The Sorceress: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 3)

by James Eggebeen

  Odray backed out of the door and slowly closed it, plunging Rotiaqua into darkness.

  7

  Rotiaqua tossed and turned. The weather had gone cold, and she was having trouble sleeping. She’d tried to use the fire to search out anyone she could speak to. It had been more than a summer since she had seen the boy in the flames. She desperately wished to reach him, to see if he had learned anything that might help her, for she was soon to relocate to the castle and begin her life as a royal. Her father had sent a delegation to fetch her. In the morning, her whole life was to be uprooted.

  She rose from her bed and sat before the fireplace.

  She settled in, legs crossed before her.

  She stilled her breathing.

  Let the magic come.

  “Incendi ignius.” She stretched out her hand, feeling the power come to life. A warmth rose from her middle and rushed along her arm and out her fingertips. Brilliant red and green sparks flew from her fingertips to surround the wood carefully placed in the fireplace.

  With a whoosh, it ignited, filling the room with its warmth.

  She reached out for Sulrad as she had done before, half expecting to fail once again.

  A wavering image appeared in the fire.

  It was him. He had grown, matured. He was no longer a boy, but a young man.

  When he saw her, his eyes went wide.

  “I thought you were dead,” she said.

  “No. I’m in Amedon.”

  The image was indistinct. Something was interfering with it. Was it on her side or his? Was it because he was far away? He said Amedon. She recalled it. It was up in the mountains, several days’ travel from Frostan, but not that far. Was magic so limited that it could not cross such a distance?

  She leaned in, squinting at him. “Why are you so fuzzy? I can barely make out your image.”

  As she spoke, the image started to waver. She was losing him. She tried to strengthen her magic, but it wasn’t working.

  “Who are you?” he asked almost in a panic.

  Should she tell him? Why not? What harm could come of it? “I’m Rotiaqua,” she said. “Rotiaqua Reik.”

  With that, the image faded.

  She tried to restore it, but something was getting in the way, blocking her attempts. She was still sitting there in front of the now cold fire when Odray entered in the morning.

  “Why are you sitting on the cold floor like that?” she asked.

  “It’s the end of my life.”

  “It’s the start. You are to take your place in the castle. You are the designated heir.”

  “What’s the castle like?” Rotiaqua had never seen the castle. Her father visited her on rare occasions when he needed something of her, but he had never invited her to the castle. All she knew was the rolling hills of the great walled estate. The castle sounded like a crowded place with strangers and servants alike.

  “It’s grand. Tall. Strong. Ancient. It was built so long ago that no one truly knows who built it. Rumor has it that the dragons helped in its construction, but I don’t believe that. There is a scar on the wall from an old battle. Dragon-built castles have none such, being fabricated of pure magic. There are folk everywhere. It’s crowded.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a place anyone would wish to be.”

  “And yet it is. The wealthiest have their homes and shops inside the walls of the castle. Others crowd around it in a sprawling town that supports all manner of folk. Merchants. Crafters. Common folk. Everyone. You will come to love it. I know you will.”

  But Rotiaqua had not come to love it. She had been installed in a tower off on the edge of the castle about as far from her father as was possible. Worse than that, ever since she had come to live in the castle, her magic was somehow dampened. It was as if the air itself was less life-sustaining. When she called up fire, it was weak and pathetic. And worst of all? She was no longer able to contact anyone through the fire. She had lost track of Sulrad moons ago and was never able to regain it. It saddened her. Not because he was such a fast friend, but because he was the only one she knew who was able to contact her. And now he was gone.

  She sat before the vanity that her father had purchased for her. He insisted that she maintain her appearance as a proper lady and secured a pair of maids to keep her presentable. Amidst the clutter the maids had arranged for her, she placed a thick candle. It was one she had brought with her from the estate. Rendered from tallow with a hint of lilac, it soothed her as much as helped her focus.

  “Incendio ignius.” She felt the power rise up from deep within her. It was weak and ineffective. At first, she thought she had failed completely. The candlewick remained dark and cold, but after a hand of heartbeats, a tiny spark appeared.

  She pressed power into it.

  The spark turned to flame and grew.

  She sighed and sat back. At least her magic was not altogether gone, but what was happening? Was this something her father had done to prevent anyone, not just her, from doing magic? Surely he had no idea she was one of the gifted ones. She doubted he would have moved her into the castle if he did. Still, something was going on and she needed to find out what.

  She stared into the fire, letting her mind wander. In her imagination, she became as a bird. She looked down on the castle as she soared above it. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Slate tile roofs covered solid stone walls. A dark green stain covered most of the roofs as moss encroached on the tile. Still, something felt wrong.

  She moved higher until the walls fell below her.

  There. Surrounding the castle, just outside the walls, in the moat.

  To her imaginary eyes, it was as if someone had created a thick wall of brambles.

  She moved her vision toward it.

  She picked a spot she had seen often and knew well.

  It was not the same to her imaginary eyes as it was in real life. In her vision, it was covered in brambles. A secure fence guarding the castle no less than the moat and stone walls did.

