The Sah'niir

by Kim Wedlock

  The conflict in his eyes was clearer than daylight. She looked away. "But you still love Elle."

  He sighed mournfully. "From the bottom of my heart. That has never changed." He turned towards her and took her hands, a gesture that surprised her, but she didn't withdraw for the pressure in his eyes. "But: I am not Garon, either. He may well not like an ultimatum. So I will just tell you this: you need to tell him how you feel. No force, no confrontation, no expectation. Just lay it out there. Then walk away before embarrassment gets the better of either of you."

  "But how do I talk to him?"

  "Open your mouth, exhale loudly and move your lips. You were just doing it."

  She dropped his hands. "You're funny."

  "I am known to be, on occasion. As for how to approach the topic, I don't know. But he isn't telepathic."

  "No. He's oblivious even to his own actions, in fact. He kissed me, would you believe it, and has ignored me for weeks ever since."

  Rathen hesitated. That explained a few things. "Words and actions aren't the same thing. In many cases, action solves problems, and that's what he's good at. But...this kind of thing...it runs too deep, there's too much room for second-guessing, over-analysing, and Garon's nature is to analyse. And to come to the most logical conclusion, based on the evidence. And fleeting looks can be imagined. Your position might be obvious to me, but evidently it hasn't been loud enough for him. He needs words. Clear, direct words."

  She nodded slowly. "You're right."

  "...But you're not going to do it."

  She bit her lip. "I need to think about it first." She shot him an urgent gaze. "Don't say anything to him about this."

  "It isn't my place."

  They looked back out across the water.

  Rathen felt her presence diminish as thought enveloped her. His work was done. So, with a gentle squeeze of comfort to her shoulder, he turned around to leave.

  "Have you worked anything out for Eyila yet?"

  He stalled as his heart sank. He didn't look around, wishing to at least avoid the expectation in her eyes. "Not yet," he replied, his tone guarded. "It's complicated." He heard the sigh. It was brief, but heavy enough to crush him.

  "I'm worried about her. Those mages...they lost control of themselves. And they had this crazy, far-away look--"

  "I remember," he said flatly. "I'm doing my best."

  "Yes. Sorry. I know you are..." There was more, but she didn't voice it. He was glad; he didn't wish to hear a plea to encourage him to try harder, to find a solution to yet another dilemma that had come to rest upon his shoulders.

  And yet...

  He slumped. He knew he had to stay. Regardless of topic, Petra simply wasn't ready for him to leave.

  Rathen returned to the lake, but this time sent her a curious look. "You worry about her a lot. Why is that?"

  "She's been through a lot."

  "Of course she has. But so have you. And your sister is a mage. Is she older or younger?"

  Her eyes slighted. "What's your point?"

  "Answer the question."

  She didn't. Instead, the lake stole her attention. But the sadness in her eyes betrayed the distraction. "Younger," she replied eventually. "By three years. She's twenty six. Not as young as Eyila, but... Yes, of course I worry about her. I worry that...the other mages, they were part of the Order, but nothing could be done for them or it would have been, wouldn't it? What if she..." Her voice caught. She shook her head, eyes shut tight, shooing the thought away. "But I worry about Eyila, too, and not just for the magic. She's lost everyone she's ever loved. She needs support, people around her who can help her, who want to help her. So she can heal."

  "...Did you have many around you?"

  "Why?" She asked, prickly.

  "Just asking."

  "...A few."

  "The man in Carenna. The blacksmith."

  A sad smile whispered across her lips. "He was one of the few."

  He nodded slowly, watching the clouds roll over the water. Clearly, love had not ranked high on her list of priorities back then. She was a fighter, someone capable of seeking revenge. So she had thrown herself into it and regarded love as a hindrance.

  But she was not Eyila.

  He watched rings form as the first raindrops of the latest deluge began to fall. "Eyila seems to have an eye for Anthis."

  She grunted. "She's just intrigued."

  "Because he's different?"

  "Because he's very different."

  "Which is why you don't like him."

