Shield of Winter

by Aaron Hodges

  “You’re late, boy,” Enala said without looking up.

  “Sorry, Enala, I…was distracted.”

  She glanced back at him, her eyes creased with sadness. “You were thinking of your sister.” When he didn’t reply, she went on. “Devon and Kellian will bring her back, Braidon. You must have faith.”

  “Faith?” he asked. His eyes burned, but remembering his sister’s strength, he refused to show his weakness. “They don’t even have magic. What chance do they have against the Tsar?”

  “They saved you…”

  “You saved me, Enala,” he snapped. Taking a breath, he tried to quill his sudden anger. Shaking, he crouched down on his haunches and looked across at her. “Maybe if you’d gone with them…”

  Enala shook her head. Her wrinkles seemed to have deepened since she’d returned from Trola, and her sapphire eyes were weary when she looked at him. “He knows I live now, young Braidon. He will be searching for me. If I went with them, it would not take long for him to find me. Then my powers would matter little.”

  Despair swelling in his chest, Braidon looked away. A strained silence fell between them as Braidon looked out over the plains, where the soft flickering of lightning burned in the distant clouds.

  “Shall we begin then?” he said abruptly.

  The old priest looked at him closely. “Are you sure–”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped, cutting her off. “The sooner I master my useless power, the sooner I can be rid of this place.”

  Enala pursed her lips, but he turned away, unable to bear her pity. He heard her sigh. “Very well. You know the process. I will observe you while…”

  “Fine,” Braidon grunted.

  Seating himself, he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, doing his best to force thoughts of the old woman and his sister from his mind. His lungs swelled as he sucked in a breath, then exhaled. Concentrating on his breathing, he sought the peace of mindfulness, to escape the pull of his body, the lure of emotion, the strain of his memories.

  Yet even as he did so, he felt the chaos pressing back, the past rising up to haunt him. A pang came from his stomach, and his hand drifted unconsciously to where the crossbow bolt had struck him. Not a mark remained, but amidst the darkness, the memory felt fresh, an almost tangible thing, piercing his consciousness.

  He shuddered, but with an effort of will, released the memory. It drifted back out into the void as he forced his mind back to his breath.

  In, out. In, out.

  The darkness swirled as more memories rose to assail him. He saw again their arrival on the back of Dahniul, felt the thrill of flight and the wonder of the beast’s power. Thought to be extinct in the Three Nations, a few dragons had apparently survived in the wild lands of the north, descended from those that had fought alongside mankind against the dark Magicker Archon a hundred years prior. Bound by an ancient treaty between the Gold Dragons and the king of Trola, the creatures only allowed royal descendants to ride them. Fortunately for Braidon and his friends, Enala was such a descendent—perhaps even the last one left living.

  Realising he’d been distracted again, Braidon tore his thoughts away from the noble beasts. It did not take long, though, for his undisciplined mind to wander again, and he found himself thinking of the escort that had met them as they’d landed beneath the cliffs of Erachill. Armed soldiers had marched out to surround them, before leading them deep into the bowels of the city. Enala they had treated with reverence, but Braidon and the others they had looked on with anger and suspicion.

  Then the Queen had come, with her steely green eyes and a crown of twisted iron upon her head. Grey had streaked her auburn hair, but she carried about her such an authority few would dare challenge her.

  Braidon shivered at the memory, and releasing it, plunged deeper into his subconscious. Something was flickering in the darkness now, a white light that seemed to radiate from all around. The sight of it sent a shiver through his spirit and he pulled back. An image formed in his mind, of his sister, a smile on her face, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  Alana.

  Pain sliced through him at the thought of her. He shuddered as memories flashed by, and he watched again her desperate battle against Quinn. He’d tried to save her, had tried to use his magic to drive back the Stalkers. Only then had he learned the truth: his magic was a sham, no more than a fancy trick with the light to create illusions, harmless.

