Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

  Two demons float above the road, their powerful bodies slowly materializing from a cloud of glowing, burning red as the crimson lines of their rune-web pull in and disappear, save one—the one tied to me. Cruel faces made of fire leer at me, eyes simmering with vermilion flame, facial features flickering, spiraling shadow horns tendriling smoke.

  Pyrr demons.

  “Give us the White Wand, Light Mage,” the tall demon demands in a voice that’s multi-toned, as if sounded by a whole legion of demons.

  The sound sends a palpable rumble through me, and the entire world tilts as I feel myself thrust into a legend. Into myth. Into the fate of the world. A fate I have sheathed at my side.

  The White Wand.

  With a rough cry, I hurl my rune-blade at the tall demon. To my shock, the blade actually hits it straight in the eye, emitting a burst of bright yellow flame.

  Grinning, he reaches up, pulls it out and throws it down, impaling the ground. “Only varg blades can destroy us,” the demon hisses, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “And only Smaragdalfar can wield them.”

  Heavy bootheels thud behind me and I whip my head around, panic exploding as I spot Ciaran rushing towards me.

  “Stay down, Sage,” he growls, wrathful eyes sweeping over the demons.

  Everything Gwynn told me, everything she wrote so many years ago flashes desperately through my mind. If they’re glamoured, he won’t be able to see what they are. Because he doesn’t have the White Wand.

  “Ciaran! No!” I cry out as he strides closer. “They’re not what you think!”

  “They’re exactly what I think,” he snarls, eyes fixed on them.

  Ciaran slows, thrusts both hands into his tunic pockets, pulls out two cylindrical rune-stones and flicks his wrists out in unison. Glowing, curved blades fly out from the stones, made up of countless runes of many sizes and shapes, all rotating and spitting a deep, crackling green.

  The demons flick their taloned hands and throw out glowing scarlet swords nearly identical to Ciaran’s, save their color and rune-markings.

  “You seek to wield a varg blade, Kelt?” the tall one cruelly mocks.

  With a growl that emanates from the base of his throat, Ciaran launches himself at the demons with berserker rage. A slash of green fire erupts as he sweeps his blade over both their swords with a deafening clang and an explosion of green and red sparks. I flinch back, the blades clanking powerfully against each other and moving so fast I can barely see them.

  The taller demon falls back, murderous confusion in its fiery eyes, and the bindings around my ankle dissolve into black smoke. I hastily scuttle backward as Ciaran’s blade slashes through the neck of the shorter demon. The demon’s head bursts into a brighter ball of flames as it falls to the ground and rolls toward the trees, fire catching on the sleeve of Ciaran’s tunic.

  The tall demon lets loose a ground-shaking cacophony of sound, its legs turning to smoke as it takes to the air, flies up and back, then loops back raptor-fast. Ciaran rears away, ducks the demon’s whirling blade and slashes straight through the creature’s middle. The demon explodes into bright-yellow flame with an earsplitting shriek, then smolders to the ground in a blackened heap.

  Ciaran stands there for a brief moment, his back to me as flames rapidly consume his tunic. I cry out in alarm, but he seems oblivious and amazingly unaffected by the fire. Lines of slim golden chain tattoos come into view as his tunic falls apart, emerald runes attached to the gold loops, the design crisscrossing his entire chest. He’s looking down at the slain demons, breathing hard, glowing green swords in his hands, the entire surrounding forest lit up green from the reflected rune-sword light.

  I grasp at the tree behind me for support, my mind hurled headlong into confusion.

  Ciaran rounds on me. “We have to get back to the caves. Now.”

  He pulls the swords back into the rune-stones and stuffs them in his pants pockets, then tears off the remains of his flaming tunic and throws it to the ground. He comes over to me and takes hold of my arm. We rush back past the wards, back through the caves, back to the warded room, where all the runes are spinning and emitting snaking lines of dark shadow.

  Ciaran pulls the curtain back into place so hard, I fear he’ll rip it clear down.

  “Why were they after you, Sage?” His green eyes are blazing with urgency. “Those weren’t just any pyrr demons. They sent varg demons after you. Why are the Gardnerians sending elite demonic assassins after you?”

