Oathen

by Giacomo, Jasmine

When Sanych reached the top, she stepped to the side and dusted off her hands, turning her attention to her new surroundings.

  The cave was brightly lit from a gleaming brass lantern that dangled from a metal rod on the wall. A small window with one open shutter let in a sliver of twilight. Near her feet, a low iron tripod—squat, wide and charred—suspended not only a cooking pot but a flatter, wider tray full of coals beneath it. The fresh scrapes across the stone floor told her it had recently made its home over the pod’s ceiling.

  Above the tripod’s old home hung a small, suspended meat-drying rack, its lower end sporting a dozen lightweight wooden fan blades.

  Sanych squinted in remembrance, then looked for the cave’s door. She saw a skin curtain with rods on both top and bottom, stretching it tightly against the outer weather. There wasn’t any wool stuffing.

  The hermit beetled his bushy white brows at the silver-haired cell leader.

  “Ahm,” he said, wagging a splintered handle at him, “you made me break my best wooden spoon.”

  Sanych frowned. Is the man mad?

  Ahm sighed. “I’m sorry we woke you, Curzon. We have a bit of an emergency.”

  “You didn’t bring me the stamp berries either, like I asked last time I saw you,” the man added, crossing his skinny arms.

  “They’ve barely been planted; winter’s lasted through most of spring.”

  Meena finally reached the top of the stone ladder and stood up behind Sanych.

  “And you forgot my—” All color drained from the man’s face as he laid eyes on Meena. “Y-you,” he stammered.

  “Hello, Curzon,” Meena replied. “It’s been a few decades. You look good, as hermits go.”

  Curzon cleared his throat and stood up straighter, adjusting his rumpled grey robe and smoothing his long white braids back over his shoulders. Sanych thought the look he gave Meena bordered on madness. Or perhaps love. He cocked his chin down and looked intently at Meena.

  “Is it time?” he asked.

  Sanych and Ahm exchanged a puzzled glance.

  Meena put a hand on Sanych’s shoulder and forced her in Curzon’s direction. “Time for the first part. Teach her everything you can, and quickly. They know I’m here in Shanal.”

  Curzon’s eyes flared wide for a moment. “Ooh,” he cooed, rubbing his dry hands together. “A new recruit.”

  “Very new. Her magic cracked yesterday,” Meena said.

  “Really! No bad influences yet!” He clapped in excitement. “Come then, child, and tell me what you can do.”

  “Meena, what’s going on?” Sanych asked.

  “You’re here to learn your craft. Curzon can teach you to use your magic safely and effectively.”

  Sanych crossed her arms. “‘Curzon’? As in ‘Curzon the Crooked’? The thief who accidentally toasted to a crisp the most powerful wizard in Gothrún? The cripple who could walk through magic wards? The coward who was too afraid to kill himself? That Curzon?”

  “Oi!” Curzon interjected, jutting a bony finger at Meena. “You swore you’d never tell anyone that story!”

  Meena glowered at the hermit. “That isn’t what I said. I swore I’d never tell it to anyone you knew.”

  The hermit turned to Sanych with a kindly smile. “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Sanych elTiera.”

  “Well, I know her now,” he said to Meena, puffing out his scrawny chest. “That makes a liar out of you, doesn’t it?”

  “Folly, I need some air,” Sanych said, putting a hand to her head and brushing past the hermit. She pushed the skin curtains apart at their center slit and stepped through, finding a round wooden door. She grasped its handle and tugged, hearing footsteps coming after her.

  “Sanych, stop,” Meena said, urgency in her voice.

  “Why should I?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder as she took a step outside.

  There was nothing to hold her foot up. She began to fall into darkness, too surprised to cry out. Meena grasped her wrist and Sanych jerked to a stop.

  “Because that first step’s a little further than either of us want you to go,” Meena replied through gritted teeth.

  Sanych looked up, afraid she’d pull Meena down after her. But Meena’s legs were braced wide in a single straining line, with one foot against the door and the other on a small lip of stone. Her torso dangled out of the doorway, and she braced herself against the cliff with her other arm.