  A sleek eyebrow cocked. "You've certainly become quite chummy with him all of a sudden."

  "We've...hashed it out. Yelled, fought, reached some kind of understanding. ...Can I ask you something?"

  She hesitated. "Go on."

  "Do you have a problem with me?"

  Panic, bewilderment and the faintest touch of insult mixed into a very unusual frown. "No! Why ever would I?"

  "I've killed people."

  Her alarm was replaced by discomfort, and she took the opportunity to step back among the trees and away from the suddenly torrential rain to distance herself from the matter. But his eyes were fixed on her as he followed, calm and patient. "Well..." she gave in, seeing no escape, "your...situation...isn't voluntary."

  "Would it surprise you to know that neither is his?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's not my place. But I understand why you would hate him. He seems to take...well, he seems willing to do what he does. That's not the truth of it, but it's natural that, after your father's...well, you would take even greater offence than most others. Than I did."

  "But..." For a moment, words eluded her. Incredulity and the sheerest confusion warred in her eyes, a thought in place that she was simply unable to grasp. "How can you tolerate him so easily when you have Aria--"

  "Because he would never touch her. And if he did, it would be the last thing he ever did."

  "And you can really be so sure?"

  "I have to. Listen to me, Petra: Anthis did not kill your father. He only kills villains. Scoff all you like, but I believe him."

  "He's already admitted to Eyila that that hasn't been exclusive."

  "As he has also admitted to me, though not in so many words. And I've seen the withdrawal symptoms. Far too close. Anthis...he has no choice. It's a darkness he has no control over, like my own. The magic he gets back from it...I can't fathom how it works, not in the slightest. Perhaps it's the ceremonial dagger, enchanted in some way. I probed it when we were inside that place and found nothing, but...well, aside from this 'Vokaad' being real and actually granting him with magic, it's the only thing that makes sense. The knife is always with him, it carries some kind of influence, he thinks it's connected to his god somehow and the magic he's repaid in gets under his skin. But it's not magic like we know it, it's...more like a ready-made spell just waiting to be directed."

  "Then get the knife away from him!"

  "I've already tried. He almost killed me for it."

  "If we let him keep it, we're all at risk - as are countless others."

  "I doubt it." He turned towards her, fixing her with purpose. "Eyila needs people around her if she's going to get through this, but she needs their care, too. Not bodies, but heart. And she seems to want Anthis's company. But if you keep creating this animosity whenever he's near, you're going to destroy her chances of recovery. It will drain her and she'll give up trying. Who knows, maybe it's already happening, maybe that's why the magic is affecting her so deeply. Maybe she's not trying to fight it as hard as she could be."

  Her hazel eyes flashed. "You're saying this is my fault?"

  "I'm saying you need to let go of your hatred for him. For Eyila's sake, if not your own. Or anyone else's."

  "My hatred for him is justified. I can't fathom how any of you can look past it - especially you and Eyila. He kills people, Rathen! He would kill every one of us if he could! In fact, every one of us especially! We're valuable to him! Even
Aria! And you can look past it so easily?!"

  "No," he bellowed, "I can't, but I have to! And I do trust him. Every word he said to me was the truth. How many times has his mind collapsed around us when we've been out in the middle of nowhere - even in the desert - and didn't raise a hand against us? You know I'm right, Petra. Don't be a fool! You can't understand how I've looked past it, well I tell you: I haven't, not fully. But I'm trying! And Eyila seems to have done so with even greater ease, and she should have had the hardest time!" He barely noticed her frowning at him. "No matter what Garon says, you are needed, and even he knows it, but we need Anthis, too, and your constant digs at him are making it impossible to think! There's so much resting on the two of us, on me, and we can't possibly succeed with so much distraction! Yes, hooray, I've finally stopped the magic - in one place! There are still countless more to go! And if the magic is going to try to...try to destroy me like th-that every single time, we will need...need to find another way..." He exhaled and wiped small beads of sweat from his brow with a shaking hand.

  Petra was still staring at him, a wrinkle of concern between her eyes. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine."

