by Alec Hutson
“I am,” Keilan replied softly. “I’m like my father.”
Pelos shook his head vigorously. “No. You’re a reflection of your mother, even though you look like your da. And you’ll need to leave this place before . . . before what happened to her happens to you as well.” Pelos indicated Keilan’s father with his chin, walking up ahead alongside a few of the other fishermen. “I’ve talked to your da. He says you can read, and that you love books. I have an old friend, someone who left Chale many years ago because he was . . . also different. Reminds me a lot of you. He’s a scholar now, at the Reliquary in Ver Anath. I could send him a letter, telling him about you. Might be your calling, I think, out there among the books and scrolls.”
A scholar at the Reliquary? Keilan had never considered anything like that before. He was a fisherman’s son, in a small village at the edge of the world. Was it possible? A life of reading and searching through dusty libraries. Sleeping in a goose-down bed, in a stone tower, with candles to read by after darkness fell, and maybe even ink and quill to write with.
What foolishness. And yet . . .
For the first time in years, Keilan dared to imagine a different future for himself.
He was still lost in fantasies of teetering pillars of books when they arrived at the village, and found the faithful of Ama waiting.
Pelos cursed, jolting Keilan back to the present, and pulled hard on the reins. The nags snorted and stamped their feet, one of the horses turning back to stare at the fishmonger reproachfully.
“By the Ten,” Pelos muttered, the awe in his voice evident, “look at this, lad.”
Just about the entire village had gathered around the Speaker’s rock, turned toward where the fishermen were now emerging from the path down to the shore. They had formed a crescent around a dozen or so men, most of whom wore leather armor and carried weapons, swords or pikes, but also a few curving longbows. Their shields and the tabards that hung over their cuirasses were emblazoned with the copper sunburst of Ama. Keilan had seen their like before, warriors that served the temple of Ama in Chale. Lightbearers, they called themselves.
The mendicant who had preached in the village a few days ago was there as well, but Keilan barely noticed the cleric, his eyes drawn instead to the man standing beside him.
The stranger was tall and broad-shouldered, with striking silver hair despite his youth. His armor was magnificent: the chain shirt he wore was a fine mesh of purest white, and his greaves and bracers were enameled the same color. At his side his sword’s hilt flashed like a tongue of copper flame, but that wasn’t what caused Keilan’s breath to catch in his throat.
The stranger’s eyes leaked golden light.
He was one of the Pure.
In his village. Waiting for them to return. Keilan’s insides turned to water as the implications of this washed over him.
Pelos must have shared his thoughts, as the fishmonger set down his reins and looked at Keilan, pity in his eyes.
“Ah, lad,” he sighed. “I suppose it’s too late for me to tell ya to run.”
From the crowd of villagers Speaker Homlin hesitatingly stepped forward, casting a nervous glance at the silent paladin. The fat smith swallowed hard, his jowls quivering, and mopped at his forehead with a soot-blackened cloth.
“As you see, my friends, we have visitors. Distinguished guests from Chale and . . . elsewhere. They, um, they’ve come because Brother Julias believes there may be, well, um, sorcery in our village.”
At the mention of magic the low muttering of the crowd started to swell. A few of the smaller children pointed at Keilan, while still holding tight to the legs of their parents. The fishermen ahead of their wagon turned and stared at him, including his father, who had gone deathly pale. Shame burned Keilan, and he felt his face reddening. The speaker dabbed at his forehead again; he looked more flushed and uncomfortable now, Keilan thought, than at any time he had ever seen the smith laboring over his forge.
“Boy,” he continued, gesturing towards Keilan. “Come down. Come here.”
Keilan slid from the wagon. Briefly he thought of running for the woods, but instead he found himself walking slowly toward the waiting mendicant and the shining paladin.
A sorcerer? He wasn’t a sorcerer. This was a terrible mistake. He had a gift, certainly, for finding fish, but that wasn’t sorcery. Sorcery was calling lightning from the skies, binding demons, setting curses. Not knowing where to fish!
