Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  Magic, in any form, was forbidden in the Oaken Duchies.

  The newly enacted law created a national organization, the Constables, tasked with tracking any use of magic and arresting the offenders. Schools and colleges of magical study were torn down, texts were burned, teachers and students detained. Initially, mages peacefully submitted to the authority of the Constables, believing that reason and sanity would return and the law would be reversed.

  They were wrong.

  Rumors spread that those taken into custody were being executed. Remaining mages went into hiding or fled the duchies’ shores altogether, scattering across the whole of Terrene. Some even came to the Arcane Republic.

  The previously venerated White Lions were not immune to the new law. The council stripped them of their titles, named them outlaws, and sent the Constables after them. Eventually, the mage-hunters reported they had captured all eight. As time passed, mindless hatred of magic faded, but fear and ignorance easily replaced the void.

  Nundle had found the entire tale both troubling and fascinating. Which is why, when he had found the letter in Preceptor Myrr’s office three days ago, he knew he had to do something. He had to get to the duchies as quickly as possible.

  After familiarizing himself with various maps of the Oaken Duchies, Nundle left the library and headed to the Bank of the Strands to retrieve his sizable wealth, having deposited it there when he had first arrived in the Arcane Republic. To him, such a concept was novel—an entire organization that existed only to hold people’s coin, keep it safe for a small fee, and then give it back when they asked for it. It seemed a rather lazy and dishonorable way to make coin.

  Afterwards, he spent the day wandering the various taverns of the Candlelight District, trying to ferret out some very specific information: the name of any Oaken Duchies refugee able to weave a port. Late yesterday evening, he had succeeded.

  The informant had not known from which region the refugee mage hailed, but Nundle did not care. The Oaken Duchies was a large country, ten times the size of his own, but porting to anywhere in the duchies was a better option than taking a ship. Nundle’s excitement was tempered when the rumormonger revealed that the refugee was now a magistrate of the republic. Gaining access to the longleg would be a challenge.

  This morning, Nundle had woken with the sun, come to the House of Magistrates, and had requested to see Magistrate Ulius on a fabricated issue regarding an out-of-date permit for his non-existent pottery shop. The weasel-faced attendant had cursorily noted his presence and pointed to the bench on which Nundle had been sitting ever since.

  Wincing, Nundle shifted—yet again—in an attempt to get comfortable. His bottom hurt.

  The long wooden bench with a curved back would comfortably seat five or six longlegs, making it was ridiculously huge for a single tomble. His legs hung over the side, swinging freely, a solid foot from the ground. After four years living in the Arcane Republic, Nundle was weary of climbing atop things upon which everyone else could simply sit.

  He glared at the weasel-faced attendant. The longleg’s ornate, cherry desk was large and impressive, but it seemed small in the cavernous hall. Towering, curved walls swept upwards to meet in a precise point high above the polished, black stone floor. Hanging from the peak was a large bronze chandelier ablaze with hundreds of candles.

  The circular chamber was a lobby of sorts, with five identical desks sitting next to five identical doors arranged equidistant from each other. A single, tall entryway to the hall rested where the sixth door would be. The gentle, sweeping point atop of the wooden doors mimicked the shape of the room’s peak.

  Three of the five desks were occupied, meaning that magistrate was still inside his or her office. Nundle sighed. He would need to work fast.

  Throughout the day, a half-dozen other officials had gone in the magistrate’s office and came out again, yet still Nundle sat. He wished the magistrate would hurry and admit him. Every moment wasted was a moment Preceptor Myrr might walk through the chamber’s entryway.

  Suddenly, Nundle’s stomach growled. Loudly.

  The weasel-faced attendant behind the cherry desk looked up and gave him a disapproving stare.

  Glaring at the man, Nundle said, “Pardon me, but sitting around and waiting all day has made me hungry.”

  Smirking, the attendant said, “I would think one meal per day would suffice for you.”

  Nundle returned the smirk but refrained from any additional sarcasm. If he had any hope of seeing the magistrate, he had to keep the gatekeeper happy.

