by Beth Alvarez
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Firal groaned at the cheerful words. She couldn’t seem to straighten her legs or back. Her muscles protested every move. She’d curled up in her cloak after it dried, but the ground was hard and cold and she would surely suffer for it today. Dim light filtered in from the mouth of the passage and she thought she smelled rain.
The fire had long since gone out. Daemon swept the ashes into one of the trenches with his foot. “I brought you some food. I figured it’d be faster for me to try foraging alone.” He touched his shirt and pockets as though he’d forgotten where he put it.
She scowled and gathered her cloak around her shoulders as she forced herself to sit up. “If more than four legs are involved in this particular meal, then you can keep it.”
“No legs, don’t worry.” Daemon found the pouch in a pocket on the inside of his cloak. He tugged it open as he drew it from its hiding place. It was not the same pouch he’d put the scorpions in; she wondered if he still had them. He turned it over and gave it a shake. Huge blackberries spilled into his palm.
She hesitated as he crouched beside her. “Are they poisonous?”
“Poisonous? They’re blackberries. Besides, why would I do such a thing to my teacher?” He took a berry between the claws of his forefinger and thumb and slipped it beneath his mask.
“I’m not sure I believe you ate that.” Firal picked up a berry and leered at it distrustfully. It was plump and tantalizing after a long night without a meal.
“I’m really not sure why you’re so convinced I’m going to hurt you. You didn’t seem to believe I would before. Besides, we made an agreement. Doesn’t that count for anything?” He lifted a green-scaled hand to his chest in a gesture of hurt that didn’t seem sincere.
She frowned at him before she tried his offering. The fruit was still warm from the earth and air, soft from sunshine and rich with flavor. She chewed slowly, waiting to make sure there were no adverse effects before taking another. “Thank you, by the way.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How much farther do we have to go?” she asked.
Daemon shook a few more berries into the palm of his hand before he tossed the rest of the pouch to her. “We should be at the border of the capital in a few nights, if we can keep the pace we held yesterday.”
“Oh.” Firal drew up her knees and hugged them with one arm as she ate. She wasn’t looking forward to another day of aching muscles and blistered feet. “Have you been to Ilmenhith before?”
“Many times.”
She picked up the pouch of blackberries. “What will you do when we get there?” As strongly as she hoped to find other magelings from the temple, she had no idea what their lodging arrangements would be, or where to look for them. She wasn’t eager to roam the city on her own, but she would if she had to.
“I have my own business to attend to.” Daemon brushed at his clothes as he stood. He double-checked the ground for belongings, then turned toward the open air.
Firal stumbled over her feet as she hurried after him.
“Now,” he sighed, starting off at a brisk pace. “Let’s begin the next lesson, shall we?”
Her shoulders slumped as they emerged into a dreary drizzle.
Daemon kept her distracted with a seemingly endless barrage of questions. His eagerness to hear about the temple’s methods and teachings was surprising, his enthusiasm encouraging. She didn’t know the answer for some questions, but at least stewing over them made travel less monotonous.
“So how many classes, on average, does a normal mageling…” His face twisted as if the word left a foul taste in his mouth. “I mean, how many classes does a student usually have?”
“It depends on their affinities, really, but most have five or six a day. The magelings are divided by skill level, which is denoted by color and associated with strength, but they’re usually divided by affinity as well.” Firal paused to pick a burr out of her skirts. She examined its shape before she cast it to the ground. There were a number of useful plants in the ruins, and she tried to note where each of them grew. “There are a few classes everyone is required to take, though, regardless of affinity. Healing, for example. It’s considered a vital skill, so they make all magelings study it.”
“I’m not sure I understand the divisions the temple has set up.” Daemon paused to let her catch up. He was a full head taller than her and his long-legged strides were difficult for her to match.
“Well, first, there are the colors,” she said. “Gray marks the least skilled mages, followed by lavender. Yellow is about the middle, green a step higher, and blue comes just before Master. Masters wear white, but Masters of a House or the royal court also mark their eyes.”
“Yes, yes, I know that,” he snapped, waving a hand as if to dismiss the explanation. “I mean I don’t understand the affinities, or why they would divide students because of them.”
“Oh.” Firal stopped to untangle a vine from her sandal before she replied. “Well, there are five recognized affinities. Those are the Houses. There’s Fire, Wind, Water, Earth, and then Healing, though I suppose it should be called Life. One’s affinity dictates the power sources they can draw from, I think I mentioned that before.”
“Sort of,” he said, “but go on.”
“Affinities are a safeguard of magic, I suppose you could say.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “They keep one from drawing more power than they can handle. Those with a wind affinity, for example, can usually only harness the power of the wind to fuel their magic. Everyone can use their body’s own energy, though, and use it to influence elements outside their affinity.”
Daemon eyed her over his shoulder. “What’s your affinity?”
“Healing.” Pride swelled in her chest and escaped as a smile. “It’s why you’re walking on that leg so soon. Of course, healing has its own downfalls. I can’t heal myself. No one has the ability to manipulate their own body with magic. And it’s a dangerous affinity to have. It means I can only use the energy of living things. I’m always afraid I’ll draw more than what’s safe to borrow. It’s one thing to unmake a rock, or a tree, but when you’re using someone else’s energies to heal them...” She shuddered.