  She soared down to land just inside the brambles. Once more, she imagined herself as a bird, pecking away at the bramble, a bit at a time. With each stroke of her imaginary head, the equally imaginary beak struck the bramble.

  At first, it seemed pointless, but as she worked at it, she was able to chip away at the thorny dried bramble. Bit by bit, the tiny chips of wood fell at her feet until she had a tiny hole in the bramble. When she pecked away at that last bit, she felt what it had been restricting.

  Magic.

  Her magic came back to her. Not as strong as before, but as if a tiny trickle of magic had been permitted through the hole she had made.

  More. She needed more.

  She worked tirelessly at the brambles until she had a small hole in the thorny barrier.

  By that time, she was exhausted. Physically and mentally.

  She let her imagination return to her body to find the candle half consumed by the flame. She snuffed it out. She had done it. She had made a path through the shield that no doubt her father had erected. To protect her? To prevent her from using magic? She had no idea why it was there, but now that she had found a way to defeat it, she knew she would be free to let her imagination roam once more. Perhaps she would once again be able to contact Sulrad, or perhaps another wizard. Wouldn’t that be fitting? Her father had sealed her away from her friends in the tower and she would make new ones. Friends who possessed magic, just as she did.

  She hated it ever since she had come to live in the castle, but finally, things were starting to go her way. She only hoped it lasted.

  8

  Zhimosom sat before the fire as still as he could. His father, Zheet, had fallen into an exhausted slumber, but he was even so a light sleeper. Zhimosom watched the flames curl around each other, twisting and turning randomly in the still air to fade out before they reached the chimney. The bright yellow tongues were calming, soothing, mesmerizing. As he sat transfixed by the flame, a feeling of power grew in him, a tightenin
g in his chest beside his heart. His eyes lost focus, and the flames blurred into a nondescript yellow haze. The sound of Zheet snoring behind him faded as he emptied his mind, letting the flickering tongues take over his thoughts. He’d felt this feeling before, but never so strongly. Tonight was the start of something new, he was certain of that. He let himself be carried away by the experience.

  The flames danced and arranged themselves until a vague shape formed in the fire. It was a girl – no, a woman. She looked healthy, slightly chubby, definitely not underfed and spindly like most of the girls Zhimosom knew. She must live in the castle. There was a stone wall behind her and she sat at a table. She stared straight ahead, eyes glazed over until her gaze landed on him, then her expression turned to surprise.

  He watched closely as her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear any sound.

  She made a motion in the air with her hands, and then, in his head, came the words. “Who are you? You’re not Sulrad. How did you get through the shield?”

  He scurried back from the fire as if it were about to jump out of the hearth and attack.

  She had spoken to him.

  She could see him just as he was seeing her.

  His heart beat louder, threatening to wake Zheet and betray him, but his curiosity got the better of him. He crept back toward the fire, tentative at first, but with a resolve to discover just what he had uncovered.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the woman said. “What’s your name?” Her voice was deep and pleasant.

  “I’m Zhimosom.” He whispered so as not to wake Zheet, remaining tense, ready to spring away.

  “Zhimosom. That’s a lofty name for someone who lives in a hovel.”

  Zhimosom looked around. The house was small, to be sure, but it was the only home he’d known since the fire had claimed his mother. Not that that house had been much better than this.

  “My mother said I was destined for greatness.” Zhimosom puffed his chest out. He wasn’t sure if he remembered his mother saying that, or if Zheet had repeated it often enough that he’d come to believe she said it.

  The woman in the fire chuckled. She had a kind face and a pleasant laugh, even though the laughter was directed at him. “Destined for greatness, of that I’m sure.” She leaned forward “How are you able to see me?”

  “I don’t know.” Zhimosom also leaned closer to the fire, trying to make out more detail in the room behind her. “I was just relaxing before the fire and thinking how beautiful it was, and suddenly, there you were.”

  “You have the sight, then,” she said. “Just as I do. How long have you had it?”

  “This ... this is the first time I ever saw anything in the fire,” Zhimosom stammered. “Is that the sight, then ... seeing things in the fire? I don’t have the sight ... Do I?”

  She laughed again. “That’s the sight, and you have it, or else you would not be able to see me.”

  “Who are you?” Zhimosom asked. “What’s your name?”

  She gave a quick twist of her head, her long curls catching the light from the fire. “I’m Rotiaqua.” She’d stated it as if he was supposed to recognize her name.

  “Should I know you?”

  “You live on my land.” She leaned closer, her image separating from the flames and taking on a more solid form. “Well, on my father’s land. Everyone around here does.” Her brows wrinkled as she squinted at him. “You do live around the castle, don’t you? I suppose you could be leagues away.”

  “I live near Castle Black. We farm the land for Baron Reik. Is that the castle you mean?”

  “Yes, that one. The baron is my father.” She straightened up as she said it.

  Zhimosom bowed down. “My Lady, forgive me. I did not know it was you. I apologize. I will not bother you again.” He sat up and tried to suppress the connection he had with her through the fire, but she fought to keep it open.

  Zheet had told him often of the dangers of getting close to the nobility. It was to be avoided at all costs.

  He had to cut off contact.

