Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  But they never told me the Evil Ones would be a small, terrified child, clutching a worn rag doll.

  Chapter 11: Forest Lair

  As we ride, the sounds of the city fade. Soon there’s just the patter of the rain and the occasional clomping and creaking of another wagon passing by or the thudding gallop of a lone horse.

  Finally, Kol’s deep voice sounds out to the horses in another language, his tone calm and unflappable, and the wagon slows to a stop.

  The little girl is awake now, but remains as still as she was in sleep. Heavy steps thud nearby, to my left, moving around the wagon, and my exhaustion is wrenched away by a new rush of fear, my heart racing.

  Gray light floods into the wagon as the canvas is wrenched back, and we all blink at the sudden brightness, the little girl rubbing her eyes and pushing herself up. Kol’s face looks down on us as my eyes adjust to the gloomy light.

  Standing behind Kol is a heavily armed Wyla, her face grim and determined, and relief floods through me at the sight of her.

  “You’re okay,” Wyla tells me as she helps me out, my legs shaky. The rain has stopped, and a muggy fog hangs in the air. I glance around and get my bearings, my feet sinking into the wet ground.

  A small, gentle hand slips into mine, and I look down to find the small Smaragdalfar girl with the doll staring up at me with wide, starry eyes. I tighten my hand around hers, smile through my trembling and give her hand an encouraging squeeze. I can see her doll more clearly in this light, lovingly embroidered, dressed in a small version of the green traditional clothing of her people. I glance around at the refugees milling about, murmuring softly to each other in Smaragdalfar, blinking at our surroundings, the children seeming lost. It’s almost all children, about twelve of them, along with four women. The refugees’ clothing is uniformly bedraggled—worn green garments, soiled to the edge of dark gray. One of the children has what looks like a lash scar that cuts diagonally across her face, and my heart gives a painful twist at the sight of it.

  They’re too thin. Too quiet. They all have a haunted look, and when they glance at me, most of them seem terrified.

  My sisters’ faces fill my mind. What if they were on the run like this? The thought of children—any children—in danger like this is almost too awful to bear.

  The shock of their obvious fear of me and of being faced with the awful reality of their situation sets thick in my chest, so thick that for a moment, I can barely breathe.

  Devastated, I glance down at the little girl holding my hand and give a small jerk of surprise. There’s a white bird perched on her shoulder, translucent and serene. Startled, I glance around to see the gauzy shapes of white birds perched on the shoulder of every child, but the children seem oblivious to the ghost birds.

  As one, all the birds turn and set their eyes on me.

  “Oh,” I gasp, blinking, but then the birds are gone. I blink several more times, hard, thrown by the vision.

  Get ahold of yourself, Sage, I caution myself, heart racing. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.

  “Sagellyn?” Wyla asks from beside me. “Are you all right?”

  I rub my bleary eyes and nod at her, then take a haggard breath, glancing around as I try to calm myself and take stock.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Still in Verpacia,” she tells me. “A few hours east of Verpax City.”

  We’re surrounded by dense forest, the narrow, muddied road we came in on marked with carriage wheels and dirt turned up by the horses’ hooves. Up a low, short hill before us is the large, flat stone face of a sizable hillock. To the far right are some ramshackle horse stables, visible through a thin grove of pine trees. An iron firepit lies directly in front of us, and long logs are arranged around the firepit as makeshift benches.

  The little girl takes a seat on the nearest log and talks quietly in Smaragdalfar to her cloth doll as Wyla touches her rune-blade to the logs in the firepit. The wood is quickly enveloped in flames, and I’m surprised by her casual use of rune-sorcery.

  Huge Kol is gently coaxing a frightened, balled-up child out of the wagon’s back as the dull, heavy thud of horses’ hooves sound down the path. Along with everyone else, my head jerks toward the forest-bracketed road, a cold blade of fear cutting through me.

  Air floods back into my lungs as Za’ya rides in, rune-weapons strapped all over her body. Ciaran rides in behind her and his searching eyes immediately light on me. Our gazes lock tight, warmth exploding through me. Na’bee sits on the saddle in front of Ciaran, and my heart lurches as I take in the sight of his bruised, reddened cheek and the brave smile he attempts when he spots me. Zeymir brings up the rear, two rune-swords strapped to his back, the side of his face bloodied, his runic headband gone, his long black hair untethered and loose down his back.

