by Adam Golden
“Raw magic.” Jogah leapt, or would have leapt if such a thing were possible. In reality, he jerked and the place around him seemed to shudder. Jogah found himself looking directly into a pair of wide, up-tilted lavender eyes, eyes that hung even with his own but were upside down. From his perspective, Niamh seemed to be floating on her head, but seemed utterly at ease and completely composed. Only she could make him feel out of place in a world without directions.
“This,” she said, indicating the odd environment they shared, “is magic in its purest, most undiluted form.”
Jogah slid his hand through the strange gelatinous mass around him and watched the movement create eye-bending ripples in this strange world. “This?” Jogah asked. “This is the Light?”
“Is the sun a candle flame?” the Elder responded. “Is a tapestry a single thread? The Light is many things, but at its core it is Pyski Magic. That, however, is not the only kind of magic. Every people have their ways of reaching toward the power of this place, of shaping and using it. And each of those ways are different. Think of it as an incalculable series of streams all fed by this source, if you like.”
Jogah smirked at how well he remembered that tone of voice. Patient, unjudgmental, concise, that was Niamh’s lecturing voice. Always the teacher, always trying to impart something whether she seemed to be or not. ‘She’d stop to explain the mechanism while being wrung through a grinder,’ the younger Pyski thought to himself fondly, only to see a slight narrowing of those raptor-keen lavender eyes, as though she suspected the silent jest.
“How did I get here, Rion?” Jogah asked his mentor.
“We pushed you here, Gawen, myself, and a few other Elders who happened to be about. It is not an easy Working, but it had the desired effect: you still live. We are, at our base, magical beings, this place can be quite restorative, though not without risks. The treatment was theorized by a Master Meddyg named . . .” He must have grinned because Niamh’s face went stony and she hmphed softly. “Regardless, it is a procedure that is only used in the direst of cases. It hasn’t been needed since the end of the Rending War.”
She stepped closer, until they were nearly nose to nose, her manner suddenly intense. “What happened to you boy?”
* * *
The room full of Pyski glided and swirled around each other like dandelion seeds on the breeze, each like a piece in some great convoluted dance. In contrast, Naimh strode into the chamber, the very soul of purposeful intent and regal bearing. The Elder came to a halt just inside the chamber’s tall ornate doors and raised an open palm before her. “I call a Court to sit.” The words were softly spoken but came out crisp and clear in the silence her presence generated. The chamber was large and full, but the honoured Elder’s words carried easily in the unnatural hush.
“A Court is called,” Gawan intoned, bustling up behind Naimh and looking vexed at having had to appear to bustle. “Elders in precedence, please present yourselves. The Court convenes at this time and in this place. All others are dismissed until the Court calls. Go in the Light.”
With that ritual dismissal, a buzz of surprise and concern rippled through the gallery. A torrent of whispers raced through the crowd, filtering through the huge portal in order to clear the chamber. A Court convening immediately, and a closed Court at that? Both were so rare as to be all but unheard of. Of course, a Court could be called when and wherever there were six Elders to sit, in theory. But in practice these things were usually scheduled with days of notice and preparation before the Calling.
An island of stillness formed in the sea of flowing life before the doors, as a knot of Elders gathered in the midst of the filtering crowd. There was little to mark them out from their younger peers, a gray hair here, a slight thickening at the waist there. Age, Naimh reflected as she studied her peers from a distance, even great age, sat lightly on the Pyski. She herself, probably the oldest Pyski still animate, was nearly as strong and lithe a figure as the day she came from the Light. Nearly. The streak of silver white in her raven black hair grew thicker every year, and more and more Light bled from the webbing of fine cracks at the corners of her eyes. Sweet Light, but she felt her age. Did her fellow Rions and Raius feel as tired, as thin as she did? She was sure they would by the time she was finished speaking today.
The last of the gaggle of citizenry passed through the great arched doorways, carefully sliding the heavy doors closed behind them. Naimh, as Eldest, slid into a seated position on the huge chamber’s milk-white marble floor, and the others formed a circle centered on her. The Pyski Court was sitting.
