Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  A new home. But I don’t want a new home! My despair rises higher.

  “My sisters,” I rasp out through a strangled sob. My voice is muffled as I choke on tears and talk in a tangled mess. “When they turn thirteen. They’re going to fast them to the brothers of...of him. They’re promised. To a family of monsters...”

  I break down, unable to say more.

  Za’ya takes my blue hand in hers and lightly traces my fasting lines, grimacing. “Ah, yes. Well. That is a serious matter. And one that cannot be resolved at the moment.” She sighs deeply, as if resigned. “Perhaps we think on this in a few days, hmm?”

  She strokes my hair. Overwhelmed, I nod, falling into an exhausted acceptance of her kindness. It’s almost too much for me to look at her, her glittering scales bursting with brilliant color and reflected stars of lamplight, the stars multiplying at the edges of my vision in a disorienting rush.

  Za’ya bends her head closer to me. “So now, Sagellyn...you eat. And wash, hm?”

  The little boy slips into the room, quiet as a small deer, his emerald scales glittering like his mother’s. He clings to Za’ya’s arm and looks me over for a moment, his brow knotting in confusion as he turns back to his mother. “What happened to her, Ma’mya?”

  Za’ya takes a deep breath and strokes his hair. “She has lost her home, Na’bee.”

  Na’bee’s brow tenses tighter. “Like the Elfhollen, Ma’mya? And like us?”

  She considers this for a moment. “Yes, Al’mya.”

  Na’bee’s lips tug this way and that, as if he doesn’t know which words to form. Finally, he steps closer to me and puts his small hand on my hair, stroking it lightly.

  “Don’t cry,” Na’bee says. I notice he has no accent, unlike both his parents. His serpentine appearance is so strange to me, but his dark eyes are innocent and wide and kind. He looks to his mother again in confusion when I cry harder over his kindness.

  “Would you like me to draw a beautiful rune for you?” Na’bee asks hopefully, smiling at me. His smile creates deep dimples in his scaled face, his cheeks puffing out. I don’t understand what he’s offering, but an overwhelming, disorienting thought hits me. He and Retta have such similar smiles—round-cheeked and heartbreakingly gentle.

  I realize in that moment, in a great, blinding flash, as I stare into this child’s infinitely kind eyes, that everything I’ve been taught about these people is completely, unbelievably and horribly wrong.

  I nod at the child, my words stuffy. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  Na’bee’s hand moves to my shoulder and he looks at me with serious intent. “I’m going to draw you a Sornith’yl rune.” As if this mysterious rune is the medicine that will cure every last thing in my life. But his intention is so heartfelt that it inspires a laugh and a small, quavering smile from me.

  “Come,” his mother says, rising and holding her hand out to me.

  Feeling stiff and storm-battered, I let Za’ya pull me up. I’m sweat-soaked and I know I smell sour, but if Za’ya notices any of this, she doesn’t comment. Numbed, I let her lead me out into the smithery and toward another door. Zeymir, Ciaran and Wyla remain behind, murmuring gravely to each other in Ishkart, locking doors, closing shutters.

  Ciaran turns and our eyes meet, the unsettling pull of him once again suffusing my affinity lines in a sudden, disorienting rush. He glances down at the Ironflowers still bunched in my hand, then raises his eyes back to mine, his fervent gaze full of the intimacy that’s sprung up between us after a night of clasping each other’s hands and sharing an unspoken, profound understanding.

  As Zeymir pulls out a golden, glowing rune-stylus and marks new runes on the wall facing the street, a morbid chill passes through me.

  They’re golden Ishkartan battle runes. Search-destroying runes.

  Created to protect me.

  Chapter 7: Smaragdalfar

  Za’ya brings me through the door leading out of the smithery and into a small, circular library, a tunneling Spine-stone staircase in its center. I follow her down the stairs, my steps heavy with exhaustion and grief.

  At the staircase’s base, there’s a small, sparse foyer cut into the white stone and a chalky corridor before us. I follow her through the hallway, breathing in the spicy smell of incense on the air. There’s a kaleidoscope of color up ahead, woven into tapestries on the floor, walls and ceiling. A whole, forbidden garden of color.

  Emerald, gold...purple...

