by C. K. Sorens
She had thrown Brandt out of Trifecta.
Ember coughed and returned oxygen to starved cells, her palm flat against the restored, solid barrier. Gratefulness flooded her mind and left her floating, her body trembling with harsh little jerks. She’d been so afraid she wouldn’t get the pattern out in time, that Brandt wouldn’t land in the tiny space she’d be able to open, or make it through before it closed. She’d done it, though, and now she was safe.
Another crunch of leaves stopped her heart, her breath forgotten.
Not safe.
Who had seen her? Who was going to see Brandt?
“Well, I guess no rescue is necessary.”
Blood and air rushed to Ember’s brain with such force she swayed on her feet, her vision blackened.
“Whoa, there,” Chase murmured, one of his hands at her elbow, another holding a flashlight with a bag slung over the same shoulder. She leaned into his lanky frame, gripped the smooth fabric of his tunic hoodie, cut long and narrow. Her knees locked because she refused to lean too far into his grip and absolutely did not want to fall. It only took a moment before Ember nodded and Chase removed his small bit of support.
“Don’t worry. Kevin’s got him.” Chase gestured with a sharp thrust of his chin that flicked shoulder length hair against a hollowed cheek.
“What?” Ember looked out with the help of Chase’s light. Kevin was one of Chase’s spies on the outside, someone she’d sent through years ago. He and a few others gripped Brandt, keeping him from running back to the road where he would have been able to tell the party goers what happened.
Verge, what a mess. She owed Chase again, but for the promise of safety, she’d pay.
“Don’t worry too much about it.” Chase’s reassurance sounded more like approval. Fantastic. Ember burned with fatigue from head to the hole-filled soles of her shoes. “That’s what friends are for.”
Ember huffed, watched him from the corner of her eye. “I didn’t realize our agreement extended to friendship.”
“Think about it. The way tonight played out for you — how many fights did you get into? — a few friends might be beneficial.”
And what would that cost me?
“Do you have my food?”
Chase’s attention shifted from the gang of adolescent men free of the barrier. As usual he gave nothing away, no sign if he wanted to be on that side or this, or if he decided she wasn’t worth the risk to help anymore, balance sheet or no. He thumbed the shoulder strap of the messenger bag, her payment for the evening.
The food inside the tote might be from the small backyard gardens the humans maintained, or the Witches’ farms along the river, or Fae hunters that supplemented meat where the human efforts failed. Ember didn’t care, was fine with keeping her debt in Chase’s fair hands as opposed to others. Mostly, she just wanted to eat.
“It’s a heavy one. Do you need help to get it home?”
Ember answered by holding out her hand.
“Sure?” Chase asked. “There’s a Fae guarding your door. Come with us to watch the humans freak over their cars and I’ll drop you after.”
Ember didn’t move. Chase flung the bag from his shoulder to hers, then stepped close. One finger to her chin, he tilted her face up and tsked.
“Next time, throw them out before they hurt you.”
Ember jerked away from his touch and slipped passed, tired of being stuck between a guy and the barrier.
“Use the tunnels to avoid her.”
The words weren’t a suggestion. Ember would have taken that route without them. Chase meant to remind her of another favor he’d completed for her, clearing the underground halls that led to the old maintenance building she and her mom now called home. She realized with a grim set to her mouth that he would not give her a pass. Chase would keep her secrets and call in her debt.
A problem for a different day.
Ember rounded a corner of the game trail and hiked the heavy bag further up her shoulder when it slipped. The motion took her attention for only a second, plenty of time for Edan to appear on the path, his movement unnoticed, lounging on a tree as if he’d been waiting for a while.
Ember swung a defensive step backward, gripped the strap against her body. She dared to look over the trail, calculated the distance between where they stopped and where she’d talked with Chase.
Edan couldn’t know.
Ember turned her attention to the Fae. Her empty stomach clenched. She stood firm, forced her eyes to focus on the threat.
