by T P Sheehan
“You move with less discretion than the priestess.” She looked again at Magnus and then Catanya. “Then again, that is what she’s trained for.” Magnus and Catanya did not move. “Come. I’ve been waiting for you.” The woman stood and placed her chair against the jetty railing then folded her knitting and placed it on top of the chair. “Come!” she said again and walked away toward the centre of the abandoned town.
“Should we follow her?” Magnus whispered to Catanya.
The strange woman shouted back—“Aye, you should! That is why you came. Come!”
Magnus assumed this was in fact Marsala and so he took Catanya’s hand and they followed after her.
After a brisk walk along back roads and down a narrow alley Magnus realised they had missed in their search, they stopped at a home. From the outside, it looked no more habitable than any other house in Thwax. The woman extended an arm, inviting them inside a small doorway covered with overgrown vine. The doorway was no more than four foot high in the middle of a cylindrical stone building with a cone-shaped roof that was all but obscured by overgrown lantana. Magnus and Catanya did as she asked and entered.
Inside, candlelight and glowing embers from a fireplace dimly lit the single room dwelling. Magnus found the warmth inviting, but little else was appealing about the room. Everywhere he looked there was mounted and preserved remains of dead animals, or parts thereof. An owl, many cats, an eagle, various species of beetles and bugs and even a deer head with its large antlers protruded into the one-roomed home. Many—in particular the cats—were not mounted at all but stood on the ground as if frozen in time. Between the macabre collections of animals, the walls were stacked high with books, piles of parchments and scrolls of papers. The room had a pungent smell of sage mixed with the sweet, milky scent of burning sandalwood. Magnus found the combination a little overwhelming and Catanya covered her nose discretely as she looked around the room.
“You are Marsala?” Magnus asked the woman.
“That is true. And you are the Electus,” Marsala said as a statement rather than a question.
“How do you know Eamon?” Magnus asked, more for his own curiosity than any real need to know. Marsala shook her head and frowned.
“Eamon… He’s been around for a long time—a very long time. Certainly a lot longer than you and the pretty-priestess here.” Marsala looked at Catanya as though waiting for a reaction. Magnus knew Catanya was not so easily embarrassed. She stared blankly at the mystic woman. “Tell me something.” Marsala kept her gaze on Catanya. “The dead priestess you left at the back of the chancel in Brindle. She came to kill you, didn’t she?” Catanya reached for her lance, slowly drew it and held it tentatively at her side. Marsala was not deterred and carried on as though Catanya had not reacted at all—“I warned her—I warned that priestess woman. ‘Demi’ was her name. A year ago now, she were here. I told her there’d be one she’d try to kill who was going to kill her first. I said to her—‘your comeuppance is coming and it’ll be from one younger and better than yourself.’” Marsala shook her head. “No, no, no. She did not like that one bit.”
Catanya turned to Magnus. “No wonder Demi didn’t like me. From the moment we first met, she must have known it would be me.”
“So you do speak, then?” Marsala jested. “What may your name be, pretty-priestess?”
“I thought you’d be able to tell me that, witch-lady,” Catanya retorted. Magnus placed a hand on Catanya’s shoulder to settle her. “I am Catanya,” she said. The words looked to be bitter in her mouth.
“You know we are here at Eamon’s suggestion?” Magnus produced the letter Eamon sent him and handed it to her.
Marsala waved the letter away. “I have plenty of letters myself.” Marsala opened a draw beneath a low table at the centre of the room. She removed a stack of small letters bound and tied off with a piece of string. “Eamon writes to me often. Of late, it’s mostly about you.” She pointed at Magnus. “The last letter he sent said this…” Marsala licked a finger, prised the top letter from the pile, then read it—
“If Magnus arrives half-naked as he was when he departed my company, and if it suits him so, give him my old Ferustir suit and shape-shift it to him.”
Marsala looked Magnus over. “You seem to have found some clothes. All the same, I’ve spent the last two days removing the artisans’ wards that bound Eamon’s suit. Would you like it?” Marsala retrieved the Ferustir armour from a stool.