  “Folly, get me up.” Sanych reached for Meena’s other arm. The cold mountain wind blasted through her clothing, leaving her shivering. A moment later, she looked down and instantly regretted it. The grey basalt cliff dropped hundreds of feet past her boots, ending in a rocky scree slope that tumbled toward what looked like a small village. It was hard to be sure in the dark. Running past both cliff and village was a wide black ribbon; only the Emerald River could make that large a void in the night’s uncolored landscape.

  Rapid footsteps approached. Ahm leaned over Meena’s leg and helped pull Sanych to safety. Once everyone was safely inside, Meena helped her to her feet and Ahm pulled the door shut with relief.

  “Can’t have you running off,” Meena panted. “Not this close to the end.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sanych gulped, wide-eyed and still shivering. “So much has happened recently, I just couldn’t…”

  “I know. Curzon is the best spellcaster in the world, though. And I’ve seen my fair share. As you see, he chose to accept my offer back in Gothrún. Concentrate on what he has to teach you. It’ll help you get through.”

  She nodded. “I see now what you mean about the hermit always being at home.”

  Meena grinned. “I’m sure he gets down somehow.”

  “Up, actually,” Curzon said, appearing behind them, his arms full of handmade quilts. “The ladder’s to the side. It’s only thirty paces or so to the top from here. Why don’t we all get a few hours’ sleep? We’ll begin the young maid’s training tomorrow morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Fifty-six years ago

  “I don’t expect you to court her, just meet her. She’s got good connections within the merchant class here in Salience.”

  Jalal nodded doubtfully as he meandered through the bustling night market with Anesta. The rows of carts and stalls sprawled across several streets close to his residence, most of which were well-lit by the nearby Night Beacon. He hadn’t memorized them yet, being only recently-arrived in the city, so he trusted her to keep him from getting lost.

  He considered his companion. He really didn’t know her that well, though they’d been aboard the same ship from Cish. It had been his first journey away from Shanal, but she was well-traveled, and it showed. She bargained well among the gregarious merchants in the night market, choosing carefully among fruits and utensils he’d never seen before. She’d even helped him pick a new name upon arrival two weeks ago, as was the Hyndi custom for those whose lives had been wrenched from them. With no regrets at all, he’d left the name of Jelm behind forever.

  Why she’d taken an interest in him, he still didn’t know. Perhaps it was pity; he’d told her that he’d left someone very close to him behind in Shanal. But in his heart, he knew that wasn’t entirely true.

  His beloved Tensa remained in the back of his mind, as always, though her feelings of hopelessness and depression faded with distance. She blamed herself for his leaving, and he had to agree; she was the one who’d insisted they undergo the binding spell together. But he certainly didn’t blame her for trying to make the family stronger. They had both known the risks. When the spell’s effects overwhelmed them and drove them apart, he’d left Shanal before she could, believing that his magic wasn’t as necessary as her healing skills to those he was leaving behind.

  Even though he’d been unable to remain anywhere close to Tensa, he still remained loyal to their cause; he had told no one of the family’s existence. Not even Anesta.

  But he had told her about his magic. Or rather, the loss of i
t. It meant losing Tensa, losing my life as I knew it. They warned me it might happen. But I couldn’t bear staying there a moment longer. I’d trade my magic for my sanity again any day.

  “I’ve lost you again, haven’t I?” Anesta asked with a smile, pulling him out of his dark reverie.

  “Apologies. I appreciate you helping me find my footing here in Salience, but I can’t just forget my entire life—”

  Anesta’s attention was drawn to something above his head. He turned to look, and found himself squinting at the nearby Night Beacon. Or rather, at someone on top of it.

  A figure waved its arms in a circular fashion, as if stirring the air overhead. Jalal became aware of a vague feeling of breathlessness. His subconscious hammered at him with a name, but his mind couldn’t quite grasp the reality of the situation.

  Anesta stood, seemingly unaffected, by his side, while other pedestrians around them began to look around, cough and wheeze.

