Life Giver

by Lisa Lowell

  Sethan nodded dejectedly. "We've heard tales from the refugees. It's their Lord Kreftor, who is ordering the city razed. He would rather leave char and cinders than anything worth keeping. After they strip a building of anything of worth, Kreftor's men set it afire."

  Yeolani peered toward East, although he could not really see through the walls, not until he rested up a bit. "What's happening to the people who remain or cannot get over from the East side?"

  "No one knows," Sethan sighed with regret. "I never thought our little demonstration would become such a…such..." He couldn't come up with a word to fit the situation and neither could Yeolani.

  "You cannot predict what evil will do, only what is good and right," Yeolani said gently, wondering at the words that he, as a simple young man with little experience, could craft. These were the words of the Wise Ones.

  Sethan crumbled a little. "Nearly a third of East's population is dead, injured, or unaccounted for because of us. I keep asking myself if it was all really necessary."

  "How many of them would have wanted to die in a rebellion? None, but how many wanted some way to have freedom from the outlander magic?" asked Yeolani, again tapping into the Wise One instinct.

  Sethan dropped his head further. "It was my selfish desire, my pride. I wanted to push them into getting rid of Lord Kreftor. Wouldn't they have done it eventually for themselves? They might have rebelled in a more peaceful fashion."

  Yeolani shook his head before he realized that the innkeeper couldn't see the gesture. "No, you must fight evil whenever you see it. If it had gone on any longer, it would have been all that more set, like barnacles on a hull. None of us want to start the fight, but we have a duty to resist evil when we see it. If anyone should feel guilty, it is me."

  And his own words haunted him. Was that why he had confronted his father? He would never have rebelled if his father had not taken the abuse to his mother. He would have endured neglect and abuse forever if not for her.

  When Sethan didn't reply, Yeolani realized his friend had fallen asleep. It was a warm enough night and getting him into his own bed seemed a waste of time. Yeolani conjured a pillow to tuck under his friend's head and a blanket he then draped over the sleeping innkeeper. Yeolani left Marit to watch over Sethan through the night. Then, instinctively, Yeolani went back into the quiet of the common room, for he knew that Honiea and Vamilion would be waiting for him there.

  They sat at a table tucked back in the kitchen, with Honiea's candle as their only source of light, waiting for him patiently. The three Wise Ones needed to talk out a plan, and Yeolani was grateful he wasn’t alone anymore in this magic. In fact, his first words were thanks. But then he surrounded them with a shield of invisibility and silence to mute their conversation.

  "Quite an adventure for your first magical foray," Vamilion commented.

  Yeolani only shrugged. "You said to follow my instincts, and the wretched promptings led me here like a flock of fairies. The people of West needed my help. If Lord Kreftor on the East side had continued, he would have been completely entrenched here and it would have been that much more difficult to break him free. He's a barnacle, sucking the life out of these towns."

  "We aren't questioning that it needed to be done," Honiea reassured him as she sensed how he felt they were critical of his choice. "We just are a bit concerned about your methods. You've put these people in great danger. They don't know how to fight magic. Many of them died without even knowing why they were fighting."

  The guilt and the latent depression Yeolani carried woke from its slumber. He felt he could do nothing without worsening the circumstances. He might be able to reassure Sethan but not himself that he had done the right thing.

  "What would you have done in this situation?" he asked, not in anger or frustration. He sincerely wanted to learn better how to avoid a pitched battle with non-magical folk in the line of fire next time. The old Yeolani would have been angry or defensive, but the Wise One instincts blocked that.

  "I'm not sure there was something better to do," Vamilion reassured him, "but it is always wisest to do anything as naturally as possible. Building a bridge is not a natural act. It was impressive and flashy. Could you have found a subtle way to show the people of East that they needed to support their friends in West? They only needed to acknowledge it."