  Shame on behalf of my people floods through me. They hit Na’bee and Zeymir, and they must have ripped the runeband from Zeymir’s head—I just know it. A sickening disgust twists in my gut at the thought of my supposedly upstanding, perfect people being so devastatingly vile.

  Ciaran helps Na’bee down as Wyla catches the child. Wyla briefly goes down on one knee to talk to him. Na’bee nods and gives me another wavering smile that I attempt to return before his mother swoops him up into an embrace.

  “Sage.” Ciaran is off his horse in one, lithe movement. He strides over to me, his expression blazing, his emotions completely on display. I throw every last bit of caution into the abyss along with my Gardnerian blacks, my old life cast clear away as I make for Ciaran.

  Ciaran throws his powerful arms around me and hugs me fiercely, murmuring to me in Smaragdalfar. I hug him back just as tightly, tears coming to my eyes, devastated by what’s happened, but overjoyed to be encircled by the solid, sure strength of him.

  Ciaran pulls back to look at me, his warm hands caressing the sides of my face. He presses his forehead to mine, his breathing heavy and uneven. “Oh, Sage.”

  I never want to let him go. I hold my forehead against his until our breathing slows and Ciaran withdraws slightly, his impassioned gaze conveying the depth of his feelings.

  We pull away from each other as Zeymir approaches. I take in his bruised, bloodied face and am suddenly so overcome with shame, I can barely meet his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell Zeymir, my voice coarse with regret. It’s all my fault. All of this.

  Zeymir’s hand comes to my shoulder. “We knew the risk we were taking. Do you understand that, Sagellyn?”

  I nod and fight back the tears, wanting to keep hold of myself for the little girl who is quietly watching us.

  “Are you all right?” Zeymir asks me.

  “Yes,” I tell him, devastatingly aware that my situation is far better than what all these children have been faced with. “I’m fine.”

  Zeymir squeezes my shoulder and gives the little girl an encouraging smile. Then he says something in Ishkart to Ciaran and gestures toward the stable.

  “I’m going to help them with the horses,” Ciaran tells me, his hand briefly coming to my arm, and I nod my agreement. He strides off with Wyla and Kol, little Na’bee breaking away from Za’ya to trail after Zeymir.

  Za’ya climbs up the hill and up to the stone face of the hillock. She pulls out a stylus and begins to draw a large, glowing green Smaragdalfar rune on its surface.

  I watch, transfixed, having never seen Za’ya perform rune-sorcery before.

  Circular emerald runes burst to life all over the stone wall, then dissolve like mist to reveal a large double door. Za’ya pulls the doors open to reveal a rough shelter inside a cave, furnished with rune-lanterns glowing a warm gold, chairs, tables, crates of supplies and even a rune-stove. Za’ya’s clear voice rings out as she takes charge and ushers the refugees into the cave and out of the cold, spitting rain.

  The old woman who comforted me is stan
ding by the stables, talking to Ciaran in fluent Smaragdalfar. I blink at Ciaran, wondering, not for the first time, about his grasp of the language. The old woman reaches up and pulls his head down, touching her forehead to his, both of their eyes briefly closing in what I realize must be a Smaragdalfar greeting. Then she and Ciaran both walk back toward me and the little girl. The little girl gets up and moves to cling to the old woman’s bedraggled skirts, looking up at all of us with wide-eyed curiosity.

  The old woman studies me for a long moment with a shrewd, narrowed gaze, then takes my hand in her calloused one. She says something to me in serious tones, and though I can’t translate the words, I understand her inflection. It’s an attempt at comfort, and I’m deeply moved by it, tears coming to my eyes. She squeezes my hand, then walks to the cave with the little girl, who turns back once to look at me over her small shoulder.

  Ciaran is watching them go, his expression grim but calm. He’s used to this, I realize. He’s seen all this before, again and again. How many refugees have they smuggled through here? How many children?