Keilan calmed himself. This was a mistake, and the truth would be known soon enough. According to the stories, the Pure could feel if sorcery was present, and when this one felt nothing he’d be free. And all the whisperings and black looks from the others would stop as well when they saw proof that he didn’t have any real magic in his blood, just some small hedge wizardry, like how Old Tannin could smell lightning in the air.
This could be a good thing, he told himself, as he came to stand before the Pure. He forced himself to look into the terrible shining eyes of the paladin, tamping down an almost overwhelming desire to turn and flee to his father. This close, his skin prickled from the warmth emanating from the Pure – yet a shiver still ran up his spine.
“I’m no sorcerer,” Keilan said, and though he’d meant to impress everyone with the strength of his words his voice cracked, and he felt another hot flush of shame darken his cheeks.
The paladin stared at him for a long moment, his face impassive. The entire village seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Finally, the warrior laid a gauntleted hand on Keilan’s shoulder; he flinched, but the touch was surprisingly gentle.
“No,” the Pure murmured, his strange accent rich and lilting. “You are no sorcerer.”
Relief flooded Keilan, and he nearly collapsed in the dirt.
“Not yet,” the paladin finished, the grip on his shoulder tightening.
Keilan’s eyes jerked to the Pure’s face again. “What?” he whispered, instinctively trying to pull away.
“I am sorry, Keilan Ferrisorn.” The paladin’s words seemed tinged with sadness – or was it pity? “The tainted flame inside you burns bright. You are no sorcerer, for you’ve had no guidance. But the taint is there.”
“No,” Keilan croaked, struggling harder against the Pure’s iron hold. “No! I don’t have any magic! I can’t do anything except find fish! That’s not what wizards do!” Keilan twisted, looking around wildly for support.
The mendicant beside the paladin sketched Ama’s holy sun in the air and stepped back a pace, his eyes round with fear. There was a commotion behind them, his father yelling, trying to get to Keilan but the warriors of Chale were holding him back. Something burst from the crowd of villagers, a blur of dirty yellow hair that beat tiny fists against the white cloak of the Pure. Sella, screaming, but the paladin did not appear to notice her flailing arms, and he continued to stare implacably at Keilan.
The day seemed to brighten. Something was building inside Keilan, a wave growing larger as it neared the shore, a terrible, rising force that would erupt from him and –
“No,” the Pure said simply, shaking his head. Darkness rushed over Keilan, drowning him in silence. He sank into a black sea.
Light, seeping along the edges. Slowly it bled into the abyss in which he floated. No, not floated – swayed. Back and forth, rhythmic, in time to the clopping of . . . hooves?
Shapes towered to either side of him, reaching out with bony arms. Shadows dappled the ground below, a blinding sky wheeled above. Slowly, slowly, his sight returned, the blurred world gradually sharpening.
He was mounted on a horse caparisoned in silver metal, a giant of a steed much larger than any he had seen before, even bigger than the plow-horses that churned the fields of the northern farms. Keilan blinked, trying to focus. A brown mane spread upon a cream-colored coat, broken only by a few dark blotches. Muscles rippled everywhere the armor did not cover.
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nbsp; With effort he sat up straighter, looking around. He rode through a forest, along a road rutted with wagon tracks. Light slanted down from between grasping tree limbs; where it touched, the wildflowers speckling the green grass burned a little brighter. There were men on the road as well, beside and in front, the sunbursts of Ama on their tabards seeming to stare at him like accusing golden eyes.
It occurred to Keilan, through his haze, that he should not be able to sit a horse in his current state. Then he felt the presence behind him, holding him steady so he did not topple over.
Keilan squirmed, trying to say something, but his mouth was full of cotton and he could only muster a dry, rasping cough. He felt himself start to slide off the horse.
A hand closed around his wrist, steadying him. A stranger’s hand, long fingered and pale, but even without the gauntlet Keilan knew to whom it belonged.