She was forbidden from using magic. The mages expected she would wield an uncontrollable energy, a time bomb that had the ability to set worlds on fire, should it manifest. Or, at least, that was what they said to justify keeping her segregated and vilified. Ember didn’t know for sure, hoped to never find out. It didn’t matter.
The mages expected Fae or Witch magic from her. Neither described how she manipulated the barrier. She didn’t pull atoms of magic from physical things, or use the flow of it to force her intentions. She knocked, and the hardened magic parted, though not for long. Gaps always closed within seconds, so it wasn’t like she could line everyone up and wave them through en masse. She didn’t know how often the trick was possible and had no plan to become a public servant only to die from overexertion. Some people might remain stuck, anyway. She had never stepped outside. The bubble continued to block her despite her skill. The irony of having the capability without the ability to take advantage of it left a sour taste.
Even without Fae or Witch influence, though, she still Worked magic. Even if she considered this talent more of a party trick than helpful, albeit one no one else had mastered, it was a trick that would be viewed as the gateway into a more twisted, forbidden power. The knowledge that she held some brand of power would be all the confirmation they needed: She would become a threat big enough to eliminate.
That’s all it took. Edan seeing her Work on the barrier. Edan alerting his Elders. The Elders telling the human council, and the humans didn’t care as long as they had their illusion of equality. The Fae could pass judgement on someone no one claimed as one of their kind. She’d belong to them.
Edan shifted from the tree, angled one moment and stood straight the next. Measured strides eased through the space between them. Ember studied the lines of his tailored coat and pressed slacks meant to be elegant while ready for a run. He lacked a bulge that might hide a weapon, not even under his knitted hat, and she tried to find solace with his empty palms.
No concern for personal distance, Edan imposed upon her. His chest emanated a rich earth scent that thickened in her throat before the moment those bare hands reached her neck.
Fingers wrapped to meet over her tattoo, thumbs pressured the corners of her jaw to force exposure. Pained muscles pulled taut, the strain echoed in her wrinkled brow. Ember’s involuntary swallow increased discomfort, compounded by Edan’s study of the evidence from Brandt’s attack.
He knew.
Tears clawed at her dry eyes as he leaned into her and his heated breath mingled with the autumn chill to leave a cloying mist against her skin.
“Be grateful I am the one who saw, and not Nicu,” he whispered. “Be thankful for the circumstances that protect you.”
Ember struggled against the loss of strength and a flush of vertigo. He hadn’t killed her.
“Wh-what circumstances?”
“Don’t fall off.”
Translation, see you soon.
Edan filtered back into the shadows and left her to deal with her own shattered sense of security. She knew better than to think he didn’t watch her.
Oh. Verge. Owing Edan, a Fae. It might be easier to be dead.
With a slow scrape, the strap of her bag eased across her shoulder, then sunk with a thud. The pressure didn’t register at first, though the pain filtered into her peripheral thoughts. Why did her foot hurt?
Oh, food. Food to take home.
She had to get home.
Ember hoiste
d the load with both hands and cradled it in front of her body without bothering with the strap. She ran, careless of the jostle her quick movements caused to the contents.
Circumstances saved her. Whatever that meant. Only, she wasn’t convinced keeping her life meant she’d been saved.
5
Nicu
Sticky wet coated Nicu’s skin, and tickled the points of his elbows as it dripped to darken the concrete. The early morning chill hadn’t been enough to stop his body from generating heat while he’d moved through a functional strength circuit. Battle ropes, climbing walls, balance posts and pieces of tree trunk almost as long as his arm span littered the large clearing that had once been a picnic pavilion.
At the finish, he fell into a simple pull-up pattern. Pull, pike, lengthen, lower. Pull, pike, lengthen, lower. He didn’t count, instead he remained mindful during each motion of muscle with bone, the flex of skin over flesh, how the white cloth of his tank tried to contain each movement. Tremors suggested this was the last one. He was running out of energy. And he went again.