  “What happened back in the city?” I ask him.

  Ciaran frowns. “They roughed up Za’ya, Na’bee and Zeymir. Searched their home. Made a show of magery and left.” He tells me all this with disturbing matter-of-factness, and I realize my people’s cruelty is normal to them. “They’re looking for me,” he says. “Apparently one of your friends saw me looking at you that day you arrived. And she’s right—I was looking at you.”

  Gwynn. You don’t understand, I want to rail at her. You don’t understand anything.

  The Smaragdalfar refugees are moving around inside the cave. Za’ya’s handing them what looks like flat pieces of dense bread that she’s pulling out from a storage crate, a hurried air to the proceedings.

  “So many children,” I observe.

  “Escapees,” Ciaran says, eyeing the crowded cave. “From the mines. They set them to working in the narrow lumenstone mines when they’re five, because they can fit through the smaller tunnels. Many die. Many. If not from the mines caving in, then from sickness.” His face tightens with disgust. “The Alfsigr don’t care. Smaragdalfar children are expendable to them.”

  Shame pulls at me. I think of the expensive golden lumenstone lighting our estate and the Ironflower Inn back in Verpax City.

  “Where are you taking them?” I ask.

  “East. To Noi lands. It’s a difficult journey. Across the desert.” His brow furrows. “We can’t move too many at a time. We’ve only so many guides who can protect them.” He frowns, his tone bitter. “Quite the trade has sprung up in people pretending to take refugees to safety. Then they sell them into slavery or prostitution.”

  “But...they’re children!” I protest, shocked by all of it.

  Ciaran shoots me a level stare, as if he’s surprised by my naivete. “Yes, Sage. They are.”

  Outrage whips through me as I catch a glimpse through the cave doors of the little girl with the doll now climbing into the old woman’s lap as she’s handed food and water by Za’ya. The sound of multiple people speaking Smaragdalfar emanates from the cave.

  “Do you think that old woman with the little girl is her grandmother?” I ask Ciaran. “She was...very kind to me on the way here.”

  Ciaran gives me a look of wry amusement. “I’m glad she was so gentle. That’s To’yir. She does constant runs to rescue children. She has about ten rune-blades under those rags she wears.”

  I look to him with surprise. “Another rune-sorcerer?”

  He nods, a smile touching the edge of his lips, a sardonic look in his eyes, as if I’ve said something inadvertently amusing. “Oh, yes. She is.”

  “They’re scared of me,” I tell him, looking toward the cave. “Most of them. Except for To’yir and the little girl.”

  He gives a short laugh. “Yes, not much scares To’yir.”

  I shiver from the damp air and hug myself to fight off the gathering chill. Ciaran reaches up to caress my cheek. “Go sit by the fire for a moment. Warm yourself.”

  Another wagon sounds and Ciaran straightens, his hand falling away.

  A bespectacled Keltic man and a Smaragdalfar man ride in on a large wagon, two stout workhorses pulling it. The Kelt holding the reins is about Zeymir’s age, with messy brown hair and an intelligent expression. The Smaragdalfar man is young with erect posture, his features long and elegant, his ears pointed. He wears immaculate, deep green Smaragdalfar attire covered in rune markings and edged with black embroidery.

  “Who are they?” I ask Ciaran, concerned.

  “You’re safe, Sage,” Ciaran tells me, his tone assured. “They’re University professors active in the Resistance—Jules Kristian and Fyon Hawkyyn. They’re helping us bring the refugees east.”

  Ciaran holds up a hand up in greeting and strides over to meet them. “Jules! Fyon!”

  Jules and Fyon get down from the wagon and greet Ciaran. The Smaragdalfar Elf narrows his star eyes at me, looking me up and down in apparent confusion as he takes in my Smaragdalfar attire. Jules motions in my direction, and I can make out a cautious “Gardnerian” in their mostly too-low-to-hear conversation, and I imagine Ciaran is explaining my situation.

  Jules briefly looks to me with savvy eyes, then nods in silent greeting. He resumes his conversation with Ciaran and Fyon in low tones and gestures toward the wagon, then down the road. The three men open up the back of the wagon and Jules removes two boards across the bottom of the wagon’s rear, revealing a secret compartment set back slightly under the wagon’s floor, big enough to hide people in.