“You must spend a lot of time studying.” He changed the subject smoothly, pulling himself up onto a wall as they rounded a corner.
She was grateful for the change of topic. The risks of magic weren’t pleasant to discuss. “I have nine hours of classes on normal days. Lately, though, the schedule has been a mess. There haven’t been any regular classes held since the king visited.”
“Nine hours a day.” He shook his head. “And yet you still have enough free time to trespass where you aren’t wanted.”
Firal pursed her lips and did not reply.
Daemon glanced down at her. “I’m just teasing, you know.” He walked with his arms outstretched to maintain his balance on the narrow wall. Now and then he faltered when loose stones slid out from underfoot.
Firal cringed, certain he would fall. “I don’t find that sort of teasing very funny.”
“I didn’t figure you would.” A hint of sarcasm colored his voice and he changed the topic abruptly again, though he spoke as if continuing a thought. “You know, I’ve seen mostly women at the temple. Why don’t more men practice magecraft?”
“A good number of men aren’t able to.” She tried not to look as he stepped over cracks in the wall. “Really, I’m surprised that you have an active Gift. Most who follow a soldier’s path can’t be taught.”
“Why not?” His tone reminded her of a curious child.
“Magic is tied closely to emotion. Connecting to energies also requires a strong connection to feelings, particularly in healing. Empathy is important. Without it, one would not be able to sense the energy flows. Most men throttle their feelings into oblivion. There are just as many Gifted men as women, but I think most men are taught that strong emotion is undesirable, maybe even unacceptable.
They aren’t considered masculine traits, you know? But when they shut out those feelings, they shut out the only tie to their Gift. It’s almost impossible to open that pathway again.” Firal frowned in thought. “I suppose that’s part of why most mages are women, and male mages are sometimes viewed as sissies. Though that’s just silly, I can’t imagine anyone thinking that of Master Nondar.”
“So do you think I’m a sissy?” Daemon asked.
She glanced up, taking in his mask, rough-spun clothing and worn leather armor, his scales and claws and the daggers sheathed at his belt. “Oh yes,” she intoned sarcastically. “You’re the worst I’ve ever met.”
He laughed.
She felt uncomfortable every time she heard his laughter. It was so free and lighthearted that it seemed wrong, coming from a creature so frightful, and it carried a tonal familiarity that gave her chills.
“Really, though,” she continued. “There’s no difference between the strength of male mages and female mages. Female mages are just more common.”
“Do mages still marry?”
The question caught her off guard. She looked at him strangely. “Some of them. There’s nothing to say they can’t, but most who marry end up wedded to knights or nobles. A life of magecraft is very prestigious, after all. Mages are a class unto themselves. Why do you ask?”
“Because I’ve never seen a mage as a parent.”
Firal laughed aloud. “I wouldn’t expect you’ve seen many mages at all.”
“What makes you say that? I’ve seen plenty of mages at the temple.”
“Watching from the ruins won’t tell you anything about the mages at the temple.”
“And what makes you think I watch from the ruins?” Daemon cocked his head. “I’ve visited the temple plenty of times. Especially after dark. I may not be an expert, but I know your mage-barrier only keeps out unwelcome visitors. I mean the temple and its people no harm, so it lets me cross freely.”
She stumbled mid-stride. “But the barrier is supposed to keep everyone out!” Agitation swelled within her and she scowled. She could have fetched her things after all!
He spread his hands in indifference. “I grew up coming and going from the temple. Maybe that’s why the barrier still lets me through.”
Firal’s irritation subsided. It was the first time he’d mentioned anything personal, and it wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. If he’d visited the temple, why hadn’t he learned to control his Gift? And why would the Masters have allowed him to come and go, if they knew what he was? Her gaze settled on his feet and gooseflesh crawled up her arms. “Tell me more,” she said slowly.
“About the temple?” he asked, confused.
“No. About you.” A flush rose in her cheeks, uncomfortably warm.
He almost fell off the wall. “There...there isn’t much to tell.”
“You just said you grew up around the temple. How is that?” She smiled up at him, knowing the expression would keep him off guard.
“I was born there. I visited frequently. The mages wanted to study me. They said I was the first of my kind.” He looked at his clawed hand and flexed his fingers as he studied them. “I hope there are no more like me. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone.”
“How can you be the first of your kind?” Firal asked.
“They made me,” he replied gruffly.
She hastened to close the distance that had grown between them. “What do you mean, made you? Who made you?”
“No more questions,” Daemon snapped, so heatedly it brought her up short.
“But—” she faltered.
“No more questions,” he repeated, softer.
She bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to uncover old wounds, but his claim was ridiculous. She’d grown up in the temple. Wouldn’t she have seen him before? She stumbled through another patch of growth and gave a small cry of surprise when a raindrop struck her face.
Daemon glanced upward before he leaped down from the wall. “Come on,” he murmured, beckoning her with a hand. “I’ll find us some cover.”
