by Kim Wedlock
"I'm not here on anyone's command," he replied bluntly as he took his own seat, his dark eyes unmoving from the soldier. "I don't answer to the Order."
"No, though you have no problem dragging our name through the dirt."
"Why ever would I bother when there are so many others doing such a fine job of it themselves? Tell me, Sahrakh," his tone was dangerously light, "what have you been doing about it?"
"As much as I can while balancing war, training, defence - against Doana, mage hunters and impaired mages - and trying to offset the chaos you've been sowing--"
"Oh, children, please." The pair silenced immediately beneath Delas's dramatic sigh. She turned apathetically towards the teapot set steaming upon the table, twisting her fingers to draw it nearer before Arator cleared his throat. She tutted to herself and rose to drag it closer by hand, pouring a cup for each. "It's much too early for this. Now, have you all eaten? You all look so very weary." Her concerned gaze lingered on Aria the longest. "We have some cakes--"
"Yes, please!"
She chuckled and turned to fetch them.
"Rathen."
At the burdened tone of the softly spoken voice, all eyes fell upon the grand magister. He'd fixed the mage with a sudden shadow of solemnity in his eyes.
"What are you doing?"
Rathen straightened and matched the severity. "Handling the magic."
"How?"
He reached into his bag in answer, but Garon objected with a single word. His eyes flicked instinctively towards Roane. He withdrew his empty hand. He knew Arator, Owan and Delas - but not him.
But while Garon had won that much, Rathen proceeded to explain the entire situation despite his every subsequent attempt at protest: what the magic was, where it had come from, and how they were handling it. And, through it all, the grand magister showed no mistrust or scepticism, only a level of passive attention that Rathen found nostalgic if also familiarly infuriating. But he knew all the while that every word was being absorbed, chewed and weighed - and, at least initially, a surprising number of points didn't appear to be news at all.
Until the depth of Salus's role in the matter was raised.
The expressions of all three, and Owan to the side of the room, darkened dubiously. Finally, Delas spoke. "Why have you come here, Rathen?"
He and his companions frowned in confusion, even Aria as she nibbled at a sugar bun. "What do you mean, 'why have you come here'? Didn't you hear anything I said?"
"Of course," she replied calmly. "But what can we do about it? We cannot move freely to do the things you're expecting of us. The Arana are here too - they are easily circumvented and our cloaking spells are far too complex for them to comprehend, but only a handful of us are capable of casting them, and for the rest of us it means that there is one more thing to think about with every move we make.
"Before all else, we need to deal with the rebellion and re-stabilise our own situation. They strike every few days; if it continues and escalates, our power will be scattered and then what will become of us all? Turunda's mages are among the best treated in Arasiin, but that could be about to change."
"Yes but it's that very instability, that ease of falling from grace, that forms the basis of their rebellion!"
"It is. And the rebellion itself is chipping away at that instability, making it even more hazardous. Already we will not regain the trust lost through any of these actions, be they intentional or not--"
"Which you are making worse--"
"Roane, hush." They blinked at the head of the preservation department in surprise, while Arator merely shook his head tediously between them. "Damage control is critical," she continued, "both for us and for future mages. Only then can we consolidate our power and form an organised front. As it stands, we don't know who among us we can trust - or who among us might use the opportunity to cast these defences to strike a crippling blow instead."
"Then what exactly do you plan to do about it? Persecuting already oppressed mages will only make the Order one of their enemies, and you won't be able to rely on any other authority's support against them. The Order, and the rebellion, will be left completely exposed!"
Delas splayed her hands. "Such is the Order's dilemma."
"But it must be overcome!"
"And it will be. But it will take time. We will never win the absolute trust of the Crown or the populace, we are under no illusions about that. Those without magic will always feel inferior, and without possessing magic one could never understand it. And when something isn't understood, especially something of such power and potential, it will always be feared. It is easy for someone possessing that power, who truly understands it, to tell people they have nothing to fear from it, but to doubt, mistrust - and to deceive - is human. No one can ever know another's thoughts or intentions, and so they could never trust the one trying to soothe them. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. To give in to that line of thought will lead to acting out and giving it base. Therefore, every mage needs to be the picture of honour and trust, regardless of whether or not the populace will believe it."
"But, as you said, to deceive is human. They will never believe it. You won't gain that trust, if anything even near it."
"No," Eyila's musical voice cut in, catching even the sneering soldier's full attention in his surprise, "but neither will anyone else. Mistrust is just a symptom of ignorance. You cannot teach people how to read minds, but you can teach them how to read spells. Magic can be understood, and once it's understood - its limitations and its capabilities - then it won't seem so mysterious. It will become little different to a skiving knife, it simply takes training or affinity to use it. And as far as it being a weapon - it is quite possible to kill without tools or magic."
"Would that we could all live under the same simple and gratifying trust as the tribes," Arator sighed to himself mournfully.
