Hearing footsteps, she forgot about the colors and looked back down the hill. A gray-robed mage was approaching the oak tree. He was skinny and pale, perhaps a few years older than Jak, and had reddish-blond hair. The ordinariness of the man surprised Kenders. Had he been wearing field clothes, she would have never looked twice at him.
He strolled through the trees, turning his head back and forth, scanning the area. As his gaze drifted up Kenders’ hill, she reflexively clenched every muscle in her body and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. When his stare reached where she was lying, she nearly leapt from the grass and charged him, but remained frozen when it skipped over her and continued to sweep the grassy hillside without pause.
He had not seen her.
Stunned, she watched the mage trek southward, down the hill and away from her and Nikalys. As he dipped out of sight, she sat up a little, twisted around, and looked up the hill. Nikalys was already sitting up and staring down at her. He looked as befuddled as she felt. Staring at her, he mouthed a single, silent word. “How?”
Kenders’ answer was a silent, astounded shrug of her shoulders.
After several quiet, stunned moments, Nikalys twisted around, lowered himself back to the ground, and peered west. He waved to Kenders, indicating that he wanted her to come up.
Before she moved, she took a quick look around to ensure there were no more wandering mages. As she scanned the forest, she realized she could not feel the colors any longer. They were gone.
Deciding that it was safe to move, she climbed the ridge and lowered herself beside Nikalys, laying in dirt and leaves. Below them and to the west, the wet ruins of Yellow Mud waited.
The devastation was complete. Not a single building remained. Everything was a mess of broken timbers, tumbled stones, matted straw, shattered furniture, and twisted, wrecked bodies. The air smelled of mud.
Moments passed where while neither Kenders nor Nikalys said a word.
Eventually, Nikalys looked over and asked, “How did that mage not see you?”
“I don’t know,” mumbled Kenders, never taking her eyes off the remains of their village. “Just be happy he didn’t.”
She had no intention of telling Nikalys about the web of colors. Undoubtedly, it had been magic and she wanted nothing to do with that now. Or ever, for that matter.
“I tried to warn you,” whispered Nikalys. “When I saw the ijul all alone, I started looking around for the others just as that man came over the ridge.”
“Where’s the ijul?”
Nikalys pointed northwest.
“Up there.”
Looking to where Nikalys indicated, she spotted the crimson robes and bright blondish-white hair in an instant. The ijul stood atop a bluff, staring down into the remains of the village.
“And the rest?” muttered Kenders.
“Out here, I guess.”
Staring at the bluff, Kenders shook her head. “Gods, we were lucky.”
“Well, you certainly were,” agreed Nikalys. “How he didn’t see you is a—”
Shaking her head, Kenders interrupted him, saying, “Not what I meant. If we had kept running, we would have come out down there.” She pointed to a clump of oaks just as the reddish-blond mage emerged from the trees. Nodding back to the ijul, she added, “And he would have seen us.”
Peering between the two mages, Nikalys grunted, “You’re right.”
“What made you come up here?”
“Seemed like a good idea,” muttered Nikalys. “Didn’t make sense to run straight into the village.”
“Have any more good ideas? We still need to get down there.”
“Not now, we aren’t.”
“Our family needs us!”
Jabbing a finger at the bluff, Nikalys hissed, “If they see us, they will kill us. And we can’t help anyone if we’re dead! For once, think before you act!”
She dug her fingers into the dirt and leaves beneath her. It took all of her self-control not to rush into their village. Her nose twitched. “Fine. We wait.”
“Thank you,” mumbled Nikalys. Though the point was settled, he did not look away. After a few moments, he asked, “Any more feeling colors?”
“No,” lied Kenders. “Nothing at all.”
A relieved sigh slipped from his lips as he stared back to the bluff. “Good.”
Brother and sister rested beneath the ridge and watched one gray-robed mage after another rejoined the ijul on the bluff. Once all nine had returned, the willowy ijul turned and began speaking to them.
