned up much of the damage, but his presence could not be erased. Still, they had done their best to cover it up. What remained must be a stark reminder of dangers they yet faced. They knew he existed and that he had escaped. They must wonder what had become of him, which made the dragon chuckle. He understood why they might avoid this place, given the insecurity it would foster. Better to clean it up, seal it off, and ignore it. Mael was just fine with that. Curling into his familiar place in the stone god's lap, he savored the meal. Everything tasted different outside. Knowing what he now knew, it might be difficult to leave. With the crook of his jaw resting in a familiar groove, Mael closed his eyes and slept better than he had in years.

  Epilogue

  Never trust old people. They have all the power.

  --Kira Longbow, adventurer

  * * *

  Commemorating what would have been Catrin Volker's ninetieth birthday, this Herald's Day was to be the largest pilgrimage in history. Such an opportunity would not come again for another decade. Never before had the trade fleet left the Godsland carrying more people than goods. With so many gone to the Firstland, the Pinook Valley felt desolate and abandoned, no longer resembling the wilderness it had once been or more recently a thriving town. Lowerton's streets, narrow, twisted, and usually packed, were eerily vacant, save a few souls carrying gifts and steaming trays to neighbors.

  The place's construction was congested and appeared haphazard at first glance, though some said it was beautiful. Kira Longbow disagreed. What might have once been a natural treasure was now cobbled, paved, and overbuilt. Compressed-air lines and transport tubes crowded already narrow roadways. Cylindrical packages whisked through the communications tubes at incredible speed, issuing a high-pitched squeal as they went. It grated on worn nerves.

  What galled most was still wanting things only civilization could provide. In the wild, she could find or hunt for everything needed to survive, but never could she make some of the things she craved. No one could. Only because of the trade fleet did all the ingredients from across the world come together in one place. Only then and given skillful hands and the right tools could a delicate Midlands pasty dusted with saffron and smothered in whipped truffle butter become possible. The thought made her mouth water.

  Walking cobbled streets in spike-heeled boots was not a task for those with weak ankles. Kira almost managed to walk with confidence. A voice in the back of her mind told her she would be successful and she believed. Such a quest required belief, and her faith in herself was unwavering.

  "Never thought I'd see the day," Bent said from a darkened alley.

  Unflinching, Kira turned and glared at him. "What are you doing out here?"

  "I had to see how you were dressed."

  She raised her eyebrows and gave him a steely look.

  "The corset is a nice touch."

  "Just go do what you're supposed to do," Kira said, now self-conscious. Most days, she could come to Lowerton in leathers and muddy boots, and most would leave her be. On this night, though, she needed to look like anyone else.

  "Even with so many people gone, there are still a lot of first-lighters in Dragonhold."

  This was not news. Large portions of the population traveled to the Firstland on pilgrimage. Those with good sense stayed behind, but they were far fewer. Celebrations outside the hold were small and mostly family affairs. Within Dragonhold was a completely different matter. For one night, the hold was open to all, only the most dangerous places cordoned off and guarded. Fortunately for Kira, not all those on guard this night were happy about it.

  First-lighters were those born before Istra graced the skies. In these people her power ran most deeply, sustaining them, keeping them vital and vibrant. For those like Kira, power was like smoke on the wind. While she might know it's there and even sense it, she could never pull the smoke from the air and hold it in her hand. Still, among her generation, talents manifested, and some had more than their fair share. "I'll t
ake my chances."

  "The hair beats all," Bent said. "Are you a rainbow?"

  Again Kira flushed. Every part of her outfit served a purpose, and her hair was no exception. She used lemon to bleach it until it was almost white, left the roots undyed, and applied purple along its length, red at the tips, and capped them in black. Using slick gel, she'd formed her long hair into dual spirals that jutted straight backward, as if she stood in a strong wind. "Don't touch it," she said. "And stop gawking."

  "I'll be ready and waiting," he said, drifting back into the shadows. "Be prepared for the ride of your life. No saying I didn't warn you."

