Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  “Eat,” Za’ya prods me cheerfully as she sits down, picks up her bowl and begins slurping up the wormlike food by pinching hold of it with the strange utensil.

  I poke at the food with the V-shaped sticks that I’m supposed to use to grab it up, tears stinging at my eyes. “I’m sorry, Za’ya,” I finally tell her, desperate to not lose her good favor. “These can’t be...these aren’t worms, are they?”

  Ciaran’s head snaps up, and everyone freezes as a flash of offense fires in Za’ya’s eyes.

  I realize, immediately, that I’ve inadvertently said something terrible.

  “Those are not worms, Sagellyn,” Za’ya tells me gently, but dismay still tightens her gaze. “They are nu’duls. Made from rice and cave squid ink. And I am not a reptile, ti’a’lin.”

  A chastened flush sears my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I say, barely able to get the words out.

  Za’ya rises, comes over and takes a seat beside me. I can barely look at her, my face burning with shame. She gently places her hand on my arm and pulls up her sleeve. “Look at my arm, Sagellyn. What do you see?”

  “Green scales,” I haltingly tell her.

  “Look again,” she says with great patience. “Touch my arm. See if what you say is true.”

  I look closely at her arm. It’s stunning, the scales like small, interlocking gems, reflecting the lantern light and throwing off both a green and a gold that brightens my affinity lines. I glance up at Za’ya to make sure it’s truly all right, and then I touch her arm. I’m immediately filled with surprise. Her skin is smooth. Completely smooth. Just...patterned.

  “Just as you are not a crow or a roach,” she tells me, “we are not snakes, ti’a’lin. We are Smaragdalfar. The Emerald Elves. We do not shift to snakes or sleep in dirt burrows. We do not eat bowls of insects. Or sting people with hidden tails.”

  “You’re beautiful,” I blurt out, mesmerized by the flashing greens of her skin and what the color does to my affinity. I draw back, immediately embarrassed by my sudden outburst.

  Za’ya grins. “This is true, ti’a’lin.” She puts her arm around me. “As are you.” She gestures toward my food with a wry smirk. “Now eat all your worms like a good child.”

  Her irreverent teasing cuts through my misery, and I give her a shaky smile, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand. “I’m sorry,” I tell her again, my smile falling away as my voice breaks around the words. I think about how much I hate it when I’m called a “crow” or a “roach,” and I’m ashamed to have ignorantly done the same type of hurtful thing to her.

  “Eat,” she tells me, momentarily serious as she pulls away, but there’s forgiveness in her eyes, and I’m grateful for it.

  I glance up to find Ciaran’s gaze set on me, his brow knotted with evident concern.

  “I didn’t mean to say something so awful,” I tell him. “I didn’t know...” I look away, unable to finish the thought.

  His hand briefly slides over mine, and I tentatively meet his gaze. “We understand,” he says as he and Za’ya exchange a quick, somber glance.

  “Truly, Sagellyn,” Za’ya says, her expression lightening as she gestures toward my food, “you need to eat.”

  At Za’ya’s insistent prodding, I finally dare to take a bite of the nu’duls and am immediately stunned by how rich their flavor is. The nu’duls are slippery, but delicious and coated in the savory broth, their texture like nothing I’ve ever had before.

  “Do you like them?” Ciaran asks, his lips quirking into a small, wry smile.

  I nod enthusiastically, suddenly aware of how starving I am, and how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything. I take another bite of the nu’duls, wrestling a bit with the odd utensil, then smile self-consciously at Ciaran, my mouth full of the wonderful food.

  Ciaran smiles warmly back at me, but then his expression shifts, his eyes seeking mine and full of questions as the invisible pull flares between us. Our silence deepens and grows charged, as if crackling with latent power. Ciaran’s eyes flash emerald light, and I’m suddenly overcome by the urge to hold his hand in mine again. I begin to wonder if he’s having the same thought as we both color and look away, the action taking obvious effort, both of us seeming reluctant to break the connection.

  * * *

  After dinner, Za’ya insists I settle back on some cushions with a cup of tea, and Na’bee leaves for his room. Everyone else clears away the plates, chatting animatedly and affectionately, and I try to parse out the Ishkart language from the Smaragdalfar. The languages are very distinct, and I’m soon able to at least identify which is which.