  A loud creak echoed through the room as Magistrate Ulius’ door opened. An older longleg with thick bushy gray hair encircling his bald pate stuck out his head and stared at the attendant. Flabby jowls hung from the side of his neck and an additional chin indicated that the longleg was large and quite overweight.

  “Are we finished, Marcus?”

  “Yes, Magistrate, there are no—”

  Nundle cleared his throat. In the quiet of the giant room where the loudest sound was the gentle scratching of quill on parchment, the sound reverberated, bouncing off granite. Magistrate Ulius jumped and turned his head all around, staring about the room and trying to discover from where the sound had come.

  Nundle coughed again and the magistrate’s eyes settled on the little tomble. As Nundle hopped off the bench and moved over to the door, the magistrate looked toward his assistant.

  “Ah…Marcus?”

  The weasel-faced man’s smirk returned. Even though Nundle had a name for the longleg, he would remain “Weasel Face” to Nundle in perpetuity.

  “I am sorry, sir. But this tomble—” the smirk deepened “—requested a few moments of your time.”

  Nundle felt it necessary to add, “Which I did very early this morning.”

  The magistrate bristled. It was apparent he wished to be done for the day.

  “Please, sir,” pled Nundle. “I do not need much of your time.”

  Frowning, the magistrate mumbled, “I wish I could, but I have an appointment I must—”

  “It’s very important, sir,” interrupted Nundle. He shook his traveling pack, filling the chamber with the sounds of coins clinking.

  Magistrate Ulius’ face changed in an instant. With a wide smile, he opened the door and said, “Please come in. I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.” He turned and went back inside the room.

  Nundle hopped from the bench gave a smug smile to Weasel Face as strode into the magistrate’s office. Two steps into the room, he stopped and stared.

  “Oh, my…”

  Colorful cloth hangings covered the walls. Carved statues littered the desk and shelves. Oversized books sat open on ornate metal stands. Dozens of gaudy, expensive-looking items filled every nook and cranny of the room. Staring out the glass windows that overlooked the city, Nundle spotted three of the monuments to the Strands—Air, Fire, and Soul. The grand spires towered over the city, sparkling white, orange, and silver in the late afternoon sun.

  Nundle eyed the magistrate as the longleg moved behind his desk and sat in a throne of a chair. The longleg’s love for food clearly matched his appetite for expensive objects.

  “Close the door behind you if you don’t mind.”

  Nundle was happy to comply, eyeing the lock as he did so. He was relieved to see it set by simply dropping a latch into a slot.

  Magistrate Ulius asked, “Now, how can I help you, Mister…?”

  “Tweetlewood,” replied Nundle, turning around. “Harlon Tweetlewood.”

  Nundle had used a series of false names since leaving Immylla, hoping they might him some time if anyone were tracking him. Namely, the preceptor.

  “What a fun name to say!” boomed the magistrate. “Harlon Tweetlewood! It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tweetlewood.” He eyed Nundle’s traveling satchel. “You mentioned you have something important you wish to discuss?” The greed in his eyes shone nearly as bright as the spires outside.

  �
�Ah, yes. Of course.”

  Striding across the office, Nundle reached into his travel pack, pulled out a handful of coins, and dumped them on the desk. The magistrate’s eyes opened wide. “Mr. Tweetlewood, you have my full attention.”

  He pulled the pile of coin close and started to count. It seemed the gold had his full attention.

  Nundle decided to open the conversation with flattery. Most people enjoyed hearing how impressive they were. Looking around the room, he said, “You have a striking collection, sir. When growing up in Pyth, did you ever imagine rising to such heights?”

  While Nundle knew the longleg was from the Oaken Duchies, he did not want to make the magistrate suspicious by heading straight into the subject. As Pyth was the region of the Arcane Republic where most longlegs lived, his fake assumption was both logical and understandable.

  Shaking his head, the magistrate said, “I’m not from Pyth. I came to the republic as young man.” He glanced up. “I’m originally from the Oaken Duchies.”