“Brothers and Sisters, we have been called to serve,” Gawan, always one for formal niceties, intoned self importantly.
“May we serve well,” came the rote reply from the throats of all present.
“There is a Fear Dorcha stalking the O’Broin boy,” Naimh said without preamble, and the easy stillness of the room grew tense with shock. To a one she saw her peers stiffen, eyes grew a little wider, and here and there she saw an unconscious and almost imperceptible negating head shake.
She raised her hand for silence before any had a chance to speak, and went on. “I heard Daiu Jogah’s report only moments ago. The Ward Net around his charge is imperiled. The Guardian felt a Nulling, though of course he didn’t know what it was.”
“There are no more Fear Dorcha,” Rion Kyna declared with a certainty that was betrayed by the slight tremor in her high liltingly musical voice.
Raiu Ivar nodded his agreement. “The Shadow Men have been extinct since the end of the Rending.” His fingers traced nervously through the great thicket of amber-red beard that poured down his front.
“The Light did not come when Jogah called,” Naimh said in a voice like a sigh, and heard a sharp gasp from one of the others in reply. “One of the sigils he is charged to watch over grows dark. It can only be one of the Shadowed. Maeve stirs.”
“Maeve is dead. A century and more, dead,” Gawan declaimed, a bit too quickly and with very little of the assurance he was trying so hard to project.
“Is she?” Naimh mused, more to herself than the others. She shook herself and looked each of her peers in the eyes, one after another. “Can any of you be certain of that? I cannot, and I was there at Dubnos when the Dark Court fell. None saw Maeve fall, or recovered her husk. As years passed and we heard nothing of her we hoped that she was gone forever, we turned that hope into a declaration and spread it about, but do not be deceived. We do not know.”
Those last words hung in the air like a noxious cloud, and five of the six eldest Pyski in Aos Si fidgeted and fussed like frightened children. Or so it looked to Naimh, and the ancient Elder had to admit, at least to herself, that she shared no small measure of the trepidation she saw in them. The horrors of the Rending War still haunted her. The damage done and the casualties to Saelig and Unsaelig alike had been atrocious. That the Saelig Pyski had survived at all was more a matter of luck than the ballads would have the young believe, and more than a century later they still hadn’t fully recovered. If Maeve were truly alive and active again, Naimh wasn’t sure the strength of the Pyski would be enough to throw her back a second time.
“What are we to do?” The question came in a bare whisper from Ruari.
Naimh clucked her tongue in vexation as Ruari shrank back, pulling her head into the cover of the blazing indigo shell on her back. The Wild Pysk Elder was nearly as old as Naimh herself, but so shy and timid that dealing with her always felt like coaxing a child. Wilds were never comfortable in Court, and rarely presented themselves to sit, judging it work better suited to their High Pyski brethren. Ruari, however, was a duty bound Pyski and, despite her painful shyness, when called to serve she always did so with careful, thoughtful diligence. The great ethereal bulk of her spirit form flickered and writhed with snapping tongues of azure smoke that denoted her discomfort to those that knew her well. Like all Wilds, Ruari was born of a bonding with an animal familiar rather than a human, and hers, a great sea
tortoise, must have been a particularly skittish example of the species, or so Naimh had always thought.
“We must ready to fight,” said Rodric, all fire, impatience, and passion as always. “Call a general muster. Break open the armories—”
“And cause a general panic among the people?” Gawan cut in derisively. “There will be chaos in the streets, we cannot—”
“But if Maeve—” Kyna started.
“Maeve is gone!” Ivar’s deep baritone declared.
“Silence.” The word was soft, but it cracked like a whip and every eye turned to Naimh. “Are we squabbling Daiu on the training ground?”
She let the question hang for an instant as her eyes moved around the circle again. Gawan looked churlish, Ivar and Kyna had the decency to look abashed, and Rodric puffed himself up like a blowfish, wrapped in the ever-present defiance he’d worn since childhood.