  “Call the Iron Fist!” someone cried, voice straining in the thinning air. “Malignant magic!”

  “They won’t get here in time,” Anesta muttered.

  The name in Jalal’s head finally burst out. “Breathstealer.”

  “Who?”

  “Assassin. From Shanal.” Dzur i’Oth, he wanted to tell her, but he was sure she’d have no idea what it meant.

  Anesta’s eyes flew wide, but not with fear. “Oh, no you don’t,” she whispered, glaring up at the spellcaster atop the fire tower.

  She bolted toward the pale Night Beacon, ascending to its broad viewing platform, then scaling the steep, narrow service stairs with the speed of a downhill dash.

  Jalal felt his focus fading as the ache in his lungs grew stronger. He sank to the ground like many of those around him. He squinted after Anesta, confused. What in allgods’ name is she doing? The Breathstealer is one of the most dangerous women in Shanal.

  Anesta climbed onto the roof of the fire tower. How are either of them withstanding the heat? Jalal wondered.

  They seemed to talk animatedly for several moments. Then the last of his air vanished all at once. With fading sight, Jalal saw the glowing outline of a spark-laden whirlwind forming directly around Anesta’s body, fed by the heat of the tower’s fire.

  Anesta leapt directly at the Breathstealer, carrying her off the top of the Night Beacon. Jalal’s consciousness faded before they struck bottom.

  He awoke abruptly, feeling as if he’d overslept for an important appointment. He skittered to his hands and knees on the dusty cobblestones before his last memories resurfaced. He looked up into Anesta’s smiling face. Her shirt had a few spark-burns on it.

  “You’re alive? How? Did you really kill the Breathstealer?” he asked, trying to piece events together.

  She helped him up, and he dusted off his knees. “No,” she said. “I let gravity handle that for me. I was just along for the ride.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any magical gifts.”

  “I don’t. What I have is the curse of immortality. Unless I can find a way to undo it, I’ll outlive you, your children, and your children’s children.”

  Jalal gaped at her, recalling a certain Shanallese legend. He wondered if the allgods would allow fate to strike him twice in the same day. “How old are you?”

  She tsked. “Rude little man. Now come; speaking of your children, I believe I was about to introduce you to a wealthy merchant’s daughter.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Sanych woke to the smell of boiling grains and honey. Sitting up from her pile of quilts, she saw Curzon, his braids loosely tied back, stirring a pot in the corner. The others woke soon, and they shared a simple meal.

  “We’ll leave you to it, Curzon,” Meena said as they finished up. She took Ahm’s arm and led him toward the door.

  “What do you mean, ‘we’? Why do I have to leave?” Ahm asked.

  “Did your father sit in on your lessons with Curzon forty cycles ago? No. Besides, all the other cells will have been traveling all night, and we need to get them organized.” She raised her voice as she opened the round front door. “We’ll bring back some lunch.”

  They left. Sanych cast a dubious glance at the wizened spellcaster, and he eyed her with an equally doubtful look.

  “You don’t seem to trust me,” Curzon grumped, squinting one eye at her.

  “I don’t know much about you, other than the fact that you used to be a thief and a coward,” Sanych said, setting aside her basalt breakfast bowl. “What are your teaching credentials?”

  “Credentials?” Curzon harrumphed, hitching his robes as he adjusted his seat on a tricorner stool. “Credentials, she asks me. Nearly every Scion alive today fights with the speed and power of dragons because of me. My training. Point of fact, there might not be any alive anymore that weren’t trained here in my cave.”

  “You train all the Scions?” Sanych blurted.

  “Yep.”

  “Then why don’t you fight with them?” she asked, curious.

  “I haven’t stopped being a coward yet,” he said, waving his hand in the air. “Besides, my gift, and my curse, is to see magics both possible and impossible.”

  Sanych blinked. “Impossible magics? How does that relate to me?”

  “You, like the Scions, are both more and less blessed than I am.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Curzon sighed, his shoulders slumping. “She told me you were special.”

