The Way of Pain

by Gregory Mattix

  Creel shoved his chair back and got to his feet. “I could do with a bit of fresh air and something a bit stronger to drink, myself. If you fellas are up for a walk, I think I’ll wander down in the direction of Feldegast’s.”

  Kulnor and Harbek needed no time to think it over, both of them simultaneously sliding out of their chairs and adjusting their belts over bloated bellies. Creel gave a questioning glance at Rafe and Iris, his young companions he’d introduced earlier, but they declined to join them.

  “I’ll let Lord Lanthas know where to find you if there’s any news,” Iris offered.

  The three of them strolled down the long hall and outside to the fresh air of the bailey. Creel walked slowly, apparently accustomed to accommodating the shorter dwarven stride.

  “I hear the old ruins of Torval’s Hold are being reopened,” Creel remarked. “Got a friend whose son is an apprentice stonemason and traveled there with his master looking to make journeyman. How is the restoration coming along?”

  “Funny ye should ask,” Kulnor said, warming to a favorite topic. “Harbek and me just came from there. As for the Hold, well, it’ll be restored to its proper glory soon enough. Me queen herself went to inspect the progress when the bird arrived with news of the conclave from yer queen…”

  Chapter 49

  Nera faced Taren from across the long room, hands on her hips. Faster than his eye could follow, she drew a dagger in hand from a sheath on her hip. Taren, accustomed now to blending his second sight with the ordinary, noted the blade shone with magic, a miniature sun in her hand, spinning nimbly between Nera’s fingers.

  “Defend yourself.” She abruptly slung the dagger at him.

  Taren instinctively threw up a magical shield between them, the reaction now taking little thought to accomplish. To his astonishment, the twirling blade, shining brightly like a mirror, pierced his shield with ease. Without any time to try another defense, the blade speared into his shoulder, rocking him backward. A blaze of agony ignited, and he noted the slightly curved blade buried nearly to the hilt in the meat of his shoulder, the point jutting out the back. Blood was leaking heavily from the wound. The next thing he knew, he was looking up at the ceiling, the room spinning, the magic lost to him.

  “Ah, my son. I’m sorry for that. I thought you ready for such a challenge.” Nera was cradling his head on her thighs, her warm fingers touching his cheeks. Her rust-colored eyes, so like his own, peered into his face, lavender hair hanging around her face. “Take care to recognize the nature of the threat and react accordingly. Lightslicer can pierce most magical defenses, as can many enchanted weapons. You should’ve used a different method—perhaps snaring it by the hilt and plucking it free or altering its course midflight with a powerful gust of wind. Yet the hard lessons are the ones best learned, I reckon.”

  Taren could barely focus on her words through the throbbing pain. He nodded dumbly.

  “Relax now. You’ll be fine.”

  Nera grasped the hilt of Lightslicer gently with one hand, the other squeezing his shoulder around the wound as if she’d hold it shut and keep the blood at bay. With a smooth, quick motion, the blade was free in her hand, blood coating its shiny surface. The pain abruptly was gone. He could feel the massive tide of power flowing from her, warming the injured tissue, mending it. Moments later, she was helping him to his feet.

  Taren massaged the shoulder. It felt completely new, as if the wound had never been. He rotated his shoulder, feeling not even any muscle stiffness remaining.

  “Here. I’ve been meaning to give this to you. Its name is Lightslicer.” Nera removed the sheath from her belt. She raised the bloodied blade and blew lightly upon it, and it flared brightly as if reflecting a ray of sunlight. The blood was gone, the steel gleaming with a bright sheen as she reversed it and offered him the hilt.

  Taren accepted the dagger. It felt marvelous in his hand, as light as its namesake would indicate, gently curved yet perfectly balanced. The blade was etched with an Elvish inscription. He studied it but couldn’t quite decipher the text.

  “‘Lightslicer—may this blade never be far from hand,’” Nera recited. She smiled at his awed look. “You can summon it to return to your hand.”

