by K. C. Julius
At times he thought of Halla, and the trick he’d played on her. His guilty feelings had abated, for he was certain she would have taken no pleasure in the work he was doing with Egydd, since it didn’t involve slashing and lunging about with swords. Convincing himself that no one ever need know he hadn’t made an honest mistake in setting the cairn, he threw himself into his training with a clear conscience.
It was several weeks after his arrival when the mage pushed back from the table, reached for his staff, and announced, “It’s time.” With no further explanation, he rose and headed out the door.
“Time? Time for what?” Whit said, hastily scrambling after the mage. His heart raced in anticipation, for Egydd was entirely unpredictable.
The mage ducked into a recess formed by one of the huge roots stretching from the outer walls of his home. He began to extract gnarled lengths of wood, examining each before casting it aside with a disgruntled air. Finally, he disappeared inside the root altogether.
Whit felt his heart swell, for he guessed what was about to happen.
When at last Egydd re-emerged, he held a pale stave in his hand.
He thrust it at Whit. “Its name is the Rod of Kuval. Be careful how you handle it. It holds the memory of much magic.”
Whit knew all about the great Kuval, who had famously hunted and battled against the Strigori, the darkest of wizards. He had killed one of them—Ionut the Grim—although he himself had perished as well as a result of his wounds.
“Dangerous magic?” he said, carefully turning the hawthorn rod in his hands.
“All magic is dangerous. It’s the charge of the wizard to control it.”
Egydd laid his hand over Whit’s. This was it—the moment Whit had been waiting for since the day he cast his first spell. By presenting him with a staff, Egydd was formally acknowledging him as a fellow wizard.
“Repeat after me,” said the mage. “I accept this staff, along with all the responsibility that comes with the possession of magical power. I will honor my gift and employ it wisely. I swear to abide by the Code, and never wilfully use magic against my fellow man, except in defense of my life, and of my sovereign and country.”
Whit repeated the oath, pushing aside a slight disappointment. He’d always envisioned a grand ceremony filled with pageantry, with him at its center, surrounded by an admiring throng of onlookers.
Egydd leaned forward expectantly. “Now. Let’s see what you can do with it..” He twirled his own staff with astonishing dexterity, an expectant gleam in his eyes. “You needn’t be afraid of failure, my boy. There is much to be learned from your mistakes.”
Irritated that Eygdd had misread his thoughts, Whit thrust the tip of the staff at the stream gurgling past the cottage. “Dŵr yn dod i mi!” he commanded.
He was rewarded with a great slap of water that soaked him to the bone.
As he sputtered and wiped his eyes, his spirits were further dampened by the cackle of Egydd’s laughter. “Ho ho!” cried the mage, once he’d caught his breath. “That was very forceful! Perhaps next time you should try this one instead.” The mage pointed his own staff. “Gall dŵr y mae’n gwelwch yn dda fyny oddi wrth eich gwely!”
The stream sent a graceful spout up into the air.
“It’s a little wordier,” the mage admitted, “but as you can see, it’s received more graciously. Nobody likes to be ordered about, including the spirits of the Elementa.” He waggled a gnarled finger at Whit. “And it’s essential to be explicit with a spoken spell. Of course, if you prefer, you can just do this.”
Egydd raised his twisted staff and exhaled softly. A waterspout shot up toward the clouds, and then, in response to a flick of the wizard’s wrist, fell back to the streambed without so much as a splash.
“What—How did you do that?” Whit cried. “Did you think the spell?”
“No. Try again. Tell me what you see.”
Whit stared at the wizard. What I see? What he saw was a little elf with leafmeal clinging to his matted hair. But he willed himself to look closer, with his mind as well as his eyes. And for a split second, he glimpsed a shimmering aura surrounding the mage.
“You didn’t have to use spellcraft, did you?” he said slowly. “Because you and the stream… you were one and the same. Is that how it happened?”