"Educating the masses will not satisfy the rebels," Delas replied carefully, still minutely in awe of the remarkable voice. "They're tired of being worse than disrespected by the people they are trying to protect, and even if we did impart such tutelage, results would be too slow and too few. Which brings us right back to damage control. And we are still scoping out the instigators."
"And in the mean time, the rest of Turunda will fall around the city's walls."
Her eyes turned back to Rathen. "There is nothing we can do. We cannot leave to cast these spells. Turunda needs protecting against the keliceran's campaign, but with the impending war spreading us out, rebels abandoning their posts and a sickness of some kind afflicting and killing mages at random, we haven't the forces or the trust to handle it. Not yet. I am sorry."
Everyone but Roane braced themselves for Rathen's outburst - a cry of outrage, an accusation of dereliction of duty, a threat of one kind or another that no one was quite sure he wouldn't follow through. But none came. He remained under complete outward composure but for a knot in his jaw and a dangerous glint in his eyes. His tongue and temper remained in check. No one was quite sure who was more surprised. Even Arator appeared relieved.
Rathen's eyes flicked then onto him. "Why did you want to bring me in?"
"Because you are a menace. Not just to our name, but to the whole country."
He flashed immediately towards Roane, and whatever anger or frustration had been suppressed leaked out now in his direction. "And what do you plan to do now that I'm here, Sahrakh? Lock me up? Execute me? And then what will you do once my 'menace' has been put to an end? Step up and handle the magic yourself? Face Salus? Or stick your head in the sand, ignore every person and creature who have been made to suffer by either, put Aria in an orphanage and move on as if I had never existed to muddy the vaunted Order's precious name?"
Rathen saw his eyes flash. "At the very least, she would be better off without your 'care'."
He exploded to his feet, and Roane quickly followed.
"Stop."
They both restrained themselves with clear effort at the grand ma
gister's gentle warning, while a number of those around Rathen scowled towards the soldier in shock or disdain. But neither's burning stare moved from the other.
"Know your place, Koraaz."
"Oh, believe me, I know my place."
"We won't be detaining you."
Both snapped towards the grand magister in surprise.
"What?"
"What?!"
Arator continued to regard Rathen in deep speculation, and while Owan displayed the same amazement as the rest, Delas seemed to be considering something in the ex-sahrot herself. "I don't believe it's necessary."
"Sir, with all due respect--"
But Arator waved the soldier away. "I'd like to speak with you privately, if you don't mind, Rathen."
"No, of course..."
Delas, her musings still clear in her eyes, rose elegantly and brushed down her robes with a single, delicate sweep before addressing the others, who rose in turn to be escorted out quite reluctantly by herself and Owan. Roane followed after another brief, heated glare, and Aria lingered doubtfully, looking between her father and her companions, a spiced fruit tart in her sticky hands.
But Rathen smiled warmly, a transformation that surprised the mages, and promised her with a hug that he would be along in a moment. "There's something I'd like to discuss with the grand magister, too."
She looked past him carefully towards the gentle old man, then slowly back to her father. Then her eyes travelled towards Roane, and she glared at him most deliberately. Delas stifled a chuckle.
Her big blue-grey eyes settled back upon the grand magister, and she nodded with acceptance. "All right. He seems nice. But don't be long."
"Of course." He kissed her on the forehead, which somehow tasted of sugar, and watched her hurry to take Petra's hand and leave with one final glance back through the door.
The air almost groaned with released tension once the latch fell into place, and Rathen felt his shoulders ease. Until the revered old man spoke.
"Something feels different about you."
Chapter 50
Rathen turned witheringly towards the old man, and his heart sank under the acute and deliberate conjecture in his eyes. He rubbed the sides of his head, chasing away the returning tension, and moved wearily towards the window. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Phantom magic, broken mages, Doana's invasion, the world ripping itself apart..." Arator returned casually to his seat and watched him with his distinctive patience. "Try me."
Rathen's eyes dragged away from the city, tinged gold by the early morning sun, and considered his former superior. He knew well how this would go, but equally that the dogged old man wasn't going to let him get away with not answering. So, easing cautiously into the chair beside him, he decided to give him what the old man thought he wanted. "My mother was an elf."
The words, spoken perhaps a little too lightly, struck even himself as utterly absurd, and he suddenly felt keenly close to the seven year old boy who had just been inducted into the Order. Even his palms began to sweat - a fact that grated and forced him to sit taller in his seat, as if to remind himself that he was an adult now.
Arator, however, simply stared back at him blankly. As expected, and not unreasonably, he didn't believe a word.
"We ran across an island of them," he continued despite himself, "and they...helped me."
Now Arator's wrinkled brow flickered at the flat disdain with which he'd said it, and bewilderment slowly seeped in. Rathen proceeded to explain the whole matter to the best of his ability, though his own recollection was foggy at best, but this time, while the old mage listened, he seemed torn between an outright refusal to believe and a complete lack of surprise. "Elves?" He said once he'd finished.
"Elves."
"And you found them while you were...searching for this relic? The Zi'veyn?"
"Yes."
