Tremors of Fury

by Sean Hinn

  Aria’s mind was elsewhere. She had heard the news from Thornwood; the winds had told of the deaths of many elves and the rending of the Citadel. The knowledge she had gleaned from the currents of the Wood had been cloudy, jumbled, frantic. She strained to listen, but she was never particularly adept at the task. All she knew for certain was that her mother lived and was unhurt. As for everyone else she knew… Pheonaris had promised to share what she could when she learned more. Aria was certain that her Mistress was holding back, but understood: there were questions here that needed answers, and her mentor’s attention was necessarily focused on that task above all others. Aria had been called to the Grove for a reason, and that reason must be discovered soon. No one had slept, and they would not sleep, not until the path forward revealed itself.

  The princess had resolved before dawn to smother her grief and fears until she knew more about what had truly happened. She wanted to believe it was her sense of duty that was allowing her to be strong, but in her heart, she knew better. She was simply too ashamed to cry while those around her busied themselves seeking answers and working to help one another. That was the thing: above all she felt helpless, useless. She had no insight to offer. Her healing skills were meager compared to her more senior sisters and brothers of the Society. There was nothing she could think to do that would make any difference whatsoever in the face of what had happened; the feeling of irrelevance threatened to swallow her whole.

  Aria looked up to see Lucan staring at her. “What?” she asked, self-consciously aware that the man had been appraising her.

  “Whaddya mean, ‘what’? Are we not gonna talk about this?”

  Aria understood immediately. “The dream.”

  “Well, ‘the’ dream to you, about a thousand dreams to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, well, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

  “Know what?”

  Lucan leaned in. “Princess, I have dreamed of a battle, a horrible battle, the exact same battle, I dunno, maybe hundreds of times, since I was brought here.”

  Aria nodded. “I saw this battle. Or I think I did, in my dream. Where I saw you.”

  “Yeah, see? Tell me that isn’t crazy. Two people having the same dream. But you only had it once. Me…” Lucan shuddered. “Fury. Well, anyhow, every time, you’re there. In almost every scene. Silent. Never speaking. Even when you weren’t there, it was like…well, the idea of you was there. Every time. And we…” Lucan trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, we were…important in those dreams. And connected somehow.”

  “We have never met. I am certain.”

  “Yeah, me too. But I knew you. I mean, I knew you.”

  Aria blushed faintly. “You could not know me. You are a thief from Mor, and I am–”

  “Dammit!” Lucan stood, angry, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “Why does everyone keep calling me a thief?”

  Lucan felt the distinct touch of a blade on the right side of his neck. Aria stood, her eyes wide in surprise as Mikallis pressed a dagger against the man’s flesh. She had been looking away, recalling the dream…she had not seen him approach from behind Lucan.

  “You will moderate your tone when you speak to the Princess of Thornwood,” said Mikallis, his tone dark and violent. “Now stand aside.”

  Lucan stood still for a moment, but not a long one.

  He stepped and turned quickly to his left, deftly parrying the elf’s blade arm with the heel of his left hand. He prepared to step into the elf and throw him to the ground - only to find a second dagger point already pressed at his sternum. The two locked eyes.

  “Captain, stand down,” said Barris sternly from behind.

  Mikallis’ eyes never shifted their focus as the captain sheathed the two daggers at Barris’ command. The movement was so fast as to be nearly imperceptible.

  Lucan was impressed but held the elf’s gaze. He did not like what he saw in those grey eyes. This bastard would kill me if he could, Lucan was certain. He looked briefly to Aria and backed a step away but did not break his stare.

  “I will not be called a thief, not even by a princess.”

  “If Princess Aria calls you a thief, boy, then a thief you are.”

  Barris put a hand on Mikallis’ chest. “Peace, Captain. This is my fault. Please, the two of you, do not come to blows over my error.”

  Lucan turned to Barris. “Changing your tune, then?”

