Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  “Would the children definitely have a better chance of survival if they looked Elfhollen?” I ask them. “The adults, too?”

  Wyla holds my astonished gaze. “Yes,” she says, almost breathless with the possibility. “Yes, Sagellyn, they would have a much better chance of survival.”

  “Holy Ancient One,” I breathe out.

  Wyla turns to Kol. “Get Za’ya.”

  Chapter 13: Light Mage

  Za’ya and To’yir stride into the forest clearing, Kol trailing behind.

  Rivyr straightens up at the sight of them, his expression determined as he strides forward to meet Za’ya and comes to a stop before her. He stares at her for one long moment, tension mounting on the air between them. I flinch in surprise as Rivyr drops to one knee in front of her, slams his fist over his heart, and lowers his forehead in a posture of formal supplication, then lets loose with a stream of low, beseeching Alfsigr.

  Za’ya goes very still and listens as Rivyr continues on in a formal cadence without any sign of stopping. There’s a fierce, relentless quality to it, like he’s doing penance for a crime.

  “Rivyr’el,” Za’ya finally says, cutting in. “It is enough.”

  Rivyr doesn’t budge as he renews his stream of contrition. Then his voice breaks and he starts to sob, low and choking.

  Za’ya lowers herself to his level, her hand coming to his shoulder. “Rivyr’el,” she says, “I forgive you.”

  Rivyr grows silent, breathing hard as he lifts glassy eyes to hers. “I pledge myself to you, Za’yalor Shi’mar Nyvor. I pledge my life to you. To you and to the defense of your people.” He lapses back into Alfsigr, his head dropping down once more.

  “Rivyr’el,” Za’ya insists, hands on both his shoulders now.

  “I was wrong,” he tells her, his voice rough with emotion. “I was wrong.”

  Za’ya rises and looks down at him for a long moment, hands on her hips, as if taking his measure. Finally, Rivyr lowers his arm and glances up at her, his cheeks slick with tears.

  Za’ya holds her hand out to him, her arm rigidly straight. “I forgive you and accept your pledge of fealty. You will now rise, Rivyr’el Talonir, as my second.”

  Rivyr takes her hand and rises to his feet just as the clomping of horses’ hooves sound. I catch sight of Ciaran’s crimson hair through the trees as he rides in on the wagon, Jules and Fyon now absent. A heady anticipation floods through me at the sight of him.

  Za’ya’s hands are on Rivyr’s shoulders as she peers deeply into his eyes. “You have finally found a life worthy of you, hm?” She looks him over. “So, you are glamoured to appear Elfhollen.” She turns to me. “Your doing?” She looks me up and down. “Well, clearly so, as you are now violet.”

  Heart fluttering, I nod, clutching the white wand and the grimoire in my sweaty palms.

  Za’ya’s eyes flick toward the wand and the grimoire. She shakes her head and makes what seems like a sign of blessing over her heart. She kisses her fist, looks briefly at the sky, then back at me. “Oo’na works in mysterious ways, ti’a’lin’el.”

  Ciaran strides into the clearing and our eyes fly to each other, my heart picking up speed. His mouth falls open as he takes in my altered hue. He glances at gray Rivyr, then back to me. “You can do this?”

  I nod, overcome. “And...perhaps more.”

  “I’m going East with them,” Rivyr tells Ciaran, gesturing toward the cave with his chin, a storm of emotion in his voice. “As an armed escort. Across the desert.”

  Ciaran makes a rough sound of surprise, his gaze welded to Rivyr for a moment. Then he takes hold of the Elf’s shoulder with a firm grip, leans in and touches his forehead to Rivyr’s, murmuring emotionally in Smaragdalfar. When Ciaran pulls away, tears are streaming down Rivyr’s fierce, gray face.

  Wyla’s voice bursts forth. “The children would have an easier time escaping if they looked Elfhollen, too.” Everyone goes silent and turns toward her.

  Za’ya gives her a sharp look, rife with conflict, and I immediately feel chastened and unsure about Wyla’s plan. I know Za’ya wants a world where the Smaragdalfar can exist as they are—not glamoured, not in hiding, but able to celebrate who they are and establish a new homeland. And part of me doesn’t want to be involved in altering any of the Smaragdalfar one bit.