“Rion Ruari’s question is a good one. What are we to do? Do we know that Maeve is responsible? No. What we do know is that there is a Nulling; for the first time in more than a hundred cycles, Dark surges, and near a Focus. Young Daiu Jogah noticed, but have his brother and sister guardians been as vigilant? I propose that we draft an edict, each of the Ward Nets are to be thoroughly inspected by a qualified Elder.” She looked to Rodric and nodded slightly. “Secondly, a limited muster of the Home Guard should be called up to stand ready should they become necessary.”
Rodric gave a single sharp nod, he had the most tactical experience among the Court, aside from Naimh herself. When the Guard was mustered, he would serve as Commander General.
“Are there any objections?” Naimh asked, but there were none. “Very well. The edict is ordered. Gawan, will you see to the organization of the inspections? I am certain Kyna and Ivar will be happy to assist should you need them. Ruari, will you recruit among the Wilds here in Aos Si for runners and messengers?”
Those around her nodded, save for Ruari, whose great shell simply vibrated with her assent.
“Good. Light save that we have acted in time.” The last came out in a whisper that she hadn’t meant to say out loud. The Eldest gave herself a small shake and flowed up into a standing position. The Sitting was closed.
“Go in the Light and serve,” Gawan mumbled the ritual close.
None offered the traditional response, each too wrapped up in the worries they all shared.
A hundred crystalline lamps hung on thin golden chains around the grand chamber, each adding their tiny thread of light to the soft glow that always filled this place. Behind one of them a barely perceptible smudge of gray flickered unnaturally as the sitting dissolved to see to their tasks. Sliding free of the lantern that anchored it, the thin wisp of dark slithered up the wall like a darting serpent, and oozed into a crack too fine for the naked eye, which spiderwebbed across the apex of the domed ceiling.
Chapter 3
Jogah toppled end over end, plummeting through the void. There was nothing to see, nothing to feel except the constant uncontrolled rotations of his body. Limbs lost in the dark clawed for purchase that wasn’t there. He could feel the physical effort of screaming but the sound didn’t reach his ears. No sight, no sound, just falling. For how long? He had no way of knowing. From where? He couldn’t say. Into what? He didn’t want to consider. He was alone. For the first time in his life he was utterly alone. Had his people forgotten him? The Light had abandoned him, the world itself had ejected him, shaken him off into this empty place. Even Meical had forsaken their bond . . . no, not that, never that. The Bond endured, it must. Jogah’s mind clung desperately to the catechisms of his youth. Rion Naimh’s steady calming voice droned in his mind.
“You are Pyski, the marriage of the Material and the Mystical, given form through the Spril’fe, the Bonding. The Bond drew forth the Light and gave it flesh, and so you were born. So will it feed you, nurture you, and give you purpose. Pyski honour the Bond, we serve the Bond. Pyski ARE the Bond . . .”
If the bond had been broken he would be dead. Dead Pyski shucked their husks and returned to the Light. This, wherever it was, was certainly not the Light. He was lost, maybe trapped, but not dead. The bond endured. Resolve hardened in Jogah and the scream he couldn’t hear stopped. He would endure. He would find his way back to the Light. For Meical. The boy needed him.
Memory crashed back to Jogah like a boulder falling from a height. The darkening glyph. The resistance of the Light. Meical was in danger. The pinwheeling Pyski stopped dead, hanging motionless in the inky nothing. ‘Meical is in danger.’ The words exploded in his mind like cascading fireworks. ‘Meical is in danger.’
Jogah pushed his will out into the crushing emptiness, wrenching at the void with a prybar of iron-hard intention. He was digging at granite with his fingernails, pushing at a mountain of sand. The vacuum was endlessly malleable and utterly immovable. Jogah dug madly at oblivion. He felt himself heaving with exertion, felt muscles tensed to the point of injury, but still he couldn’t find a way to breach the naught that held him.
‘Meical is in danger . . .’ The words lodged in his mind like brambles under the skin. “You are Pyski.” Naimh’s words floated back to him. “Pyski ARE the Bond. The Bond drew forth the Light and gave it flesh. The Light . . . Gave it flesh . . .” He thought of Naimh, of her earnest comforting face, of those brilliant, knowing lilac eyes with their shimmering webs of tiny glowing cracks. “. . . . drew forth the Light and gave it flesh.” Jogah gasped as realization struck.