  “Truly?” gasped Nundle in feigned shock. “I heard mages are hunted for sport there.”

  Still paying more attention to the gold than Nundle, the magistrate nodded. “Absolutely true. I was hunted for two turns. Barely escaped with my life.”

  “My, oh my, sir,” replied Nundle, ladling on a healthy helping of awe. “That must have been terrifying. How did you escape?”

  Looking up, the magistrate cocked a bushy eyebrow, and said, “Because I am smarter than those blasted Constables, that’s how! From the moment they showed up in Huntersfield, I outsmarted them.”

  Nundle’s ears perked up. Huntersfield was relatively close to where he needed to go. “Huntersfield, sir?”

  “My home. At least it was.”

  Nundle wanted to smile, but he kept his joy buried. “They chased you from your home? How awful. What did you do?”

  Happy to have an eager listener to his tale, the magistrate leaned forward, resting his meaty arms on the desk. “I fled south to the outskirts of Silver Falls, living off the land and my wits.”

  Nundle could not believe his luck. Silver Falls was even closer.

  “From there, I headed to the coast. I needed to find a ship to commandeer and take me away from the madmen that hunted me like I was a beast.”

  With that change in direction, Nundle’s spectacular luck had run out. Nevertheless, Silver Falls was better than he could have hoped.

  “When I reached Freehaven, I—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interjected Nundle. He did not care about the rest of the story. “Silver Falls? That name sounds familiar to me. Now, why would that be?” He stared at the floor, pretending to retrieve some memory he most certainly did not possess. “Could you describe the place to me, sir?”

  Visibly perturbed that the story of his daring escape had been halted, the magistrate quickly found something else about which to brag.

  “I should think so. I have the memory of a twenty-year-old! I hid in a grove of oaks atop a hill overlooking the town. Silver Falls seemed benign from afar—but I dared not go near it.” The magistrate’s eyes narrowed. “You see, the Constables had laid a trap for me.”

  Nundle somehow doubted that. “Then it was wise of you to stay in the wilderness, sir.”

  Dropping his voice to just above a hushed whisper, the magistrate said, “Dozens of Trackers were after me. I saw them coming across the bridge over the river. But I outsmarted them, I did.”

  Pretending to be enthralled, Nundle said, “It sounds very exciting.”

  “Oh, it was, Mr. Tweetlewood. Very exciting. And dangerous. Very dangerous, I tell you.”

  “You had to have been very brave, sir.”

  The magistrate shrugged, reminding Nundle of a shuddering pile of bread pudding. “I did what I had to do.”

  Nundle struggled to keep from rolling his eyes. “You said there were dozens of Trackers, sir?”

  “At least. Perhaps a hundred.”

  “A hundred? Oh, my. How could you escape so many?”

  “Skill, Mr. Tweetlewood. Skill and cunning.”

  A chuckle threatened to burst from Nundle, but he swallowed it. “Excuse me, sir, but…I’m having a difficult time envisioning how you could escape so many. Perhaps you could take me there now and show me the hill? Rumor has it you know the Weave to create ports. Then you can tell me the whole exciting escape right where it all happened!”

  The magistrate’s eyes went wide. “Gods, no! Are you mad? It’s not safe for any mage to go there.”

  Nundle had hoped simply asking would work. Apparently, it would not. “Are you sure, sir?”

  “Quite.”

  Nundle closed his eyes, sighed, and steadied himself. Opening his eyes, he reached for the honey-gold Strands, watching the magistrate and praying the longleg was deaf to Will. Ketus was with Nundle. The magistrate ignored the Strands as Nundle knit a small pattern and directed it toward the longleg. “I think you should take us there now, sir.”

  While waiting for a response, he grabbed a few Air Strands, knitted another quick Weave, and looked back to the door. A small puff of air flipped the door’s latch shut. Magistrate Ulius might not be able to feel Will, but odds were at least one of the attendants or other magistrates outside could.