His fingers became slick against the metal bar and threatened his control. With a scowl, he eased himself into full arm extension, then dropped three feet to the ground, knees bent to cushion impact.
A slow clap guided his attention to the side of the ring where Daz leaned against a pillar fitted for barehanded climbing. Though both Fae dressed in baggy joggers to counter the morning frost, Daz still wore his loose sweater and it was clean of sweat marks, evidence of his fresh arrival. He wasn’t the only one. The training space had been empty when Nicu began with false dawn, but now the sun was full over the horizon and others had filled in while he’d meditated over his reps.
The newcomers were scouts or hunters, all Terraborn. Born to the energies of this realm, they were more in tune with the forest and more willing to explore in the name of running patrols. In contrast to the human’s pastime of banging their heads against a wall, young Fae trained.
Never off duty, training in the mornings was the closest he came to having time off. Nicu found solace in the repetitions, pride with increased strength, and a deep satisfaction knowing he was only responsible for his own fitness, no one else’s. His hours here almost appeared like freedom. The other Terraborn were well aware this was the place to approach him, as evident with Daz’s morning greeting.
“I was heading to the sparring mats but saw your beautiful form,” Daz said. “Working off some frustration, Nix?”
“Yeah,” Nicu grabbed the towel he’d thrown at the base of the pull-up bar. He studied the horizon as he wiped off. The day was still new. He had time. “The mats, huh? Care for a match?”
Daz tilted his head. “How long have you been training?”
“I’m not sure. An hour on the course.”
“Then verge, no,” Daz laughed. “Not when you’re blowing off steam.” Nicu took the ribbing with a shallow, upward tilt of a smile.
“Five point lead?”
Daz debated for a moment, then shrugged.
“Nah. You have time for something else, though?”
“What are you thinking?”
“A chat. Back at the shop?”
“You just got here.”
“I need motivation. I have a lot of work to complete before I train today.” Daz looked between Nicu and the next closest Fae, as close to fidgeting as Nicu had seen him. “If you’re busy…”
“It’s fine. Let’s go.” They left the training grounds after Nicu dropped his towel in a collection basket, pulled on a wide necked sweater he’d brought with him, then headed into the heart of Center.
The humans who last camped in these cottages would not recognize the redesigned buildings. When the Fae arrived, the log cabins had been solid, though weathered from disuse. A decade or more of fallen leaves from old, imported maple trees had been left to rot over the soil. The twenty original structures had not offered enough space. The Fae wanted the location, anyway, though it had taken a while before they’d started improvements.
During the Fade, the Witches spent their time learning the ways of Terra, and initiated meetings to discuss their new situation. After many sessions, the leaders of each group drafted the Laws of Convergence. The Fae cared little about an agreement they believed temporary. The Fae were not willing to admit defeat. They refused to acclimate, confident magic would return them home.
It did not.
The arrangement left the Fae with the campground and bound to Laws of Convergence so simple that their ancestors would feel shame if they knew Fae had helped shape them. Yet, the rules of war and peace were clear, and they had come out with the most important win, the territory within Trifecta that held a faint energy overlay to their own realm.
The learning curve had lasted years after the final Fade. They had a more difficult time adjusting from their reddish sky to the brilliant blue of Terra. The particles of magic they pulled from the atoms that built every living thing on Gypsum were more slippery within Terra and more ingrained in the material they were part of. As months passed, the Fae accepted this move may not be temporary, and they needed to regain the strength that belonged to their race.
Once they learned how to manage the more stubborn power of the Terran realm, they shaped Center for comfort. Builders and artists, the Fae created masterpieces of wood and vine and earth. Luxury living quarters were built underground. The upper cabins were renovated to service the community and offer a very limited view of Fae culture should outsiders ever visit them.