  “I am. I labeled you a thief without proof, and shared my suspicions with others. Your reputation here is a result of my assumption.”

  “So…you have learned otherwise, Barris?” asked Aria.

  “Not exactly. Not until now, at least. In any case, I have dishonored you without cause, Lucan. You have my apology.” Barris bowed slightly to emphasize his sincerity.

  “I…uh,” Lucan didn’t know what to say, his anger quickly extinguished. “Well, then, thank you. I accept your apology.”

  “Then it is settled. Now, enough of this. It is time that we discuss why we are all here. Captain, please request that the dwarves and Shyla join us at the dining tables. Lucan, I will request that you join us as well.”

  “This one?” asked Mikallis, pointing to Lucan, annoyed. “What business does he have–”

  “Captain Mikallis Elmshadow!” Barris interrupted angrily, his patience exhausted. “Do you acknowledge my authority here?”

  Mikallis nodded, his expression defiant. “I do.”

  “Then you will do precisely as I ask, when I ask it of you, without question. Is that clear?”

  The young captain’s cheeks reddened. He nodded again, curtly.

  Barris leaned in, placing a hand on Mikallis’ shoulder, trying a different tack. “Is that clear, Captain?” Barris repeated, his demeanor fatherly and gentle.

  Mikallis took a moment to reply. Quickly, however, his anger and defiance began to abate. “It is, Sir Barris. I... I am not myself.”

  “No, you are not. But you will be. Now carry out my orders, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” He walked up with path without a word to Lucan or Aria.

  “What’s that guy’s problem?” asked Lucan, as soon as Mikallis was out of earshot.

  “I would sooner know what your problem is,” replied Barris.

  “Me? I didn’t do anything, the princess and I were just talking–”

  “I am referring to the problem that led me to find you dying on the road.”

  Lucan looked between Barris and Aria, uncomfortable. He had not been looking forward to this conversation.

  “Ah, well, I just had a fall, I suppose. Hard ride.”

  “After being chased by three men from Mor. After your bit of showmanship in the tavern.”

  “Wait, how…” Lucan replayed the bar scene in his mind. Ah, Luc, you always miss the important details. He recalled noticing an elf buying provisions at the bar as he entertained Earl and his crew.

  “So you saw it all, then. Saw I didn’t cheat anyone.”

  “Well, that’s a matter of perspective, and clearly your merchant friend did not agree. But I did not see why you left in fear for your life.”

  “Yeah, well, turns out the merchant was the brother of the infamous Master Thomison. Heard of him?” Barris nodded. “Well, seems he took offense to my, uh, transaction with his brother.”

  Aria listened patiently. She was confused, but knew Barris was attempting to ferret out a truth. She would not interrupt.

  “Let us walk as we talk.” Barris led them down the path towards the dining area. “So, he came after you. And you ran.”

  “Well, not exactly. He sent three armed thugs to collect me and take me Fury knows where. Maybe, I dunno, ten, fifteen turns after you left. One of them roughed me up a bit, and I reasoned out pretty quickly that it was either time to start running or start fighting, and let’s just say I found the odds unfavorable.”

  “And?”

  “And I ran like Fury outta that bar, kicked t
hat merchant in the–” He looked to Aria. “Well, I kicked him over, hopped on his horse, and we rode north. Those three were on me for hours; Hope’s heart was gonna give out if I ran her any longer, so I jumped, cracked my rib–”

  “So you are a thief,” said Aria.

  Lucan stopped walking and looked her in the eye. He could not shake the inexplicable sense that this woman’s opinion of him was important. Nor would he allow her to insult him unfairly. “Listen, Princess, I may not be the caliber of man you find yourself surrounded by in your big pretty castle up north, but I have a code I live by. I don’t cheat, and I don’t steal. If a man is trying to have me killed, or worse, and I have to take his horse to stay alive, that’s not stealing. That’s… well, it’s something else.”

