by Helen Savore
Moralynn stopped, her eyes drawn to it. Following the attraction, she advanced, her outstretched hand reaching for it.
She was so engrossed she did not react until his slim sword crashed into her left arm band.
She hissed as it flared the bright red of forged metal. The pain and resounding twang returned her concentration. She snatched the offending garnet and threw it at the elf.
He sidestepped and it bounced off a column, trickling along the raised family sigils. The elf stood still, eyes closed, hiding his dark orbs, and hummed. The tones flew up and down the vocal range until he matched pitch to the struck band. His sword then twitched, picking up the resonance.
Moralynn was in no shape to fight someone wielding a pitched blade. It agitated the surrounding air so much she suspected it would not need to strike the remaining headband to end this battle. He would only have to draw close.
This would not do. If she was falling for mental games, she was more put out than she realized.
I could mend.
No one would know. How could they?
She quivered her palm as if fighting the urge to grab her blade. Instead she used the tension to call on her healing, refreshing the bottom of her bruises, nothing near enough her surface to become visible.
Moralynn had come too close to lose now. She could taste the victory, or was it the iron blood in her mouth? She did not believe Raebyn’s words from earlier, but a boon from Oberon was within her grasp. A new Smith, one who could potentially become a Life Smith? Curse Boderien’s death. Curse Raebyn. She needed more time to mourn her past allies, but forward she must go. The one possession left her was an abundance of time, so best she wield it when appropriate.
The elf’s eyes narrowed, and his blade dropped, clattering along the stone floor where it continued to vibrate.
Moralynn questioned her fortune at his mistake, but immediately drew as she lunged, using a plume of stone to push forward.
“Foul!” the elf yelled before Moralynn cut into his throat band.
It did not burn red.
Moralynn yanked her sword and continued to roll through her landing and charged back. “Why did it not strike?”
“Your opponent has called foul.”
Moralynn’s eyes rose to the dais and met Oberon’s frowning face. Typically fae saw Oberon as one of their own race, though never quite the same figure. His visage flickered. To her, Oberon had many faces. She was never sure which were true, if any. The thing that remained consistent was the stern expression. She wondered if the Great Smith was capable of smiling.
Moralynn faced the royal family, arrayed above them, each on their own personified throne. Raebyn smirked and shook great metal nuggets in his hand. Some help he was. Ayden’s burnt seat remained empty. The Great Weaver, Titania’s eyes remained opalescent and inscrutable, but the slackness of her face and the drooping eyelids radiated disappointment as she leaned into her hammock.
Moralynn inclined her head respectfully. “By doing so he interrupted my last attack.”
Oberon tilted his head, his brows furrowing. “I must hear the charge before we remedy the interruption. Please, elf, speak.”
“While I do not believe the Lady Moralynn is barred from these Trials, she should not have drawn on her Druidic abilities. This is a time for elemental shaping.” The elf glared at her. “Perhaps a bit of psyche, but certainly no life shaping."
Oberon shifted his gaze to her. His form shifted faster than normal, a different monster each moment, but his dark eyes remained, steady and firm. “Moralynn, I did not expect you here.”
How did this elf recognize her healing? She was tired, not careless. Fae were incapable of handling life magic, only those of human blood could, so how did he perceive her action?
Regardless of how he knew, life magic surely gave her away. She could not hide anymore. Moralynn chose not to salvage her disguise and instead redirected the charge. She scanned the crowd, attempting to spot one of Oberon’s heralds. “I understood all types of shaping were available for the quarterly Trials. By the rules of the Trials, while a Smith cannot shape, they could forge within the circle of battle if they believed that the best way to engage an opponent.”
The Herald she pointed to shook their head. More turned his way, but he sunk to his knees and offered his hammer high to the air, to Oberon presumably.
Moralynn gritted her teeth. Heralds were such an obsequious waste of Smiths. They should be glad she was attempting to liberate one now with her wish.
Oberon’s voice stilled the crowd. “I am inclined to agree with this elf. One should not have to explain the distinction, to one as long lived as you, Moralynn.”
“Healing is one of my skills. It is one of our singular human advantages. It would not be fair to restrict such capabilities; it would bar us from these Trials.”
Oberon’s voice boomed within the room. “For you, Moralynn, and your duplicitous nature, I am more than willing to make that judgment. Not all humans or all Life Shaping.” He settled back on his great stone chair. “Moralynn Phoenix Sparked, you are barred from this competition of honor. You must forfeit the match.”
Moralynn spun to face him. “You are changing your word.”
The stone room shook, the tiles of the floor shifting while columns curved within their placements. “My word is eternal, and it is law. The honor of men was different once, such clarification would not have been required.”
“This woman feels dishonored,” Moralynn muttered.
Oberon pointed. “Feel free to admire your ancestor’s sword.”
Moralynn’s eyes slid towards the black sword of Merlin. Oberon mocked her. If she were not to win there was no point to put herself through that agony again. “If I must forfeit, then I forfeit the grasp as well.”
“Then I must insist. While your opponent has earned his boon, you must take his punishment for flouting our ways on this day of remembrance.” He motioned to elf beside her. “Please escort the Phoenix Sparked.”
