by Helen Savore
Merlin’s last sword, presumably the dark sword from his litany.
Early in her purgatory she had tried to claim the legendary weapon as her own, but when she grasped it something pulled her apart from the inside. She had collapsed and was paralyzed for weeks. Apparently it was a lesser pain for most fae. That was the first time Oberon caught her impersonating folk in his throne room. Today, she hoped for better luck. Forewarned, she should be able to handle it.
The dark sword was not her goal. While there was no formal ranking, stronger challengers tended to place their mark near Merlin’s sword, as if stating they were already that much closer to victory and grasping it. There were no brackets or prelims; not everyone fought the same number of bouts. If you lost, you withdrew your weapon and people continued to challenge until they dwindled down to one.
One in particular caught her attention. It was not made of metal. Three strands of braided blue crystal shimmered in the diffuse light. Raebyn had left part of himself behind to serve as his mark. It was strange for him to suggest this when he had her beaten in the shop. Granted, what was defeat between a pair of near immortals?
Though there was no bodily risk from the Trials. They were honor duels; no one wanted to risk death despite the promise of reincarnation. Instead, for each match the combatants bore six bands. Two where the knees join and two more at the elbows, one as a crown around the head, and the last as a choker encircling the neck. Placement varied a touch depending on the particular fae race’s construction, but they were always near vital areas for cognition, movement, and sustainment of life.
Each band had to be activated by elemental shaping, touching, tagging, marking, or even smashing it in the more brutal duels. But never the person. Blood, ichor, or any form of massive leakage was unacceptable during a Trials fight; the offender would be disqualified. The same went for dismembering or anything disfiguring. Bouts were just as much about finesse as power, demonstrating the ability to aim precisely and hit just enough, and not a mote more.
Raebyn could only humiliate her, not hurt her, so his mysterious intent worried her. Moralynn took her hovering hand away from the crystal sword. If she could not understand Raebyn, then she must push her concerns aside so as not to split her focus. She needed to win and gain the services of a Smith. She walked away and drew a more modest sword.
Hours passed by in a blur as she won match after match. The weapons in the rack were dwindling, and she sunk hers in as she meant to take a break. Shortly thereafter she was summoned back—Raebyn had drawn her blade.
She knew this would be no easy challenge, and though she meant to win to gain her boon and a Smith, she was still perversely proud she had not fallen yet. The longer it took to conclude, the larger the crowd had grown at the Seventh Court.
The bonfire atop the small metal pyramid cast strange shadows from Raebyn’s burly demion shape. Four bands burned molten red: one circled his neck, two were below his knees, and his left forearm bore the last.
Five bands burned across her own body, but it did not slow her.
Within the constraints of the Trials, it turned out they made a good match. Raebyn was stuck in one form, but he didn’t experience the aches and pains of simple blows. Moralynn could not risk healing and revealing who she was, but she handled pain better than most, having survived death itself.
Moralynn drew her mineral sword. Although it was the same she had used in her last encounter with Raebyn, she could not chance the familiarity of her fire blade. That had explicit phoenix markings, and she was afraid to risk breaking it. Today, she wore a single defensive fire foci. It was part of the pattern of her Llehfin armor, a favorite of hers, but none would associate that armor with the Phoenix Sparked.
Despite the Llefhin's demise long ago, the quality of their foci was still treasured today. If you owned one of their foci, you used it. If you found one for sale, you bought it. No one sold to the Phoenix Sparked, though. She had no need of armor or weapons on Annwn. If she had time for more, then should she not be re-birthing faster?
“Now you draw your blade?” Raebyn laughed and stomped the ground. The looser dirt shifted, and ripples played along the small stream that circled the court. “It is not large enough to bludgeon, so what do you intend to do with that, youngling?”
Moralynn did not bother to hide her grin, she had not been young in over a millennium. She used the tremor Raebyn started to loosen the dirt. The moss that covered half the field lost its hold and merged into the soil. She put a second hand on the grip of her sword and ran through the air, each successive foot fall bringing her higher above the quaking ground and farther away.
Opposite the pyramid stood a cascade of rocks leading to a hole in the wall. Water splashed out, coursing down the rock pile until it fed the small stream.
Moralynn whipped the flat of the blade into the rocks.
They disintegrated.
The edges of the hole crumbled and grew wider apart.
Water surged, pouring onto the ground.
Moralynn sheathed her sword. The sweep of her arms guided the water, drawing it out faster to flood the court. More subtle flicks of her wrist agitated the dirt underneath, and brought the stiffer rock up into her hand.
The flood's initial wave rushed towards Raebyn.
He did not anchor himself as Moralynn expected. Raebyn instead drew in dirt and made an ascending column, sending himself high above the waterlogged court.
Moralynn’s smile turned into a growl. She dropped her hold on the air that maintained her hover. While falling she summoned the rush of air again to create a current to slingshot herself to Raebyn, and barreled across the field.
Along the way she pushed moss and mineral laden water into his column, then a grew vine from the mixture of earth, water, and plant. It climbed Raebyn’s leg, and he was slow to react.