Magnus looked it over. “But, I’m no Ferustir.”
“It’s beautiful armour, Magnus,” Catanya said, admiring the suit.
“Come, come… I’ve had little sleep in days stripping the wards from this thing. Would you like it or not?”
“Aye, thank you.”
“Then put it on while I prepare supper and tea.”
Marsala went to the back of her room and left via discreetly hung curtains leading to another area Magnus had failed to notice before. Footsteps could be heard and it sounded like Marsala was headed down a staircase—perhaps to a basement. In her absence, a small black cat pushed through the curtains just far enough to take a look at the strange guests. It stared at Magnus for a good minute before doing the same to Catanya, then turned and left the room.
Magnus looked at the suit. “Shall I put it on?” He was not certain it was the right thing to do.
“The witch-lady will be annoyed if you don’t,” Catanya mumbled.
Magnus was quick to strip and Catanya helped him into the Ferustir armour. She buckled the lightweight components, observing where it was similar to hers. It extended to cover his chest, back and abdomen with a plackart ending in a ‘v’ shape at the waist. Like Catanya’s, Magnus saw it was forged of a hard black material. Unlike hers, the material’s burgundy weaves threaded into glimmering fire-bronze pieces of armour along the vambraces and greaves that were exquisitely engraved.
“Wow. This is beautiful,” Catanya remarked as she made final adjustments.
“It’s a little loose.” Magnus shifted his body about.
“That’s where spells come in to play,” Marsala said, returning with a tray of food that she placed on the table. The black cat followed and jumped across several piles of books before settling atop the tallest stack in the room, giving it a good vantage point to watch the goings on.
Marsala stood in front of Magnus. “Right then.” She placed a hand on the armour covering Magnus’s chest. “As Eamon said, it will require a shape-shift to make it fit right.” She closed her eyes, took three very deep breaths and mumbled what Magnus assumed was her shape-shift spell. Magnus felt the armour warming over his body. She continued her mumbling spell and the armour’s heat continued to build until Magnus began to sweat. He was about to say something when Marsala stopped, stood back and opened her eyes.
“Well?” she asked.
As soon as she asked the question, the suit shape-shifted until each piece was sculptured over Magnus’s body as though it was tailored to fit. It felt great. Magnus moved his arms and twisted his body about, hardly believing how nimble he felt. “It’s wonderful! Thankyou, Marsala.” Magnus looked at Catanya. “Does your suit feel this good?”
“Aye, it does,” Catanya smiled. “Until you’ve been wearing it for weeks on end.”
“I’ve reinforced it with new wards stronger than a Dwyer bull,” Marsala explained, opening a wooden chest and removing a pair of long, fire-bronze daggers. She came to Magnus and knelt, sheathing the daggers in holsters either side of the greaves. “And it’ll take a Dwyer bull to break the fibres of this armour.” She pointed at two chairs. “Now, sit!”
Magnus and Catanya settled into the green leather chairs, each draped in exotic silks and knitted shawls much like the one Marsala had been knitting by the jetty. Magnus felt as if his body was sinking into a billowy white cloud. Catanya sighed a long, moaning sigh and closed her eyes, smiling.
Magnus looked around. The small abode was so different to anything he had seen before, yet it
reminded him of Sarah’s home back in the western margins, only far more eccentric.
“Eat while it’s hot,” Marsala said. “It is a stew of sorts, though some would call it soup.” The bread is sourdough—fresh this morning. Eat. Then we will talk.” Magnus and Catanya thanked her and needed no further enticement, delving into their bowls of stew-soup. The taste was immediately familiar to Magnus. It was just like the food Eamon had cooked back in Froughton Forest long ago. Too long… He savoured every drop and could see Catanya did the same.
“Thankyou,” Catanya said.
“Yes, thankyou. This tastes a lot like a meal Eamon cooked for me long ago.” Magnus said.
