by Ann Macela
Despite her attempt to speak stoically, Johanna sobbed the last words. She was so tired of crying. So tired, period. She had to say this, however, and she blew her nose and sat up straight.
“Beej, I have no choice except to go on. I’m going to become a teacher. Not an art teacher, like I planned, though. I’ll pursue my degree in education and afterwards apprentice myself to a Sword Teaching Master.”
She spoke the next words firmly, deliberately. A solemn promise from her to her soul mate. “I’ll teach young Defenders and Swords how to use their magic, how to be safe. I won’t let what happened to you happen to them. I’ll teach them how to recognize the signs of Sword arrogance. I’ll teach them to recognize strong evil. I’ll do all I can to make sure nobody else, no new Sword, ever does what you did. Ever takes on an evil item by themselves. Ever dies for nothing.”
With a sigh, she stood and looked down at the grave. “I’ll come back to let you know how I’m doing. I love you forever, my soul mate.”
Chapter One
Present Day
“We’re going to have to tell them what we’ve discovered,” Sword Johanna Mahler told her Defender team while the seven of them walked along the icy path to the hotel in the late January darkness. To speak privately, they had purposely lagged behind everyone in the audience leaving the lecture hall at the HeatherRidge Center in the Chicago suburbs.
“I’m afraid so,” Rosa Sanchez agreed, pulling up the hood on her coat. “That presentation made it clear the Defender Council is going ahead with the energy-measurement project. If we don’t make known what we can do in its beginning, we won’t have a say in what happens. Our development has to be part of the recipe. It could revolutionize how each team heats up its power production.”
Despite her worry, Johanna smiled. Chef Rosa always spoke in cooking terms. She was correct, as usual. The team’s method for increasing magic power to destroy evil magic items would stand the Defender-Sword world on its head.
Dorothy Gundersen shook her head. “I do wish we could figure out why others are having such difficulty implementing our concept. We’ve tried it with five people, and not one has been able to work past the initial step. If nobody can join us, then our process is only an oddity, not a means to transform energy transfer.”
Johanna looked from the short, round Rosa to the tall, spare Dorothy. “I think others can come into the ring, but it takes a huge amount of trust to open yourself and give without worrying about the consequences. Besides, since we haven’t been completely forthcoming, our trial subjects weren’t sure what result we were aiming for.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dorothy said, resignation coloring her tone.
“You’re all worrying too much. Man, when we demonstrate our method, we’re really going to throw those hot-shot engineers a curve ball.” Pat O’Flynn wound up and made a throwing motion like he was pitching for the Cubs. For a brawny, middle-aged man, he could still move with ease and grace.
Clyde Russell, the other Sword on their team, laughed with the rest of them while he settled his knit cap on his balding head. “I think we all agree with Johanna about the trust issue. I suggest we view the demonstration tomorrow before deciding on concrete action. I’d like to see the ‘apparatus’ in action.”
Everybody nodded. Clyde was always the voice of reason. Johanna gave him a smile, which the elderly Sword returned with a wink.
“No matter how the measurement project comes out, we still have to deal with the Defender Council’s other plans for finding team homes for those without them,” Jim Pulaski said as he slipped on his gloves. “I particularly didn’t like that business about consulting this new ‘Merlin Office’ about replacements on retirements. Are they going to try to tell us what to do? No one knows you’re retiring, do they, Clyde?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve discussed it only with you and Fergus, and I trust him to keep the secret.”
The thought of having a new Sword imposed upon them sent a chill down Johanna’s back that had nothing to do with the twenty-degree temperature. “Whatever happens about your replacement, Clyde, a glacier a hundred miles high will be sitting on Chicago before I accept Phil Bellman on our team.”
“Amen,” and other sounds of agreement came from the Defenders.
“I won’t retire if the Council tries to force someone on you in my place,” Clyde said. “Fergus is on our side also.”