  His words only barely register. “How...how are you wielding varg blades?” I force out, stunned. “I thought only Smaragdalfar can do that!”

  “Sage,” Ciaran insists, ignoring my question. “What do you have? What do you have that they want?”

  My terror is gradually morphing into a wild confusion. “Why are those rune-chain tattoos all over you?”

  “Tell me what you have, Sage!” he insists.

  “It’s the Wand!” I cry, his urgency breaking through my confusion. “They want the Wand! The stories Gwynn told me about it...” My head is spinning. I pull the Wand from its sheath and hold it up. “They’ve been stalking it for years...”

  “Why this wand, Sage? There are many, many wands.”

  “It’s not just any wand, Ciaran! It’s the Wand! Oo’na’s shard! The tooth of Zhilin!” I tighten my grip on the Wand’s spiraling handle. “This is it, Ciaran. The White Wand!”

  His eyes widen. “Sage, that can’t be. Those are just stories. Religious myths—”

  “The myths are all true.”

  “But if they are...” He falls quiet for a moment, his gaze full of stunned horror.

  I nod shakily, knowing where his thoughts have led him. “It means there’s a dark tool. A Shadow Wand. Someone has awakened it. And it’s stalking this one.”

  “Why would a shard of power...the shard of power...go to you?”

  I know it, rock solid. “To hide. For all these years. To hide from the Shadow Wand.”

  Ciaran drops his outraged expression and goes completely still.

  “How do you speak Smaragdalfar so fluently?” I press. “Enough to have an accent when you’re tired? Enough to dream in it and curse?”

  His eyes are suddenly blazing, his body rigid.

  “Why aren’t you burned from all that fire?” I take a deep breath and force my voice to be calmer. “What are you, Ciaran?”

  “Not this,” he says, his voice low and hard.

  “Then what?” I touch a finger to one of the delicate chains tattooed all over his chest, criss-crossing him like a net. Small rune-discs are affixed all along each chain, imprinted with tiny Smaragdalfar runes that emit a faint, verdant glow. “What are these?” I breathe out, my head spinning with confusion.

  “A runic glamour,” he says.

  Realization begins to sink in. “Show me what you’re hiding.”

  He takes a deep breath, then slides a rune-stylus from his pocket and presses it to one of the chains, murmuring in Smaragdalfar. The design morphs from flat tattoos to three-dimensional chains and rune-discs before my eyes. Ciaran unhooks one chain and slides it off, his ears morphing to swift points. My breath catches tight in my throat, my hand flying up to cover my mouth.

  His jaw rigid, his eyes locked on mine, Ciaran unhooks another chain, muscles flexing, and pulls it off. His hair darkens from dark red to darker hazel. He pauses, eyes storming.

  “Show me,” I insist, steeled.

  He unhooks another chain and sets it on the bedside table. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are silver, with black pupils that are surprisingly slit, like dragon eyes.

  My hand slides down off my mouth as I take this drastically altered Ciaran in, realization dawning.

  Ciaran swallows and takes another chain off, his dark hazel hair turning a vivid green.

  He takes another off and his skin tak
es on a subtle green hue. As he continues to remove the chains, faint geometric patterns appear across his arms, his chest, his face, and the light green of his skin moves toward a vibrant emerald.

  Ciaran slides the last chain off and I watch, mesmerized, as his patterned skin explodes into a stunning sheen of emerald beauty. My eyes drink in the sight of him standing before me, a powerful Smaragdalfar Elf.

  “Oh, Ciaran,” I say breathlessly.

  “That’s not my name,” he says, his voice impassioned.

  “What is it?” I ask, heart thudding. But I know what it will be before he speaks. I know it deep inside me, all the pieces falling together

  It’s his face the face on the wanted posters.

  “My name is Ra’Ven Za’Nor.” All attempts to hide his thick accent fall away. “I’m the last surviving member of the Smaragdalfar royal line.”

  Chapter 16: Ra’Ven

  I stare at Ciaran... Ra’Ven...stunned by his dramatic transformation.