Egydd smiled. “In a way.” He looked up at the leaves stirring on the trees. “Try calling up the wind.”
After taking a breath to recover his poise, Whit concentrated on the spell, this time remembering to phrase it as a request. “Gwynt, os yw’n gwelwch yn dda, yn cod. Wind, if it please you, rise!”
A sudden squall swept over them. Whit bent his mind to harness the wild magic, then slowly released it to become a gentle zephyr.
“Now that’s more like it!” cried Egydd. “It appears the rod accepts you. This stave will be yours for as long as you live. A staff of power will have only one master until that wizard or sorceress makes the Leap.”
Whit held the rod out before him, taking in its simple beauty. “Like dragons and the dragonfast.”
The mage considered this. “Yes, there are parallels, but also one key difference. The bond between a dragon and his bindling is one of equality, whereas a wizard must ever be master over his staff.”
Egydd spent the rest of the day putting him through his magical paces. Whit awakened fire, rent the earth, and crafted clouds from which he forced a spattering of drops. He made a butterfly take on the form of a fish, and then of a hawk. He even nearly managed to turn his mentor head over heels before Egydd caught wind of what he was up to and gleefully reversed the spell. After that, they had a good-natured duel of sorts, which ended with Whit perched on the highest branch of a sequoia tree, and Egydd with wisps of blue smoke curling from his beard.
Over a dinner of sorrel stew, Whit felt emboldened by the day’s success, and chose this time to ask the mage when he might demonstrate the imperative spells.
Egydd raised his brows. “You mean, will I whip up the Shield of Taran for you here and now? No, I will not!”
Whit felt his cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Egydd’s fierce expression softened. “No, I don’t suppose you did. But you should know by now that magic comes at a price, which even the most prodigious wizard or sorceress must pay. That’s what made powerful dark wizards like the Strigori so dangerous. It wasn’t enough for them to defeat any who opposed them—they sought to destroy their enemies by forcing them beyond their limits. A duel with a Strigori was always a battle unto death. Thus, few dared to oppose them.
“And even if you never have to face a dark wizard, there are other hazards to consider before using your magic, particularly when employing the imperatives. Illusing and shadow-casting can become permanent states, if you use them too often or for too long. Presenting a different appearance to others for the remainder of your life isn’t life-threatening, but those wizards and sorceresses who became trapped in the shadow world were driven to madness, and then took their own lives.”
Whit felt a shiver of horror. “I wouldn’t want to put you at risk for my sake. But... how am I to learn the imperatives if they’re dangerous for you to teach me?”
“The way those of us who’ve mastered them before you have. As a virtuosi, you have the natural gifts at hand. I assume you already know the incantations for the spells?”
Whit nodded.
“Then to achieve them requires the same skills and effort you’ve employed to learn all your life. Practice makes the master.”
The mage eyed Whit critically. “A lesser wizard would have been spent by midday,” he said. “I wonder if you have any idea of the extent of your gifts.”
Whit shrugged. “I’ve been a quick learner all my life.”
“Is that what you call it?” Egydd gave a creaky laugh. “Still, you’re bound to feel the effects of t
oday’s practice.”
Whit failed to stifle a yawn. “Is that why I’m longing for my pillow before the sun has set?”
“Go to it. We leave at dawn tomorrow. Elvinor is expecting us.”
Whit’s weariness was instantly forgotten. “Elvinor? You’re taking me back? But I’ve only been here a few weeks! There’s so much more I can learn from you.”
“That may be, but you aren’t destined to be a mage like me.”
Whit drew breath to protest, but the old man forestalled him. “Oh, my dear Lord of Cardenstowe! If you are so easily pricked, how will you blossom?” He shook his head in mock despair. “Still, blossom you might, for I see in you the potential for greatness. But you must learn much more than spells and potions to realize your gift.”
Whit waited for Egydd to continue, but the mage simply broke off another hunk of bread from the loaf between them.
Sensing something more was expected of him, Whit considered his next words carefully. “You mean I must learn this business of becoming my magic?”