  I pause at the threshold of a domed common room and blink at what lies before me.

  For a moment, I’m overcome by the sheer abundance of color, my affinity lines lighting up in chaotic bursts along the edges of my vision. The cavernous room is lit by flickering golden runes suspended inside multicolored glass orbs that hang from wrought-iron stands. My vision momentarily sparks with an echo of the orbs’ amethyst, saffron and crimson hues. Emerald tapestries adorn the stone walls and stretch across the ceiling, woven into intricate runic designs. Purple rugs patterned with golden stars overlap beneath my feet.

  It should be cold and claustrophobic here in this stone cavern beneath the ground, but a rune-stove suffuses the color-rich haven with a caress of warmth that loosens a sliver of the bowstring-tight tension in my body.

  A sizable circular wooden table stands near one of the arcing walls, its ebony surface marked with an inlaid wooden star. It sits low to the floor, green velvet cushions positioned around it where chairs should be, and there’s a ladder affixed to one wall that leads up to a loft bedroom cut into the stone.

  I look over toward the other side of the room, and a hard sizzle of shock passes through me. A small goddess statue is set on an altar, flower and food offerings placed before it, as well as a gleaming censer with incense smoke tendriling into the air from it.

  Idols. Despised by the Ancient One and railed against in our holy book. Sure to bring a curse down on the heads of all these kind people. My breath momentarily hitches with both fear and dismay as I consider all the dire warnings and strictures I’ve been taught about idolatry.

  But I’m here now. With them. Dressed in Fae-colored garb and running from my sacred fasting.

  And I won’t go back.

  I’m cursed, too, I realize, with a sensation of gut-wrenching, spiraling descent.

  In a disoriented haze, I follow Za’ya out of the room and through another tunneling passageway that leads to an austerely appointed washroom cut into the alabaster stone.

  Za’ya hums a soothing tune and tenderly helps me get undressed. I listlessly let her pull my tunic up over my head, and she abruptly stops humming when I lower my arms and she takes in the sight of them. I glance down, and my gut heaves as I confront the series of bruises on my arms where Tobias’s cruel hands and vicious magery restrained me. I quickly look away, my breath shuddering through my lungs as tears sting at my eyes. When I turn my gaze back to Za’ya, her expression is one of grave sympathy.

  Za’ya gets fresh clothing for me—deep-green tunic and pants edged in black embroidery, much like what she’s wearing. She steps out of the washroom while I finish undressing, wash myself and put on the fresh clothing.

  I look down at my unfamiliar garb, everything so outrageously surreal that I feel vaguely disconnected from it. I reach down and pull up the hem of my pant-leg, then slide my white wand back into the side of my boot.

  Za’ya brings me into a bedroom that’s covered with tapestries and rugs similar to the ones in their common room. She’s exquisitely gentle with me as she combs out my hair and elaborately braids it, humming to herself. It’s unsettlingly strange to be in pants, the fabric sliding over my thighs as I move, scandalous in how they show so much of the shape of me. The cut is much closer than the loose Ishkartan pants Wyla gave me before, and I feel strangely weightless and almost half-naked without my heavy skirts.

  Sounds of the smithery have f
ired up above us, and I can hear the dulled thump of hammers clanking against anvils straight through the domed ceiling. I look to Za’ya with blatant fear, picturing the wide smithery doors flung open, exposed to everyone. Exposed to Gardnerians.

  “Sagellyn,” Za’ya says, pausing, her slender hands on my shoulders as her reflection peers back at me from the jewel-framed mirror before us. “Don’t be afraid. They must continue on. Or it would draw attention to you.” I nod miserably, my insides clenched up with sadness and sheer exhaustion.

  Za’ya studies me, her brow knotting as she takes in how obviously worn down I am. She motions toward her bed. “Rest, child. I’ll come back for you in a bit.” She squeezes my shoulders and gives me a bolstering smile before she takes her leave, and I spend most of the day curled up on Za’ya’s bed, swept up in a turbulent sea of agonizing questions.

  I can’t ever go back, but after this, where can I possibly go? What will I do?