Daz apprenticed out of the cabin that had become the weaver’s shop. The modest storefront opened to the courtyard, an intermediate door led to where the actual weaving took place. Multiple looms lined up in rows. Closer to the rear entrance, long pine tables sat empty, waiting for Fae to sort gathered materials to be Worked. Novices started with plant parts, then graduated to yarn Work, and on to finer cloth making. Daz’s table was covered in wide-blade grasses and small, brown vines.
“How fast can you copy a spell?” Daz asked, organizing the scattered supplies of his workstation to clear space. He pulled a completed bowl and a few more just begun from storage shelves underneath the tabletop.
“Daz, I cannot.” Nicu ran a fingertip along one of the partially woven green reeds.
If magic were a pond, Nicu’s hands would come up dry if he dipped them in, where another Fae’s fingers filled with possibility defined by the will of the magic gathered. Skilled crafters meditated with their medium, felt through its essential form, and found the lines that allowed ease of movement. The craftsman used methods intended to work alongside, not against, the natural patterns of the world. Wood shed its layers to reveal the curves and dips of nymphs, rushing rivers and flowering vines. Raw fibers spun into delicate threads that bent and wove into rich cloth. Stone chipped away into fine dust for paints and brick, producing polished surfaces that revealed expressive faces. But never for Nicu.
“You can’t create on your own, I know,” Daz rushed. “But I’ve been thinking - because I’m so behind and I’m desperate. What if I gave you the pattern of my magic to follow?”
Nicu grounded himself and took a deep breath to find balance. His contact with the reed shifted as skin sought the energies. Magic thread through every stiff fiber. He saw where they settled into place. With his free hand, he reached for the completed bowl to compare the two. Focused on the unfinished piece, he found the magical particles Daz had gathered from the materials.
A soft grunt of effort and Nicu had that power beholden to his own will. The invisible force was tangible to his inner senses, perceived rather than seen. Magic was difficult to find, collect, and hold on to. Fae were taught from birth until extracting the energy became second nature, first in recognizing, then from experimenting. Mentors gave small tasks that increased in difficulty, so by the time Fae reached ten years, they’d become as familiar with the feel and use of magic as they were with clothing and feeding themselves.
He gleaned Daz’s pattern of ma
gic placed within the structure of the woven plants. He twisted the pooled power based on the finished bowl’s design and watched as the reeds wove around each other, curved up, then over into form. Daz rushed forward to collect more magic. Nicu encouraged the plant fibers to shift their color and pulled tints and shades until the pattern matched.
Nicu let go, and the bowl fell apart.
“Verge.” Daz’s disappointment echoed the collapse.
“An interesting experiment.” Nicu controlled his own dissatisfaction with a roll of his shoulders.
“The master weavers keep saying there are no shortcuts. I hate it when they’re right.” Daz’s smile lacked energy. “I guess I can’t get out of this one. Thanks for trying.”
Nicu nodded in affirmation.
“Duty calls, it seems,” Daz said.
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“No, I mean, for you.” Daz gestured to the front entrance where Branna stood in the doorway, dressed in black, mummy-wrap fleece leggings. A shirt with cutouts along the length of her arm allowed a glimpse of her scythe-shaped tattoos, her thumbs hooked through holes in the cuffs. Glossy hair smoothed up her scalp until it crowned into a puffy bun, her preferred style.
Nicu stepped out of the shop, looked up to find the courtyard busy with Fae beginning the day, but not so focused they didn’t notice the Child’s guardian and his mate.
With attention fixated on them, Nicu pressed his cheek to Branna’s in greeting. Years ago the council declared their lives joined, an ancient practice rarely enacted, one that suggested marriage but did not enforce it. The Elder Council thought it kind to restrict their choices. As the only two tainted Fae, no other Fae would have them, Terraborn or not.
Both present at the Trimarked Child’s birth, both had come out mutated after a High Magic spell to end the threat rebounded and ricocheted, leaving death and resurrection and altered powers in its wake. Nicu could not gather raw magic, and as he’d learned with Daz, to shape something physical with it, either.