She smirked. Raebyn could not shape shift during a bout, he had chosen his form before they began. She suspected he had rearranged or left off pain receptors within his body. Deaden the pain, weaken other sensations.
By the time he noticed and tried to jump, the vine circled his waist and lifted him meters above the column.
Moralynn released the air to make a small change to her trajectory, and extended her arms forward, pebbles circulating in her palm.
The force of her vault across the court would have translated into a brutal blow; too bad that alone wouldn’t activate a band.
She grappled him, and they wrestled as they fell. Before the vine could yank him back she got her hand on his shoulder. Her hand was now covered in rock.
She crushed his shoulder band, and it flared red.
The vine reached the end of its slack and yanked them back.
Both of them fell atop his column. Moralynn ignored the aches of her body and leapt into the air, making sure she was not caught in her own snare.
Flame spurted underneath the vines.
A wicked smile blossomed across Moralynn’s face.
Raebyn meant to burn his way out. He was not summoning individual fire to release particular snares; he built a bonfire within, letting the pressure grow until there was no doubt of escape. Raebyn did not do anything in a small way. After spending this long in a fight, it was probable he wanted not only to defeat her, he wanted to punish her.
Moralynn did not stop the stream of flame Raebyn summoned. Instead she focused on the concurrent streams of wind and water. She curled a wave to the top of the column, simultaneously spinning the wind above it, cooling it to create a sheet of ice. She surrounded the vine trap covering Raebyn, except for his head, where the last band did not glow.
Raebyn’s bonfire hit critical mass, and flame covered him. The ice and plant burnt away, but not before the band around his head turned red from his own fire.
Moralynn would cherish this moment for quite some time. The contortions on Raebyn’s stuck face was a wonder. She had never seen him this disheveled. Ash covered his brow, and half burnt leaves trickled down his armor.<
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His composure returned as he rose and gazed at her with consideration.
Raebyn held out a hand. “I am beaten.”
Moralynn took the hand, but tripped over the words. “Only today. I borrow your honor so that I may return it tenfold in service to our GodKing, Oberon.”
The second they parted she tore off the bands and dashed out of the court.
“You betray yourself coming here.”
Despite the interruption, Moralynn stared at the tall red doors, the path to Avalon from the fae realms. Though they had stood well before the Massacre of Camlann, she chose to think the lacquer incorporated the blood of her people.
She rarely got this close, but today the heralds were required to officiate the Trials and fae could wander through more of the Tower. Seeing the doors always renewed her resolve, but now they made her weary. Guards or no, she still could not pass; it was a magic she did not understand. She had carried this burden far too long.
“I know not what you mean, Lord Raebyn. This is a little used corridor, and I needed some space.” She batted her eyes, then thought better of it. She was still a mess and considered it best not to act as someone attempting to impress another. “I only wanted to test my steel against yours. I did not think to win.”
“Do not try to fool me, Moralynn. In this lonely hall your mind is clear.”
She sighed. She wished it were so clear for her.
Moralynn spun to lean against the wall. “I came as summoned, so my heir is safe, you said as much.”
Raebyn mimicked her, but he did not stay still. Lines of his skin rippled, and where they intersected a new ripple began. “I said meet me, not beat me.”
“I am not here to bandy words with you, Raebyn.”
Raebyn placed a hand on the door.
Moralynn looked away. It pained her to see him touching those doors, denied to her.
“If you insist, let us get straight to the matter. Moralynn, what is your intent? You are training a Druid?”
“I cannot teach another human my trade? It is a miracle another Druid was born.” An aided miracle. However, Alexandrea’s abilities surpassed even her father’s, who had been the best Druid she’d tutored in nearly one hundred years.
“We both know that is not quite true, Moralynn. There is a reason the Earth has no more Druids. The GodKing does not want another repeat of the Battle of Camlann.”
“Oberon continues to claim more than his due. The lack of Phoenix to summon and guide the Druids has destroyed their numbers.” She threw a fist towards the red door, but recoiled before connecting. “Further, you do not even acknowledge what truly happened that day. Oberon does not want another repeat, not of the battle, but of Merlin’s defiance. He halted fae rebirth for three centuries.”
“The act of dying is upsetting enough, but to remain dead in perpetuity?” Raebyn shrugged. “Oberon could never stand aside and allow his children to suffer so.”
“His favored children,” Moralynn spat. “Or did he not create the human race, too?”
Raebyn’s eyes gained a dark luster. “The GodKing always puts the needs of his children first. Even when they hurt each other. He will remove those who threaten his benevolent order. But let us not wander into theology, Moralynn.”
Raebyn walked closer to her, stretching his form with each step, until he stood three meters tall. He hunched his shoulders and glared at Moralynn. “Tell me the truth of what you are doing.”
Let him claim what he will, I will not say it. “I did not lie.”
“But you have not said everything.” His neck elongated and snaked until it was inches from her own face. “An apprentice you can take, but they can never surpass the master. There is no more Grail, and no more Sparks to replace you, Moralynn. You are Phoenix in forever now.”
“I am a shadow,” Moralynn hissed, “a castoff of the true Phoenix’s light. I do not maintain life; I am life’s slave.”