  I have nowhere else and no one else to run to. No money. No belongings. No knowledge of how to use my magic.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  That evening, Za’ya leads me back toward the common area, the scent of unfamiliar foods wafting on the air. The smithery is closed for the day, and everyone is gathering for dinner.

  As Za’ya draws back the curtain at the threshold of their communal space, I slump down self-consciously in the shadows of the narrow hallway, feeling wildly underdressed in my slim pants and close-fitting tunic, and wondering what Ciaran will make of my outfit.

  Men should never be provoked. Mother Eliss’s oft-repeated warning to be modest and to always wear modest clothing sounds in the back of my mind, but a jagged anger rises along with the thought.

  Why should I listen to anything you told me, Mother Eliss? After you fed me lies and fasted me to someone so cruel.

  I look to Za’ya, and she smiles encouragingly at me as she holds the curtain back.

  She’s in pants, too, I remember. And so is Wyla. This is normal for them, not scandalous.

  I step toward the common room and my affinity lines give a hard, bright flare when I see Ciaran. He’s sitting at the star-patterned table next to Na’bee, one knee up, his muscular arm resting on it.

  And he’s dressed in purple. Vivid purple. The color washes over me in a tingling rush, sparks coursing over my wand hand at the decadent sight of handsome Ciaran dressed in such a shocking, tantalizing color.

  Ciaran turns and our eyes meet, his green eyes widening with obvious surprise as his gaze flicks up and down my body, riveted by my emerald clothing. He averts his eyes and swallows, as if momentarily overcome, and my face heats from the intensity of his interest and how my lines of magic are pulling so relentlessly toward him and his purple garb.

  Wyla is grinning as she looks me over with dumbfounded glee from where she sits, perched like a bird at the edge of the bedroom loft. “A Gardnerian in Smaragdalfar clothing.” She shakes her head and huffs out a sound of incredulity. “Now I have seen absolutely everything.”

  Za’ya casts a sharp glance at Wyla, then murmurs gently to me in her language and invitingly prods me toward the circular star table before she goes over to talk to Zeymir, who is stirring a large iron pot on the stove, with thick, fragrant steam rising from it.

  “Come sit by us, Sagellyn!” little Na’bee says brightly, bouncing a bit on his cushion.

  Heatedly aware of purple-clad Ciaran, I take a seat across from Na’bee and next to Ciaran. Ciaran glances over at me and smiles, his gaze darting down just beneath the table’s edge and catching on my wand hand with another flash of surprise. I look down to find my tingling hand suffused in purple, and my cheeks sting hotter, abashed to have my forbidden color fixation so glaringly on display.

  “I’m... I’m very drawn to purple,” I stammer out to him in an awkward whisper. “Your tunic...”

  “You don’t have to hide it,” he says.

  “You don’t understand. It’s the most forbidden of the colors in our religion,” I explain, voicing what I’ve never spoken so honestly about in my life, emboldened by our kindred connection. “But...my Mage lines love purple. I’ve fought against its pull my whole life...”

  “You could stop fighting it.” His words are a gentle invitation, lightly said, but explosive in their potential ramifications.

  I hold his gaze as I consider the subversive possibility. Why hold back? I’m already cursed and cast out. Why resist any longer?

  Emboldened by the rebellious idea and our inexplicable magical bond, I let my eyes slide over the purple of Ciaran’s tunic and breathe in deep as the color flows over and then floods straight through me in a euphoric rush, tinting my vision with its decadent splendor, a shiver of delight racing along my lines. I look back up at a now purple-tinted Ciaran, my vision completely steeped in the intoxicating color.

  A sudden tremor of apprehension takes hold, and I abruptly feel like I’ve just jumped clear off of a cliff with no way to scramble back to safety. My breath tightens in my throat as I pull the sleeve of my wand hand slightly up, shock stinging through me when I find my entire wand hand and forearm colored a deep, rich violet.

  “I’ve never let go like this...” I say, invigorated and lit-up and absolutely terrified all at once, no solid ground beneath me.

  Ciaran’s hand slides over mine, and he gives my purple hand a bolstering squeeze that sends warmth skidding through my affinity lines.

  “If I was a Light Mage,” he says quietly as I let myself fall into his captivating gaze, “I imagine my wand hand would be green right now.” He glances at my emerald garb, seeming as swept up by me as I am by him. “The color suits you,” he says, kind and emphatic. “And so does the violet.”