  Za’ya sets her sharp gaze on me. “Can this glamour be reversed?” she asks.

  I hold up the grimoire like a weak offering. “Yes. It can.”

  “Show her,” Rivyr puts in, stepping forward, holding out his arm.

  I flip through the grimoire and hastily find the reversal spell. Pressing the wand tip to the taut skin of Rivyr’s forearm, I breathe in deep, concentrate and pull the gray toward me, the smoky color briefly clouding my vision as Rivyr’s skin returns to a glistening marble white. We both turn and look to Za’ya, whose expression is full of conflict.

  “Turn him back,” Za’ya commands, her voice tight. “Show me you can do this many times.”

  I push the color back out, washing Rivyr in the steely hue once more. Then I turn him ivory and back to gray as Rivyr patiently waits, his eyes calm on Za’ya.

  “Turn yourself back to Gardnerian green,” Za’ya challenges me, her arms crossed before her.

  “Um...well, the purple is a bit...stuck on me,” I tell her, feeling like I’m in a surreal dream. “My affinity lines latched onto it.” Za’ya’s brow lifts with some concern. “But gray seems to be easy.”

  Za’ya studies me for a moment, then turns to To’yir, and I can see the wheels of her sharp mind turning as she confers with the old woman in hushed Smaragdalfar. To’yir peers at me, her eyes narrowed in appraisal.

  To’yir walks over to me and takes one of my hands in hers, studying the fastlines, running a coarse, emerald-patterned thumb over one of the black marks. I flinch at her touch, shame and despair flaring inside me as I’m reminded of my bond to Tobias. Despite my discomfort, To’yir holds on, nodding to herself, as if reading my life story in the lines.

  She speaks to me in Smaragdalfar, pausing occasionally so Za’ya can translate.

  “If they find you,” Za’ya translates, “they will send you back to him, yes?”

  Raw anger slashes through me, and I nod stiffly.

  To’yir’s wizened hand comes to rest on my shoulder. She looks intently at me as she talks.

  “She tells you,” Za’ya says, “Light magery is a rare magic. If you do this thing for the Smaragdalfar, and your people find out, there will be a death warrant placed on your head by both the Gardnerians and the Alfsigr militaries. They will track you, with stronger magery than you have yet seen. And if they find you, they will question you and torture you. If you are lucky, they will kill you.”

  Her words are so final, and for a moment, I’m pinned by To’yir’s unforgiving stare, forced to look the terrible danger of this in the eye. But then the image of the little Smaragdalfar girl clutching her doll fills my mind, followed by the terrified faces of the other children.

  I return To’yir’s savage look. “Is it true? Would the children have an easier time surviving if they looked Elfhollen?”

  To’yir’s intense expression doesn’t waver. “Yes,” she says in heavily accented Common Tongue.

  My heart thumps hard in its chest. This is what it means, I realize. This is what it means to truly be like Galliana, and fight for justice and freedom.

  “Sage.” Ciaran is at my side now, his hand coming to the small of my back. “You don’t have to do this unless you’re sure.”

  I look up into his fiery green eyes. The shrill voice of my fear clamors out alarm bells and dire warning in the back of my mind, but the thought of the little girl in the wagon overrules it once more.

  “I’m sure,” I tell him, my voice full of finality. Like a line being stepped quietly over, the ground behind the line fallin
g away into oblivion.

  Ciaran looks momentarily overcome, then pulls me into a tight embrace, his lips pressing to my temple. He leans in close, his forehead to mine, his hands caressing my cheeks, and murmurs something in Smaragdalfar that is so impassioned, I understand his gratitude even without a translation. I look deep into his eyes, the rest of the world momentarily a haze, the two of us perfectly aligned.

  Allied.

  “Put the tip of your wand on this stone,” Za’ya translates for To’yir. I step back from Ciaran and look to the old woman as she holds out a black, circular stone, its surface etched with an intricate, looping ward that glows a bright green. Carefully following To’yir’s instructions, I press my wand to the stone as she pulls an emerald rune-stylus from her tunic pocket and touches its tip to the white wand.

  “The stone will hold the reversal spell,” Za’ya explains. “If you do this, Sagellyn, To’yir can remove this glamour once we come to safety.”

  I nod, feeling heartened.