The trapped Pyski let out a long slow breath, made hands he couldn’t see into claws and raked hard at his cheeks. He drove his long thin fingers in deeply, ripping into the soft white flesh of his face. The feeling of another unheard scream gripped him as a thick wetness spread over his fingers and leaked down his face. Hot tears burned on opened flesh. Exposed nerves screamed. Lacerated muscles and rent tendons jerked and writhed. The part of him that was him fractured and tried to skitter away.
Light! Oh, Light it hurts!
Jogah pressed deeper, dragging long ragged channels down his face. He felt dizzy, nauseous, he was going to pass out, and when he woke, he would still be trapped, weaker than before and still no good to his charge.
“. . . we serve the Bond . . .”
The bloody, anguished Guardian bellowed a nullified blast of frustrated rage and tore further into his own face. He felt something yielding, something deeper than the gore and muscle. When pressed, the strange membrane shuddered, and flashes of brilliant orange agony flared inside him. Jogah clenched his teeth around the scream that threatened to burst free and pressed. The strange membrane snapped. Light exploded outward from the tattered wreckage of his face and struck the nothingness around him like a ram. The empty dark wailed a high, shrieking keen of pain and outrage. It twisted and roiled in on itself, seeking escape with the panicked singlemindedness of an animal trapped by fire. An orb of flawless white brilliance bloomed into being around Jogah and obliterated all traces of the dark. Crushing murk became blinding luminosity. Unbroken black became unchanging white.
Jogah burst upward in a panting, heaving explosion of movement that startled every one of the half dozen Pyski fluttering around the Healers’ Hall.
“Meical . . .” he panted. He tried to rise and failed, his arms shook with exhaustion as he tried to lever himself up without success. He was spent. “Meical . . . is . . . in danger.” He rasped in frustrated desperation.
One of the junior Meddygs dashed from the room as two others rushed forward to settle their patient onto his cot more comfortably. He tried to fight them off but couldn’t.
“What’s this now? Awake, are we? Good.” The Master Meddyg’s imperious bombast ended in a sharp gasp. “Light burn me! What happened here?” the master healer demanded of his assistants.
The answering silence stretched.
“No one? Was no one watching him?”
“We were Master,” replied a silvery voice, high and tremulous. “We’ve all minded him. He was asleep, no fever,
wounds binding nicely, and then . . . that—it just happened.”
Soft probing fingers danced tentatively over the flesh of Jogah’s face. “Why didn’t you restrain him?” Gawan demanded.
A scream tore from Jogah’s lips and his body jerked upward on the cot. Several of the junior Meddygs rushed to grasp limbs, struggling to hold him flat.
“Nevermind,” Gawan said in a rush. “Come, all of you, blend your Light with mine. Focus. That’s right. He’s seizing. Cathair, stem that bleeding. Eachna, reorder that muscle tissue. No! Watch the tendons, girl. Good. The rest of you keep him stable. Watch the heart rhythm. Steady. I have to go deeper to get to the break.”
Light enveloped Jogah from several directions, scouring his body and coiling around his mind like bands of warm honey. A wave of colours played behind his eyes like sunlight streaming through stained glass, soothing and lulling him while it prodded, pressed and explored the deepest recesses of him. The brilliance of so much raw Light forced him, pushing the panicked delirium and worry down. Rest, the Light demanded, and would not be resisted, though Jogah tried. He couldn’t . . . he wouldn’t. Meical . . .
Rest.
Consciousness came slowly, leaking back in dribs and drabs. The overwhelming sensation of the Light pressing at him was gone and so was the pain, or most of it. His face and neck hurt in the dull way of an old ache, and there was a steady throbbing behind his eyes. A soft breeze from somewhere stirred the hairs on his arms and he shivered.
“. . . yes, he’ll live. Of course he will. I treated him myself.” The words came softly. Not whispered, but from a distance. Gawan. Only the Master Meddyg could blend arrogance and insecurity so well. Whomever he was speaking with was more subdued and Jogah could not hear what they said. He moved cautiously, testing his limbs first. Everything moved when he asked, though not without protest and a distressing sluggishness.