by Cat Bruno
“Healer’s robes have not kept all safe, Jarek,” she hissed, her face reddening. “You would take both my sons from me and leave me with nothing.”
Such an outburst was unusual for his mild-tempered mother, and Jarek paused, letting her words settle around him, the accusation clear. The two rarely discussed Caryss, even less so once he understood how her mother blamed the healer for his near-captivity in the King’s City. For moon years, Nicoline had feared that he was dead and forgiving Caryss had not come easily, despite his pleas and own acceptance of what had occurred.
Finally, he stopped walking, listening to Izaak’s mindless singing further across the field. The boy skipped along, twirling and hopping on one foot as his chirping lessened.
He will not survive war, Jarek thought.
With a hard swallow, he turned toward Nicoline. His eyes, rare and strange so far from their homeland, gleamed like steel.
“If you want him to live, you will send him from here.”
“Like I sent you, to a fate worse than death!” she cried, her whisper like a slap across his face, stinging and merciless.
Moon years before, Jarek had learned to control the rise of his temper. Beaten, his hands chained behind his back, he could do nothing. His fingers had burned with power, his storm-laced eyes angry and hot. As a child, he had wanted to tear the Grand Palace from the ground with a rushing flood of water. He had wanted to strike at Delwin and his mages with blazing lightning and deafen them with the booming drums of thunder. He wanted them all dead.
Yet he had done nothing. And had lived.
“There is nothing worse than death. I am here, now, with you, because I learned to stay steps ahead of my enemies. If I can teach Izaak nothing else, let me teach him that.”
His words were low, rumbling with warning.
With a tear-edged glance, his mother asked, “What enemies could a boy with no royal blood have?”
“Through no fault of his own, he will inherit my own enemies. You know what it is that I seek, mother. For moon years I have waited. Until the waiting nearly drove me mad. But the time has nearly come. I would see the boy safe before I act.”
“You would sacrifice him for your gain!” she sobbed. “You are turning into your father, Jarek.”
From gray to gold his eyes shifted.
“My father is dead. Killed by those who would do the same to my kin. Mother, you have little choice here. When I depart, the boy will too. I will see him safely to Tretoria and to the Academy before I return to Rexterra.”
He walked away from her, listening to her sobs as she fell to the ground. Near a yellow-leafed tree, he found Izaak, who had quieted.
The boy would do well at the Academy, Jarek knew, letting his brother examine him with questioning eyes. Izaak had heard little, yet he sensed change about him as the winds cooled. He was still a son of sea and sky.
“Why does mother weep?” he asked timidly.
There was no time for half-truths or ploys, so Jarek answered, “In three days time, I will escort you across Cordisia, toward the west. In Litusia, at the southwestern tip of Tretoria, there is an Academy for the Healing Arts. You will become a student there, learning of plant and herb and much more than I can name. I have heard talk of the great library housed there, and I think you will love it more than most. Izaak, troubled times have come to Cordisia, and it is my duty to keep you safe. Mother will not leave here, I learned long ago, but you must.”
Kicking at the tree, Izaak told him, “Mother does not want me to go.”
“She does not, but all boys must become men, Izaak.”
Still dragging his unlaced boots across the frayed trunk, the boy asked, “What more do you know of the library?”
Jarek’s lower lip twitched as he said, “I have heard that it is the largest building on the grounds. A friend once told me of a man who works there, and how his knowledge seemed to be without limit. He could read and write languages from across the world, Izaak. Perhaps you will learn the same some day.”
It was not often that Jarek could think of Caryss without hurriedly trying to think on something else. Her death, when the memory had returned, chased him, and he did not believe he would ever escape it. Even knowing the healer less than a full moon year did not lessen how much she had changed him.
It was Caryss who had told him, when no others had, that he could be king.
He had taken to his bed for two days, feigning sickness, after the child had visited him, despite it being long past the time when the mages interrogated him. His recalled thoughts were safe, for even if they did seek to question him of the past, and of the babe, Jarek had grown too strong to buckle under their spells. Yet, even then, the memory of that day weakened him, for he had been unable to save the healer.
When she had come, the child, Syrsha, whose name he tried to force himself to forget, Jarek woke. Asleep after a long day of training under a hot summer sun, he had first thought her to be a dream. Her clothing had been strange, even draped in moonlight. Pale and loose-fitting, the light gown hung past her feet, covering even her toes. Her arms were bare and her dark hair unbound as it tickled her shoulders.
Now, many moon years later, Jarek was not surprised that she had first visited him under Luna’s watch. Nor was he surprised to recall how black her hair had gleamed, without the red rays of the sun to lighten it. She had come to him as her father’s child, the daughter of the wolf.
“Do you know me?” she had asked.