The mage’s brown eyes sparkled. “That is exactly what I mean.”
Whit sighed. “If reading the wizarding masters of yore and practicing spellcraft won’t help me achieve this, what will?”
Egydd shook his head. “I never said these pursuits won’t help you, Whit. But you need to focus less on learning for learning’s sake, and more on how it informs your heart.”
It was the first time the mage had called Whit by his given name. “What’s my heart got to do with it?”
“My dear boy,” said Egydd, “absolutely everything.”
Chapter 14
The trip back through Mithralyn’s forest was almost leisurely—the old mage didn’t begin to approach the pace Cressida had set on the way to Egydd’s—which gave Whit plenty of time to think about how he would smooth things over with Halla when he returned. He decided he would begin by telling her about the terrible time she would have had under the mage’s tutelage. Herbs and concoctions. Dressing wounds. Not to mention, she’d have been left to kick her heels while Egydd was instructing Whit in the magical arts.
By the time they could see the palace spires rising through the trees, he knew he’d done her a service. He was even considering confessing his deceit to her outright—for the pleasure of receiving her gratitude.
Thus he was woefully unprepared when, upon their arrival, the elven king asked, “And where is Halla?”
Whit’s surprise struck him dumb, and in the thunderous silence, it was Egydd who answered. “I was told the girl decided not to come.”
“But then, where has she been these past weeks?” said Elvinor.
Hearing the alarm in the elven king’s voice, Whit suddenly found it difficult to swallow, and he felt an uncomfortable stirring in the pit of his stomach. “I… I have no idea. She said she would follow. I… I left trail markings for her, but when she didn’t join us, I figured she’d decided to stay here.”
Egydd fixed Whit with a penetrating glare, and Whit felt his cheeks burn with shame.
“We shall ride out at once in search of her,” the king said gravely. He wasted no time in issuing a rush of instructions, which Aenissa, his niece, hastened to see carried out.
Cortenus, who was also there to welcome Whit, raised his brows. “Surely she can have come to no harm in this realm?”
Elvinor looked grim. “There have been… incidents in the past. I fear Halla may have run afoul of wild magic.”
Even through his worry and guilt, Whit couldn’t help but be intrigued. Wild magic?
Elvinor strode outside and gave a low whistle, and several elks emerged from the forest in response to his call. The king issued another, higher whistle, and a dragonfly whirred close to him. He murmured to it softly, then sent it darting off into the trees.
“I see no need for you to join us,” the king said to Whit. “You must be in need of rest after your journey.”
Whit was sorely tempted to accept this offer, but his conscience prodded him to disagree. “I should come. I might be able to tell where Halla… went astray.”
Elvinor gave him an approving nod, then mounted the lead elk.
Whit and the other elves followed suit, and they set off along the trail Whit had now traversed twice. He was relieved to find that his mount moved with powerful grace, making it easy to keep his seat without a saddle. He rode at the fore with Elvinor, for he knew precisely what to look for; he’d spotted the misleading cairn, still intact, on his homeward journey. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that he’d possessed the forethought to topple it with a nudge of his foot.
But when they came to the place where the small cairn lay scattered, Whit felt his blood chill. The stones formed the same rough arrow as those in his nightmare about his father. Could this be mere coincidence?
“We should bear right here,” he said, his voice harsh to his ears.
To Whit’s relief, Elvinor didn’t question why.
As the elks bounded onward, the knot in Whit’s stomach grew tighter. Still, he couldn’t imagine what ill could befall Halla in Mithralyn. Even she wouldn’t be foolish enough to tangle with the dragons, and as far as he knew, the great beasts were the only danger in this golden paradise. He felt a prick of irritation that, as usual, his cousin had succeeded in making difficulty for him. He wouldn’t be surprised if they found her off having a lark and living off the land like her precious Lurkers.
