Light Mage (The Black Witch Chronicles)

by Laurie Forest

White branches wrap around me and multiply. Birds made of starlight take shape in their hollows, warding off the nightmares. And a new landscape forms in my mind—a lush, dark forest, the scent of loamy soil heavy on the air.

  A figure arises in the heart of the forest. A young woman made of living branches, a serene smile on her lips. She reaches out her slender hand to me.

  There is no fear in this dreamscape. No dead, blackened trees—only the sweet pulse of life. I pad across a bed of moss, the glow of Ironflowers suffusing the forest’s verdant floor.

  Then I reach out my unmarked hand and give the tree-woman the White Wand.

  Chapter 21: Freedom

  Time continues to pass, and I am there, but not there. I’m in a heated delirium of constant, mounting fever and inured pain, my dreams more real than my hazy reality.

  “It is because you are carrying a dragon-child,” Sang tells me during one of my rare moments of clarity as she pats down my brow with a cool cloth to quell the constant, burning fire. “You are not dragonkin yourself, so it will go hard for you, toiya.”

  The Wand brushes the back of my mind, and I turn toward its motionless presence on the table beside me. The gleaming, spiraling Wand is the one thing that’s consistently clear in my vision, everything else fading in and out and obscured by a wavering fug of heat.

  And it has started to speak to me.

  In ceaseless, hushed tones, it murmurs in the back of my mind, just under my waking thoughts, like an incoherent, whispered song. Something familiar at the edges of its intonation...

  But its meaning is lost, always lost, to the mindlessness of fever and the burning fire.

  And then something shifts as the baby quickens inside me, rounding my belly. Fire whips through me and intensifies, winnowing away the old me. I’ve a strengthening sense of emergence as the flames inside me become less a battering inferno and more a torch kindled. The fire starts to fold itself into my affinity lines, its hot, golden threads weaving themselves through me, and then, where there was once only one affinity line inside me, there are now two.

  Light...and fire.

  And soon, what started as an assault to my body starts to feel like power rising.

  I realize, stunned, as my blurred fog of heat starts a turn toward the blazing clarity of a star—I am becoming dragonkin.

  * * *

  Slowly, I rally. I’m still constantly feverish, but no longer bedridden and overwhelmed by the fire inside me. Instead, I’m gradually becoming strengthened by it. And I can use my hands now, thanks to the scarlet runes an Amaz healer has drawn in a glowing line up my forearms and the chains full of runes she’s loosely affixed to my hands.

  But even as I grow stronger and more consistently coherent, my longing to be with Ra’Ven grows and opens up an ever-widening rift inside of me. It rips my heart in half to be separated from him, and pains me even more to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s feeling the same way. And in the starkness of my despair, I realize even more fully what he means to me. And not just Ra’Ven—Za’ya and Zeymir, Wyla, Na’bee and even Rivyr. Every time I think of their faces, my heart constricts with an anguished yearning to be with all of them.

  And all the refugees—little Nil’ya with her cloth doll, and the child with the lash-scar on her face, the whimpering little boy...where are they now? Are they safe? Will I ever see any of them again?

  And will I ever make it to the Noi lands with my sisters?

  Weighed down by the enormity of my situation, I begin to fall into the rhythm of the military outpost and the people I’m surrounded by. Waking in the predawn to the deep resonance of their large meditation bell, eating at rigidly set times, dousing the nighttime lights at the sight of the blue border runes flashing, signaling the start of the night guards’ watch.

  My midwife and near-constant companion, Sang Loi, seems to register my increasing slide into desolation and invites me to their predawn meditation one morning. Lured by curiosity and a remembrance of Za’ya’s serene smile when meditating, I accept Sang’s invitation to join them in their circular meditation hall. All of us face a statue of a white dragon that’s wrapped around a central pillar, the carving flowing up onto the hall’s roof, into a design of clouds and small graceful white birds.