  “Thank you. This is a fine gift, indeed.”

  “It is. Mira’s mentor, Master Dagun, gave it to me, and it’s served me well these past years, although I find I have little need for it anymore.”

  She seemed surprised when he embraced her, but she returned the gesture after a moment, her horn grazing his cheek, the earring at the tip bobbing against his jaw. She patted his back as if embarrassed then cleared her throat when they broke apart.

  “I’m proud of you, Taren. Wyat raised you well, as I knew he would.”

  “He was like a father to me. I just wish I’d known my true father.”

  “And I as well.” Nera tousled his hair and gave him a gentle shove in the chest. “All right then—enough blathering. Time is short, and we must complete your training as best we are able.”

  Taren attached Lightslicer’s sheath to his belt and faced her once more. “What shall I do now?”

  “Come at me again. Use everything at your disposal, for your enemies shall do the same. Magic, psionics, weapons. Even harsh language. Whatever it takes.”

  Taren laughed, but then he did as she bade him, cognizant of his limitations to not overtax himself. Fireballs, lightning bolts, blasts of force, spears of earth shooting from the ground—he threw them all at Nera. Many she ignored, others she deflected or absorbed, funneling the power back into her surroundings. He even threw Lightslicer when she was absorbed with fending off a crumbling ceiling.

  “Good.” Nera raised the dagger, which she had easily caught in one hand. She held the blade between thumb and fingers then hurled it back at him.

  This time, he was ready. He brushed the dagger aside with a concentrated gust of wind, and it sailed a foot or two wide, clattering to the ground somewhere behind him. He extended a hand to the dagger, thinking of it in the forefront of his mind, and it reappeared in his hand with a flash of light.

  Very nice.

  “That all you got? What about psionics?”

  He tried to harness a mental blast, something crude and simple that could briefly incapacitate someone, or at least disrupt their concentration. He launched his wave of stunning psionic energy at her, but it shattered like an eggshell against the hardy mental fortress Nera had constructed.

  At the same time his mental attack struck, he used his magic to cause a cave-in beneath her, a pit opening up and rapidly swallowing a dozen paces or more of the floor. But Nera remained exactly where she was, as if standing atop a mere illusion of a pit. He increased his draw of magic, trying to push her downward into the hole. More and more mana surged into him, and he thought he saw a flicker of strain cross her features for a moment, but he might have imagined it.

  The dizziness hit him hard then, and he realized in his determination to make her falter, he’d overtaxed himself once more.

  “Not bad, but now it’s my turn.”

  Nera unleashed a blast of force at him, hurling him backward a few steps before he threw up a shaky defense, siphoning some of her spell’s energy to stabilize himself. Her attack shifted to fire, crackling around him. He tried to snuff it out, but he was too weak, and the flames resisted his attempt, burning away his defensive sphere in seconds until it was crackling around his feet and legs. In an instant, the fire grew uncomfortably hot, turning swiftly to pain, and he was no longer there in Nexus.

  In his mind, he saw Yethri before him once more, screaming as the sheets of fire enveloped her in agony, burning hair and flesh away. Only now, he was the one being consumed as the fire crackled, scorching his clothes and skin, smoke filling his lungs…

  “Relax, Taren. Sleep now.”

  Taren cried out, instinctively summoning water to his aid—a great volume, perhaps several rain barrels’ worth. Cold water splashed atop his head, instantly drenchi
ng him along with his clothes and blankets and bedsheets. The water cascaded onto the floor, sloshing ankle deep as it rebounded off the walls. It doused the small flames in the hearth.

  The cold shocked him, sending him leaping from the bed, only to get entangled in the wet blankets and flop unceremoniously onto the sodden fur carpet on the floor. He lay there looking around, dumbfounded to realize he was in his bedchamber.

  Finally, after a long moment, he gathered his wits about him. He lay on the wet fur rug beside his sodden bed, still dressed in his tunic and breeches. The hearth was smoking, its flames doused, and the room was cool but not freezing. However, soaked to the bone as he was, he knew he would soon be cold and thoroughly miserable. Outside, the window was the night sky.

