The Sah'niir

by Kim Wedlock

  "Even so, you are the only one capable of wielding the Zi'veyn, crafting this spell and all else you've sought to do. All these heroic dreams could yet be realised."

  Rathen barked an irritated laugh and snapped away in dismissal, whirling towards the window, the table, the wall. But there was nowhere in that room that Arator's voice or thoughtful gaze couldn't reach him, and the idea of leaving his distinguished presence didn't dare occur to him. He was trapped.

  He settled for the window. The sight of the waking city at least created the illusion of distance.

  Arator said nothing for a while. He rose after a few moments and stood beside the window himself, but he allowed Rathen his privacy. He became aware of it only once his seething thoughts began to exhaust themselves, and then the deference that had been drummed into him since he was a boy marched in to vanquish his contempt.

  "Tell me," Arator spoke at last, his voice quiet and sombre, "does Salus happen to be acquainted with any of these elves?"

  "...Yes."

  He grunted softly and nodded his head, eyes tracking absently across the scape of the royal district. "I see. Now the story makes sense. The mages of the Arana aren't bound by our rules, and there are many things they can do that we cannot - or would not. But applying elven theories to their own meagre arsenal of spells, well, that was too much. They don't have the capacity for that, magically or academically. You should have known that wouldn't add up."

  "I did," he sighed, "but I was desperate. I didn't want to...frighten you off."

  "I quite understand. I dare say Roane would have flown into a fit at the slightest suggestion of the truth."

  "I doubt it would take much."

  "He isn't a bad man, Rathen. He's just...he's a tactician. He intentionally pushes buttons--"

  "To get the best read on someone. I know. I can see what he's doing. But it's not a game I want to play with him."

  "No. Most people don't." Arator sighed and leaned his hands against the windowsill. He sent Rathen another thoughtful look, but one softened by some small hint of apology. "I know you're tired of hearing it, Rathen, but whether you like it or not, a great power resides in you. And with...well, the experiences and encounters you've had, surely you've accepted the fact of that power by now; it's no longer an inkling on your elders' part but a truth you've been shown for yourself. And if your...if your abilities are a part of that, then there is hope - great hope - for control and for help. And, above all else, we finally have an explanation."

  The small sigh that escaped the old man surprised Rathen. It was as though an ancient personal strife had finally been eased. Had the matter troubled him that much? 'More for the name of the Order, no doubt.'

  And yet something in his heart told him that it was more than that...

  The knot in Rathen's shoulders released itself as he looked more easily across the city. The old man wasn't wrong: Tekhest had presented him with an explanation for everything. He didn't like the explanation, nor its source, and everyone seemed to be overlooking the fact that an explanation didn't mean a solution, but...it was something. And he was gaining control.

  Or, he thought he had been...

  Rathen looked up at Arator's sudden chuckle as he forced the events of that night away from him, and found the old man shaking his head. "Elven blood... Well well. I have to admit, I'm not wholly surprised. And that in itself does surprise me. And that this whole matter should wind up in your lap... It seems our assumptions were prophetic. Oh, scowl all you like, but I find the whole matter quite satisfying."

  "Oh good," Rathen drawled, "I'm glad for you."

  Arator laughed again, more heartily this time, and he turned from the window to clasp him on the shoulder. "You've not changed at all. You may have behaved in my presence all those years ago, but there was always a fire - oh, you kept it in check, but it was there, and I'm sure it was that which ensured you always did what had to be done." He considered him for a brief moment, then nodded with another shameful smile. "You would have made a fine sahrakh."

  Rathen scoffed.

  "You were in line for it. Perhaps, if things had gone differently, you could even have made Sivaan, in time."

  "And perhaps, if I cross my fingers tightly enough, I'll wake up back in my own bed and we won't be having this conversation."

  "Anything is possible." But then the humour faded from his steel-blue eyes, and the intent of his stare made Rathen shift. "You can do this. You're in the perfect position. You're not tied to our rules, you have broad field experience with the magic, with the Zi'veyn, and you know the spell inside it well enough to dare to make one of your own variation. Have you gotten far?"