Firal nodded and held in her questions.
It didn’t take long for Daemon to find another yawning cavern that stretched above ground, its rocky formation integrated into the walls of the ruins. The cavern’s natural mouth had been widened and lined with neat stone blocks, but its crude stairs still led into a darkened pit. Daemon descended without hesitation and disappeared from sight.
Firal lingered at the opening despite the heavy rain, wishing she had her lantern. When she didn’t follow, Daemon reappeared at the mouth of the cave.
“Coming?” he asked, the set of his shoulders betraying his impatience.
She picked up her skirts and descended the stairs. The air smelled stale but not musty, in spite of the thick humidity.
Daemon pressed something into her hand as soon as she reached the bottom. “Here.”
She glanced down at the square-shaped copper coin in her palm. Dim as the light had grown, she could barely make it out. “What’s this?”
“Make a light with it,” he replied, starting down the corridor. He vanished into shadow after only a few strides. Firal blinked and hurried after him as a mage-light flared to life in her hand.
The rough stone of the entrance soon gave way to smooth walls, as different from the underground tunnels she’d seen before as night and day. Green veining marbled the cool white stone. Gray granite formed the floor, cut square and polished smooth, though it was covered in the grit and grime of countless centuries. Peaked arches and fluted columns stood at regular intervals, breaking the seemingly endless hallway into sections.
“Did your people build this?” Firal asked. Roots broke through the stone ceiling in places, allowing stringy tendrils to dangle through. Dim streaks of light poured in with the rain where stones had fallen and left bright holes in the tunnel’s roof.
“No, we just added to them. These tunnels are as old as the labyrinth up there.” Daemon shrugged. “The whole place was already a ruin when the first Eldani came, but even my people have little record of why all this is here. The tunnels, that is. We know why the ruins are here.”
Firal perked up. “What do you know? The temple’s library only has studies on the ruins, not histories, and—”
“There’s a lot the temple doesn’t have,” he interrupted. “The temple exists to train tools, nothing more. I refuse to be one of them.”
The mage-light she held reacted to her curiosity, brightening and casting a red-gold color onto the walls. “Is that why you left?”
He gave her a sidewise look and she silently cursed the expressionless mask he wore. “I left for a lot of reasons. But I’ll never escape.”
Questions swirled through her thoughts, but she pushed them out of her mind. There would be time to ask more later. She didn’t want to push her luck.
“Teach me to make a light.” Daemon stopped suddenly and turned to face her.
“Right now?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, right now,” he growled.
Firal frowned. “That lesson comes in steps. First you have to learn to sustain a light without thought. Lighting it is the more complicated part.”
“How am I supposed to sustain it if I can’t even make it to begin with?”
“Here.” She stepped forward, grabbed his hand and dumped the coin into his palm. It went dark immediately and Daemon grunted in surprise.
“You have to catch it.” She took the coin back. It flared to life again as she turned it between her fingers. “It’s energy. Be open to it and expect it. Take it, then feed it with your own strength.” She moved the light slowly this time, easing it back into his scaly palm. The light flickered, then steadied.
He turned the glowing coin over in his hand. “It feels warm.”
“It should. It’s good that you can feel it. That means you’re supporting it with your own energy now.” Firal smiled at him.
He met her eyes, startled. The mage-light reacted. It flared b
righter, until the light hurt to look at, then flickered and suddenly went dark.
Dismayed, Firal blinked at the spots left in her vision. “What happened?”
“I can’t do it,” he said in a rush, thrusting the coin back into her hands. She re-lit it to see him walking away, fists clenched at his sides.
She almost scowled. “Don’t get angry at me because you failed. Your emotions have an enormous impact on your abilities. If you let them break your control, you’ll never get anywhere.”
“Don’t preach at me, girl,” he growled.
She set her jaw stomped after him. “You have a serious attitude problem. Would you shut up and listen for half a minute? We’ll do drills while we walk.”
Daemon rolled his eyes as she launched into a lecture about control. The growl of thunder seemed dim and distant as they walked.
They did not stop often. The occasional hole in the ceiling spilled sunlight into the underground, the angle of the beams revealing how much time had passed. Time of day made little difference in the darkness of the tunnel, though a certain eeriness came over the passageways when night fell.
The tunnel stretched straight ahead for miles, interrupted by occasional junctions where other hallways met theirs at right angles. It didn’t take long for the trip to become tedious, though it provided ample opportunity for Firal to explain the core principles of magecraft in better detail. Daemon didn’t seem to understand it all―she didn’t expect him to, not right away―but he accepted her explanations with a more open mind than she’d anticipated. She explained everything she could until her voice grew hoarse and the water skin Daemon carried ran dry. At last, his questions ceased.
“Can’t we sit for a bit? I don’t think I can walk another step.” Firal leaned down to massage her calves with both hands. As much as they ached, her feet were worse, rubbed raw again by the straps of her sandals. “You may have to carry me the rest of the way.”
“If you can’t walk on your own, then I suppose you’ll have to stay here.” His words were humorless, though he did stop and ease himself to the floor.