  A hundred possible scenarios rippled through Yeolani's mind like wind through grasses, but none of them stayed, short of confronting the sorcerer Kreftor himself. Yeolani would still have to do that, no doubt. The outlanders had not left the East yet and would probably have to be encouraged to do so. Rather than admit that his plan had not turned out the way he had hoped, Yeolani nodded his agreement. He could see their point. Just because he had the power did not mean it was always the wisest to use it. He had tried to be subtle for himself, hiding behind barrels and not using his magic openly, but that was just to protect himself, not the people. Using magic sparingly, without being so blatant, would have been a better step.

  "I'll have to confront Lord Kreftor still, or he won't leave the Land," Yeolani warned his companions. "Do you have any suggestions?"

  Vamilion and Honiea looked at each other, and again it struck Yeolani like a knife how much they loved and relied on each other. How wonderful would it be to have someone that matched you, supported you, allowed you to consider ideas as equals? He wanted that for himself. Having a partner would have prevented much of the foolishness he'd done here. However, Honiea shook her head before he could go down the road of self-pity.

  "We'll support anything you decide to do as long as you wait until tomorrow. Right now, we all need to rest."

  The next day, after he had slept himself out, Yeolani knew what he had to do. He said goodbye to his friends in West, packed his things, being sure he included the furry Life Giver, his Heart Stone, Honiea’s candle, and newly created maps in his pack, and then walked over to the bridge. Marit hung back as Yeolani surged magically, anchoring himself to the plains before he stepped onto the bridge. He wouldn't be thrown off this time. But using that shielding magic put him into his royal clothing which now also included a breastplate of gold and a sword at his side. It seemed ridiculous to Yeolani, for he had never touched a sword and would have preferred a bow and arrows. However, he reminded himself this costume was for show, to convince these outlanders that there was magic in the Land and they were outmatched.

  The bridge, which had become a symbol of the rebellion, erupted in explosions as Yeolani crossed over to the East side, but he wasn't thrown over this time. The prairie on either side of the river held him steady, and he felt its peace and serenity as a counterbalance to the panicked magic of the outlander sorcerers that attacked him…and from his own anger at the destruction. How could they have done this? The senseless burning and ruin numbed him.

  From the safety of the West, the refugees and citizens watched as he made his trek safely and then began weaving his way through the burned-out buildings toward Lord Kreftor's mansion on the far eastern edge of the city. Only once she had lost sight of him did Marit follow behind, unharmed as she trotted over the bridge, seeking her master. His passage had broken the bridge’s spell, making it safe for all.

  The Lord's house seemed a poor imitation of the grand palace that Yeolani had seen on his walk back up the river, but if he hadn't seen Lara, he would have been very impressed. Of white stone, with a steep slate roof spire and many glazed windows, with gold and purple banners flying in the autumn sun, it seemed cheery, as if the festival continued here despite the smoke and ruins all around it. The high walls protecting the building reminded Yeolani faintly of his mind invasion exercises against Vamilion, and he felt pride that he had no problem reading the minds beyond these walls. He knew exactly how many and what powers he faced.

  He walked up to the gate, an ornately gilded affair. Behind it, he faced non-magical soldiers like the ones he had encountered in West who had come over and sworn their allegiance to the Land rather than being force
d to leave. These men looked at him in barely controlled terror.

  "I am the King of the Plains,” Yeolani announced needlessly. “I demand to speak with the filthy worm, lord of this misbegotten house."

  The guards said nothing but stepped back as a minor sorcerer wearing a purple and gold robe crossed over the courtyard to address him. "So, you are King of the Plains? What type of sad little powers does the prairie give you?" the sorcerer commented in a thick accent. "You can make grass grow and groundhogs scurry? I'm not impressed."

  At the mocking words, Yeolani abruptly remembered his father chiding him for being sea-sick. That memory brought thunderstorms building behind his eyes, and Yeolani encouraged it. He hadn't yet explored the capabilities that being the King of the Plains would give him. However, he could imagine there might be something more than grass and groundhogs. Over to the east, he saw thunderheads rising despite the earliness of the day and smiled to himself.

  "I haven't come to mince words with an underling who couldn't catch a fish without a pole," he growled while the wind picked up around him. "Your Lord is the one who must meet with me if he dares. You and all your …your compatriots must leave. And Lord Kreftor will order it, now."