  “What just happened?”

  Last thing he’d known, he was training with his mother, engaged in a battle of magic. Then the flames had coiled around him, burning, choking him with smoke. But his clothes, other than being sopping wet, were intact, as was his skin—no signs of burns. His boots had been removed. Judging by the darkness outside, hours had passed since their training.

  Taren picked himself up, still confused. She slipped a suggestion in my head to sleep, he realized. It was so overwhelmingly powerful and its effect instantaneous that I didn’t even know it. He smiled ruefully, admiring the tactic. I reacted with water, thinking I was still burning.

  A shiver seized him, and he stripped off his sodden tunic. I need to dry off and get fresh clothes. He studied the water pooled in the mortar cracks and low places in the stone floor. All the standing water had subsided to just an inch or so in depth in a few spots after spreading out across the entire bedchamber. Much of it had soaked into the bedding and rug.

  I should be able to do this.

  Concentrating, he focused on raising the room’s ambient temperature to dry everything out. He started with the hearth, pouring fire into it. The soaked wood smoked terribly, filling the room with smoke, and he gave up after a moment, coughing, eyes watering. He cleared the air by blowing the smoke out the window with a gust of wind. Focusing on the floor, he tried to warm the stone by pouring heat into it. After a couple minutes of concentration, he managed to raise the ambient temperature slightly, but not nearly enough to dry out the wet mess he’d made of his bedding and clothes and rugs on the floor. He tried again, concentrating on a large puddle beneath one leg of the bed.

  With a crackle, the wooden bedpost suddenly ignited. The gauzy curtain hanging from it went up instantly. Taren cursed and snuffed the flames out before they could do any further damage. Smoke curled off the charred remains of the curtain and bedpost.

  He laughed then. There wasn’t much else for it—this was a mess thoroughly of his own making. He was tired and flustered and knew he wouldn’t be able to unmake this disaster, especially not in his current condition. He shivered again, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a warm, dry bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. “Taren?”

  Embarrassed, he started toward the door to keep whoever it was out, fearing it was Nera.

  I don’t want Mother or Arron or anyone else seeing this mess. I’ll never hear the end of it.

  The door creaked open a crack. “Taren, are you well?”

  Mira. Relief filled him although he was still embarrassed and also aware he was shirtless and soaked.

  “Don’t come in. I’m fine—it’s nothing.”

  But he was too late. She’d already poked her head in, eyes wide as she took in the water damage and the smoldering bedpost.

  “By the Balance! What happened here?”

  “I, uh, had a slight mishap with my magic, I suppose.”

  “I sensed your distress and feared the worst.”

  Her eyes met his, showing no judgment there. From Mira, he suspected he never would see any, and he was grateful for her reassuring presence once again.

  “You’re soaked and shivering!” She eased the door further open despite his weak protest and stepped inside, wearing only a plain nightgown, but she didn’t seem embarrassed by either of their states of undress, just genuinely concerned.

  “I’m fine, Mira. Really.”

  She sensed it through our psionic connection—Mother said this might happen. He placed a hand on her arm, hoping to steer her back outside and close the door.

  “Nonsense. You’ll catch chill in here. Nera already said you were indisposed when you missed dinner this evening.”

  “Oh, she did? I was asleep. I think.”

  She shook her head, decisively. “You can’t sleep in here like this. Come on. We’ll get it sorted in the morning.” Grasping his hand firmly, she led him into the hallway.

  He closed the door behind him, not wanting anyone to see the disaster he’d caused.

  Mira led him to her room and pulled a blanket off her bed, which he noticed was barely wrinkled, as if she had slept but not moved a muscle all night. “Take off those wet clothes.” She held up the blanket as a screen between them. “Come on, I won’t look.” A hint of humor filled her voice.

  Taren sighed, embarrassed, but knew she was right. He stripped out of his wet breeches and even smallclothes, and she draped the blanket over his shoulders. He wrapped it tightly around himself while she stoked the embers in the hearth and added some wood.