“That was not so long ago. And so it should. It is his recipe.” Sitting cross-legged in her own chair, Marsala leaned forward, took the teapot sitting on the serving tray and poured three small cups of steaming herbal tea, handing one each to Magnus and Catanya before leaning back and taking sips from her own. “You are at a juncture in your lives.” She paused as if waiting for clarification.
“We have been told you could advise us on the best way to get north, perhaps into Froughton Forest,” Magnus explained.
“You wish to find your way home?” Marsala asked.
“Perhaps.” Magnus was wary about sharing their intentions to travel to the Romghold.
“And what of you, priestess? Do you yearn to return to your home?”
Catanya sipped from her teacup. Her posture stiffened and Magnus could see she was not happy being called ‘priestess’. “Yes, I want to go home and find my family. Please though, my name is Catanya. I am no longer a part of the priesthood.”
Marsala pointed an accusing finger at Catanya. “Your role as priest is far from over. We are in the dying days of the third age and all players will be brought to the table to make their contribution. You swore an oath to the priesthood. Such oaths are not easily broken.”
Catanya nodded as if she understood. Magnus was surprised she would accept Marsala’s words, but then she did seem to be getting to something. “Look at Eamon. Long ago he left the priesthood yet here he is, still playing his part at the turn of the tide.”
“You know of his history as a priest, then?” Magnus asked.
“I met him soon after he left the priesthood.”
“You knew him as ‘Steyne’?” Catanya asked.
Marsala paused for reflection. “I will tell you more so that you understand how much you mean to Eamon.” She looked into Magnus’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Aye, I do.”
Marsala nodded. “He was lost in life after he left the Irucantî. After all, he had served with them for more than thirty years. Having lost faith in their ways, he travelled aimlessly for a long time, searching for answers. We found sanctuary in one another’s company.” Marsala smiled. “In time, he transitioned away from ‘Steyne’ the priest and during this time, I prophesied he would meet the one who would become the Fire Realm Electus. He would guide this Electus, protect them, and offer them wisdom. And so I offered him a new name—‘Eamon’—the Paragon word for protector. It was many years and a lifetime of travels, but fate brought you together. And here you are now.”
The black cat climbed its way down the stack of books and jumped onto Marsala’s lap where it settled itself in comfortably, still observing Magnus and Catanya. Marsala stroked the cat as she continued.
“The gods call all of us to a role. Eamon’s was to find you.”
Magnus was enamoured with Marsala’s story. “How did you know all this would come to pass?”
“Look around,” Marsala said. “Books, scrolls, journals, maps… Have a gypsy stay in one place long enough, her mind does the journeying for her. I have spent my journey observing patterns, prophecy, evolution, timing… Life seems at once a game of chance, but it is anything but.”
“I wonder if Eamon knew I would be the Electus when we first met?”
“I believe his vocation made him aware of the needs of others.” Marsala nursed her teacup in the palm of her hand. “He helped you get where you needed to go. The rest was as the gods intended.”
“What do you know of Balgur’s death? Eamon harbours a lot of guilt over losing his sword to Delvion,” Magnus asked. “Delvion, meanwhile, flaunts Balgur’s death as a symbol of his greatness.”
“You must learn Balgur’s side of the story,” Marsala said. “Beyond Eamon’s sorrow and Delvion’s ego, with Balgur you’ll find the truth.”
THE MARK OF IISILÉE
“Can you see what’s in store for us, Marsala?” Magnus asked.
“Show me something dear to yourself, other than pretty-priestess, and I will see what I can see.”
Magnus lifted Lucas’s sword off the ground beside him. It was the only thing he had, yet, he was unsure he could say it was dear to him. Nevertheless, Magnus handed the sword to Marsala who slowly unsheathed it. She held it as Willem had done a few days before, studying the pommel, the leatherwork and the blade. She finally laid it on the table between them. She grabbed the teapot and trickled some of the herbal tea down the length of the blade and watched the tealeaves float along the metal work.
“A friend as a brother has fallen to darkness.”
Magnus was alarmed at how quickly she scried the sword. “You speak of Lucas.”
Marsala continued—“This brings pain, death, and but a single chance to reconcile, else fate be challenged.”