  Braidon fled into the darkness, seeking now not inner calm, but to escape the memories, to forget that final glimpse of Alana as she was dragged away by the Tsar’s Stalkers.

  And in the darkness, the white light grew. Only when Braidon finally recovered his senses did he realise it was all around him, brilliant and shining, hemming him in. Terror filled his soul as he realised he was lost, trapped amidst the swirling powers of his magic. If it engulfed him, he would be lost.

  He spun, searching the white, seeking the darkness. A speck appeared far above, impossibly distant, unreachable. Gathering himself, he raced towards it. The light swirled, circling and drawing nearer. Claws reached out to tear at him, and he screamed as the icy hooks dragged him back. His flight faltered, and he watched with despair as the light folded in on itself, gathering all around, twisting and changing, until the great shining form of a Feline rose before him.

  Braidon opened his spirit mouth to scream as the Feline loomed. The creature took a step towards him, jaws agape, teeth reaching out to tear him asunder, to hurl his soul into the void. Should it succeed, he would be consumed, his body reduced to an empty husk to be controlled by his magic. He would become a demon.

  With a roar, the beast leapt…

  …only for a shining red inferno to spring into life between them. As the Feline struck the blaze, it screamed, the white light flickering and falling back, the creature shrinking as it retreated.

  And then Braidon was back in the real world, his cries echoing off the nearby cliffs as he threw himself back from the awful fangs…

  “Braidon, calm yourself!” He froze as a steely hand gripped him by the wrist.

  Blinking, he found Enala sitting alongside him. His terror fled, replaced by the sickening despair of failure. Tearing his arm from the old woman’s grip, he stood abruptly and swung away. A loose stone lay nearby and he lashed out at it with his boot, sending it soaring out over the ledge.

  “Damnit!” he screamed.

  “Braidon, stop, you’re okay–”

  “I’m not okay,” he snapped, turning on Enala, “I’ll never be okay, not with this…this thing inside me.”

  “It is a part of you, Braidon,” Enala replied, “and you were closer that time.”

  The anger left Braidon in a rush. His shoulders slumped as he lowered his gaze to the ground. They had been at this for two weeks now, but still he felt no closer to mastering the magic within him. Whatever Enala said, he continued to fail at the final step. When his magic appeared before him, his courage would fail and he would flee into the darkness until Enala intervened. One day, he knew the creature would catch him…

  “Fear is its only weapon, Braidon.” Enala’s voice cut across his thoughts.

  “What’s the point, Enala?” he asked bitterly. “Why does it even matter? Everything I do is just an illusion!”

  “There is always a point, Braidon. There is no just when it comes to magic.” She sighed, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “I knew a Magicker once, with powers like yours. She could manipulate the light to conceal herself, become invisible. I’ve never met anyone as brave.”

  “Who was she?”

  Enala grinned. “A Baronian thug who tried to kill me on more than one occasion.”

  Braidon’s head jerked up. “What?”

  Enala smiled. “Life isn’t always as simple as it seems, young Braidon.”

  Still confused, he shook his head. “What happened to her?”

  “She gave up her life to save us from Archon’s demon.”

  Braidon was lost for words.
He swallowed, staring into the aged face of the woman standing opposite him. The years had turned her hair white and wrinkled the once youthful face, but her eyes shone with power and an ancient wisdom. Even so, it was easy to forget the things she had seen, the dangers she had faced in her long life.

  “How have you lived so long, Enala?” he asked suddenly, the question slipping out before he could bite his tongue.

  Enala’s laughter bubbled across the clifftop. Gently, she eased herself back to the rocky ground and gestured for Braidon to join her. They sat in silence for a moment, looking out at the approaching storm. It was a long time before Enala answered, and a cramp was beginning to form in Braidon’s leg when she finally spoke.

  “Truthfully, I don’t really know why I have lived this long. It was the same for my brother. He told me once that it happens for one in a thousand Magickers, that occasionally the magic will grant its wielder extended life. Or perhaps it came from our…interaction with the Gods. Although for Gabriel…” She trailed off.