  “Now sound out the spell,” Za’ya translates, and I comply, the stone’s glowing green rune momentarily brightening to a golden green. To’yir pulls her rune-stylus away, looking satisfied, then pockets the stone and gives me a calculating smile. She gestures for me to accompany her as she starts for the hill.

  I follow Za’ya and To’yir to the cave.

  * * *

  I glamour the refugees one at a time, changing their clothing to a stormy gray shade and giving them the false appearance of slate-colored skin, hair and eyes. As they approach me, each of the children takes in the sight of my new purple coloring with equal parts trepidation and fascination.

  Za’ya brings Na’bee forward, and they both sit down before me. Za’ya’s lip is trembling, her face tight, as if she’s fighting back tears.

  Na’bee looks to his mother with concern. “It is only a glamour, Ma’mya,” he comforts her. “It will not change who we are. And it is only for a little while.”

  A hard, bitter laugh bursts from Za’ya as a single tear slides down her cheek. Her lips move, like she’s wrestling with difficult thoughts, but then she takes a deep breath and her expression lightens. She smiles at Na’bee with bottomless affection and bares her forearm to me.

  “Just do it, Sagellyn,” she says, her expression turning brittle. “We will build a world where this will never be needed again.”

  I glamour Za’ya, then Na’bee. Za’ya looks momentarily devastated—not when she views her own gray arm, which she accepts with an almost aloof, removed curiosity, but when she takes in the sight of her gray-skinned son. Zeymir comes over and gently takes her hands, speaking softly to her. Za’ya swallows, refusing to look at him, then seems to gather herself. She gets up and walks off with Zeymir, who continues talking to her in low, soothing Smaragdalfar, one arm embracing Za’ya and his other hand on Na’bee’s head, the child leaning against his father as if Zeymir is a tree standing steadfastly rooted in a whipping storm.

  The hostile woman who jabbed me in the wagon comes forward, fury swimming in her eyes. She doesn’t bother sitting down, but merely thrusts out her hand, like she’s striking something. As the ashen color washes over her emerald skin, I feel like I’m committing a grave offense and aiding her at the same time.

  When I finish, the woman pulls her arm away and glares at me as if I’ve burned her, then stalks away. Her reaction stings, but I try to understand her fury. No one should have to hide their true self to be safe.

  The little girl with the doll, who I’m told is named Nil’ya, is one of the last to come forward. When I finish changing her coloring to gray, she turns her arm this way and that, eyes widening with surprise. Hesitantly, Nil’ya holds her doll out to me and asks me something in Smaragdalfar, her small voice barely a whisper. Despair tightens my gut as I realize what she wants me to do. I force a smile, place my wand on the doll’s rough cloth and glamour the doll to a uniform storm gray.

  * * *

  “So, you’re going with them?” I ask Wyla as we load packs of dense travel bread into the wagon.

  They’ll be leaving before nightfall, all of the refugees. No true chance to rest. Za’ya, Zeymir, Na’bee and Wyla are going with them, and my heart twists at the thought of losing them all.

  Wyla pushes a small crate flush with another just beyond it and wipes her hands clean.

  “Look at what you have done,” Wyla says, perhaps sensing the dark turn of my thoughts. She flicks her hand toward the now-gray refugees sitting around the outdoor fire, eating a quick meal of black bread and cheese. “Before, the chances...” Wyla shakes her head and gives me a sober look. “Not so good.” She tilts her head and clicks her tongue. “Now? Perhaps. Perhaps we make it.”

  There’s a bustle of activity all around us. Kol is preparing the horses. Jules and Fyon have returned with an additional wagon and a pile of documents that Jules hands to Za’ya. The children are being bundled into blankets and led to the wagons, where they sit and wait with wide, expectant eyes.

  Ciaran is loading crates of rune-weapons into the sides of the wagons. The two of us will be staying behind so that Ciaran can create more rune-weapons and prepare an underground armory for the Resistance here in the Western Realm. After that, we’ll find a way to rescue my sisters so that we can all travel together to the Eastern Realm.

  Rivyr’s packing up his ivory mare for the journey, tying a saddlebag tight, his bow and quiver strapped to his back. He catches my eye, an arch smile lifting his lips, and abandons his task for the moment, coming over to me. He looks me up and down with exaggerated appreciation, one dark gray brow cocked. “I thought you were beautiful before,” he says, “but I absolutely adore all this purple clinging to you.”