“What do you think they are saying?” asked Nikalys.
“I don’t care,” murmured Kenders. “Does it matter what murderers—” She stopped short. The crackling and colors were back.
Blue. White. Silver.
Despite not wanting to admit what she sensed, she muttered, “Nik?”
“Yes?”
“Something’s happening.”
Moments later, the gray-robed mages began to grasp their throats and stumble about the bluff. One by one, they collapsed to the ground. All nine fell. Only the ijul remained standing.
Chapter 5: Teacher
Jhaell stood motionless, staring at the ruins of the town below him with a grim frown on his face. Streams of muddy water drained south, following the natural slope of the land. Debris and bodies littered the ground, deposited haphazardly by the runoff. Of the people he could see, none appeared alive.
He shook his head slowly, frustrated. “This was too easy.”
Had this been the correct place, there would have been some sort of resistance. It seemed Jhaell had found yet another false lead. Making things worse, he had acted on it.
Grinding his teeth, he muttered, “Beelvra!”
A few days past, he had ported himself and nine acolytes to a secluded courtyard in Redstone. The ten of them traveled via cart along the Southern Road, disembarking a few miles southwest of Yellow Mud and continuing the rest of the way through the forest on foot, reaching this very overlook this morning. He observed the village for a time, trying to determine if he was in the correct place or not. Short of going through the town and knocking on every door, he had no real way of knowing. And he did not dare do that. Prey was most dangerous when cornered.
Years of waiting had driven Jhaell to make a rash decision. Recalling the map of the area, he knew that a large lake lay to the north.
The opportunity had been too tempting.
The acolytes had followed him to the lakeside and listened to his instructions, only briefly showing alarm at the task that required their assistance. He had left the weaving of Water to the acolytes, intertwining additional Strands that only he knew how to manipulate. Fate gave him an entire class of acolytes that could touch Water, yet not one could reach Will or Soul. He took it as a sign that he was meant to do this.
They had stood on the lake’s surface in plain view, knowing full well magic was banned in the Oaken Duchies. Jhaell did not particularly care about laws, especially ones borne of ignorance in a nation that was not his own.
When the Weave was complete, Jhaell instructed the fibríaal to follow the irrigation ditch that the townspeople had so kindly dug into the middle of their town. Using a port, Jhaell ensured he was in place atop the bluff to watch the destruction unfold.
Now, he regretted it all. He had made a spectacle, one that could not be easily explained away. He pressed his lips together. “This was foolish.”
He lifted his gaze to stare at the surrounding hillsides. The forest was quiet. Perhaps the luck of Ketus was with him today and there were no witnesses. Turning around, he stared at his students. Seeing none moving, he released the Weaves binding their airways, letting the water spill from their noses and mouths.
He searched the students to ensure that nothing would tie them to the Academy at Immylla, not that anyone in the duchies would ever conceive of the possibility. With a few quick Weaves of Air, Jhaell lifted the bodies off the ground and started down a narrow path leading from the
bluff. He directed the acolytes ahead of him, carelessly bumping the dead students into rocks and dragging them through bushes. When he reached the edge of the dissipating flood, he stopped. Any further and he would get his sandals muddy.
For a time, he studied the ruins with a cold, unfeeling stare. Bodies hung from trees and bushes, random bits of stone and wood lay half-buried in the yellow mud. A dead horse lay draped over a pot-stove. The frown that had been affixed to his face since releasing the fibríaal deepened. He could live two lifetimes and never come up with a rational explanation for this. He could only hope Tandyr never discovered his indiscretion.
Adjusting the Weave, he tossed the limp, lifeless bodies of the acolytes into the mess. One got wedged in a tree while the others landed in the mud with a soft, squishing sound. He should have never involved them in his pursuit. Explaining their disappearance to the registry would be challenging but doable.