  For a second Braidon thought he glimpsed tears in her eyes, but she looked away before they could fall.

  “Enala?” he said. Leaning forward, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Enala smiled, all trace of tears vanished. “Do not concern yourself with the sorrows of an old woman, young Braidon,” she said. “There is so much behind me now, Gabriel seems little more than the memory of another woman at times.”

  Braidon swallowed, not understanding, but hearing the grief behind her words. Sensing this was not a topic the old woman wished to speak of, he changed the subject.

  “What was she like? Antonia?” he asked, remembering the legends. “You met her?”

  Enala chuckled. “‘Met’ would be putting it lightly.”

  “And were the legends true? Was she really as powerful as they say?”

  “She is an enigma,” Enala replied, her wrinkles deepening as she smiled.

  “Is?” Braidon asked, a tingle running down his spine. He sat up, suddenly alert. “She’s gone though, isn’t she?”

  “Her body, yes. Like all the Gods, she gave up her physical form after the battle with Archon,” she answered. “But they never truly left us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Gods existed long before our priests devised a way to channel their spirits and power into physical form,” Enala replied, “and they exist still. Their spirits are all around us: in the light of a sunset, in the earth beneath our feet, in the wind and the rain and clouds. They are the spirits of the land, the balance to our world.”

  Braidon clenched his jaw as he realised what she was saying. “But they cannot help us.”

  Enala threw back her head and laughed. “You are an insightful student, young Braidon, I will give you that.” Her eyes danced. “But still not entirely correct. Even in spirit, the Gods are not impotent. It was Antonia, after all, who sent me to find you.”

  “Antonia? Truly? How is that possible?”

  “Let us just say, the Gods are inside some of us, more than others.”

  Braidon frowned. Sensing he would get no more information on the subject, he changed tactics. “But why would she care about me and my sister in the first place?”

  Enala sighed. “I do not know the answer to that,” she replied. Her eyes grew distant as she looked out over the plains of Northland. “But I have a feeling we will find out before the end. Now come, we’d best return to the city. The storm is almost upon us.”

  She stood and started off towards the cliffs of Erachill, leaving Braidon to scramble to his feet and chase after her, a dozen questions still clambering within his mind for answers.

  Chapter 4

  Alana followed Quinn through the corridors of the citadel, fully dressed now, her sword thumping gently against her side. The blade made her feel more at ease, though she knew it would be pointless attempting to flee. The guards no longer tailed her, but there were eyes everywhere, and she doubted she’d make it as far as the gates before someone stopped her.

  Regardless, she could not run, not while a million questions still filled her mind. She caught a glimpse of herself in the shining breastplate of a nearby guard. The hackles rose on her neck as she saw the cool eyes staring back at her. She quickly turned away. Even her own reflection seemed foreign to her now.

  Who are you?

  Casting aside the question, she looked up in time to see Quinn push open two double doors and make his way into a large hall packed with long wooden tables. Men and women were walking along the rows between the tables, and along the far wall cooks were serving food over a steel counter. Following Quinn into the dining room, several of the occupants looked up at their approach. Whispers spread around the room, giving way to a hushed silence.

  Alana clenched her jaw as she felt the eyes of everyone on her. She glanced at Quinn, her mouth suddenly dry. “They know me?” she hissed beneath her breath.

  “Of course,” Quinn replied. “You were their teacher.”

  “Their…teacher?” Alana stuttered. A sudden laughter bubbled up from her chest, emerging as a half-muted snort. Struggling to control herself, she gasped the next words. “What did I teach?”

  “Magic,” Quinn said.

  “Oh…” Alana trailed off. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, lost for words, struggling to comprehend what Quinn was saying. The men and women in the room were staring back at her with a mixture of awe and surprise, their silence absolute. Most wore ordinary clothing, though a few sported the red cloaks of soldiers.