Her voice, shrouded and misty, had been innocent, yet aged. When her lips parted to reveal missing teeth, he had nearly laughed. So serious a child, yet she looked as any other, and he did not know how to answer.
It mattered little as she continued.
“I have come to undo what my father once did. Do you know me now?”
At the back of his thoughts, it was there. But he had stayed silent, uncertain how to explain his jumbled memories to the child.
She crossed the room to sit on the bed next to him, trailing shadows behind her. Watching, he noticed the opened windows, which allowed the night air to cool the room. He had started to rise to pull at the curtains when she stopped him.
“None can hear or see me, even those who call themselves mage and Lightkeeper. Once you could do as I do and time-walk with ease. Do you remember those days?”
“How old are you?” he had stammered, leaning against the wall as he backed away from her, for none knew of his abilities.
“Nearly seven. When last you saw me, I was still a babe, though. But my father forced you to forget me, and to forget nearly all. Your name is not Tomasz, you know.”
Nothing else that the girl could have said would have convinced him to let her continue than those words had. He had known, had long known, that he was not who he pretended to be. Yet more than that he could not remember.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, the girl had told him, “My Akkachi asked me to visit you, and I do not have to hurry. It was easier to find you than Aldric guessed, and he will be pleased to know how quickly I removed the wards around your room.”
She was smiling, gap-toothed and proud.
“I can not name my father here, but he meant you no harm. Even Gregorr believes so.”
None of the names she had mentioned made sense to him. Not yet. It would not be until moments later, he recalled, now many moon years beyond that first visit with her. They were near kin to him, those she had named, despite not having seen them in fifteen moon years.
“You are not Tomasz, not truly. Before you came to the King’s City, you were named Jarek. And while your home was in Planusia, your homeland is across the Eastern Sea. I know little of it, but Aldric made me memorize some of what it is that I’m telling you.”
“Who is Aldric?” he had asked her, words mumbled and frail.
“Another one of my teachers. He is a mage, but of a different kind than the ones in the King’s City. He and Otieno miss you, I think, and have planned my visit to you for moon years. It
was not until I could undo wards that I was allowed to come, you see.”
She had paused for a long moment, biting at her lip, and he had feared that she might leave. When she continued, he stiffened with uncertainty, surprised at how lucid and determined the young girl was.
“I have come to undo the mind-lock. On my last visit with my father, he explained how I must do so. Jarek, you must stay still and say nothing. If I do what he told me, then you will remember your past.”
Before he could respond, she had risen to her knees, bending toward him with outstretched fingers. When her hands reached for his forehead, he had shuddered, but did not push her away. Cool and soft like rising mist, her fingers traced across the edges of his face until he was nearly asleep. She sounded as if she purred, cat-like, as she had tapped on the center of his forehead.
Then, without warning, she had exclaimed, “Tell me if it worked!”
“I don’t know,” he had whimpered, rubbing at his cheeks.
Around them, the room had darkened with fog, as if Luna painted shadows across it. His words had sounded hollow, as if they echoed from a distance. Spinning and spinning, he had felt as if he could not move from the bed.
And then he had fallen, not to the floor, but from the sky, through cloud and rain, across sea and over mountain. He had nearly vomited, he remembered, as his head ached and his fingers burned with white fire.
He never knew how long he stayed like that, holding his head and swaying. But when he next opened his eyes, the girl beamed at him.
“Are you Jarek now?” she had asked.
When he slowly nodded, she had thrown herself at him, hugging him like Izaak now did.
It would not be the last time he saw the girl, nor would the other visits be as sweet.
Jarek nearly forgot where he was, until his brother pulled at him, begging for more stories of the Academy.
“Let us find mother first and assure her that you will write often,” he told the boy as they walked back to the house.
Later, he vowed, he would visit Syrsha again, telling her of his plan.
*****
4
“We are being watched. Look, just there,” he whispered, pointing toward a row of trees, overgrown and lush.
As a prickly branch scratched across her face, Syrsha hissed, “I thought we would be free of the forest once we found Sythia. Where are the grasslands that you spoke of?”
Ducking lower, Aldric told her, “We are just at the edge of Sythian land. They are a nomadic people, faela, and their borders shift. But from what I have read about them, they have never sought lands across the Roos River.”
Dabbing at a bleeding cheek, she asked, “Did we not cross the river yesterday?”
He nodded and gestured toward Gregorr. She knew what would happen next, for, despite her complaints, it would not be she who first attempted contact with the Sythians. The fennidi had volunteered, having lived most of his life in forest and knowing what dangers he would face. His people, reclusive and ancient, were nearly unknown outside of Cordisia. And, even then, few had seen them. They dwelled in the mountainous forests of Eirrannia, allowing few outsiders access. Her mother had made a pact with the fennidi Queen before she had been born, and Gregorr had been Ohdra’s honor gift.