He stood in place, listening intently for anything that might indicate someone was still alive. All he heard was the sound of running water as countless, spontaneous streams carried away the last of the fibríaal.
Looking around one last time, Jhaell reached for the white Strands of Air, grasping them with ease, yet straining as he summoned a number of the deep, midnight-black ones. He was a Void mage, but not a particularly talented one. Having what he needed, he set to crafting the correct pattern, staring into the air, urging the Strands to go where they needed to go.
This particular Weave was complex and he took pride in knowing that he was one of the few mortals capable of such a feat. As he neared the completion of the Weave, he closed his eyes and drew forth the image of his office at Immylla.
The sound of a thick parchment sheet being torn in two filled the wilderness.
Opening his eyes, he spotted the telltale slit in front of him, hanging in midair. He reached out with a hand to touch the edge of the slit—an icy chill ran along his arm—and pulled it to one side, much as he would a curtain. Concentrated blackness waited for him inside. With one last look around—fixing the scene in his mind should he need to return—he stepped through the opening and disappeared into the void, letting the flap of reality fall back into place.
A few moments later, the slit disappeared with a small pop.
Chapter 6: Discovery
Once Kenders and Nikalys reached the bottom of the hill, they moved onto the road leading home. No longer made of yellow-tinted dirt, the way was instead a muddy mess that reminded Kenders of creamy butter. The muck significantly slowed their pace as they slipped in some places and got stuck in others.
Getting to this point had taken much longer than she would have liked. When the ijul had taken the slaughtered mages—aided by crackling white magic—from the bluff, they resumed their descent only to stop and hide in a bush when Kenders felt a surge of black and white. Since leaving their hiding place, Kenders had not felt any more magic.
A half-mile from the edge of town, they started to encounter debris. Muddied clumps of wet straw still tied in bundles lay scattered about, remnants of roof thatching. Splintered timbers and tree branches stuck up from the muck, forcing the siblings to go around them. Early, unripe olives dotted the ground. The wave had brought the harvest to town a few turns early.
Puddles and pools lay scattered about, some large enough to be considered ponds. The occasional bit of household furniture jutted up out of the mud: a chair, a table, a pot-stove. Spotting a child’s crib off the road a bit, Kenders turned her head yet listened carefully for an infant’s cry. There was none.
This terrain was both familiar and foreign. She had walked this path countless times before, but the destruction around her made it seem as if she were treading upon it for the first time. She shook her head without pause, caught in a state of perpetual shock.
It took them twice as long as it should have to finally reach the eastern edge of town. Or at least what had been the eastern edge of town.
Pointing to an empty plot of land, Kenders said, “Widow Johns’ house is gone.”
“All the houses are gone,” replied Nikalys.
Standing in mud, drowning in helplessness, Kenders muttered, “I don’t see how anyone survived.”
Nikalys clenched his jaw, sighed, and said, “Let’s go. I don’t want to linger.” He turned away and continued west. Kenders followed.
A short time later, they found the first body. Stopping a few paces from the corpse, brother and sister stared, silent. Kenders could tell that it was a man, but that was all. The poor soul lay face down in the mud, covered in yellow, slimy muck.
Fighting back the urge to get ill, Kenders quietly, “That’s not Father, is it?”
Nikalys hesitated—worrying her—before answering, “Father’s taller.”
“Jak?”
Shaking his head, Nikalys replied, “The hair is wrong.”
“Then who?”
Nikalys was quiet for a few heartbeats before sighing. “I don’t want to know.”
He stepped away from the corpse and continued into the village, squishing as he went.
Kenders followed, trying to scrub the image from her mind. Had they turned the man over, they would have surely recognized him, which was why she was glad they let him be. Not knowing his identity made the death easier to accept. The dead did not enjoy anonymity forever, however.