  "No, you're--" She lunged forwards to catch him as he staggered to his knees. Even through his clothes she could feel his fever. She cursed. "You're not. What's happening? Rathen, what can I do?"

  The world tipped on its side. Nausea bubbled. The ground rushed towards him. He thrust his hand out to stop it and heard, despite his dislocation, the beginnings of a call for help. He felt an overwhelming urgency to stop her. He managed with a garbled grunt, but noticed only then that the grass around his hand had turned to flame. His panic rose.

  And in its wake surged something dark and familiar, rising like a geyser from the bleakest, blackest depths of his blood.

  In that moment his nausea was forgotten; he grunted an order for her to leave and focused his entire being into subduing it.

  Breathe. Focus. Breathe...

  Seconds passed like hours, but the spinning began to slow. The lake levelled, the trees stood upright, and his stomach settled. And the darkness slunk back into the abyss.

  His breath was ragged and he found he was soaked, in rain or sweat he wasn't sure, and when he finally found the composure to look up, Petra remained, staring back down at him, sword in hand, eyes wide and cautious. But no one else had come. He sighed in cumulative relief.

  "Rathen...?" She spoke carefully.

  "Fine...I'm fine..." Slowly, he pushed himself back onto his knees, but it took effort. He had little choice but to accept her help to find his feet. "I'll uh...go and lie down..."

  "Let me help--"

  "No, I'm fine...I'm fine..." He ignored her protest, slipping his arm out of her grip, and began to lurch away back through the trees, bracing himself against the rough bark as he went. She watched him go. He was still shaking, the tremor she'd felt when she'd helped him up was too strong to pass so quickly. But she didn't chase after him. While she hadn't a clue what had just happened, she, too, knew him well enough to know that only the company of a certain few would be welcome after it, and only one numbered among them.

  She sighed and turned hesitantly back to the lake. The ring of grass was still ablaze.

  Chapter 19

  The forest was black under various depths of darkness and shadow; distance obscured in that uncertainty, and the torrential rain fogged precision and smothered every sound. The night had them caged. Anything, man or beast, could be lurking mere feet away. Rushkins, hidden among the reeds of their lake burrows or lying still and flat in ambush in endless marsh pools. Näcken, watching from the deepest depths, priming violinic voices. Long-unseen harpies scouring through the treetops. Ghosts tracking in the shadows. They could be dead before they knew what killed them.

  The diligence of Garon's patrol was painstaking, his attention dragged to the edge of his capabilities. So it had been for the past four nights. And in that time, he had found nothing. It did little to calm his tensions.

  The swamp was beginning to thin; the Korovor Woodlands reasserted itself for one last clawing sweep. They would have been out of it in a day and a half had they not had to swing south west.

  Promise or not - a promise he had not authorised - he resented having to return to Wrenroot. He disliked being out in the wilderness for so long. There was no news beyond private missives, and they had delivered little but the fact of increased activity of mage hunters, the state of the magic encroaching on settlements and the movements of the military. None of which truly helped beyond course corrections. But there were no rumours, no hearsay; nothing organic that may have slipped his superiors' notice, nothing in real-time, nothing for him to work with as and when the need arose.

  A form took shape through the gloom on his right, one immediately familiar. It was Eyila, sitting still, straight and cross-legged upon a rock beneath the shelter of the trees. She didn't react to his presence. He doubted she noticed him at all. She was crying again. He was certain that her obsessive meditation every night was just an excuse to be alone and mourn.

  He dismissed her and moved on.

  Any information of substance was always passed on, but with what they found themselves facing, absolutely everything helped. And so he was grateful - though he wouldn't admit it - for Taliel's interventions, even if they put them all at risk. Information from the heart of the Arana was the most valuable information they could reasonably get, and the only thing that could keep them one step ahead of one of the most dangerous opponents they could possibly have.

  ...And then there were the elves.

  His skin prickled.

  The thought that they could be pursuing them chilled him to the bone. They could be capable of anything. And despite Anthis's confidence that the supposedly extinct race would rather wait and see what happened than reveal themselves and hunt them down indiscriminately, Eizariin's own certainties dogged his every step.