  At first, I find the silence difficult, as my mind explodes into a storm of conflict and a reflexive fear of religious condemnation for straying so far from the Ancient One. But Sang helps me to clear my mind by creating a suspended, calming rune for me to focus on, and more and more, I fall into their communal silence, thoughts of white birds and ivory branches and the woman made of tree limbs slowly taking the place of my tumultuous emotions.

  And even though a dark whirlpool of sadness threatens to swallow me up at times, I begin to find solace here with the soldiers who are so quietly protective of me.

  I eat with them, finding I’ve a taste for their delicate steamed breads paired with rich stews. I take tea with them, becoming used to tea flavored not with flowers and spice, but with the bold taste of grain toasted to the edge of burning. I start to pick up traces of their language. I learn to bathe up to my neck in deep, outdoor tubs fashioned from huge wooden barrels, with indigo cloth screens set up for privacy and a view of the stars overhead.

  The military routine of their lives steadies me, and I wrap their regimented customs around myself, wanting their ways to be the better ways. Wanting them to be right about the child growing inside me. Not a reviled demon child at all, but a beautiful wyvern baby with a revered place in this world.

  * * *

  Evening falls, and I stare at the naked flame leaping above the flat rune-disc glowing blue beneath it. I’ve removed the amber glass orb from the rune-lamp on my bedside table, drawn to the fire. Increasingly drawn to any fire.

  I want to consume the flames whole.

  Flushed with desire, my finger strays toward the flame. Flirting with it. Sidling right up to its stinging heat. My fever-steeped affinity lines pull taut, entranced by the flame’s rich, buttery gold hue.

  I dot my finger into the flame and pull back, heart thudding.

  No pain.

  The fire calls to me, its pull caressing my lines.

  As if answering its playful dare, I touch the flame again, growing bolder. No pain again. Giddy with my discovery, I push my finger straight into the fire, the delicious warmth coating my skin like liquid butter.

  “Ahhh...”

  “Sagellyn!” Sang breathes out roughly as she looks up from her reading, astonished as she takes in the sight of my finger turning in the flame.

  I look to Sang as surprised, overjoyed laughter wells up inside me, my palm now right on top of the flame.

  “Oh, Sagellyn,” she says wonderingly, her book now forgotten on her lap. “You are truly becoming part dragon.”

  Emboldened, Sang sets the book aside, gets up and pulls the room’s tall, iron rune-brazier over to my bedside. Brandishing her stylus, she lights the runes marking the iron surface of its bowl-like interior, and a lusty flame rears up. She sends me a look crackling with possibility.

  I slide one finger, then my whole hand into the fire, a delicious heat coursing over me. Then both hands, straight up to my forearms. I close my eyes and sigh with blessed relief as the fire singes away the pain of my broken fastlines.

  “It’s almost like I don’t have fast-burns,” I marvel, overcome, looking to Sang with bone-deep gratitude as tears well in my eyes.

  Sang takes a deep breath and nods, seeming overcome herself as she gives a short laugh.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  She shakes her head, looking confounded. “I do not know, toiya. I have never been midwife to a Light Mage carrying an Icaral child.” We exchange a smile at the outrageous absurdity of the situation. “It would appear that your baby is giving you fire power. How that will manifest in you remains to
be seen.”

  “I have fire lines now,” I tell her. “Not just light lines. I can feel them blazing inside me.”

  A shimmering white in the rafters just above and behind Sang catches my eye, and I look up to find the now-familiar vision of three white birds perched there, their starlight bodies translucent. They blink out of sight as quickly as they appeared.

  “I saw birds,” I tell Sang, motioning toward the rafters with my gaze. “There. On the rafters. Can you see them?”

  Sang squints at the rafters, then looks back to me, her expression suddenly serious. “No, toiya. Not today.”

  Not today. She’s seen them before, then.

  “What are they?” I ask her. “They’re sewn on our priests’ clothing—the Ancient One’s bird.”

  “My people call them the Ahnxils, the Watchers. They are messengers of the Light. And they are clear to the Vhion—the holder of the Zhilin.” Her expression grows somber. “They appear during times of great darkness, toiya.”