  There’s a gravity to his statement that speaks of some undercurrent of unguarded emotion, and I’ve that unsettling sensation again of falling into him as he falls into me, my light magery orienting toward him and his mysterious, powerful draw.

  Ciaran gives me a quick, abashed smile, seeming a bit flustered as he pulls his hand and gaze away from mine, breaking the magical connection. The purple tint of my vision rapidly dissipates as I avert my eyes as well.

  Ciaran leans away to quietly talk to Na’bee in another language, gesturing in the air with his finger, as if prodding the child. Na’bee smiles at him, bumps his forehead into Ciaran’s arm and giggles, as if the two of them are involved in some delightful conspiracy. The child pulls out a golden stylus and draws two runes in the air, one Ishkartan gold, one Smaragdalfar green, as Ciaran shoots me a quick half smile. Fantastically, the runes hover just above the tabletop and then merge as Na’bee prods them together with his stylus, deftly linking the two patterns with dotting swirls of his stylus’s tip. My eyes widen as I take in the shimmering colors.

  “Here, Sagellyn,” Na’bee says brightly. He pokes the intertwined runes gently, and they float toward me. Entranced by the rotating pattern, I hold up my purple hand and catch it. The runes burst into small green and golden sparks that send a burst of warmth through my hand and clear up my arm, their color twinkling in my vision.

  “You can link runes,” I marvel, surprised by Na’bee’s obviously adept rune-sorcery at such a young age—and not of just one runic system, but two.

  Na’bee’s smile broadens, pride lighting his eyes. “I’m Ishkart and Smaragdalfar, Sagellyn. I can combine both powers.”

  It’s significant, this statement. Each runic system has its strengths and weaknesses. The Smaragdalfar runes are most powerful underground, and oriented toward battle runes and lighting. In sharp contrast to them, the Ishkartan runes are charged to their full power by sunlight and geared more toward shielding, agriculture and healing.

  What new magic could be wrought from combining the two?

  Zeymir leans over our table and sets a tea service tray in its center. “Amber spice tea,” he announces with some formali
ty, his voice a deep thrum. He goes about pouring steaming tea into all the cups on the tray.

  I look down at the table, suddenly uneasy as I anxiously wonder what Zeymir’s thinking, a sudden wash of vulnerability overtaking me. I remember his reluctance to have me here and worry that he might wish I was gone instead of still being here, endangering his family.

  “It’s very good. Try it, Sagellyn.”

  I look up to find Zeymir handing a cup out to me, smiling warmly, as if there’s no longer any question in his mind regarding my welcome place with them.

  His unexpected, casual kindness makes my chest ache, and I wordlessly take the teacup, afraid that if I speak, I might burst into sudden tears. I take a quavering breath and cradle the steaming tea. It’s delicately fragrant and crystalline orange in color. I sip at it and am surprised by the richness of the spice, which is similar to vanilla. Delicious and warming on my tongue.

  “It’s very good,” I tell Zeymir, my voice cracking with emotion. I glance up to find him staring at me, and the grave compassion in his dark eyes makes the sea of conflict inside me roil higher.

  Za’ya clicks her tongue and murmurs to me kindly in her language as she and Zeymir exchange a knowing look. Zeymir then starts ladling out bowls of food that Za’ya hands out to each of us. She presses a warm, full bowl into my hands and pushes a bizarre, V-shaped utensil into it. Everyone around me lapses into a variety of languages and settles down around the circular table to eat—everyone except Wyla, who remains happily perched in her loft, wolfing down her food.

  Ciaran is quietly watching me, and when our eyes connect, he gives me a smile that’s so full of acceptance and his alluring magic, it not only bolsters me, but sends a flush straight through my lines, emerald sparks shimmering at the edges of my vision.

  I stare down at the food and my warm feelings are quickly erased, replaced by a stomach-churning revulsion. Za’ya has handed me what appears to be a bowl full of black worms. They’re curled up at the bottom of the broth, a variety of unknown vegetables floating above them. I’ve heard tales of this—how the reptilian Snake Elves eat insects.