"And they 'helped' you to control your magic and your...ability, with that cuff, but you don't know how? And that's how you're able to operate the Zi'veyn?"
"Elven blood, yes."
He nodded slowly, his furrow set firmly in place. "Can I see this 'Zi'veyn'?"
Without even cursory hesitation, Rathen rose, seized his bag, and withdrew the onyx-gold pyramid, laden with thorns and sharp corners, that fit snugly in the palm of the hand. He brought it back around and placed it upon the polished wood right in front of him.
Arator's cynical expression immediately dropped, and the years seemed to catch up with him. Clearly, he felt the power of the unsuspecting little thing.
He reached charily towards it, eyes unblinking, and lifted it reverently, turning it slowly in the candlelight. "This can silence magic?"
"Only silence. It can't remove it. The chains I've used it against out there are broken, but the magic remains in concentration and there's still no telling what it could do if it's left alone. Or what someone could do with it." He nodded at the doubtful look. "I know, but this very thing is proof that it's not impossible to directly affect magic. I have directly affected it. I've pushed it, I've manipulated it; someone else could do a lot more if they put their mind to it. I've been working on a spell that can finish the job before they get the chance, but it's slow-going."
"...I see... And the Zi'veyn can be used against casters?"
"Only elves. It won't work on humans."
"You know for sure?"
"Yes, and I've proven it. On Eyila. It didn't work."
"You're sure you were using it correctly?"
Rathen smiled hollowly. "I've studied it inside and out. There is only one way to use it."
Arator turned it over a few more times, touching the lines, admiring the arcane craftsmanship and, quite certainly, attempting to analyse the spell inside. Rathen's brow rose in surprise when the old man shuddered and visibly recoiled from it, and he put it down in sudden onset of exhaustion.
There was something frightening in those implications. Frightening, and empowering.
"Forgive me for saying so," Arator puffed, "but I'm shocked that you worked it out at all. Not because it's you, but because...it's..." He abandoned his hunt for words and looked towards him with a speculation so powerful, he was almost physically struck by it. "No one here could have done this."
"No one here is half-elf." He regretted that immediately.
Arator's expression didn't change. "You're realising your power."
'And there it is.'
"So many of us sensed something within you, Rathen; since the day you came here, you've been different."
"Yes," he turned away tightly and stared back out of the window. "Because I can turn into a monster."
"No, that is clearly only a small part of it, and a part which you can learn to control. Ferna - could you have stopped that from happening?"
Rathen chewed the inside of his cheek while a war raged in his mind. Did he admit to his former mentor that he could have, and fuel this obsession? Or lie and risk satisfying the imperious sahrakh's misconception instead?
Resentfully, he discovered that he cared a great deal about the grand magister's opinion, and under that compelling stare, he had no room to fight the exhausted sentiment. "I had my reasons..."
He looked around at the following silence and watched Arator watching him. He was again a picture of profound contemplation.
"Many mages view you as a disgrace. A villain, even."
"I know."
"Myself and a great many of your peers disagree. I know you, Rathen. You may think you've changed in eleven years, but you haven't. I can still read you like a book. When Owan came to me with your message, I had my suspicions, and the moment I laid eyes on you again, they were confirmed. You are weighted by your task, you're frightened, and you seek help, and not just by means of the defence you spoke of.
"But, regrettably, what Lady Delas told you is true: we must deal with the rebellion before all else - regain our strength in numbers and trust, and then we will be able to act. But when that time comes, we c
annot take this task off of your hands. And I wouldn't allow it if we could. It fell to you for a reason, and it seems increasingly obvious that you are the only one with the potential to achieve it."
"Potential," Rathen snarled, gripping his folded arms tighter, "potential!" He whirled around on him, any trace of his lingering veneration and inferiority snuffed out like a candle. "For years, all I heard growing up here was 'potential'. I am sick of it."
"Are you sick of it simply because you know that it's true but wish that it wasn't?"
That, he refused to admit. "There is too much weight on my shoulders," he growled, snapping away again, "you're right. But it has always been there - your expectations put it there! And it's...unbearable. I don't want the weight any more. People are getting hurt because of it."
"Is that why they're getting hurt? Or is it because they sense something worthwhile in you and choose to follow you for it, wherever it might lead them?"
Rathen's eyes darkened in exasperation. "I cannot let anything else happen to them. I cannot let anything happen to Aria."
"I'm afraid, Rathen, that that weight was put there by yourself," Arator replied with such simplicity that Rathen felt his head might explode. "Perhaps we did encourage it, but after awakening magic at the age of seven, you expected great things of yourself, too. Which you have achieved - you just can't see them through the seven year old's heroic and grandiose dreams. The dreams born of stories your father once told you - stories that didn't come to pass as you imagined them to, and that you grew to blame him for. The stories that some part of you still clings on to."
His back became rigid. "Things have changed."
"Have they?"
"Yes." He eyed him darkly. "Many things. Above all else, I have a daughter now. She is eight. She has grandiose dreams - of peace and of happiness - and I want to see them come true. Getting the both of us killed won't help towards that."