  “You don’t need to be my nursemaid, Mira.” The words came out harsher than he intended. He didn’t know what to feel—shame, embarrassment, and a little annoyance and frustration, not that she was looking out for him as always, but that he needed her to, as if he were a small child who couldn’t take care of himself. Despite his churlish thoughts, the fire’s warmth felt marvelous, and he held his hands out to warm them.

  If Mira was stung by his remark, she didn’t show it. Instead, she moved behind him and pushed down on his shoulders, encouraging him to sit before the fire. When he did, she sat beside him in quiet companionship, watching the flames. They hadn’t spoken of the experience of sharing her mind, but she obviously had taken it in stride as she was wont to do. It seemed to draw them even closer, and he realized he didn’t need to explain anything to her or make any excuses for himself. She accepted him for who and what he was.

  She spoke after a few moments of silence. “I think sometimes part of my duty is protecting you from yourself, Taren.” Amusement danced in her eyes with the firelight, and she offered her shy smile.

  Taren laughed. He couldn’t help himself, and she joined him a moment later. After the shock and frustration of earlier, the release found in laughter felt good. “Oh, gods. What would I do without you, Mira?”

  “Probably catch cold trying to sleep in a wet bed all night.”

  “You’re probably right. Thank you for being there and saving me from myself. Again.”

  She smiled. “Think nothing of it.”

  They sat there quietly a while longer, the dancing flames entrancing him. Soon, he was warm and comfortable and felt his eyelids drooping.

  “Come. Get in bed.”

  He didn’t protest this time. She raised one of her blankets, and he tumbled into the bed, still wrapped tightly in the other blanket. She laid the cover atop him. A moment later, she slipped in beside him, her back touching his own, a warm presence but not crowding him with any intimacy—just like when they were traveling companions on the road, taking advantage of shared warmth to huddle together against the chill of the night.

  The words of the seer at the Midsummer Festival came back to him as they tended to do from time to time, the cryptic prophecy something he often tried to puzzle out in his mind. Mostly, he felt like a bumbling country lout, especially after such incidents like in his room earlier, and not some great and powerful thaumaturge whose actions the fates of thousands upon thousands rested on. He certainly felt like he had no business with the lives of others being placed in his hands. But one statement in particular came to mind before he nodded off: “Keep close the one who follows the weft of fate, for a true
r companion you could not wish for.”

  In that prophecy, she couldn’t be more right, he thought with a smile and slid into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  ***

  The next morning, Taren was hesitant to face his mother.

  Thinking to try again to remedy the mess he’d created, he returned to his room after waking and finding Mira gone for her morning exercise. At first, he thought he’d stumbled into the wrong room, but he saw Lightslicer in its sheath on his belt hanging over the back of a chair. To his astonishment, everything had been restored to normal. The room was warm and dry, free of any mustiness or smoke in the air. The bed was neatly made and the bedpost unburned, as was the gauzy curtain.

  Oh gods, some poor servants had to clean up my mess. I’ll never hear the end of it from Mother.

  But when he reached their normal gathering room for breakfast, Nera apparently had something else on her mind.

  “Morning,” Taren said, seeing her eyes on him as he joined her and Mira and Arron at the table. Ferret was there too, and although she didn’t always join them for meals, she loved listening to Arron’s frequent gossip, for the half-elf could be as bad as a washerwoman sometimes.

  “Well, you kids had a busy night last night, huh?” Nera waggled her eyebrows suggestively, watching Taren with amusement, her eyes then shifting to include Mira.

  Arron paused in his recounting of some unfortunate nobleman caught literally with his pants down at a brothel by his irate wife and mistress both, who’d apparently joined forces to take a piece out of his hide. Like a hound discovering a more tantalizing scent, he homed in on the two of them.

  An embarrassed silence hung over the table, all eyes now on Taren and Mira.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he protested.

  Mira, to her credit, returned their questioning gazes innocently.