  "Compatriots? Where did a boy like you learn a word like that?" scoffed the sorcerer.

  Yeolani had much the same question, for he had never heard it used before, though it must have meant something to the outlander magician. As the cynical comment came at him, so too did an invisible wave of pure magic, rippling from one of the towers beyond the gate. Yeolani endured the wave, feeling rooted to the earth like the pilings of the bridge he had crafted. Up there, in that tower, there hid the true power behind the throne, and Yeolani wasn't going to wait to confront that. He pushed back.

  With a wave of his hand, Yeolani made the gilded gate disappear and threw the guards as well as the arrogant underling back across the courtyard where they landed, sprawled on their backs. Yeolani walked through the opening, pushing against the magic that shoved against him like a stiff wind. He could do it with a little determination. His cloak billowed out behind him in the magical bluster, and the roar of it in Yeolani’s ears made him deaf to the shouts and alarms his entry now brought to the courtyard. Their outlander weapons couldn't penetrate his shields. Even though twenty more soldiers thundered down at him out of the house itself, he gave them little heed.

  He pushed his way through the outlander troops with a mind-wind and marched up a winding set of stairs. He could see illusions as he moved up the spiral steps. When he didn’t look closely, he saw an impenetrable jungle, vines gripping at his arms and legs as he progressed, but he used magic to alter the false imagery to that of a wind-funnel, and he felt it lift him physically through space, sucked up into the top of the stairway. At the apex of the spire, he found a simple wooden door on the landing, and he distrusted it as an illusion. He put his hand on the face of the passageway, and it even gave him the feel of wood grain under his hands, but he knew it for an apparition.

  Yeolani took a careful breath, walked through the false door, and stepped into an elegant chamber. Its insides reflected what one would expect from the outside: rich mahogany desks, matching chairs, and a finely carved bed. However, the stench of magic and the simplicity of the light and reflections on the furniture spoke louder of spells and illusions. Moreover, Yeolani sensed a hidden mind holding tight to the imagery and at the same time trying unsuccessfully to hold their magic low to avoid detection. Perhaps the sorcerer hoped Yeolani wouldn't notice the odor of blood magic and would leave, thinking the room stood empty.

  "I know you're here, hiding like a snail in its shell, so don't bother resisting with your enchantments and spells. You'll only wear yourself out trying. Can't have that," Yeolani said in his most bored tone. Since no one answered and there was no place to sit unless he wanted to risk sitting on an illusion, Yeolani conjured himself a seat, causing ripples in the imagery. The foreign sorcerer could not absorb something real, like a conjured chair, moving into the spell-work, so it all wavered like flowing water.

  Then, as if he had all the time to carry on the one-sided conversation, Yeolani sat back and crossed one elegantly booted leg over his knee. "So, I understand the soldiers below are your puppets. Haven't you sent them away yet? That is sad, for I am going to have to pack you all back in the same boat. They won't be sea-sick, but you will, won't you?"

  At that implied threat, the illusion finally eased, and Yeolani heard a gasp of exhaustion. The room took basically the same form but without the furniture. Bloody markings emerged on the white stone walls. Finally, shimmering out of the darkest corner, an ancient looking sorcerer materialized, old enough to look like Gil but with far more wrinkles and weakened by his fruitless efforts. Kreftor also dressed in a purple robe like his minion below, but this one boasted the arcane markings that Yeolani assumed blood magic required.

  "Much better," Yeolani commented and conjured a second seat for Kreftor as if they would have a comfortable conversation. "Now we can talk."

  The sorcerer looked annoyed and reluctant to sit but instead played with a worry stick in his hand, leaking nervous energy. He began to pace like his lair had become a prison.

  Yeolani let him suffer. "You've come to the Land, and we do not allow blood magic to remain here. It stinks up the place worse than a barrel of rotten fish," he insisted.

  "You cannot make us all leave. There are more like me." Kreftor's thick accent made him almost unintelligible, but he didn't react to the insult. Instead, he sat down, at last, looking down at the stones at his feet. "The Land's magic is attractive and so…so underused."