The elf put a hand on her shoulder, but she jumped away.
“Do not touch me.” She strode forward. While she had hoped to grasp that sword, and had planned to survive the reaction, now that the moment was here she panicked. It was punishment, not merely an obstacle on the way to her goals. She tried to throw her senses anywhere, everywhere, elsewhere, anything besides her hand. Her ears reveled in the clunk of her boot heels upon the stone, and her nose pulled in the unique musk of the cavernous throne room. Stone worn by water tasted delightful on her tongue.
The elf pushed her, and she glared at him.
“You do not have to push me.” Moralynn returned her attention to the venerable weapon and bowed to the inevitable, brushing the grip.
She caught a hint of supple leather before her eyes rolled back and she fell.
Moralynn came to, not too long later, because no one appeared to have moved. She grumbled and looked at her hand. While not physically burned, she could feel, and on some other level see, the injury.
The sword of Merlin was not meant to be touched.
She closed her eyes and fought the tears flooding her senses. Was this what Merlin meant when he claimed the dark sword would weep? In all these centuries, the few times she had touched the sword, it was never pleasant. Every time it reminded her how unworthy she was to carry on her family’s work. But then, she was not Arthur, and the sword was meant for him. She must forge her own way forward.
The sound of the elf’s boot broke her out of her shame. It stepped past her, towards the sword.
“Stop,” she said, pulling on the elf’s boot. “If Oberon has decided I must take this suffering from you there is no point for you to repeat it. The dark sword’s bite is painful to me. I cannot imagine the horror for a fae.”
“You treat me false and then call me true?” The elf raised a brow when he offered her a hand. “Perhaps there is redemption left in you, Moralynn Phoenix Sparked.”
She held her breath. Who was this? She sear
ched her unreliable memories, but no birth came to mind. She was too broken to even recall her own hunches.
Oberon interrupted her thoughts. “The sword is not for you.”
The elf gazed upon him. “My Lord, it is part and parcel of my victory here. The return of the sword heralds the return of your son Arthur.”
“I hope for that day, but Moralynn has taken the bite of the sword tonight. It will do you no good today. Choose your boon, young warrior.”
Moralynn spoke as she took a step back, massaging her hand. “This one is not so young.”
“All children are young in the eyes of their father.”
“But few so old as this one.” Moralynn snapped her mouth shut, not sure why she contributed to this elf's theatrics, for they had become that. Did she truly not recall his resurrection? Was he that old?
The elf held his arms aloft. “I am Adhomai, called Phoenix Herald.”
No. He could not be alive.
It had been well over a thousand years. Maybe twelve hundred. Fae did not survive that long without killing themselves off in skirmishes or shaping gone awry. Impossible.
She could never defeat him, no matter the form, or life.
The room, too, stood in shock. There were too many voices and the ever present insecure stone pavings rode the tremors that rolled throughout. It was a wonder the columns remained upright, and the hall did not fall.
Moralynn caught Oberon’s ungraceful turn, looking towards his wife.
Titania answered with a small nod.
“Quiet,” Oberon spoke, and the fae and the stone stilled. He held a hand out to Titania, which she took as she rose.
The full threads of her gown danced and pooled round her as she strode down the few stairs to the floor.
“Yes, it is them,” she said. “The firstborn. Adhomai broke the drought of life after the Battle of Camlann, revealing the powers of the Phoenix had returned, allowing reincarnation to resume.” Her lids raised and her deep eyes latched on to the elf. “It has been some time.”
Moralynn could not help but notice he did not flinch under the scrutiny of a god. Perhaps it was the recklessness of age. Such as it was with her.
“One such as I have learned patience.”
“And what does one with such patience want?” Titania’s arms pulled trailing wispy threads.
Adhomai’s stance changed. “Since I was born in such an unusual manner…” He nodded to Moralynn. “I never experienced the Glimpse.”
“It shall be done,” Titania and Oberon echoed each other, their voices mixed to form a dissonance that quieted the room.
Adhomai, the first fae she reincarnated. Phoenix Herald, but also the last chimera. Memories from her dreaming during that time flooded her. Why were those so clear? Moralynn was no friend to the fae, of what he had become, but still she could not let Adhomai take that look. She recognized fae were ready to be reborn by the calm of their souls, and how they grew into youths instead of children. After rebirth, she brought them immediately to Titania to ensure they truly were ready, and if so, which family they would join. This was accomplished through the Glimpse. One look back, to their previous life, and one look forward, to their new one.
He had lived for centuries. It was not this life she was afraid of. He could not look back; it would destroy him.
Moralynn grabbed Adhomai, pulling his ear to her mouth. “You do not want to do this.”
He grabbed her, too, appearing to embrace. “Your sentiment is sweet, little Phoenix friend, but unnecessary. Much time has passed. I must see this now.”
Moralynn squeezed her eyes. Despite losing their memories between lives, perhaps in this case a small sliver remained of his former life.
“We were both much different once,” she said. “I could hardly recognize you with such skins. If you would honor your prior memories, let it lie.”
He tilted his forehead down to hers. “Your words confirm everything I suspect.”