  Ra’Ven runs a hand through his spiked green hair, his riveting silver eyes honed on me. “I never imagined anyone could be in more danger than I am,” he says, not bothering to conceal his prominent accent now.

  “Do you think there’s more of those...things after me?” I force out, both vertigo and the dazzling green of him sweeping me up, making me breathless.

  Ra’Ven purses his lips—deep green lips that look almost black in the rune-light. His eyes cast around, taking in all the runes as their rotations slow. “No,” he says, his muscular body still tensed, as if he’s readied to fight. “I don’t think there’s more of them. They would be here already. And the runes wouldn’t be slowing.”

  He gestures toward the Wand clutched in my hand. “If that’s what we think it is, and they know of it, they would already be at our door.” He swallows and looks me over, his expression softening as he reaches out to lightly touch my arm. “Are you all right?”

  I force a few even breaths and nod, looking him over as well. The shock of his beauty is an inescapable pull on my affinity lines—so many shades of green glinting all over the expanse of him. My light lines strain toward him, my wand hand tingling straight to my elbow.

  “Your hand,” Ra’Ven says, his mouth tilting up with a trace of amusement, a gratified spark in his silver eyes. “It’s turned solid green.”

  A flush of heat stings at my cheeks as flashes of green edge my vision. “You’re overwhelming.” I glance away from him, momentarily abashed. “You’re so...beautifully green. It’s playing complete havoc with my affinity lines.” I venture a glance back at him, overcome with renewed surprise at the sight of his true form. “Why are your pupils slitted?”

  His eyes tighten. “Does it bother you?”

  “No,” I say quickly, sensing how easily I could wound him right now. “No. You’re quite a bit different but...you’re so beautiful, and...you’re still you.”

  His lip twitches up, his eyes intent on me. “I have wyvern blood,” he tells me. “Two generations back on my father’s side. That’s why the varg demons couldn’t burn me.” Ra’Ven takes in the confused knot of my brow. “My people have always had close ties with the wyvern shifters. We were closely allied once. They tried to free my people from the Alfsigr during the Realm War and failed. Most were murdered, and some are still imprisoned with us in the sublands.”

  “But if they’re wyvern shifters,” I say, surprised, “can’t they shift to dragon and fight the Alfsigr?”

  His expression hardens with indignation. “The Alfsigr place Elfin-steel bands around their wrists and ankles. Shifting would cripple them, so they are bound in human form.”

  “That’s horrible.” I massage my temples and hold his impassioned stare for a long moment, surrendering to the inconceivable impossibility of everything that’s happened.

  I close my eyes, waves of emotion overtaking me. “I need to sit down.” I slump onto the edge of the bed and sit forward, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Ciaran... Ra’Ven...takes a seat beside me.

  Ra’Ven. Ruler of the Smaragdalfar. Za’ya’s hope for a better future.

  His hand comes hesitantly to my forearm, his fingers gently tracing down it. I sit up and let him take my hand in his, our fingers lacing together. He lifts my hand and kisses it, cupping it in both hands now, his eyes questioning—as if he’s unsure where we stand, now that I know who he really is.

  I’m both moved and calmed by his show of hope-filled affection.

  “Ra’Ven.” I savor the sound of his true name and the feel of his strong hand around mine. “I like your real name. It suits you.”

  His lips lift. “Like the purple suits you.”

  I smile at him, but his expression turns serious as he caresses my hand.

  “What happened to you?” I ask, leaning against him, arm to arm, shoulder to shoulder. “I remember the wanted postings from back when I was thirteen. When I traveled with my family to Valgard, so many years ago.” I hold up a fastmarked hand, bitterness rising. “For this.”

  A dark shadow passes over his expression. “My family was in hiding all my life, along with a small community of my people. We lived in the sublands of the Eastern desert. They were all killed by the Alfsigr when I was thirteen.” He pauses, staring straight ahead at nothing, his jaw set tight as he holds onto me. “My parents had possession of that runic glamour.” He gestures toward the pile of chains on the table. “It’s the only glamour of its kind. It was meant for my father to use...our ruler. Our sovereign. But...” He forces the words out, his tone rough and hollow. “They used it to save me instead.”