  Barris looked to Aria, then back to Lucan, nodding his agreement. “Let us keep walking, please. You are right, Lucan, in my judgment. I did see your interaction with the merchant. Your wager was fair, if a bit cunning. You did what you needed to survive the encounter. I do not fault you.”

  Lucan smirked. Well, if it wasn’t for the fact that you saved my life, I would say I couldn’t give a rat’s arse if you faulted me or not, he thought. His reply was more subdued.

  “Well, Mister Barris, I appreciate that. But now I have a question. That captain had a point – why in the world would you want me to join your meeting?”

  The three arrived at the dining tables. Barris looked back up the path to see Wolf running haphazardly in their direction. The gnome and the dwarves wouldn’t be far behind. Barris turned to the young man, his expression serious.

  “We don’t have much time, Lucan. I will tell you this. You are more than you seem, more than you think you are. I saw it in the way your horse was bonded with you. How did you know her name was Hope?”

  Lucan was confused by the question. “Well, ah…I didn’t. That’s just the name I gave her.”

  “No, Lucan, you did not give her that name. It is her name.” Barris watched him, seeking a sign that the man had understood. He had not. “In any case, Trellia also sensed there was something unique about you. I believe even our Aria here senses it.”

  Aria shrugged, her gesture not quite signaling agreement, but rather conceding that Barris was not entirely wrong.

  “I thought as much,” Barris continued. “And lastly, the Spring water confirmed it. You, Lucan not-Thorne, possess what we elves call…well, roughly translated, it is the Bloom of Magic.”

  Lucan blinked, incredulous.

  “I see you are skeptical. I know you have questions. All you need to know right now, before our council, is this: that I speak the truth, and that you are here for a reason. Do you believe this?”

  Lucan frowned. “Listen, Mister Barris, I’m sure you believe what–”

  “No, you listen, Lucan. Listen to me. Listen with your bones. Please, this is crucial. Are you listening?”

  Lucan frowned. “Um, yes, I’m pretty sure I’m listening.”

  Barris ignored the unmistakable tone of sarcasm and placed a hand on Lucan’s shoulder. He continued, speaking softly. “Close your eyes, Lucan. Go on, close them.” Lucan rolled them instead, but as Aria shot him a look, he took a breath and complied. “Good. Now breathe, slowly…slowly…good.” Barris continued to coach the young man, speaking ever quietly, imparting as best he could a sense of calm, of focus.

  Lucan listened. Gradually the knight’s voice became the only thing he was aware of, the center of his focus.

  “Slowly, deeply. Good. Now listen.” Barris waited, allowing time to ensure that Lucan was, in fact, clear of mind. Sensing he was ready, Barris sent his thoughts to the man.

  After a long moment, the elven knight spoke again, though he did not speak aloud. The words did not come from without, but from within; in Lucan’s mind Barris’ voice was clear, rich…soothing, like a gently struck crystal bell, reverberating not within his ears, but within his bones. In this voice, Lucan sensed – no, knew – that Truth was to be found; no deceit, no falsehood, intentional or otherwise. The words were not merely truthful, not merely factual, but in all ways, in all worlds, his declaration was True.

  “Lucan not-Thorne, you carry the mahj-blómere within you.”

  XIV: THE FARMLANDS

  The Incantor struggled to breathe, the pressure of Mila’s magic threatening to crush the life from his exhausted body as it pressed him against the barn wall. His feet dangled, scrambling for purchase, the force of her will dragging him higher up the wall as her anger reached a pitch.

  “You had one responsibility…ONE!” she bellowed, furious that the Incantor had failed to maintain the containment field when the quake struck. Scores of others bore witness to the violent exchange, which had gone on for several turns: farmers, their families, Incantors, general laborers, and her hulking wagon loader, Earl. It was he who spoke first.

  “Hey, lady, it was a damned tahrquake. How in Fury is he supposed to stand against that?”

  Mila dropped the spell. The Incantor slumped to the ground, gasping. She turned her fury on Earl.