  The Arana, he could deal with - even with a 'half-elven psychopath' at the lead. Because Salus was not fully elven, likely even less so than Rathen, and his mind was bound by the same rules and possibilities that limited all humans. Even with his extremist attitude and obsessive devotion, there were lines of thought that would simply never occur to him - just what those were, he couldn't fathom even himself, but it seemed to him that 'moving Turunda' still didn't really qualify among them. In short, for the most part, he was predictable.

  But the elves had never been restricted by the concept of 'impossible'. Their minds were free. And their capabilities boundless. And that made them perilous. A power that could never be combated, only avoided. If even that...

  He reached the edge of the trees and looked out across the lake. The water surface trembled with the last drops of the abruptly ceasing rain.

  Past and future duties didn't matter; if they failed here, Turunda would fall. Perhaps the whole of Arasiin. And they held quite probably the only solution to the gathering magic. If left alone, it may well disperse like any other aged and crumbling spell in time, but not before it tore the world apart. Or before Salus could do it himself. The elves wouldn't jump in to correct their mistake, but it seemed a few were prepared to hasten the destruction. Perhaps they truly did seek the end of humans, to regain their land at long last and resume their reign now the gods had forgotten about them. And if they did...who could possibly stop them?

  He grunted, catching himself.

  No. He was going too far. It was a thought worth pondering - truly, the elves weren't limited by 'impossible' - but not one to be paralysed by. Otherwise, he was tired and his imagination was getting the better of him. 'An attempt at colour.' He smiled. Then a sudden whisper of guilt snaked through his gut and devoured it, a sensation so abrupt and alien that it knocked him.

  A small movement from further along the edge of the Grey Lake pushed his heart into his throat. Petra. It rose further. He had probably disturbed her. He forced himself to steady, forced his rolling shoulder to still,
his voice not to call out to her as he watched her disappear into the trees, and only once she'd vanished did something familiar finally kick in to straighten his spine and beat the useless emotion back where it belonged. He grunted with defiance, though no one was around to witness it, and continued his patrol, discarding sentimentality and idle foolishness behind him.

  Yes, what he'd said had been harsh, but it was the truth. He hadn't asked her to be there, he hadn't asked for her help, and as far as he could see, she had no reason to remain among them. She should have left long ago. He should have made her. But he'd presumed she'd have done so of her own accord once they were clear of Mokhan. He'd been wrong. And he hadn't tried hard enough to shoo her off when he'd realised it.

  Then he should do so now. She was upset, she would be far more likely to finally give in, to leave in anger...

  ...But...not that night. They were all in a dangerous position. If she were to leave them amidst it, she would still be hunted down.

  So it seemed he was stuck with her company again. Stuck with her brashness, her sarcasm, her ceaseless swordplay, the sound of her whetstone over steel what felt like every other night, her footsteps throwing off his own patrol, her spiced scent lingering in the air behind her, her laughter, which he hadn't heard in a few days... Stuck with it all.

  He would do it. But he would do it another day.

  Garon stumbled, over a root or his own foot, he wasn't sure. His mind was wandering. He was tired. He couldn't afford to lose focus.

  But while he could turn to his duty and push aside distractions and keep childish absurdity like sentimentality from getting the better of him, everyone else was growing increasingly complacent, and Rathen's victory seemed to have distracted them from the danger all the more. And to top it off, now they were insisting on honouring a child's promise. It was an argument he could never win.

  But there was, he noticed, a benefit. If they deviated back to Wrenroot, stopping at Red Heath for supplies and news along the way, they would have the chance to see if Rathen could replicate his success, an opportunity that would arise much sooner than if they were to head straight to Mokhan. He didn't doubt Rathen's ability, but the fact was that this ex-soldier had been the only mage he could have recruited if he was to keep the matter from the Order's attention - which, despite Rathen's initial insistence, did indeed shelter rebellious mages. The discovery that it took elven magic to operate the Zi'veyn was just a convenient detail.