  That made Sanych angry. Staring at the old man before her, she analyzed him to within an inch of his life. Aged hermit, made some deal with Meena long ago…Curzon the Crooked, cowardly spellcaster with a strange gift. The facts were forced into place by the strength of her will, and she stepped closer, her short stature barely raising her chin higher than the man’s head.

  “If you’re truly Curzon the Crooked, then when Meena healed you in that cave in Gothrún, you realized she was special too. She already knew that about you. She brought you here and built you this cave. It’s nearly identical to her home in TethNarra. You’ve lived here for the past, what, sixty cycles, awaiting her return. Why would you do that? Give up the entirety of your life, to keep a promise to one woman? What deal did you make with her, and what does it have to do with destroying the Dire Tome?”

  She stared down into Curzon’s vivid blue eyes. “Why have you been waiting for me?”

  Curzon blinked, pleasure and surprise suffusing his face. “And she was right. How you put all that together, I’d love to know. But even more exciting is the prospect of seeing what a mind with that sort of organization can do with the tenets of magic.” He clasped his hands together in eagerness. “Your questions will be answered soon enough. Shall we begin?”

  The morning passed quickly, with Curzon filling Sanych’s head with magic theory. “Theory is crucial,” he repeated often, slapping his hands together. Her perfect recall sent him into throes of ecstasy, and he stood and danced in circles of glee more times than Sanych had fingers.

  He explained that the resonance between certain people and the planet’s living core was the source of the ability to alter reality, as he colloquially termed the use of magic. It was heritable, which explained why many Scions in each generation retained the ability passed down to them from Arisson Triserren.

  He went into painful detail about the strength of ability and how it varied between individuals, and his pet theories for what could explain the differences in magical strength. According to Curzon, there were things like mental blocks or traumatic inhibitors that might stunt one’s ability, either temporarily or permanently.

  A thumping on the door made them both jump, and Curzon stood and headed to the door.

  When he opened it, Sanych heard a familiar voice ask, “Did someone order venison delivery?”

  “Geret?” she exclaimed, her stomach turning over at the sound of his voice. She ran to the door and looked out under Curzon’s arm.

  Geret stood atop a fresh deer kill that was tied securel
y to a rope that ascended up out of sight. He held on with a single hand, swinging in midair with casual confidence.

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted.

  “Good day, Archivist,” he greeted her with a winning smile. “Hermit Curzon. I’ve brought lunch; may I come in?”

  He slung himself in the doorway with the deer, and he and Curzon began skinning and butchering it while Sanych got the fire going. Once she got over her shock at seeing him, and her relief that he appeared to be unharmed, her feelings of resentment returned, and she welcomed the chance to be in a different room.

  Soon Meena, Ahm, Narjin and Ruel climbed down the ladder and joined them in the small cave as the meal began to fill the air with savory aromas.

  Narjin explained that she and the others had set up camp in the middle of the night after riding in with nearly everyone from Sosta’s castle cell. Other cells had joined them: half in the forest at the top of the cliff and half in the village at the bottom.

  Ruel said that other stragglers from Ahm’s cell had shown up in the camps during the night, alone or accompanying other cells, but Rhona and Salvor weren’t among them.

  Sanych kept her mouth shut, but she knew she wouldn’t miss either of those two if they never appeared again. It was hard enough being in the same room with Geret, pretending he hadn’t been the world’s biggest liar and that everything was fine between them.

  Well, not completely fine. He seemed to pick up on her mood, and by the end of the meal, he could barely look at her. At least he has some semblance of shame, she thought with satisfaction.

  After the meal, Meena told everyone to clear out so Sanych could keep studying. “And stay alert,” she cautioned. “If the cult’s going to find us anywhere, it’ll be here in the open. The only reason they haven’t attacked us yet is because they’re still working on a plan. Let’s make sure we’re ready for it.”

  ~~~

  Left alone again, Curzon and Sanych delved right back into their studying.

  “So much of what is possible, from a magical standpoint, originates within the mind. I truly hope you can grasp the significance of this, my dear girl. Many do not, and their magics are forever less than their full potential. Tell me what you know of the properties of light,” he ordered.