  A knot forms in my throat as I hold onto him. “Oh, Ra’Ven. I’m so sorry.”

  His brow creases as he studies our clasped hands. “Before they were killed, my parents urged me to find the Resistance in Keltania. I fell in with some merchants traveling to Valgard and then from there to Keltania. It was very dangerous for me—I had a hard time holding onto the glamour fully. I was so young, and my sorcery wasn’t strong enough. I’d hold it most of the day and then abruptly lose it.”

  “So you were spotted.” It all starts to come together in my mind. “And they put up all those wanted postings.”

  He nods stiffly. “I was almost killed a number of times. I finally escaped into Verpacia, and was almost captured there as well. I fell into despair. One night, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was going to hurl myself off that same bridge I found you on.”

  “And then... Zeymir?”

  “He found me.” Ra’Ven is quiet for a long moment, as if struggling with his thoughts, his hand rigid in mine. I bring my still-green wand hand around our clasped hands and he takes a deep, quavering breath. “Za’ya and Zeymir took me in and found me shelter with a family in Keltania. A family active in the Resistance. When I turned fifteen and gained full control over my rune-sorcery, I came back here. To Verpacia. To apprentice as a smith with Za’ya and Zeymir.”

  “To make weapons for the Resistance?” I put in, the story now becoming clear.

  He nods and gives me a look of resolve. “I seek to liberate my people from the Alfsigr. There is a part of our sublands in the east that is cut off from the Alfsigr holdings. I want to reclaim it.” His tone becomes strident. “We’re building an army, with the help of the Vu Trin. In a few weeks’ time, a few other Smaragdalfar and some Vu Trin sorceresses will be converging here. I’m building our arsenal, to eventually fight the Alfsigr and the demons they use to keep us enslaved underground.”

  I reach around and pull the White Wand from its sheath and hold it up in front of us. “Perhaps this wants to be part of that arsenal.”

  Ra’Ven eyes the Wand with shrewd consideration. “If this is truly the Eyil’lynorin, then something even larger than the sublands is at stake.” His gaze shifts back to me. “If the Shadow Wand has been released, then the coming fight won’t just be for the sublands
. It will be for the whole of Erthia.”

  I pull in a long, shaky breath. “So, what now?”

  “We need to bring that Wand to Noi lands.” His hand tightens around mine. “This changes everything. If that really is the Eyil’lynorin, and you’re its bearer, you’re going to need an army to help you protect the Wand.”

  Chapter 17: Lines

  Ra’Ven works in the smithery almost without ceasing, fabricating intricate varg blades to be wielded by Smaragdalfar freedom fighters. The runes around us remain blessedly stilled and static in color, no new searches cast over us.

  Our affection for each other grows with each passing day—small touches, stolen kisses and then nights spent in each other’s arms, although both of us are careful not to cross too many boundaries.

  And I begin to experiment with my light magery.

  I’ve discovered a portion of the caves close to the surface, with a ceiling partially open to the sky. I practice here, surrounded by Smaragdalfar runic grimoires and the spell book that Rivyr gave me, feeling like I own not only two wands, but my own piece of the sublands and a slice of the heavens above.

  When I practice spells with the mahogany wand or try to use it as a rune-stylus, I’m unable to summon anything more than a small wash of purple over whatever piece of stone I set the wand’s tip on. But when I use the White Wand, it’s as if the Wand is drawing on my magic and wielding it for me. And soon, it’s as if the Wand is gently and patiently teaching me how to be a Light Mage.

  And my life lights up in a kaleidoscope of glorious, forbidden, rebellious color.

  First, I learn how to Color Glamour one small section of the cave a deep, shimmering purple. Lit up by the dazzling color, my light magery ramps up, and soon I’m covering the cave’s walls with every shade of purple—lilac, plum, violet and sparkling amethyst. Then I branch out, drawing huge swaths of every beautiful color all over the cave’s walls, ceiling and floor. I touch my Wand’s tip to all the stalactites and stalagmites, turning each one a different color, from marigold yellow to bright tangerine to midnight blue—my own dazzling stone garden.