  Ciaran is scrubbing down a pot, his back to me, the muscles of his shoulders flexing, and I wonder at them all doing such work themselves without Urisk servants. I’ve never cleared a table in my life. I watch the warm way they help each other, fascinated. Za’ya shoots Zeymir flirtatious smiles as she works, and he smiles lovingly in return. She repeatedly touches him on the arm or the shoulder as they pass each other, and once, he gently pulls her into an embrace and kisses her.

  It sends a warm confusion through me—all this physical affection, given so freely and openly. Mother Eliss and Father never touched each other in our presence, and Gardnerian men never help with the cleaning or cooking. I look around at the forbidden colors and designs surrounding me, and try to understand why all of this is so utterly despised by the Ancient One.

  I struggle to force down the blasphemy that’s threatening to overwhelm me. It’s all so different. Wildly different. But it seems...good.

  Abruptly, steps sound upstairs, and I’m instantly seized up with fear.

  Almost in unison, Za’ya, Zeymir, Ciaran and Wyla pull rune-blades, and it stuns me how stealthily armed they all are and how lethally smooth their combined motion is, nothing fearful or clumsy about it.

  They all look to the ceiling and calmly follow the footsteps as they make their way toward the staircase and then down it. I hold my breath, feeling every step resonating straight through my spine.

  The steps sound out in the hallway, drawing closer, and my heart lodges in my throat as Rivyr’el Talonir, the rebellious, criminal, glittering rune-sorcerer Elf, sweeps into the room.

  Chapter 8: Zalyn’or

  Rivyr’el stands before us, smirking, his ivory cloak thrown rakishly over his shoulder, a gleaming flask in his hand. The prismatic glitter around his eyes sparkles in the lantern light, like outrageous constellations.

  He opens his mouth to say something to the assembled crowd, then stops cold as his gaze lights on me. His eyes widen, then narrow as his mouth lifts in a sardonic smile.

  “I remember you,” he purrs with a tilt of his head, his expression animated with mischief. “The Crow Princess.” He enunciates the words, a lilting Alfsigr roll to his r’s. He glances pointedly at me and looks brightly at everyone else in the room, his eyes flicking over all the rune-blades. “So. I expect the Gardnerians will be by at any moment to murder us all.” He takes a long swig from his flask and shoots me a droll smile as everyone mutters at him in Ishkart, sounding exasperated, and sheathes their weapons. The Elf throws the stopper of the flask back into place, shakes his bow and quiver off his shoulder and leans them against the nearest wall. Then he glides over to sit next to me in one fluid movement.

  Alarmed by his closeness, I edge away toward Ciaran, remembering what it was like to fall under the thrall of the Elf’s prismatic, rune-magicked gaze.

  He sighs as he takes in my obvious trepidation. “I warded you,” he says impatiently. “I told you that.”

  “I still don’t understand what that means,” I counter, frustrated, part of me stunned that I’m even here, talking to this outrageous Elf.

  He blinks at me, as if surprised by my level of ignorance. “I warded you,” he says again, somewhat condescendingly, “to help you resist the magical pull that rune-sorcerers have on
each other. Because you, little Light Mage, are a rune-sorcerer. So now, your light magery won’t just fly straight into me, which would essentially turn you into my willing minion.” He smirks, his eyes flicking over me lasciviously. “Of course, if you want to be my willing minion...”

  “Let her be, Rivyr.” Wyla’s voice is sharp with irritation. She looks as if she’ll leap from the loft and throttle him if he steps out of line.

  “How did you ward me?” I press, thrown by all this new magical information.

  Rivyr’s silver gaze narrows, his mouth tilting up slightly. “I pressed my rune-stylus into your palm and sent an Alfsigr barrier rune into your lines. I could remove it right now, if you’d like, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  I look at him with astonishment as a broader realization takes hold. I remember the strange aura shimmering around Rivyr and everyone else here when I first saw them—all of it gone after Rivyr warded me. And the intense pull of Ciaran’s gaze when we first laid eyes on each other—a magical pull that’s still overpowering, but now allows for some coherent thought around it.

  “Before you warded me,” I say to Rivyr, the pieces starting to fall together, “you all had this aura of light about you...”