  "Yes," he said eagerly, spotting an opportunity. "Very far. I've written everything down - ideas that worked and those that didn't, processes, reasoning--"

  "It sounds like a dissertation."

  "Well I supposed I took something away from my studies, then. The point is, it's all there, on paper; it would be no trouble for someone wiser to take over and finish it, and much quicker than I could."

  "One would think. But what about the small, subtle connections you've made that you didn't think to write down? The connections that experience and experimentation with the Zi'veyn itself produced? The ones that seemed so obvious, you didn't even notice them?" Arator smiled sadly at his loss for words, even while his dark eyes revealed his desperate, raking thought. "There is a reason studies are rarely reassigned, and why so few succeed when they try to continue an idol's work, no matter how much research they put into it. It's because they lack the inherent understanding for the matter, whatever it might be. And it will often times have nothing at all to do with intelligence, but personality. If anyone in the Order - even myself - were to take your notes and try to complete your spell, it would take years, whether you were on hand to help or not. It would be far too late. You are the only one who can do this."

  Rathen sank helplessly into his chair and stared down at the woodgrain in defeat. "But I'm not an academic."

  "Which makes it all the more surprising that you took on the task in the first place." He cocked his head as he sat back down beside him. "Or is it? You were drawn to the military not because you weren't good at academic work, but because you weren't interested in it. You have an innate understanding of magic - you always have. It is, dare I say, in your blood, and in every sense of the term. And that no doubt has shaped the construction of your spell without you even knowing it. You may have been raised as a human mage, but your perspective is most likely more in tune with your magic than I am with my own, and that means that you have made yet more connections, and greater leaps, than any one of us could reasonably comprehend."

  "What you're saying is that no one else can make this spell. But what if you were to just use the foundation - disregard all my connections and progress and just use the concept--"

  Arator raised a silencing hand. "The matter remains unchanged. You have been able to grasp the foundation, but it's the foundation itself that our magic is not capable of. We cannot construct the spell. Even a foundation as simple as the theory of making a spell to suspend magic isn't within our comprehension. Ask us to create a spell to remove it, and you would have more luck getting ditchlings to fly."

  Rathen felt his last desperate flicker of hope burn out like a candle thrown down a well. It must have been clear on his face, as the old man patted the tabletop for his attention, but he didn't lift his gaze.

  "You can do this, Rathen. You have grasped that foundation, you have used the Zi'veyn, you have formulated a spell from it, even if it remains unfinished. That is...simply astonishing - and there is no reason you cannot complete it."

  "I never said I couldn't complete it," he replied distantly.

  "No...I suppose you didn't, did you?" Arator studied him for a long moment, until Rathen finally tore his eyes from the woodgrain and the old man smiled. He straightened in his chair and pulled across the teapot. "Now," his tone lightened in a manner that struck Rat
hen as wholly inappropriate in his torment, though he accepted the fresh cup of tea, "if it doesn't put you out, I should like to talk with you."

  "What about?"

  "Oh, nothing in particular," he smiled kindly, "though, I admit, young Aria has piqued my curiosity above all else. You left here heirless and return now with an adoring and healthy daughter in tow. I just...wonder what fortune banishment seems to have granted you."

  Rathen couldn't help smiling at the irony. "Looking for a change of lifestyle, Grand Magister?"

  "Allayment of guilt, if I'm honest."

  "It wasn't your doing."

  "I should have fought them."

  "It's done. And the Crown's plan failed, anyway - I'm still breathing."

  "Yes, you are." Arator grinned, an expression Rathen had rarely seen in his twenty seven years in the Order, and raised his teacup enthusiastically. "To your ongoing health. Now: how in Vastal's name did you survive?"

  The sitting room was vast. It was large enough to sit twenty people quite comfortably with still room for privacy, and its broad windows had long since eliminated the need for candles, the mid-morning light smiling through the lace drapery while prying eyes were shut out.