“Calm, Keilan,” the paladin murmured. “I do not wish to do that again to you.”
“What . . . what did you do?” Keilan managed, struggling to swallow away the dryness in his throat.
“I felt your sorcery starting to build. I did not wish for you to accidentally harm anyone, so I reached inside you and severed you from your strength. The backlash of sorcery rendered you unconscious.” The Pure’s words were flat, emotionless. Keilan struggled to understand them.
“My da. Sella.”
There was a long pause, and Keilan’s heart fell. The paladin must have sensed his discomfort. “Do not worry, they are fine. The little girl . . . I had some trouble prying her from my leg after you collapsed.” Was that wry amusement Keilan heard? “A fierce fighter, that one. Finally her mother came and took her away. Your father, he was distraught. The lightbearers who accompanied me restrained him, eventually. Before we departed I talked with your speaker, and told him that no harm should befall your father. That the taint inside you was not his doing. And I told him that when next a mendicant traveled to your village he would ask after his health, and that such news would eventually reach my ears.”
Keilan considered this numbly. “Why do you care what happens to them?”
“I am no monster, Keilan, and it pains me that I must take you from your father and friends. You are an innocent, simply unlucky. I would have no harm come to anyone else.”
“Anyone else?”
The paladin sighed heavily. “I will not lie to you, Keilan. You have a long and arduous road in front of you, and I cannot assure you that you’ll survive the journey.”
“Then let me go,” Keilan said, speaking quickly. “I promise on my mother’s soul that I’ll never use sorcery again. I would never use it to harm anyone!”
The paladin reached around Keilan to brush away some twigs and dirt that had become tangled in his horse’s mane. “And I believe that you would try to keep that promise, Keilan. But sorcery is most seductive. Very few can resist its lure.”
“I can!”
“Truly, it grieves me that I cannot accept such a promise. But it would be a betrayal of my vows and everything I have pledged my life to uphold. No, I’m sorry, Keilan – you must go to your Cleansing.”
“Will I die?” Keilan said softly, the dizziness coming over him again.
“Some live, and some die. Usually it is the pure of heart who survive, and because of this I do believe you should not be without hope.”
A gibbon shrieked somewhere in the forest; Keilan felt the paladin stiffen, then twist his body, as if quickly looking around. “Jerrym,” the Pure said, and one of the lightbearers turned towards him, “be cautious.”
The warrior of Chale ducked his head. “My Lord Senacus, don’t worry, it’s only these forest apes. Nothing to be alarmed about. This time of year they’re always chattering away, or fighting to see who’s king.”
Keilan heard the hiss of metal from behind him – the paladin must have drawn his sword. “That was no ape, lightbearer. Something else is in these woods.”
Jerrym looked skeptical, but he nodded and faced the others. “Listen up, ye hairy – ah, men of Ama! Be wary, Lord Senacus tells me something is out there. Keep yer eyes sharp, and let me know if you see anything strange!”
“Something like me?”
“Light above!” Jerrym cried, scrabbling for the greatsword slung across his back. There was a sharp intake of breath from the paladin.
A girl, perhaps a few years older than Keilan, sat upon the branch of a great oak tree, smiling impishly. One of her legs was drawn up, and she rested her chin upon her knee; the other dangled carelessly, higher than a man could reach. She was dressed in leather the color of ash, and her dark hair was close-cropped – in Keilan’s village, only boys would sport such a cut.
“Who in Garazon’s black balls are you?” Jerrym yelled at her, in his surprise clearly forgetting the paladin’s presence.
“A friendly forest spirit, good man,” the girl called down in a strange, trilling accent, “wondering what brings you through my sylvan domain.”
Jerrym’s mouth worked soundlessly, as if he wanted to form some response but couldn’t conceive of how to begin. He glanced helplessly at the Pure.