  Rivyr’s sly smile inches wider. “That’s because we’re all rune-sorcerers, ti’a.”

  Incredible. The ability to practice rune-sorcery is rare in every land, yet somehow, I’m sitting here in a room full of rune-sorcerers. Confusion rises in me, and I look to Ciaran, his expression having taken on a guarded cast. How is a Kelt a rune-sorcerer? Kelts generally don’t have magic...

  “And now,” Rivyr says, grinning and leaning in, “you get to be part of our happy lot of outcasts.” I notice that he smells strange, like something bitterly medicinal. He flicks the stopper off his flask again with his finger, takes another swig and grins. “Come now,” the Elf chides, his gaze liquid and jaded. “The dark side isn’t so bad. You’ll get to have weapons.” He looks me over. “And you already have much better clothing.” Rivyr holds his flask out to me with a rakish smile. “Here, ti’a. You’ll like this.”

  Ciaran coughs out an incredulous laugh utterly devoid of any mirth. “Rivyr, truly? I’m sure you can guess what she’s running from. What exactly are you doing?”

  Rivyr’s smile is hard and brittle. “Welcoming her into the fold.”

  “Well, find another way to do it.” Ciaran bites out each word, his tone weighted. He looks to me. “Those are strong spirits, Sagellyn.” He cuts Rivyr another glare. “You might want to pass on that.”

  “And she’s probably never had them,” Wyla chimes in sharply. “Being Gardnerian.”

  Rivyr ignores Wyla and peers suspiciously at Ciaran, as if there’s some realization dawning. Then his silver gaze narrows back in on me, one ivory brow arching. He glances down, taking in the sight of my wand hand, my fingertips still suffused with purple. I ball my hand self-consciously against my side.

  “Ciaran’s a bit protective of you, isn’t he, ti’a?” Rivyr purrs.

  I flush at his implication. Can they all sense the strong magical pull that’s sprung up between Ciaran and me? “He’s been very kind,” I tell Rivyr, put off by his probing gaze.

  “Oh, I imagine he has been,” he says laughingly. “A beautiful Crow maiden. Living here.” His head swivels back toward Ciaran, his eyes going wide with delight. “Is she staying in your room?”

  “Yes, Rivyr,” Ciaran says, his tone long-suffering. “Because it’s warded.”

  Rivyr snorts a laugh and glances back down at my purple hand. “Oh, is that why? This is getting more interesting by the minute.” His eyes flit to Ciaran and then to me with undisguised mischief. “Did he tell you he’s wrapped up in the Resistance? You’ve fallen into a nest of revolutionaries, sweet Sage.”

  I blink at him, stunned to hear him make such a dangerous statement so blithely.

  He gives a low laugh. “Oh, Ciaran didn’t mention any of that, did he? Why do you think he needs all those high-grade wards? My guess is he’s tried to blow up one or two Gardnerian military outposts. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  I stare at Rivyr, thrown by his behavior and his reckless accusations. He’s absolutely bizarre—Elves are graceful, ethereal beings. Always subdued and calm. And I’ve never even heard of an Alfsigr Elf drinking spirits. Or wearing a hue other than ivory or silver. Or making inappropriate or inflammatory comments.

  I remember what Edyth Gyll said about Rivyr having been banished from Alfsigr lands, and reckless curiosity overrides my intimidation. “You’re quite a bit different from the other Elves.”

  He laughs heartily and gives me a thin, condescending smile. “Oh, you’ve noticed that, have you?” His lip curls. “You’ve never met an actual Elf. You’ve met a mirage. Except for me.” He tries to hold onto his obnoxious grin, but it fades, rapidly replaced by a look of scorn. He sighs and sets his flask down, then fishes in his tunic pocket and withdraws a pendant that hangs from a slim, sliver chain. Elaborate silver knot-work encircles the gleaming pendant, the oval disc marked with multiple Alfsigr runes.

  “I don’t wear this,” the Elf tells me snidely. He holds it out for me to take, but I hesitate. “Go on,” he chides, with an exasperated roll of his silver eyes. “It won’t bite.” His gaze turns salacious. “Although I might.”