“Are we not always challenging fate?” Catanya asked.
“Fate is written.” Marsala passed a glance at Catanya. “Challenges are a part of life. To survive them and meet your inevitable fate is irony.”
“How then, do you see a second chance to reconcile with Lucas to be challenging fate?” Magnus asked.
“Because to do so will be beyond the will of the gods.”
“Can you tell me what the gods have planned for Lucas?” Magnus did not want to hear the answer to his own question, but if the answer was forthcoming he had to know. He could feel Catanya looking sympathetically at him.
“I can tell you that this sword is not complete,” Marsala explained slowly. “There is another.”
“Aye. My own sword—”
“Reconcile them,” Marsala interrupted Magnus. “Sooner, rather than later.” Her words came off as a warning. “Your friend Lucas will make a veiled appeal for clemency. This will be his single chance.” She returned the sword to Magnus, who was more than happy to sheath it again.
Marsala sat cross-legged in her chair again. “As for you two… You will benefit from mutual support. In time, you will garner support from others, but the next part of your journey requires anonymity. You had best find your own way north and not seek help in getting there,” Marsala said, ruling out Catanya’s idea of asking Färgd for a ride.
“Give me your hands—your left hands.” Marsala closed her eyes and reached out, twiddling her fingers. “Come!” Magnus and Catanya both extended their left hand. Marsala took hold of them. Her posture became rigid and her breathing deepened. A minute passed and she shook Magnus’s hand away. “Left hand, I said.” Her eyes were still closed. Magnus and Catanya exchanged puzzled looks. “Come!” Marsala clicked her fingers. “You are left-handed, yes? As you all are from the Fire Realm… Come!”
“That was his left hand,” Catanya said.
Marsala opened her eyes. Magnus still had his left hand extended. Marsala blinked once and held it again, closed her eyes and resumed her deep breathing, this time twisting her brows in concentration. Moments later she stared at them both. “Pretty-priestess—your parents are of the Fire Realm?”
Catanya rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“And yours?” Marsala considered Magnus.
“My father is. My mother is of the Ice Realm.”
“But with your Electus blood, that should be of little consequence. Give me your other hand… quick!”
Magnus did as told and Marsala gripped Magnus’s right hand with both of hers.
“Nothing!�
�� Marsala placed the cat on the floor next to her. It scurried back up to its previous position atop a pile of books. Marsala opened another draw beneath the table and removed a well-worn wooden box. She cleared the table of soup bowls and teacups then placed the box at its centre. From inside, she pulled out numerous cloth bags tied with string at their tops. She arranged them in a row, mumbling as she went. “Oak is to the Fire Realm as pine is to the Earth Realm, blossom is to the Air Realm and… the birch tree is to the Ice Realm.”
Birch tree… Magnus thought. “My mother planted many birch trees around our lands. They reminded her of home.”
“Yes, birch tree it is.” Marsala selected the bag labelled ‘birch’. She placed it before Magnus. “Open it.”
Magnus loosened the string and upturned the bag. A dozen thin sticks of birch wood slid out into the palm of his hand. Each had a unique symbol carved into it. The symbols were foreign to him.
“Rune sticks,” Catanya remarked.
“Aye. Now hold them firmly in your hands.” Marsala leant forward and held Magnus’s hands, clasping them gently around the sticks, all the while careful not to touch them herself. She sat back with her arms wide and watched.
Magnus took a deep breath and closed his eyes. A vision of his mother came to mind as clear as a dream—as clear as the dream he had of her the day he left Ba’rrat. They were standing in a field of pure white snow. The sky was a cloudless blue so bright it was almost blinding. Alavia was right there, wearing the same azure robe Magnus had seen in his previous dream. She had a serious expression on her face. Behind her, in the distance and waiting in silence, was a legion of hundreds of horse-mounted warriors. Rhydermere… The Rhydermere were all on white Astermeers or silver Wardemeers whose hides reflected the snow. Magnus looked to his mother. Her expression had softened, but her sapphire eyes burned as brilliant as blue flames.