Moralynn let go and stepped back. His voice. It was as if he knew, but his words made it clear he did not. “I must come with you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Your presence is not required, Phoenix Sparked.”
Moralynn was surprised she could still produce moisture in her eyes. Their new names, while more similar, stood as a mark for what drove them apart. But that would all change in a moment.
He will not accept it.
“I shall accompany you as my duties require.” She tried to muster some of the hatred, but was afraid her next words would come out as a sob. “The duties you cursed me to reveal.”
17
Moralynn preceded Adhomai and Titania, not speaking to either until they were in Titania’s sanctuary. Oberon ruled from below in his forge that anchored the Tower, while Titania ruled from above.
If it were not for the palpable feel of magic, the disarray would have resembled the workshop of a simple weaver woman. Moralynn always felt a little uncomfortable in this place, sensing memories she could not quite touch. She tiptoed round the strings and threads that crisscrossed the room. She found one of the larger piles of yarn and sat, attempting to make herself comfortable. Moralynn hitched her leg and leaned into another pile, drawing her gaze to the ceiling. More bundles hung there, but today their tendrils were not low enough to tickle those walking through the space. Titania’s current handmaidens kept some semblance of order.
Moralynn righted herself and caught Titania taking her traditional seat. The only seat in the entire workshop, Titania’s workbench put other woods to shame, a bush in the shape of a hand. The palm cradled Titania, and five fingers surrounded her, bound by a mesh of leaves and discarded threads.
Moralynn noticed Adhomai twitch and smiled somewhat in consolation. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
“Moralynn, it is not in you to antagonize him further.”
Moralynn stared at Adhomai. It was a wonder she did not recognize him. She did not recall him as fae, but instead the role he played in her nightmares that accompanied her three-century rest. After waking, mourning, and then being thrust into her new responsibilities, she never found the first fae she reincarnated.
During the drought of life, there had been plenty of time to tweak and adjust the sculptures that became fae. Adhomai’s form was a paragon among elves, though he did not behave like one. If their brief bout was any indication, in the intervening years he had become quite the mage. Add all that to his cryptic words and it meant he was dangerous.
“It is completely within my realm of action to do so,” she said. She stood and strode closer to Titania to whisper. She could still try to stop this. “My Lady, why did you not stop him earlier? This cannot happen. The newly reborn souls, yes, but one as old as him?”
Titania tilted her head until she swelled, so she could look down on Moralynn. “Why do you wish to prevent this, my maiden?”
“You call your maiden with words, but you would not support me in the fight. Moreover, now you will proceed with this dangerous ritual.”
“It is his right. We shall do as the world has ordered.” Titania remained still as she spoke, but her gown floated and swayed, lending a contrast of movement to her own stark stillness. She held a hand to Moralynn’s head. “As the world has ordered you to be vocal, so I shall not question those qualities.”
“What about those who do not fit?”
“Then both of you must define your fit.”
They turned to Adhomai. He did not face the pair, but his foot wiggled. It was strange to see such a frenetic motion with no sound. His boot met the muffled resistance of layers of thread.
Moralynn cleared her throat. “If you still insist, Adhomai?”
His head snapped back. “I do.”
“Please, come.” Titania pointed to the tapestry before her. Moralynn could not make out anything within the weave, despite the many times she’d viewed it. Sometimes a pattern developed within a small section of individual threads, but the combination was not something she could compr
ehend.
Neither could Adhomai, for although he stepped forward, his hand hesitated above the surface.
“You are here,” Titania said, guiding his hand once he found hers. She drew it left. “We must go back. Much further back, in fact.” Her hand flew atop the threads and her loom shifted the pattern, rolling it up on one end and rolling it out at another.
“We are close. Touch and feel the weave, understand the time you came from, and the influences for this event.”
Adhomai tentatively stroked the cloth. A moment later his head dropped forward, relaxed.
Moralynn let her hand hover above the weave, making sure never to brush the threads. “It has been some time since we looked so far back.” Her eyes flicked to the future portions of the tapestry. “There are many lines that stem from here.”
“The events of these days shaped many that followed, and the present still. Their effects stretch into the future. It will be some time before those influences leave the pattern.”
That struck Moralynn. She searched for her own thread, recalling where she had been around this time. Her life was so different then.
Adhomai’s head shot up and his eyes bulged.
“Did you understand what you saw?”
Adhomai’s head tilted towards Moralynn before he focused on Titania. “I saw a sword.” He flexed his hands. “I intend to reclaim it.”
Titania’s face remained still. “Heirlooms are a noble quest.” She yanked the weave, putting hand over hand to pull the cloth forward. “Are you ready to glimpse?”
Adhomai relaxed and closed his eyes.
Titania put a frayed thread within his hand and his eyes flew open, startled.
Moralynn stifled a laugh.
“Usually the thread has not twined when this conversation occurs. Fortunately, you have hidden yourself from many large events, so it is simple to extricate this. You must sense your thread. See it, hear it, touch, taste, and smell it.”
Adhomai stood stock still, staring at Titania.
“You need to acclimate your senses, to find when you will become.”