  Beside her, Quinn was still speaking. “Your father placed you in charge of the young Magickers. You taught them how to reach their magic, trained them to be strong enough to master it.”

  Alana tore herself free of her shock. “Taught them to use it? I didn’t even know I had magic until an hour ago!”

  “That’s not true, Alana. Deep down, you know that. Look around you, this is the truth. This is who you were—and will be again!”

  Shaking her head, Alana stumbled back a step. Chest tight, she wanted to scream, to tell him leave her alone, to stop with his lies, but before she could speak, a tentative voice came from behind her.

  “Alana?”

  Heart racing, she swung towards the voice, reaching for her sword hilt. Behind her, the young man who’d spoken jumped back. Raising his hands, he gaped at her, eyes locked to the half-drawn sword.

  “Who…who are you?” she gasped.

  The young man blinked and glanced over her shoulder at Quinn. His plain face was heavily tanned, and long black hair tumbled down around his shoulders. He was dressed for the cold in a plain white tunic of homespun wool and heavy black pants. Alana was sure she’d never seen him in her life.

  “My apologies, young Bodrum,” Quinn said, stepping up alongside her. “Alana’s magic has…backfired. She has—temporarily—lost her memories. I brought her here to see if her old students could help jog them.”

  “Oh!” The young man turned to Alana, his mouth hanging open. Then he seemed to remember himself, and clamping his jaw shut, offered his hand. “My apologies, princess! My name is Bodrum, you were my teacher a few years back. You…taught me to master my magic over the Earth.”

  Still struggling to contain her own shock, Alana stared at his outstretched hand for a second too long, noticing he wore the same silver and emerald bracelets as the teacher she’d met in the gardens. Finally, she reached out and took his hand.

  “It’s nice to…meet you?” she said.

  A grin appeared on his face. “It’s good…to see you again,” he said. “I…never got to thank you for your help. I did not appreciate your teaching at the time, but you…you gave me the strength I needed to survive.”

  Alana smiled despite herself. “I’m glad I could help you, Bodrum.”

  Nodding, the young man walked away. Alana made to speak with Quinn, but before she could get a word out, a young woman appeared. She smiled, words tumbling from her mouth so quickly Alan
a struggled to keep up. She was saying something about how long it had been since Alana had last been around the citadel, and how good it was to see her again. Alana noticed she seemed nervous, her eyes constantly flickering to Quinn, her hands deep in her pockets.

  Alana hardly managed a “hello” before the woman darted off again. Another student quickly moved in to take her place. Before Alana knew it, she was stammering through explanation after explanation, even as more students gathered around to await their turn. They were all studiously polite, keeping their distance, bowing and curtseying, speaking in respectful tones and never questioning how she could have lost control of her power.

  As the crowd finally started to thin, Alana found herself feeling unexpectedly alone. While every student had offered her their thanks, there was a stiffness about the way they approached her, as though they were speaking out of obligation rather than gratitude. All kept a respectful distance, offering token apologies when they discovered her predicament.

  When the last of them had left, Alana could only shake her head in confusion. Their thanks had at first lifted her, yet she found herself wondering why none of them had seemed anything more than just students to her. Had she not befriended any of them, not inspired anything but respect and professional courtesy?

  Hugging her arms to her chest, she turned and found Quinn watching her.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She scowled, already growing irritated by his constant concern. “I’m fine,” she snapped.

  He nodded, though she could see in his eyes he did not believe her. Even so, he dropped the subject and taking her arm, led her across the room to an empty table. As they seated themselves he waved to a nearby servant, sending the man scurrying across the room in search of food. A tray of roasted lamb and stewed vegetables appeared a few minutes later, followed by two tankards of ale.

  “Your favourite…once,” Quinn said, gesturing to the food and drink.

  “I guess some things don’t change.” The tankard was halfway to Alana’s lips when she glanced up and found Quinn watching her. A familiar flash of anger reared up inside her, but remembering his earlier kindness, she pressed it down.