“Good. Where is Whipple?” Jim asked. “We could use his advice and influence here.”
“Lying on a beach in the Caribbean,” Dorothy replied. The head of Housekeeping for the HeatherRidge hugged herself and shivered. “And do I envy him and Bridget.”
“The way the Council is pushing all this stuff about testing and the unaffiliated and practice and replacements makes me nervous,” Jazara Grant, the youngest of them at twenty-seven, said. “Bureaucracy is not our friend. One day we’re doing fine, and the next we have all these problems. Where’s it coming from?”
“Once the engineers figured out with a way to measure a team’s magical energy output, it was bound to cause a hullabaloo, and one idea leads to another,” Clyde answered. “Every decade or so, the Council gets excited about some idea or development, or a situation occurs that needs rectifying, and they act. Usually at the end, we’re better off than when we started—able to use our Defender and Sword talents more effectively.”
“Not always, though,” Rosa interjected. “About twenty-five years ago they tried to add both a Sword and a Defender to the teams to make use of the unaffiliated—what they’re now calling Independents. Oh, I guess I should call them ‘Indies.’ The result was, instead of a pentagon, we had to cast a hexagonal fortress to accommodate the sixth Defender. Talk about too many cooks!”
“What happened?” Johanna asked. She didn’t remember ever hearing of the event—not surprising since she’d only been ten years old then and didn’t even know she was a Sword yet.
“Some had a horrible time creating the hexagon, especially those who cast the spell with their hand.” Rosa spread her fingers parallel to the ground and pushed downward. “Five fingers equals five points of the pentagon, but what do you do for the sixth in the other figure?”
Jim took up the tale. “With all the spells and gestures—and especially the habits—set for a two-Swords/five-Defenders team, coordination was difficult. The Swords didn’t have enough room to maneuver inside the golden ring, either. Add to that compatibility issues, and everybody complained, including the Indies. The Council finally gave up and returned to the old ways.”
“What about the guy running the show—Saxton Falkner?” Pat scratched his head. “I never heard of him until the announcement of the testing.”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention to practitioner politics,” Jim answered. “He’s a member of the Defender Council and chairman of the Committee on Swords. Some think he’ll be the next head of the Council. I have to say, he dresses the part of a leader. That suit he’s wearing retails for three thousand in my shop.”
“He does have a good reputation as a venture capitalist for seeing potential in new businesses,” Rosa said. “He’s not called ‘the start-up genius’ for nothing. I’d think he should be able see the possibilities in our new process.”
“Let’s see how Falkner handles himself,” Clyde suggested. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to ram these new procedures down our throats.”
“Exactly,” Jim said. “Falkner’s been extremely effective in clearing out some of our more ‘medieval’ practices without disruption to the ones that work and especially without ruffling the feathers of those who want to hold on to the past. Pat, you really should keep up with what’s going on at Council level.”
Johanna tuned out the continuation of the perpetual discussion between plumber Pat, who claimed he had too much work fixing people’s pipes and practicing with the team to spend time on the larger organization, and Jim, who owned an exclusive men’s clothing store and was a junkie for
both practitioner and Chicagoland politics.
Instead, she thought back to Falkner standing at the lectern before he began his presentation. Jim was right, in appearance and dress the man was definitely a determined, urbane leader. Tall, rangy in build, with his dark brown hair graying at temples, his slightly hooded eyes, and his ramrod posture, he could be the poster boy for a Sword in modern dress. He didn’t need a gleaming blade in his hands to be proclaimed “dangerous.”
Then she’d had that odd experience. She had been sitting with her team on the next-to-last row of the graduated seating in the lecture hall. He’d been waiting for the audience to settle and had looked up, straight at her. Even with all that distance between them, their eyes had met—and held for a number of seconds. A distinct warm tingle had run down her spine, and she’d had to shut her eyes tight to break the contact—which had left her wondering for some inexplicable reason what color the eyes staring back at her were.