  “You would question me, you great brainless bag of muscle?” She stormed towards him, her eyes like steel daggers. Those near Earl retreated, giving the sorceress a wide berth. “Perhaps you would like to take his place on the wall!”

  Earl stood his ground, frightened but too proud to show his fear. He crossed his massive arms over his barrel chest. “Listen, Mila, you can kill all of us with your magic, one by one if ya like, but there ain’t nothin’ you can do about a damned tahrquake. What’s the big deal, anyhow? So we lost a season.”

  Mila held his eyes for a moment before she turned away from the enormous man.

  So we lost a season? she fumed. We were three days away from harvest! Three days! “FURYYYY!” she yelled, the curse’s amplitude enhanced by her wrath-infused magic. A deep, tangible sonic wave emanated from Mila, its force knocking those nearest to her off balance and causing all present to cover their ears in pain. The effect was sufficient to terrify the farmers and laborers; several broke into a run away from the enraged sorceress. The Incantors present knew better than to run; if she had intended to inflict serious harm, distance would not have saved them.

  Even the most powerful wizards she had recruited knew: Mila Felsin possessed an innate power that was uncommonly potent. Her understandings of the mysteries of magic were not merely a result of her formidable intelligence and aptitude for study. They had all whispered amongst themselves. Certainly, she was brilliant. Certainly, she was obsessed about learning magic; she was a dedicated student, even since she had left Kehrlia. Diligence, however, could not fully account for her mastery. Her relationship with magic was clearly instinctual. No wizard of her age should have been capable of the feats she made look easy; to a one, the Incantors in Mila’s command were in awe of her.

  The sorceress stomped away from the crowd. She knew her rage had been clouding her thinking. The stupid wagon loader is right, she thought. Why do I care about these damned plants? This whole farce is a means to an end. She considered the implications of the quake – and the loss of yield–as she began the long walk back to her offices.

  Sartean would be angry, no doubt. But what of it? The continuous, uninterrupted concentration required to grow and harvest phenarril was the weakest link in the operation. That fact was unavoidable, as was the fact that a bleeding tahrquake would be bound to break that concentration. She did not fear the wizard’s wrath.

  And what of the quakes? What of the clouds of ash that covered Mor, and would soon blanket the farmlands? Once that happened, the entire growth operation would be threatened. What could she do, double her staff of Incantors to fend off the ash? Triple it? Would every Incantor in Tahr be needed to grow these damned plants?

  And again…to what end? she asked herself. Mila knew Sartean’s ambitions. He eyed the throne, and sought to undermine Halsen while weakening Mor so he could take it. He had never admitted as much to her, but no other endgame made sense. He will inherit
naught but a pile of ash, she thought. And that’s what puzzled her. Sartean was no fool. He must know that his course would lead to the ruin of Mor. Who would want to rule a cemetery? Sartean D’Avers would, she reminded herself. He is evil incarnate.

  And what did that make her? The excuses she told herself - that she was biding her time, serving Sartean only to reach her own ends – were beginning to taste like the foul embers spewing from Fang.

  Besides, I am nearly ready, she decided as she walked. So very nearly ready.

  ~

  Mila was sure that no one would dare bother her for the remainder of the day, and at first the thought of spending the afternoon alone pleased her immensely. She relished the idea of being left to her own devices for a time without the constant barrage of reports, complaints, and tedious duties. She decided to dedicate the day to practicing spells, but she soon grew bored. There was so little left to learn, surely nothing in the books she had brought with her from Kehrlia. After poring through a large tome and finding nothing new to study, her boredom turned towards introspection—a pastime the sorceress avoided desperately of late. She briefly and involuntarily recalled all that she had done the past several years, and the memories horrified her. In moments like these—the quiet ones, the lonely ones—the ghosts of her crimes called her name. It was becoming more and more difficult to reconcile her actions with her self-image. As she caught herself sinking into feelings of guilt and despair, she decided that a long bath was in order.