“Is it not simpler that way?”
She shoved Raebyn’s head away.
It whipped back to his body, which shrank to a more typical size.
Moralynn held her hand aloft and white flame burst into it.
Raebyn put his hand into her flame.
She recoiled, shrinking back from the cool blast quenching her flames.
“You may have more allies than you think, Moralynn Phoenix Sparked.”
Moralynn wrung her hands, attempting to banish the terrible frozen feeling.
“I hope I did not understand that, Son of Oberon. It almost sounded like an offer to help my cause.” Moralynn did not doubt this was a trap. What she could not figure out was Raebyn’s goal. She did not see the advantage to this, other than to puzzle her. It could not be genuine. He must know she would never trust him. You cannot take back nearly killing someone.
“I am not that difficult to understand if you know my motivations.”
Moralynn scoffed. “You are Oberon’s messenger—”
Raebyn’s eyes flashed. “My own motivations.”
In all her many years dealing with Raebyn, he never acted other than precisely as he meant to. What could drive Raebyn to outburst? Moralynn closed her eyes and breathed in. She must not let this distract her, this demonstration of earnestness did not mean it would be safe for her.
“And what are those?” she asked.
“Answers to questions.”
“Which?”
Raebyn fell back into himself. His body stood still, stopped flickering, forming, or moving. Calm resettled on his figure. “I am not ready to share that.”
“Raebyn, if you would call me ally, but will not share your motivations, how do you intend to support me?”
He grinned. “What is it you need, Moralynn?”
She relaxed. This was the Raebyn she knew—he would attempt to trap her in false promises. Something simple, then. Luckily, what she wanted most was something that could easily be explained. It was worth the risk. “I need a Smith.”
“Moralynn. We are ascendant, let us not play games. If that is truly what you need—”
“Yes.”
Raebyn offered a hand, palm up and empty. A sign of peace. “Win the Trials, and I will see what I can do.”
“Win? If I win your father will have to award me any boon I chose.”
“Do not fool yourself. He will not honor it. Not to you.”
She took his hand and pulled him close. “And if he did not recognize me?”
Raebyn shoved himself away and strode down the hall. “Moralynn, you cannot fool the GodKing.”
Excuses. Why did she maintain that flicker of hope? “Maybe, Raebyn. But what is more certain is that no one can trust his messenger.”
He paused, but only a moment, the sound of his footfalls the only answer as he continued to stalk away.
16
Moralynn faced the last challenger.
She danced under the GodKing's eyes and he did not know her; Raebyn had been wrong. Moralynn circled her quarry, within the innermost ring of those dratted columns, right at the foot of the God’s thrones.
However, something was amiss.
Her frustration with this elf offset her elation for making it this far. There was something familiar about this one, which both annoyed and mocked her. Serving as Phoenix, she reincarnated each fae, so she had met every living one. There were no more from before the Battle of Camlann, all those centuries ago. But it was only a brief moment at the start of their life, when she presented them to Lady Titania for judgment.
This elf was different. Or perhaps more. Most elves, though paragons of balanced form, took to their environment and worked natural aspects into their clothing and self. This elf had done no such thing and shone in pristine clear beauty. Pale skin, just a few pleasing shades off of cream, offset by the long tresses tied in black leather thongs to keep it out of the way during battle.
The elf’s armor was an older style, though families often handed down their best heirlooms to their current Ascendant. There
was no doubt this elf was a master Shaper, using all the elements and several admixtures in their match.
Who was this elder being? She was two bands away from either taking or losing the Trials, so she should put this out of her mind. It bothered her as the fight stretched too long, and now he did not move.
Moralynn brought her offhand onto the grip and shifted her sword into a guard. “Will you not strike?”
“I am patient.”
The crisp clearness of his words produced strange echoes within her head. His stillness and precision bothered her. He was too neat. Aside from no plant or mud on his skin, he was too still for an elf. He flashed no enigmatic smiles or led her in any foolish perversity.
This one was inscrutable. He must have survived several matches to make it this far, but his pale skin was unblemished, and Moralynn the Druid was in disarray.
“I will teach you patience,” Moralynn said, sheathing her sword. She changed her deliberate step into a stroll, yet still circled her opponent.
She let one hand rest on her belt, which bore circles of ivory and obsidian that depicted the phases of the moon. Wasting her belt options on a psyche item had hurt, but she was afraid she might need the help to maintain her disguise. It now gave her more options for this final frustrating fight. Most of the time one summoned what they wished through elemental shaping. But a foci, the wielder already controlled it. If you broke that concentration, and if you fought not in strength of shaping, but with pure manipulation…
Moralynn thrust her other hand towards the elf.
The sword that lay along the length of his long leg twitched. “I advise you stop what you are attempting,” he said. “It is unwise.”
She responded through gritted teeth. “Advising your opponent during a spar itself seems unwise.” She was not used to practicing psyche on such a talented fae. It was taking time for her to perceive his mind; he was too strange.
“I was offering a kindness.” His manicured hand mirrored hers and jerked back, leaving a rough garnet in midair.