If that were not bad enough, the same thing happened at the end of his presentation. Again she had forced herself to glance in another direction. What was going on? Why was he singling her out?
Her magic center fluttered as if in confusion or apprehension. It didn’t seem to know either.
***
Where was that honey blonde he’d seen in the lecture hall? From the side of the ballroom, Saxton Falkner surveyed the crowd and sipped his Scotch. He’d first noticed her in the lecture hall because the overhead lights made her hair gleam like a golden halo. She’d talked to her neighbor, faced front, and stared straight at him. Her gaze had hit him like a shot of magical energy.
Their eyes met and held once more, at the end of his talk. Each time she’d been the one to glance away first. Interesting. What difference it would make, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t wait to see what color her eyes were.
The jolt of power reminded him how his restlessness had increased since he closed his business and left Cleveland last October to work on the energy-measurement project. He knew what his problem was—an excess of that very energy. Man, did he need to find a team to practice with. Since his—really, his father’s—had disbanded six months ago, he hadn’t found the time, what with his business, Council matters, and this project.
Not that his former team produced the kind of energy exchange he needed—no, stronger than needed. The kind he actually craved. A free-form pouring in and out of power that energized and exhilarated at the same time it absolutely exhausted. The opportunity to use every last bit of his fifteenth-level power, to drain his center dry, to blast an evil magic item into ashes.
Although he’d practiced with a number of teams in the Northeast in the past, he’d never found a combination of Defenders who could raise and sustain their output to the level he instinctively knew he required. His father’s team did the best they could—being only levels ten to twelve. They simply couldn’t produce greater amounts. If they’d been measured, they’d certainly have been at the bottom of the range.
Was his craving the reason he’d agreed to lead the project and explain the Council’s plans? To find a high-level team that suited him, that satisfied his need, his hunger? No, the entire project was worthwhile, under any circumstances. A personal benefit would be an added bonus.
No matter what, he needed practice, and the level of the people in the pentagon was inconsequential. The HeatherRidge Center had four resident teams. Even with one on vacation, he should be able to wangle an invitation to work some magic.
His magic center vibrated. It wanted some practice, too.
Maybe with the team with the blonde? Who was she? What was she—Defender or Sword? He’d have to check her credentials in the Council database after he met her tonight. With all the details to worry about, he hadn’t paid much attention to the untested individuals or teams.
Why the interest in a woman he’d never met, and particularly a practitioner, was a mystery. He’d gotten over the loss of his soul mate ten years ago. Or more accurately, he’d at least come to terms with it. Since then, he’d dated only non-practitioner women, and none with long-term ideas.
Once a man had a soul mate, every other woman paled in comparison—especially to his Maddy. Besides, he wouldn’t, couldn’t even conceive of marrying a non-practitioner. He’d heard of men who had, although none of them had been Defenders or Swords. How would you explain his kind of magic, especially the danger involved in it, to an outsider and expect her to understand and accept it.
God, what had started him on this track—dating and marriage? Oh, yes, the woman. No matter his feelings on the previous subject, he hadn’t lost his appreciation for beauty, and the blonde was really lovely.
Saxt scanned the room again and sighed mentally. No blonde. Instead, toward him rushed more Defenders and Swords anxious to discuss the project. He took another sip of his Scotch and glanced over at Gary Witherspoon and Herb Ball, the two engineers who developed the magic-output test and its measuring apparatus. They made the mistake of sitting down to sign teams up for the test and were trapped at a circular table.
Saxt knew better. He kept on the move, meeting as many as possible, spending only a few minutes with each. Some asked pointed questions, others expressed reservations, a few didn’t care for the project at all—about what he had expected. Most seemed to be holding their opinion in reserve. All wanted to see the measurement process in action.