  The walls remained the subdued and tasteful burgundy and walnut that had lined the staircase and corridors, but was accented now by the soft and rolling lines of cabriole sofas, wingback chairs and chiselled circular tables, and the neutral tones of landscape paintings and encased leather books. The air, too, was mellowed by the scent of summer flowers arranged in vases beside the windows, and the fireplace that crackled quite excitedly against the chill of the frosted world outside. The combination of florals and warmth could have fooled anyone into thinking that nothing at all was out of place.

  Jugs of water sat upon the low table central to a three-quarter ring of seats, as well as a steaming teapot, frequently refreshed, raisin-studded bread, and scones with butter, cream or jam, which Aria had initially set to devouring but now ignored entirely. Worry had gotten the better of her and she'd spent the last hour staring intently towards the door from a large chair she'd dragged around and angled directly towards it.

  But she was not the only one.

  She turned her eyes briefly towards the inquisitor, who kept a similar if more subtle watch over the door. "What did he want to speak to the mage-ister about?" She asked, not for the first time, to which Garon equally replied no differently. She didn't believe him, though. There was something in his eyes, an idea or suspicion. He just didn't want to tell her.

  She sighed quietly and returned to her vigil.

  Then, the door opened, and her little heart burst into her throat. But the man that stepped inside was not her father. She sighed again and slumped deeper into her seat.

  Petra turned away from her pacing as the mage approached her. He was an older man, certainly no older than Rathen, and had been the one to startle them outside and clear the way of lingering mages ahead of their arrival. His sharp nose and the scar across his otherwise dimpled chin marked him out quite distinctly.

  Garon stood and drew himself up as he neared.

  "I'm afraid I was correct," the mage said to her, his strong voice softened by privacy, "Celise Dalton has been deployed."

  She was already hugging herself, but her expression fell even deeper in fret. "Where? Is she all right? She's not...behaving unusually?"

  His face softened sadly. "No, she's just fine. Everyone is watching each other closely." His green eyes narrowed at her thoughtfully. "She's your sister, isn't she? I thought there was a likeness. She's in the west, moving to head off Kalokh."

  Petra frowned at that, and Garon stepped forwards. "Explain."

  "They moved in from the mountains two days ago," he told them. "They hit a few towns and villages simultaneously, and the military was quick to divert and confront them, but Doana took a cheap shot from behind. Reserves have been deployed to combat Kalokh while others reinforce the watch over Doana - Celise is among the mages accompanying the reserves."

  Petra found little relief in that fact, and the both of them frowned in growing concern.

  "We saw very few soldiers in the city," Garon noted.

  "Most have been called away. Only Kulokhar and a handful of the larger internal cities still have any such guard at all, but we don't know how much longer that will last." He looked across them both patiently. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

  Petra smiled and shook her head distractedly. The mage bowed, then turned and left. Aria tracked him suspiciously before returning her watch to the door, until Eyila left Anthis to distract her with a game.

  Petra sighed and sank heavily into her seat a ways from the others. Her eyes were distant as her fingers traced the locket through her blouse, and Garon didn't miss their fret and sadness as he moved surreptitiously to stare out of the window behind her.

  "You heard what he said," he reminded her quietly without turning. "She's fine."

  "For how long?" She replied similarly.

  "You're disappointed she isn't here."

  "Of course I am. At least then I'd know if something was wrong - we've seen the signs, we could get her help."

  "I doubt very much that they haven't learned the signs by now. He said they were watching each other closely. If she falls ill to it, it will be spotted."

  "And what can they do about it?"

  "What can we?"

  She didn't reply. He cast a careful glance around and found her sitting forwards now, her face in her hands, and he realised he'd handled the matter poorly.

  Garon abandoned the window and moved to sit down beside her, though not as close as either of them would have liked. He said nothing, though, and neither did she, but the gesture seemed to be enough. She cast him a subtle, grateful smile.