  Thunder sounds overhead, and I glance up at the dim sky. Ciaran returns to my side as Jules and Fyon get back into the wagon. “I’ll be back shortly,” Ciaran assures me. “We’re picking up some grain to load onto the back.”

  As a ruse, I realize. The real cargo hidden below.

  I glance up at the sky worriedly. “It’s getting late.”

  Ciaran spares a quick glance at the afternoon sky and nods. “You’ll be safe as long as you stay here. I’ve strengthened all the wards around this clearing. Even halfway down the road.” He gestures toward the cave with a tilt of his head. “And I have a more heavily warded room in there.”

  This sets my mind whirring.

  Another heavily warded bedroom. There may be a search on for me, but it’s clear Ciaran is being even more heavily sought after. But why? Why, out of all of them, does Ciaran have the only heavily warded room everywhere he goes, when they’re all rune-sorcerers?

  What’s hunting him?

  “Ciaran,” Jules calls from where he sits on the wagon’s front seat. “We don’t have much time.”

  Ciaran shoots me a brief, conflicted glance, pulls the hood of his cloak over his dark red hair and joins Fyon and Jules, jumping into the back of the wagon and leaving with them.

  I watch the carriage disappear into the forest and glance once more at the darkening sky.

  Chapter 12: Alfsigr

  I linger, warming myself by the outdoor fire as I wait for Ciaran to return, hesitant to go into the cave and spook the children. I watch the sky slowly slide into a deeper gray with trepidation, the fire spitting off sparks, the thunder growing more insistent to the west.

  Horse hooves echo in the distance and I rise, my heart picking up speed as I look toward the curve in the dirt road, realizing the sound isn’t that of a wagon, but a single rider moving at a fast clip.

  Rivyr’el rounds the corner on a breathtaking white mare, his bow and quiver on his back. He rides up the forest-bracketed road like a blizzard roaring in, like a warrior riding into battle, straight up to me.

  Rivyr throws himself off the mare in one lithe movement. “What happened?” His tone is hard as a blade.

  “My father,” I tell him, nauseating shame clenching at my stomach again as I relay the story. “He tracked me to th
e smithery and came after everyone there. He brought...” My stomach clenches at the thought of Tobias. “He brought my fastmate and some other Mages and I think my people might have torn apart their home, looking for me...”

  “They did,” Rivyr affirms, danger in his silver eyes.

  And now they can’t go home. Because of me. Guilt rips at my insides.

  “Where is Na’bee?” There’s a cold command not just in his tone, but also in his eyes.

  “He’s inside,” I tell him.

  “Is he all right?” Rivyr demands.

  I nod, barely able to speak. Barely able to picture Na’bee’s bruised face without being overcome with outrage. “They’re all here,” I stammer. “They all got away.”

  “It’s lucky for your father that I wasn’t there,” Rivyr says icily.

  He gives the cave a narrow look, the doors now partially closed to fight off the encroaching chill, but lamplight and movement are visible through the slender opening. He turns back to me. “They’re smuggling refugees, aren’t they?”

  Rivyr looks back at the cave, not waiting for my answer. His figure is blindingly white in the gloom, the glitter over his lids and the multicolored hoops hanging from his pointed ears catching the bonfire’s light. He looks around the area, one hand on his hip as if surveying his conquered domain, his usual arrogance seeping back into his expression. “So this is their little hideaway.”

  I eye him with confusion. “You’ve never been here?”

  He shoots me a derisive look. “Of course not. They enjoy being very stealthy and secretive. I’m too Alfsigr to be a full member of their club, apparently.” He cocks one white brow. “But they’ve brought a Gardnerian here so...” He sniffs, pulling off his bow and quiver and setting them aside, then slides an ivory satchel off his shoulder.

  Rivyr throws the edge of his cloak over one shoulder with an elegant flourish and takes a seat beside me, setting his satchel down. “I have a present for you, Lady Mage.” He pulls a long, slim package tied with silk string and small, leather-bound tome out of the satchel. He hands the package to me first.