  I breathe out a resigned laugh. A quick intimacy has sprung up between us, and I’m surprised to realize that I don’t want to see him go. “It’s so odd to see you gray,” I tell him, smiling. “Odder still to see you without so much jewelry...and glitter.”

  Rivyr shoots me a flirtatious look and laughs. “When you join me in Noi lands, you can glamour me into some spectacular rainbow-hued thing.”

  Another laugh bursts from me at the outrageous idea, and Rivyr laughs, too, his gaze turning warm with affection. “I look forward to getting to know each other better, Sagellyn.” He grins rakishly, but then his expression grows pensive. He reaches into his pocket and holds out his Zalyn’or necklace, the Alfsigr pendant catching a glint of the nearby firelight.

  “I won’t be needing this,” he tells me with a defiant lift of his chin, glancing toward the refugees. “I rather like being a rebel.” He looks back at me, his smile broadening, and I’m bolstered by it. “But you. Perhaps there may come a time when tamping down fear or some other emotion could be of some use.”

  I take it, watching it turn and gleam as it catches the firelight. I slide it in my pocket, struggling to contain my emotions. Everything is changing so fast.

  Rivyr takes a lock of my violet hair in his storm-gray fingers. “I knew black was not your color, ti’a.” I grin at this, and he breaks into a wider smile, still idly playing with my hair. “We are a couple of cultural outcasts, are we not?”

  I nod, tearing up and laughing at the same time. “We are.”

  “It’s good though, ti’a’lin, to leave it all behind.” He leans in toward me and lightly touches his forehead to mine, gently pulling me close in the traditional Smaragdalfar farewell, his hands caressing the sides of my face. “You will save your sisters, Sagellyn. Of this, I am sure. And you and Ciaran...” He pulls back and shoots me a look full of wicked mischief as his knowing eyes dart to where Ciaran is loading the wagon. “Perhaps he will tag along?”

  My cheeks flush at this, but I’m distracted by To’yir, who has appeared beside us. She looks up at Rivyr and launches into what sounds like firm direction in the Alfsigr tongue. He nods solemnly, pulling out his Alfsigr rune-stylus and showing
it to her.

  Little Nil’ya hides behind To’yir, the child peeking out at Rivyr with obvious fear. Noticing her distress, Rivyr lowers himself to the child’s level and says a choppy phrase in Smaragdalfar as Ciaran joins us.

  Nil’ya blinks at Rivyr, her brow knitting in confusion.

  “Silhe’lk is ‘frighten,’” Ciaran corrects Rivyr, forming the Smaragdalfar word deep in his throat, looking amused. “You said sile’lk.” The words sound identical to my ears. “You just told her you’re sorry for giving her a small fish.”

  Rivyr coughs out a sound of frustration, takes a deep breath and tries again. Nil’ya’s eyes widen, and she looks to Ciaran, then To’yir. The old woman’s mouth twitches into a grin.

  “What did I say now?” Rivyr asks with a resigned sigh, rocking back on his heels.

  “You are very sorry for giving her an old fish,” Ciaran says evenly as he stands, arms crossed, fighting off his own smile.

  Rivyr takes a deep breath and tries an entirely new phrase. The child stares at him for a moment, then lets out a small, bubbling giggle that she quickly squelches.

  “What now?” Rivyr groans.

  “You don’t want to know,” Ciaran says, and I wonder, not for the first time, at his fluent grasp of Smaragdalfar.

  But the child is smiling now, peering shyly at Rivyr. The Elf pulls a small sack of sweets from his pocket, opens it and holds it out to Nil’ya. She eyes him with trepidation, but then her hand darts into the bag, withdrawing a candy. She pops the sweet into her mouth, her newly slate-gray eyes lighting up at the bright flavor. She grins widely at Rivyr.

  Rivyr’s coughs out a laugh and seems quite overcome for a moment, tears glistening in his dark gray eyes. Then he looks to me, his own smile going as wide as the sky.

  * * *

  Na’bee runs over to me as I watch the other children climb into the hidden compartment of the largest wagon. I kneel down when he reaches me, and we throw our arms around each other.