  Ciaran says something terse to Rivyr in Ishkart, and the Elf holds up a hand. “Kidding. I’m kidding, Oh Humorless One.” He holds the necklace back out to me, a jag of what seems like long-standing bitterness shadowing his expression. “Take it, ti’a. Take a look at the reason I was banished from Alfsigr lands.”

  I look to Ciaran.

  “Just don’t put it on,” he cautions with a conciliatory tilt of his head.

  I take the necklace from Rivyr. The silver disc is cool in my palm, the chain draping over my thumb. “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s a Zalyn’or.” Rivyr’el spits out the word mockingly as I study the gleaming pendant. “Given to every good little Alfsigr boy and girl when they reach their twelfth year.”

  I look back at him, uncomprehending.

  He eyes me with half-lidded disdain. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the Alfsigr Elves are so gloriously uniform and ethereal? Swanning about like lofty creatures made of moonlight?” He leans in conspiratorially and whispers. “The Zalyn’or tamps down desire. Renders the wearer placid and serene and free of all rebellious thoughts. Part of the Great White Herd.” He grins wickedly and bares his teeth. “But I rather like rebellious thoughts, so I decided not to wear it.” He raises his pale brow at me significantly. “That caused a bit of a stir.”

  He straightens and gives a hard sniff, as if the whole Alfsigr race is now beneath him. “I was promptly banished. You can’t live in Alfsigr lands and not wear the stifling thing.”

  “So you darken our door,” Zeymir puts in, a slight smile on his lips as he starts another pot of water for tea.

  “So, I grace you with my scintillating presence,” Rivyr starchily corrects, mock-frowning at Zeymir. He holds out his hand for the pendant. I give it back to him, and he slides it into his pocket. “I’m supposed to be thrown in prison for not wearing it,” he tosses out, like some insignificant detail. He snorts a derisive laugh. “But I’m on Verpacian soil, so good luck with that.”

  I gape at him. “Was that why your brother was coming after you? For not wearing a necklace?”

  “Seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it? Rather humorless lot, my people.” He smirks. “Much like Za’ya.”

  Za’ya counters with something sarcastic in Ishkart as she sets out a plate of triangular, nut-dusted cakes, her mouth tilting into a grin, and Rivyr laughs. He leans in toward me with a theatrical whisper. “The prison is underground. With Snake Elves.” He shivers like this is terribly frightening and eyes Za’ya, who is now doggedly ignoring him, her mouth set in a tight line. “But it
’s still probably a jollier place than being here with Snake Elf Za’ya.”

  “Why do you come here then?” I challenge him harshly, suddenly protective of kind Za’ya. It’s clear that she doesn’t like being called “Snake Elf” any more than I like being called “Crow.” Ciaran’s eyes land on me, and I can feel his surprise at my sudden spark.

  Rivyr smirks at me sidelong. “I adore children. They haven’t been...ruined. Not yet, anyway. And Za’ya and Zeymir happen to have one of the most wonderful children on all of Erthia.” He glances at the cakes and flashes a smile at me. “And Za’ya’s a phenomenal cook.”

  Za’ya eyes him shrewdly, pausing in her assembly of a fresh tea tray, a smirk on her lips. “You come because you feel the pull of Oo’na. Like an itch that cannot be scratched.” She looks at me, but I get the sense she’s still talking to Rivyr. “The Great Mother, Oo’na, wants him to leave his selfish life behind and choose the path of the hero.”

  Rivyr gives a mocking laugh and turns to me. “You’ll find that Za’ya’s a religious fanatic. She thinks the purpose of life is to be dour and fight unwinnable battles.”

  “They are winnable.” A serene smile forms on Za’ya’s lips.

  Rivyr’s eyes widen mockingly. “Against the full might of the Alfsigr Elves and their Gardnerian Allies? Oh, wait—you have your little goddess statue! Well, we’re all saved then. No matter that there’s talk about how the Gardnerians have their next Black Witch. Oh, and I almost forgot about how the Gardnerians have the biggest dragon army on all of Erthia.” He shakes his head and grins obnoxiously. “But you’ve got some rune-marked weapons and your tiny goddess statue, so thank you, Za’ya, for enlightening me. Of course you’ll win. I’m so sorry for thinking you’re completely and utterly deluded.”