Kenders found Mrs. Bodsworth—her eyes wide and blank—slouched against a dented and toppled pot-stove. The woman had been the unofficial teacher in Yellow Mud, instructing children in their numbers and letters if their parents wished. Thaddeus and Marie had insisted all three Isaac children learn how to read, write, and work numbers, making them go four afternoons a week, even during the busy spring and harvest seasons.
Kenders moved to the overturned stove in order to close Mrs. Bodsworth’s eyelids. It took her three tries before she could bring herself to touch the corpse. Tears that had begun falling at some point now dripped onto Mrs. Bodsworth’s torn and soiled dress.
“Maeana welcome you with open arms.”
The Final Friend waited for every soul that passed from this life, judging a person’s deeds before determining the next journey for the soul to make. In Kenders’ opinion, knowing a goddess welcomed you when you died was little consolation. You were still dead.
As they wandered the ruined field that used to be their village, her tears eventually stopped flowing. The overwhelming sorrow she felt morphed into the numbing throb of hopelessness.
At some point, Nikalys retrieved an old leather satchel hanging from an uprooted tree and poured water from it. Soon after, he picked up a hunting knife still in its sheath and put it in the bag.
“Kenders, I need you to search the bodies and see if you can find any beltpurses.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” ordered Nikalys. “And don’t argue.”
His officious tone earned him a sharp glare from her, one he did not see as he was peering about the mud. “No! I am not a thief!”
Tossing something he had retrieved from the mud back to the ground, Nikalys replied, “What are they going to do with coin? They’re dead.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed. His callousness shocked her. “Do it yourself. I’m not stealing!”
“It’s not stealing.”
“I’m not doing it, Nik!”
“Fine. I’ll be the cutpurse. Try to find anything that might be useful if you were going into the woods for a time. Knives, flint, tools. Waterskins, too.”
Her eyes narrowing, Kenders asked, “Why?”
“Why do you think?” asked Nikalys. “Because we’re leaving.” Kicking over a plank of wood, he exposed a chest of drawers lying on its back. “And soon.”
“What do you mean ‘we’re leaving?’” asked Kenders, moving toward Nikalys, avoiding muddy puddles as she went. “We’re supposed to be looking for Mother, Father, and Jak.”
Scooting around to one side of the toppled chest, Nikalys said, “Here, help me tip this up.
”
“Nikalys! Don’t ignore me! Leave that blasted chest alone and help me find our family!”
Nikalys’ visage of calm crumbled. He slammed his hand down on the chest so hard that she heard the wood crack.
“Blast it, Kenders! Look around you!” Gesturing in all directions, he shouted, “ There is nothing left! Nothing! Yellow Mud is gone! Our home is gone! Everyone—everyone—is gone!” His voice echoed in the empty hills.
Kenders stared at her brother’s wild-eyed face for a moment and then dropped her head, angry, bitter, heartbroken, and a dozen other emotions she could not hold onto long enough to name.
Nikalys let out a long, weary sigh. Squishing in the mud, he walked to her and wrapped his arms around her.
“Hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.” His voice was softer, but still carried an edge sharper than any knife. “I’m just so…so…” He trailed off, never finishing the sentence.
“I know,” whispered Kenders. “Me, too.”
He held her for a moment longer, then pushed her back to arms’ length and stared at her. “There’s nothing left for us here. No one could have survived this. Mother, Father, and Jak are in Maeana’s hall now.”
The tears threatened to start flowing again.
His tone gentle, Nikalys continued, “It hurts, I know. But we need to get moving. That mage might come back. And I doubt he would treat us kindly if he found us here.”
“People might still need our help.”
“Short of burying them, there is no help we can give them. We need to get far away from here, as quickly as we can.”
She wanted to protest more, knowing that if she acknowledged that he was right it meant letting go the hope that their parents and brother were still alive. It took her a few moments, but that was what she did. She wiped away her tears with hands, leaving streaks of ochre clay on her face, and nodded.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
Giving her a final squeeze, Nikalys released her and moved back toward the chest of drawers he had been trying to open.
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 5