But when Frandelas reined in, then surged through the underbrush to the left of the trail, Whit felt a further jolt of concern. Beside a shimmering pool lay Halla’s pack, her bow, and some old fish bones by the remnants of a fire.
Elvinor swore softly under his breath.
“What is it?” Whit asked.
But Elvinor had already dismounted and was heading toward a grove of hawthorn trees beyond the water.
“Faeries,” said Aenissa, edging her elk alongside Whit’s. “Halla camped close to their mound, and it’s bound to have distressed them.”
Whit snorted. “Faeries? So they exist as well, do they? Well, even Halla should be able to deal with the likes of them.” He made to dismount, but Frandelas’s restraining hand grasped his shoulder.
“You’d be surprised,” said the elf. “We’ll wait here.”
Elvinor stopped in the center of the grove and called out in an ancient runic tongue. Whit only recognized a few of the words—something about birds and queens. Recalling the king’s reference to wild magic, he felt a thrill of excitement. Perhaps here was something worth learning.
“What’s he saying?” he asked.
Frandelas’s sidelong glance seemed a bit impatient. “He’s calling out the faerie queen. It doesn’t really translate well into human speech.” But he proceeded to try.
“Tremble of wing, lilt of bird,
sworn by moonlight’s spellbound word
I summon the queen of all things fey
to appear here in the light of day.”
“Tarna won’t like that,” murmured Aenissa.
Whit’s eyes flitted between the two elves. “Why not?”
“Faeries hate the sun,” the princess explained. “They revel at night. And their queen, Tarna, is very proud. She takes umbrage easily.”
A sudden whirring sound spiraled up from the ground, and a swarm of winged creatures burst from a cleft in the earth. Their queen was at the fore, and had it not been for the murderous look in her blazing eyes, Whit would have considered her very fair. The horde circled Elvinor menacingly, but the elven king stood his ground until they began, one by one, to settle before him.
“Elvinor Celvarin, you have summoned me against my will,” cried the faerie queen in a bell-like voice. “What manner of catastrophe has befallen Mithralyn that provokes you to do so?”
“It is nothing compared to the retribution I shall mete out if some
faerie mischief has befallen my guest,” said Elvinor sternly.
Tarna stiffened. “If you mean the human that passed here a fortnight ago, we never laid eyes on her.” She pointed disdainfully toward the bones strewn on the ground. “You can see for yourself the debris she left.”
“You say you never saw her, and yet you know she was female,” said Elvinor.
The little queen’s eyes narrowed. She signaled imperiously to a male and female of her kind. “Cliodhna, Oren—it was you who reported the human’s presence near our mound, was it not?”
Elvinor shifted his attention to them. “You saw her? Was she injured, or in any distress?”
The little female gave the king such a look of loathing that Whit involuntarily drew back on his reins. When she proceeded to spit on the ground at Elvinor’s feet, the elves surged to their king’s side, their bows drawn and menacing.
But the fey queen was no more pleased by this display than were the elves, and her wrath sent the offending faerie spiraling through the air to collide with one of the hawthorn trees.
“My lord!” said the little queen, bowing low and showing Elvinor deference for the first time. “You have our most sincere apologies for my baleful subject’s lapse of manners. Cliodhna has been as troublesome as an imp ever since her birth.” Ignoring the perpetrator of the offense, who lay now groaning against the tree, Tarna turned to the male she had summoned forward. “Oren. What can you tell King Elvinor about the human’s condition?”
Oren threw a tortured glance at Cliodhna. “She was well, my queen,” he replied. “At least, the last time we saw her…”
It was obvious to Whit that the faerie was hiding something. Both Tarna and Cliodhna hissed at Oren in their unintelligible tongue, and the latter rose shakily to her feet, her angelic face contorted with fury. Oren was clearly torn, uncertain whom obey, but his loyalty to his sovereign must have won out, because he had only spoken a few words in the faerie tongue before Cliodhna fled screeching into the wood.
She didn’t get far. A sharp crack rent the air, and she simply disappeared.