A tall, muscular, dark-haired man sauntered up and introduced himself as Phil Bellman. He topped Saxt’s six feet by at least four inches, and he smiled with a self-assured, slightly condescending expression. It reminded Saxt of one he saw often in business dealings. One he never trusted. Its appearance usually hid a deep weakness—in the business plan, the financials, or the leadership. What would be Bellman’s fault? What was he trying to sell?
Saxt shook hands, and Bellman’s grip—several degrees too strong—reinforced his wariness. The man’s strong cologne didn’t make a good impression either.
“I’m an Indie,” Bellman stated like he was conveying an astounding fact, “a level-fourteen Sword. I practically grew up here at the Center. When I was training in my high school and college years, only three teams existed here. A fourth was formed while I was working on my MBA and learning the options trading business, and I was simply too busy to join it. My business has been successful, I have the time now, and I’ve been looking for a team. I’m much encouraged by the Council’s plans.”
“How long have you searched, and how many openings have come your way?” Saxt asked.
“Three years and three teams, all in California, but none worked out.” Bellman made a dismissive gesture as though the reasons were of little importance. “I believe I’m one of the most powerful Swords without a team. I’d like to be one of the first in the rotation and on the list to join one.”
Bellman appeared ambitious, even if he had his facts wrong. Saxt could think of at least eight higher-level Indie Swords. Because he wasn’t giving anyone special treatment, he kept his statements general. “The Merlin Office to coordinate practice, replacements, and new team creation will be announced on the Defender Council website in a couple of days. Send an e-mail saying you’re available and when. That’s only for the practice rotation, not team placement, for a while. I can’t promise you’ll be chosen first, of course …”
“I’d be an asset to a team. A level fourteen’s nothing to sneeze at, and I have some of the greatest energy capacity around.”
“Let the office know your level and what kind of teams you’d like to practice with and later join,” Saxt replied. What was it about the guy that bothered him? Bellman’s pushiness? No, Saxt could understand the desire to be on a team. Why didn’t the man’s normal Sword self-confidence ring true? He seemed sort of … defensive? Or like he thought he was entitled to a team?
Bellman looked like he was going to say more—probably a variety of more self-aggrandizing statements. Saxt was wondering how to detach himself from the conversation when he noticed someone
waving at him. Jake Alexander, Defender and the director of the HeatherRidge Training Center, beckoned from across the room. Saxt excused himself from Bellman and started over to him.
Short, stocky, and rumpled, Jake appeared mild and bland, and, in fact, he was thoroughly reasonable and easy to work with. Woe be to the person, however, who pushed the man. Jake could also be as hard as reinforced concrete and as direct as a guided missile. He was perfect for a training facility where, in the hands of novices, magic could go wrong at any moment. Casting spells required discipline, and the man had the talent for instilling it in people and the institution.
When Saxt drew closer to Jake, he saw that the director was surrounded by a diverse group. One of them was the honey blonde.
Who met his gaze and quickly turned her gaze to the floor with an expression somewhere between puzzlement and shock. Interesting.
When Saxt reached the group, he was pleasantly surprised when a subtle wave of magical energy swept over him. He recognized what it was—the team effect. When together, powerful and closely attuned teams always shared energy without conscious action. The effect’s presence only solidified his desire to practice with them.
“Saxt,” Jake said, “I’d like to introduce one of our resident teams. These are Defenders Dorothy Gundersen, Jim Pulaski, Patrick O’Flynn, Rosa Sanchez, and Jazara Grant, and Swords Clyde Russell and Johanna Mahler.”
Saxt shook hands all around as Jake named the team members. When his gaze met Johanna’s and his hand gripped hers, a jolt like the one in the auditorium hit his center. She must have felt something also because her big blue eyes grew round and she quickly let go.
“My favorite team,” Bellman announced from behind him.
Saxt looked up to see the man almost beaming at all of them—like he was the fox in the henhouse.
“Clyde, if you ever retire, I’m your replacement,” Bellman continued in a jovial manner that left no doubt of his certainty he’d be stepping into the position.