  Kira stuck her tongue out and walked on. His whistle at her back made her blush one last time. The winding roadway leading to Dragonhold was among Martik Tillerman's most significant achievements. Some said he remained within the hold; others reported he'd made a final pilgrimage to see his old friends. Kira hoped it was the latter. The fewer authority figures within, the better.

  Passing the statue of Catrin, Kira reached up and rubbed her Herald's charm for luck. Bent claimed to be a nonbeliever, but she'd seen his Kyrien pendant enough times to know better. Some would say what she did was against the Herald's principles, but Kira knew better. Catrin would want her to find that which was hidden, especially when the very tool she needed was not even in use and collecting dust.

  Sweeping turns and switchbacks made for a long walk, but were traversable by horse-drawn wagons and pop cars alike. Fortunately neither could be seen anywhere. Guards in ceremonial garb and holding metal staves flanked the grand entranceway that was adorned with buntings and fine draperies. From within the hold came a muted din that chilled Kira's blood. People--and a lot of them--all within a confined space. At that moment her courage nearly fled, the feeling of constriction shortening her breaths. But this day would not come again, and her chance would be gone. All her work, and Bent's and others', would have been for naught.

  Taking a deep breath, she walked between the guards and returned polite nods. The custom of wearing thick make-up or a ceramic mask to honor the Herald also worked to Kira's advantage. Though she was not entirely well known, she had drawn the attention of the guard perhaps a few too many times. None who knew her would expect her to look as she did. The skirts she wore barely covered her knees, leaving a tantalizing bit of leg visible above her bootlaces.

  Though her hair drew a few glances, others within the hold were similarly dressed. Kira had watched the entertainers practice for weeks, and her dress was near enough to their costumes to be mistaken for one of them, yet different enough to avoid suspicion--she hoped. The growling of her stomach announced her coming as she approached a table laden with pastries, and the man ahead of her, his face painted white, smiled. "Swallow a dragon?"

  "Two," Kira said.

  "After you, then."

  Others turned to see what the fuss was about. Having so much attention focused on her was unnerving. "Thank you," was all Kira said. Eventually people turned back to the business of selecting the perfect pastry. Kira already knew what she wanted, though she chided herself that her grand plan just had to include pastries. Bent would never let her hear the end of it, which was why she was never going to tell him.

  Still warm, the morsel was everything she had dreamed of while scrounging for food in the wilderness. Though she knew she shouldn't, she grabbed another, hoping no one was looking. Then, after a moment, she grabbed a third.

  "Perhaps you swallowed three dragons," the man said, clearly thinking himself clever.

  "The night is young," Kira said in spite of the need for anonymity.

  The man hadn't been expecting such a response and choked on a pastry of his own. While he recovered, Kira moved to where a pair of young men in Dragonhold livery dispensed hot cider. Accepting a steaming wooden cup from one of them, she had everything she needed.

  "May I offer you some company?" the man who'd been choking asked, hurrying to catch up with her.

  Kira stepped faster, moving awkwardly in spiked heels. "I'm meeting friends."

  "I'll gladly escort you to them," he said, his eyes wandering up and down. "I see you have both hands full. Please, allow me to hold your cup so you may enjoy your pastry."

  At least he was wise enough not to mention that it was her third. "Of course," she said, knowing refusal would only make her look even more suspicious. "But I have only a brief moment."

  Taking her by the arm, he guided her to a nearby column, away from the crowd. Only when he had her alone did he take the cup from her hand. "Please, eat your pastry."

  "This one is for a friend," she said. Had he moved his hand to her back, surely he would have felt the slender copper canisters concealed there.

  "Well, that explains it. Your secret is safe with me, little lady."

  Trying to decide what to do next, Kira fingered a folded paper in her sleeve. "Is that Lord Martik?" The man could not resist looking, and Kira poured the white powder from the folder paper into the cider and onto the pastry.

  "I don't see him. Where did you say he was?"

  "I can't see him now either. I'm sorry. I must have been mistaken." The man continued to look for the master of Dragonhold, presumably ready to impose himself upon the man.