Senacus nudged his horse toward where the girl perched. “What is your purpose here?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
A dagger materialized in the girl’s hand. It spun, glittering, as she tossed it in the air and caught it again. “My purpose? To rescue the poor lad you’ve abducted.” She gestured with the blade’s point at Keilan.
“You’re going to what?” Jerrym said incredulously, finding his voice. “Save the boy? You do know who’s sitting behind him, don’t you, lass? That there’s a paladin of Ama. The Pure.”
“I’m very good with this knife.”
The lightbearer scoffed loudly. “I don’t care if you’re a bloody shadowblade. One little girl – ”
“Quiet,” the paladin said, and Jerrym’s mouth snapped shut.
“Are you willing to negotiate for your life,” the girl asked, “or shall we see if I can put Chance here between those pretty little eyes?”
“Chance,” the Pure said slowly, “is not a very confident name for a blade.”
The girl threw back her head and let out a quick peal of laughter. “That’s true!” she cried, “that’s why I seldom leave things solely to Chance.” A second dagger flashed, appearing in the girl’s other hand as if plucked from the air.
“And does that blade have a name as well?”
The girl grinned down at the paladin. “I call this one Fate. Is that confident enough for you?”
The paladin sighed. “Enough of this game. Reveal your friends.”
“As you wish,” the girl said with a wink, then whistled sharply. A few heartbeats passed, and the lightbearers shifted uneasily, watching the forest, but still they did not see anyone approaching until the underbrush shivered all along the road. Then suddenly a score of men emerged, each dressed in gray-green forester garb and holding a nocked bow carved of black wood.
The men of Chale cried out in alarm and reached for their weapons, but a shouted command from the Pure stilled them.
“Stop! There need be no bloodshed here today.”
The girl looked up from the fingernail she’d been paring with one of her daggers. “I agree. Help the boy down from the horse and send him to me.”
Strong hands gripped Keilan’s waist, and he heard the Pure’s voice in his ear. “Go to her. We will meet again, I promise you.”
With effort, Keilan swung his leg over the horse’s broad back and dropped to the ground, stumbling slightly. What should he do? He glanced from the girl to the dense underbrush. Could he escape back to his village? From the easy way the archers had moved through the forest he doubted he would get very far if he ran.
She beckoned for him to approach. “To me, boy. You’re safe now.”
“Is he truly?” asked the
Pure, his horse stamping the ground as if sensing its master’s agitation. “I can feel you!” the paladin cried out loudly, causing a flock of brightly colored birds to explode from the branches above. “Come out, sorcerer!”
The girl appeared to be about to say something, but then she swallowed away her words. Keilan found that he was holding his breath, and everyone seemed frozen, waiting for what would happen next.
Then he heard it, a faint rustling, as if someone was pushing through the undergrowth, coming closer. Keilan caught glimpses of something red approaching, and then a young man with black hair wearing a bright crimson tunic trimmed with lace shouldered his way between two of the much larger archers. He bowed slightly to the mounted paladin, the amulets and chains he wore tinkling in the silence.
“Greetings to the Pure,” he said in the same smooth accent as the girl in the tree.
“Sorcerer,” the paladin fairly spat. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. The boy will come with us.”
“To where? Dymoria?”
The sorcerer shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” the paladin echoed mockingly, in the same accent. “You sound like you’re from the Gilded Cities, but these men with you all have ebonwood bows. Only the Dragon Throne of Dymoria could possibly arm an entire troop of archers with ebonwood. I think you must have come on the orders of that Crimson Queen. This is a flagrant violation of the old treaties; be assured, sorcerer, the emperor will hear of this outrage.”
The sorcerer’s smile deepened. “Oh, I wish I could see his face when you tell him.”
Keilan’s breath burned hot and ragged as they fled through the forest. A drizzle began as the shadows gathered in the fading light, making the leaf-strewn ground treacherous, and he slipped a few times, scraping his arms and hands bloody. The girl from the tree kept pace beside him, helping him back to his feet when he fell.