  I look down at the white bird pendant Za’ya gifted to me and remember Gwynn’s books. How we mocked the foreign religious stories so many years ago. A pang of remorse pulls at me, and a new resolve takes root to learn all I can about the other cultures and religions and magical systems of the realms, instead of dismissing and reviling everything foreign and unknown, like I was once taught to do.

  “I want to learn all the runic systems,” I tell Sang. “I want to join the Wyvernguard and learn everything I can do with my magic. I’ve already learned a few light spells.”

  Sang inclines her head, considering this. “You will have access to all the runic systems as a Light Mage, toiya, and that is a rare power. Only those rune-sorcerers with multiple bloodlines of rune-sorcerer ancestry will come close to rivaling your power.”

  “Do you think I’ll have the power to break this spell?” I ask as I turn a fastmarked hand up in the fire. The minute I slide my hand slightly out of the flame, the pain starts to take hold yet again.

  Sang takes a deep breath. “This fasting spell will be difficult to break, toiya. But you are a Light Mage, so perhaps, after many years of training, there could be some hope. Once fully trained, you will have the power to break many spells—and create new ones. Spells never seen before, because up until now, Gardnerian Mages have shunned the runic systems of other cultures. You will even be able to master Smaragdalfar runes, which means you will have demon-slaying powers.”

  An image of Ra’Ven striking down the varg demons fills my mind. His strong form effortlessly wielding the curved rune-blades with lithe grace. My heart lurches at the thought of him, and I’m once again missing him with every fiber of my being. A powerful, aching desire flares to have his arms around me, to look into his star eyes and to be enveloped in his quiet understanding and love.

  Ra’Ven. Will I ever see you again?

  * * *

  My mind is filled with Ra’Ven every night before I fall into sleep, but his beloved image doesn’t stay as the deeper night closes in. Every night now, it fades, as do the peaceful dreams of the Tree and the Watchers and the young woman made of branches. These lovely images are less and less able to hold onto my mind as the tide of darkness comes sweeping back.

  Demon shapes now ring the lush forest in my dreams that are morphing back into nightmares. The demons are massing and pressing in, growing in both power and numbers. They sending red, flickering searchlight through the darkened woods. Coming closer...closer...ever closer as I cower back behind a tree.

  And then they glide into view. Vulpine eyes stare right at me, vermilion swords in their hands as their voices scrape against my mind.

  The Icaral is ours.

  I wake with a start, coated in sweat, struggling to catch my breath, seized by terror. I reach down and touch my swollen belly, ignoring the sting of my fingers.

  The edge of a small wing flaps inside me.

  * * *

  When my baby finally enters this world, they’re hesitant to let me see him.

  My Icaral child.

  Sang has wrapped him in a dark blanket and is hugging him close, hiding his wings from sight as she eyes me apprehensively.

  “Give him to me,” I demand, my voice shaky. I’m propped up on my elbows, the sweat of a hard labor coating my back, my hair plastered to my head in wet tendrils, the pain of birth still reverberating through my body. “I want to hold him.”

  Sang and the row of Vu Trin sorceresses look to Chi Nam, their powerful rune-sorceress.

  My gaze shifts to her as well. “He’s just a baby,” I rasp out. “Not a weapon. And he’s my child. Not yours.”

  Chi Nam leans heavily on her rune-marked staff and gives me a grave, considering look, then motions to Sang with a quick nod. The healer folds the blanket back and places the small, warm bundle into my arms.

  I gasp as soon as he comes into view.

  His eyes are silvery green with round pupils, golden fire dancing in them. His skin is like Ra’Ven’s, interlocking hexagonal shapes, but instead of flashing emerald, they glint a brilliant, overwhelmingly beautiful amethyst. Every shade of purple, like the new, intractable glimmer of my own skin. His hair is little tufts of Gardnerian black, and his delicate ears are ever-so-slightly pointed. Black wings, paper-thin, struggle to fan out from his back.

  He squirms and gurgles, wraps his little hand around my finger and looks into my eyes, innocent and soft and new, with the helpless trust of a fledgling.