  Kira took the cup from his hand and said, "I must be going. Thank you for your kindness."

  Perhaps it was her ruse, or maybe he'd finally lost interest in her, but he let her go. Thankful she hadn't had to make him drink or force feed him the pastry, she moved on. Keeping her eyes down, she did her best to slip away and not draw anyone else's attention. Her outfit made it even more difficult. Many of the ladies wore their best gowns on this day, and a few might wear a corset underneath to enhance their figures, but none would go quite as far as Kira. Bent said she took unnecessary risks, but who would expect someone in a corset and high-heeled boots would make a run for it?

  When she neared the area cordoned off as a stage, she did her best to appear as one of the guests and not an entertainer. Here gathered too many of those her hair and dress emulated. Keeping people between her and the performers and hoping no one noticed, she turned toward the God's Eye. It was her first time in years, and an old sense of anxiety crept up on her. Childhood fears wet her brow. No one guarded the side halls, and when she turned, she knew she approached areas where she had no business. It would be difficult to pretend she'd gotten there by accident, but that was exactly what she did.

  Torchlight illuminated a junction ahead, and a single guard stood, bored and resentful. Kira knew him. He'd been complaining ever since the assignment to work this night came down. Everyone still in town knew guardsman Erril was unhappy.

  "You can't come this way," he said. "You'll have to go back."

  "I'm sorry," Kira said, doing her best to sound innocent and vapid. "I think I had a little too much cider, and now I'm lost. I was looking for a place to eat my pastry, but now I don't feel so good."

  Looking torn, Erril finally said, "You can rest here a moment. Here, sit." He took the cup and eased her to the cold stone floor. When she handed him the pastry, he looked as if he were being tested.

  "I'm not hungry anymore. You can have it."

  "Are you sure?" he asked, but the pastry was already halfway to his lips before she nodded. The cider had cooled to a reasonable drinking temperature, and Kira nodded again when he asked with his eyes. Within a few moments, he joined her on the floor, certain to sleep for at least two days. It was almost too easy, but she credited all her planning and hard work. Now it was all paying off. Her time was limited, though; she had no way to know if anyone would come to check on Erril or when. It was among the flaws in her plan that Bent had been so eager to point out.

  Grabbing the torch from the sconce, she moved into the chamber she knew waited. If this information was wrong, it would be on Bent. It had been one of his girlfriends who had revealed the location of the amberlite statuette. Few had seen the famous wonder but everyone knew the stories. It was not for its historical v
alue but for practical reasons Kira needed the statuette, and she would gladly find a way to return it when she was done. She was convinced the Herald would want her to use the tool rather than let it be used as a mere reading light. It seemed a crime. When a yellowish glow became visible ahead and to her left, Kira's heart beat faster.

  There it was, everything the stories said it was: a skillfully carved female form that glows from within for no one knew exactly how long before needing to be exposed once again to Istra's light. Bent had said that was why it was here. A Cathuran studying amberlite wanted to find out how long it would continue to shine in the darkness. As her hand wrapped around it, the monk's experiment was over. After wrapping it in cloth and concealing it in her pocket, she moved swiftly away, feeling bad about ruining the Cathuran's research.

  Her knees trembled and never before had she felt so alive. When she turned back onto the main thoroughfare, she felt exposed, as if anyone who saw her would immediately know what she'd done. When a pair of guards entered the hall, walking toward her, she was certain her nerves would give her away. Perhaps it was the festivities or the heavy makeup she wore, but they paid her no mind. She was nearly to the great hall when she heard one cry out. "Stop that woman!"

  Time seemed to slow as she kicked the stone walls with the heels of her boots, knocking away the thick soles and spiked heels. Softened leather soles and uppers that conformed to her feet were revealed. The bottoms had been rubbed with pitch then pressed in gravel, which provided excellent grip. At a fast walk, she moved through the crowds and back toward the main entrance. When the guard burst into the main hall, she ran. The pounding in her ears blocked out all other sound, though the shock on people's faces and in their reactions was clear.