  "Too bad you cannot possess it, no matter how much you stumble around trying to sink in your claws," Yeolani flatly pointed out. "We will drive you out like the roaches you are, wherever we find you."

  "And how would you make sure I leave?" Kreftor asked, daring to look up.

  Yeolani smirked. "Have you ever seen fish caught in a net? That’s you now, and then I will put you in a barrel, seal it, and put it in the hold of the first boat I can conjure. I'll send it down the river and off to your own hovels. And this very convenient river goes all the way through the plains to the coast. As you know, I am the King of the Plains. I'll sense it if the ship so much as starts to take on water. Is that how you want to go?"

  The sorcerer already looked ill at the thought. "The demons and sorcerers will continue to come to the Land, you know that," Kreftor pointed out logically. “You cannot drive us all out.”

  That truth broke some of the passion Yeolani had been mastering over the last few days. Add to that the frustration at still not knowing how to travel more quickly and something slipped into place, quashing some of his naturally playful nature. The gloom of yesterday met head-on with the frustration at knowing that Kreftor was right; the Land would have to be sealed again before outlanders stopped sending sorcerers who coveted the Land’s magic. These things swirled in Yeolani’s mind and formed something alien and powerful.

  "Yes," Yeolani sighed, "and I will fight you forever. Now, are you going peacefully, or shall I stomp on you roaches here and now? If so, I've got something outside to show you. I sweep up after myself."

  Unwillingly, Kreftor hobbled to the eastern window, and Yeolani watched his shoulders slump in defeat. Just beyond the gates of the mansion spun a trio of tornadoes waiting for Yeolani's signal. They roared and snarled, gouging the ground and whipping the air wickedly like waiting attack dogs. "I'll send you home in a quicker fashion, but you'll not survive that kind of transport. Neither will your less-than-magical brethren. Which shall it be, Roach?"

  A demon lurking inside the sorcerer suddenly cackled, no longer accented like Kreftor. Yeolani saw two images, one of the old man and the other of an upright centipede-like creature twisted around Kreftor. Its bulging eyes glowed a toxic green, glaring back at Yeolani even as its human host remained looking out the window. It boasted antennas that snaked all the way to the ground, creeping out towar
d Yeolani’s feet. Yeolani carefully pulled back a bit, just for the comfort of not being quite so near the monster within the man.

  “You’re Roach.”

  "We are a nest of roaches. You cannot kill us all. Roach will just find other bodies willing to take us inside, and we will come to the Land again."

  The multi-toned voice sent shivers down Yeolani’s back, but he stood firm, keeping his oath as a Wise One. "And we will fight you every time you come. Now, you will leave this town in peace. You will leave the Land and find somewhere else to dwell. Your only decision is how," Yeolani reiterated, feeling the straining of the tornadoes like chained animals.

  Kreftor moved back from the window, and Yeolani saw the demon in his eyes wanting to lunge. With his tension ready to react at any moment, the King of the Plains found it almost impossible to remain in his relaxed pose, waiting for the reaction he expected. He knew it the moment the decision was made and the demon-filled sorcerer leaped at him. Yeolani felt the tornadoes sweep in, shattering glass and sucking the roof off the tower before the grasping hands or the whipping antennas could come near Yeolani's neck. A deafening roar swept them both into the air, but Yeolani felt safe, cradled in the wind's embrace as his pet tornadoes cleaned East of its invaders and swept away the ash heaps. He watched from the eye of the storm as his own body phased away from him to be one with the wind.

  When he was sure all three tornadoes had accounted for every one of the outlanders, Yeolani guided them down the river, across the plains, and toward the sea. He feared that most of the non-magical men would die in the buffeting, and perhaps even the sorcerers if their demons abandoned them, but he could not afford to be merciful. Lances of blue and green lightning attempted to quell his storms, but nothing would stop his anger and power. He kept them fueled by the very plains beneath them. The cyclones ran the prairie and launched off the cliffs and onto the ocean, gathering the power that Yeolani now funneled into them with the summer heat burning off the Land, combining with the cool of autumn winds coming from the north coast. Perfect weather for storms, he realized.