  A stunned joy hits me like a glorious wave, quickly followed by a fierce desire to protect. Bolt after bolt of affection secures me to my child with just that one look as love swells powerfully in my heart.

  “Fyn’ir,” I tell them as I caress my child’s tiny face, bursting into tears of relieved joy as he gazes trustingly up at me. “That’s his name.”

  Smaragdalfar for Freedom.

  “It is a beautiful name,” Sang tells me, a tear streaking down her cheek, her face lit by a loving smile. She strokes my hair and kisses my head. Both Sang and I laugh and cry as happiness overtakes my heart.

  My child. My precious, beautiful, sweet little winged child.

  The White Wand stirs on the table beside me, sounding its familiar, whispering call in the back of my mind, only more insistent and suddenly clear to me.

  My eyes widen as I turn toward the Wand and cradle Fyn’ir protectively close.

  A constellation of prismatic light bursts into view around the Wand’s handle, whirling around the Wand as the White Tree starts to pulse in the back of my mind.

  I look back into the eyes of my beloved Fyn’ir as realization crashes through me with the force of a gale storm. And I finally understand, with staggering clarity, what the Wand has been trying to tell me all this time.

  A name. A ceaseless murmuring of one name. The next bearer of the White Wand—the protector of the Zhilin.

  The most unlikely name of all.

  Elloren Gardner.

  Chapter 22: The Watchers

  She comes to me that night.

  The woman made of branches, made of wood, her form cloaked.

  The forest around us is lush and fragrant, a blessed oasis. But I can feel malevolent forces pressing in around the green, living borders. The Shadow forces massing. Bringing the Void. The young, cloaked priest like a raptor, searching and searching...

  The branch woman holds out her hand to me. Her branch legs flow down into the ground and fan out, rooting her to the forest floor. The Wand thrums against my hand and white birds made of light shimmer above.

  A clutch of panic tightens my lines as her features become clear to me.

  “No,” I protest to the Wand, to the forest, to the Watchers in the trees. “There’s been some mistake. You can’t mean her. How can you possibly choose her? You chose me.”

  The forest and the birds remain silent and still, the branc
h woman’s hand still extended.

  “No.” I step back and hold the Wand protectively close.

  The branch woman pulls back her hood, and dread pools inside me. The Wand’s choice is as clear as the Eastern Star.

  Her face is the face of the Black Witch.

  “The Wand has chosen a new bearer,” I tell the sorceresses, setting the White Wand down on the large circular table before me.

  The nine assembled sorceresses of the outpost’s upper chain of command sit blinking at me with guarded surprise. Fyn’ir is sleeping contentedly, secured to my chest with a broad cloth. My love for my tiny, winged babe helps beat back my burgeoning sense of panic.

  The demonic forces in my dreams are no longer massed around the lush forest. They’re massed around my baby and me.

  They’re coming.

  I take a deep breath to stay the sharp buzz of fear that crackles through me.

  I glance up at the carving of the ivory dragon goddess, Vo, that flows over the entire ceiling. Compassionate Vo. Bearer of the White Tooth—the Zhilin. The Sacred Fang. The White Wand. Tiny white birds fly in necklacing patterns around the great dragon’s form.

  “The Zhilin, the White Wand,” I tell them, “wants to go to Elloren Gardner.”

  Shock blasts through the room, only Chi Nam remaining silent, the crone-sorceress’s eyes narrowing in on me, her rune-staff resting on the wall behind her. I can feel the force of her gaze from across the room. She has a bent back and relies heavily on her staff when she walks, and the lines of advanced age are deeply etched on her face, but it’s clear she’s their most powerful sorceress. I notice that even the young, strong soldiers—even the elite Kin Hoang soldiers and higher-ranking military—take on a deferential stance when faced with Chi Nam leaning rakishly on her rune-marked staff.

  “It cannot be.” Kam Vin’s voice is sharp as cut glass. The young Vu Trin commander glares at me, her brow tight with incredulity. “You cannot mean the granddaughter of the Black Witch herself.”

  “It wants to go to her,” I insist. “Now.”