  “Don’t go.” She reached out to him, her hand extending from the fire, becoming solid.

  Zhimosom backed away. He knew the penalty for a commoner who touched someone of noble birth. He didn’t want to spend a day in the stocks, exposed to the crowds and the cold. He turned away from her, tried to break the connection, but she was strong. He fought to ignore the flames and her image, but he felt her holding on, almost as if her insubstantial hands had grabbed him, dragging him back to the fire.

  “I am truly sorry, My Lady. Please forgive me.”

  “I don’t mean you any harm.” She withdrew her hand. “I had a friend like you. Someone I was able to seek through the fire, But he’s been gone for so long now. You’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to like this since I came to live in the castle. Please stay a while. I would like to learn more of you, Zhimosom. You see, I’m lonely here. I don’t have any friends. Please, let’s be friends.”

  Zhimosom considered her words. How could one of wealth and power be lonely? She had servants to care for her every need. How could she lack for anything? “Folk like me are not meant to be friends with folk like you.” Zhimosom tried to relax. He stopped struggling to break the connection, but he was still nervous.

  “Zhim! Stop playing with that fire.” Zheet sat up, bleary-eyed. When he caught sight of the woman in the fire, he came wide awake. “Who’s that?”

  “That’s ... Rotiaqua ... She’s the baron’s daughter.”

  “What?” Zheet demanded. “Get her out of here. You don’t want to get involved with nobility.”

  Zheet bowed his head low. “Please forgive my son. He’s a fool.”

  Zhimosom turned to Rotiaqua. “Please go.” His heart raced. Would she let him go this time? What would Zheet do if she continued to hold on?

  Before he could complete his thought, she faded out, and the fire settled back to normal.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Zheet asked. “The baron?”

  “The baron’s daughter. She said she was lonely. That was all.” Zhimosom stepped backwards toward the fireplace, trying to keep his distance from his father.

  “The baron’s the one who took your mother, and your brothers. His men burned down our house with your mother in it. He drafted your brothers into his army and they were both killed.”

  “You know what the baron did to me, don’t you?” Zheet reached for the ties that held his pants in place, fumbling with the cords.

  Zhimosom had seen the scar before. He knew the story that Zheet loved to tell.

  “I’ve seen your scar.” Zhimosom held out his hands to shield his eyes and stop his father from undressing. “You were stabbed with a spear. You were lucky to survive. Now they leave you alone. I know all that.”

  Zheet stared at him, retied his pants, and sat down.

  Zhimosom let out a sigh. When his father got like this, there was no stopping him until he had spent his anger and frustration.

  “She came to me in the fire. I didn’t seek her out.” Zhimosom sat at the table, ready to jump if Zheet came at him again.

  “I know you’re excited about magic, but please. Stay away from the baron and his daughter.” Zheet shook his finger at Zhimosom. “You can’t imagine how much trouble you can get yourself into.”

  “Yes, Father.” Zhimosom crawled to his bedroll and lay down. She had seen him as plainly as he had seen her. While he was intrigued by her, he knew what a danger it was talking to the baron’s daughter.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  9

  Rotiaqua had grown accustomed to her contact with the boy Zhimosom. The lad was nervous at first but had settled down and accepted that she was not going to harm him. She simply wished them to become friends. She imagined herself creating a network of secret wizards. Hidden folk with power who lived among those without, occasionally employing their magic for the good of the realm. She imagined herself leading such a cabal, seeking out injustices of those
in dire straits and coming to their aid.

  Zhimosom had told her that, with the advent of the harvest, he would be less able to speak with her. The days were long and the labor back-breaking and he would need to rest when he could. No more late-night conversations until the grain was in. He apologized in advance for his absence but begged her forgiveness.

  “You don’t have to labor in the fields,” she told him on what was to be their final late night meeting until he was once again free.

  “We need the coin. We have no land of our own. Just the house and a small garden. It does not supply enough for the two of us, so we labor; besides, it’s only neighborly. What else would I do?”

  “You could move to the castle. Or the town. There are plenty of folk who live in the town. Some of them work for my father. They clean and launder or care for the horses and tack. You could get work there. Or be a blacksmith.”

  “Blacksmith?” Zhimosom laughed. “I am not made for that sort of work. I’m tall and thin. It’s all I can do to swing a scythe all day without working myself to death. I can’t imagine myself swinging a heavy hammer day in and day out. Besides, Zheet needs me. He won’t admit it, but he is growing old. His eyesight is not what it used to be, and sometimes, he stumbles. He hides it from me, but I see. He needs me.”

  “You’re such a devoted son.” Rotiaqua felt a twinge of jealousy. Her own father cared little for her, and she for him. Would she devote her life to care for him if she found herself in Zhimosom’s shoes? She doubted it.

  “Your father will see you for who you are one day,” he assured her. “And then he will accept you. Just wait. I can’t imagine a father who does not love his daughter.”

  Rotiaqua doubted his words, but they did give her comfort. Was that why she sought him out? She wondered what would happen if he did decide to give up life on the land and come to the castle. Would they still be friends? What would it be like to meet him in person? Would he shy away from her or would they remain close?