  Forcing himself to soften was taking some getting used to.

  Time progressed sluggishly, agitating their impatience. Their only real relief came from the opportunity to finally sit down for longer than twenty minutes, and for being out of the elements for the first time in longer than any of them could remember. And the room itself was spacious, warm and comfortable, a fact they were grateful for following the sudden and unnatural turn of the weather - but it was difficult to forget the fact that they were in the middle of the capital city, within range of the Arana's command hidden somewhere in plain sight, and surrounded by any number of proficient spell casters who, up until a few hours ago, wanted to catch and detain Rathen indefinitely. No one was in any state to enjoy the apparent comforts.

  Though his stomach rumbled, Anthis turned away from the selection of breads, cheeses and warm meats recently brought in to them, and heaved an anxious sigh.

  "Worried about him now?"

  He jumped in surprise, then looked sheepishly back towards Petra and her wry smile. "We've had our misunderstandings, I admit, but I don't dislike him..." His eyes travelled back towards the door. Aria's had been fixed to it despite Eyila's attempts to distract her, and now they all seemed to participate in her watch. He looked back around towards Garon. "What if they've detained him after all?"

  "Then we'll break him out."

  Anthis frowned incredulously. "How?"

  "With magic."

  His eyes shot towards Eyila at her own steady reply, and watched the determination harden her ice-blue eyes. Garon's were identical. Had the two concocted a plan somewhere in the dismal silence?

  He had little opportunity to ponder. The shift of the latch snatched back their attention and prompted the same futile hope it always did. This time, however, it was not for nothing.

  They all rose to their feet in relief when Rathen stepped inside, escorted as he was by the same mage who appeared to have been assigned to tending them. Aria leapt up immediately and charged at him like a bull, earning a smile that broke the troubled lock of his face.

  "Where have you been?" Garon demanded as Rathen knelt and scooped the child up, gesturing for the mage behind him to wait.

  "Wher
e you left me," he replied evasively. "There were some things the grand magister and I needed to discuss."

  "So you said - care to elaborate?"

  "Not particularly." He kissed Aria on the top of her head, then rose and turned towards the escort. "Thank you. Could you tell Owan that I need to speak with him as soon as possible - in the fifth floor archives."

  "You're leaving again?"

  He smiled softly down at Aria and gently mussed her curls. "Not yet, Owan will be busy." He looked briefly back to the mage. "Have him send word when he's ready." Rathen was about to turn away when a hint of familiarity tugged on his memory, and he frowned speculatively at the mage. "I know you..."

  The scar-chinned man stood suddenly straight and saluted with his fist to his heart. There bloomed a surprised and honoured gleam in his green eyes. "Seyir Caiden Vi'rah, Alokh Battalion."

  The gesture didn't seem to discomfort Rathen as he stood and scrutinised the man, but Aria stared up from beside him in open shock at the bold and strictly executed show of respect towards her father.

  "You were my soviin in our part against Qenra's campaign in the year Seven Hundred and Three."

  "What's a soviin?" Aria asked in a hushed voice, quickly whirling towards Garon.

  "A captain," he replied quietly. "He led a company."

  "A company? How many people is that?"

  "In the Order's case, about twenty mages."

  Her eyes bloomed. "Twenty people?!"

  "It's not that many, and Qenra were already finished by that point," Rathen assured her deprecatingly. "We were just accompanying a few soldiers to ensure they didn't get near Turunda."

  "A battalion - and under his command we saved almost four hundred lives because he and he alone noticed a concealment spell. If not for that, Qenra's advance company would have cut down half of us in a surprise attack."

  "Why didn't the rest of you detect it?" Garon asked suspiciously.

  "It was an extremely advanced spell - what are you doing here, Caiden?" Rathen asked in an attempt to escape the focus, but the mage's boldness swiftly collapsed.

  "Administration," he replied ruefully, "for the war. The same as Sahrakh Forlin, really."