  Magistrate Ulius raised an eyebrow at the small display of Air magic, but seemed more focused on Nundle’s suggestion. Seeing him struggling with the decision, Nundle reached for more golden strings, wove a larger pattern, and directed it over the magistrate. “I would like to see that hillside, sir. Now if you can manage it.”

  The magistrate stood, slammed the desk with an open palm, and exclaimed, “By the gods! I’ll do it! Let’s go, Mr. Tweetlewood!” He walked around the desk and began to head toward the door. Shouts were echoing in the chamber outside now.

  “Uh, sir? Where are you going?”

  Magistrate Ulius answered without stopping. “I must tell Marcus where I am going, of course.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

  “Of course it is. I always tell him when I’m leaving.”

  Nundle groaned and reached for a large number of Strands this time, knowing he had just lit a beacon to any Will mage within a half of a mile. Upon completing the Weave, he directed it to the longleg and said, “Take me to the hill overlooking Silver Falls now. Without telling anyone.”

  The magistrate halted in the middle of his office as black and white Strands popped into view, quickly arranging themselves into an intricate pattern. Nundle tried to pay attention to the design, but the longleg wove much too rapidly. With the sound of shredding parchment, a jagged tear appeared two paces from the magistrate.

  Nundle had read descriptions of ports, but this was the first he had ever seen. It was rather disconcerting to watch the room flutter as if it were a painting on a sliced canvas on either side of the ink-black slit.

  Without uttering a word, the longleg took two steps forward, lifted back a flap of reality, and stepped through, a glazed expression on his face. Nundle suspected he had been a little too heavy-handed with the number of Strands he had used.

  The shouting in the hall was growing louder. Scurrying around the desk, Nundle scraped the gold coins he had given to the magistrate back into his bag. There was no point in leaving them behind.

  Someone began to pound on the door now, screaming for the magistrate.

  Nundle rushed to the port and stopped before it, hesitant to jump into the utter blackness. He reached out a tentative hand and touched one of the flaps. A cool, tingling sensation ran up his arm.

  With a boom and burst of flame, the office door flew across the room, crashing into a pair of bronze stands. Deaf to Fire, Nundle had had no idea that was coming.

  Smoke poured through the doorway, providing cover for a moment. Taking a deep breath, Nundle lifted a flap back and stepped through, expecting something similar to the initial tingling feeling. Instead, there was nothing. He stepped from the stone floor of the magistrate’s office
and put his foot down on rocky soil, emerging from the port beside the trunk of an oak tree.

  He turned his head in all directions, seeking the magistrate. The longleg stood a few paces away, glassy-eyed. Nundle scurried over, grabbed the magistrate’s arm, and shook it.

  “Magistrate! The Constables are coming for you through that port! Close it!”

  Panic flooded the magistrate’s eyes. He spun around and stared at the tear. The flap disappeared with a slight ‘pop.’

  Nundle stared at the empty air, relief coursing through him. His knees felt weak enough that he gripped a nearby tree trunk so he would not collapse. “I cannot believe that worked…”

  After a few steadying breaths, he turned in place, surveying the area. They were atop a small hill among a grove of oak trees. Below him, to the north, a long dirt road led to a gray stone bridge spanning a slate blue river. Nestled on the opposite bank was a small city of flat-topped, wooden buildings. Nundle hoped that was Silver Falls.

  He turned to examine the dazed magistrate, wondering what he was going to do with him. Nundle felt bad having tricked the longleg, but it had been necessary.

  “Magistrate, I think you deserve a very long break from the rigors imposed on you by the duties of your office. Don’t you?”

  Nodding, the longleg said, “That would be nice.”

  “Tell me, of all the places you have been, which has been your favorite? The farther from the Arcane Republic, the better.”

  His tone subdued, he said, “I suppose the enclave—” His eyes lit up. “No! I know! There is this village in the mountains of Halawala. It was so peaceful there. No one ever asking me for anything.” An expression of pure tranquility filled his face. “They made the most amazing root stew.”

  “Perfect. Port yourself there this very moment and take some time to rest—a few weeks, perhaps? That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

  With a faraway smile, the large longleg nodded. “It certainly does.”