The green-skinned, silver-haired man had long been Syrsha’s favorite companion, although she had little time to spend with him. But when she was not training with Otieno or studying with Aldric, she would be in the healer’s quarters with Gregorr and Sharron. They asked little of her, and, quickly, she learned to enjoy her time there. She would never be the healer her mother had been, yet she learned enough to offer assistance when she was not required elsewhere.
Between the fennidi and Sharron, she knew much of the North, a land she vowed to defend. He taught her more, too, yet the others knew little of that, of the poisons and deceptions, the remedies and secrets of the old world. And he taught her rune magic, the oldest of the mage-skills and sacred to the fennidi, rarely shared with those not of their blood. It had been near impossible to find juniper berries in Cossima, yet he had, using them to stain her fingers as she learned the runic code.
With a sudden thought, Syrsha crawled backward until she was beside Gregorr. Even on her knees, she was near his height as she murmured, “Let me mark you, Gregorr.”
His ancient smile was as soft as fresh blossoms, and his eyes glimmered like moonstones, silvery and shining. She never learned his true age, yet he shifted between young and old, at times both eternal and temporal. When he did not object, she reached into a small pouch and pulled out several berries. He said nothing, but removed his hood and tied his long, opalescent hair at the base of his neck.
Before now, she had only practiced rune magic when it was of little consequence, granting sleep or offering veil. In short time, Gregorr would walk into the thick forest without sword and alone. The runes would be his only protection. And she would need to choose which to offer him, for rune magic exacted a heavy toll for its use.
“Only two, faela,” he instructed.
She would have argued, but they had little time. And she knew better than to ask him which two to choose.
After a moment of thought, she nodded and lifted her blue-tipped fingers to his face.
As her smooth fingers crossed over his wrinkled skin, she explained in a hushed voice, “I had thought to shield you with a ward that arrows could not penetrate. But if there is mage-skill among the Sythians, they would sense the ward and deem you untrusting. Instead, I grant you an escape if one becomes needed.”
Along the fennidi’s high cheeks, Syrsha traced interlocking triangles, opening an invisible pathway from the field to their covered camp near the treeline. When she finished, her steady fingers moved to his lips, thin and straight as he waited for her to continue.
“I gift you the ability to understand words you would otherwise not be able to,” she hummed, painting curved lines around his mouth.
Sitting back on her heels, Syrsha again nodded, looking at Gregorr for approval as she wiped her stained fingers across her dark-colored trousers. Her hands tingled as she shook them to loosen the power that flowed there. Gregorr still had not answered by the time he rose, shaking his long, silvery tresses free. Across his back, his hair shined, brighter than Luna.
She nearly cried out to him as he walked from her, nearing the field, fearful that she had chosen wrong.
Hurriedly, with wide eyes and an open mouth, she looked toward Aldric, but the mage did not notice her questioning gaze as he watched Gregorr slowly cross the field, his cape flowing behind him and his empty hands raised overhead.
“Sharron,” she hissed, with a hand on her sword, “We should not have permitted him to go alone.”
The healer was the lone member of their group who would not fight, but Syrsha knew not who else to address. For fifteen moon years, Sharron only watched as the others practiced sword, dagger, and mage-craft. It was not her way to harm, Syrsha had learned, and the vow was one the woman never strayed from.
“Do you have no memory of the Sythians?” Sharron asked, her face suddenly more serious than it had been.
After a moment of thought, she shook her head and told the healer, “I cannot recall if I have been here before. Only that we arrived safely.” She eyed Syrsha, as if waiting for a better explanation. Yet she could no longer remember what once seemed so certain.
“Perhaps your time-walking has caught up with you,” the woman told her. “There is little we can do if we are surrounded. Let Gregorr be. You have offered him what protection that you could.”
“What if it is not enough?”
“Then we run.”
It was not Sharron who answered, but Otieno, who leaned against the shredded bark of a gold-leafed tree. His hands were empty, his swords sheathed, as he addressed her. His gaze was upon his fingers, as if they were full.
“Why travel all this way only to flee?” she asked the diauxie as she pushed herself to stand.
Not vows, she thought, but phantoms.
Finally, his eyes cleared and he told her, “You must learn when best to fight and when best to flee. You have spent moon years sparring, faela, and know not what it does to take the life of a man.”
“I would not strike the Sythians unless they first attacked Gregorr,” she argued.
“It makes no matter,” he sighed, walking toward her. “The Sythians near.”
She quickly turned from him, running to the edge of their encampment. Across the field, riders approached, nearly silent in the thick grass. They did not hurry, nor were weapons drawn. Soon, Gregorr was circled by five women. Their hair, unbraided and long, fell untamed and uncontrolled against half-exposed breasts. Down their backs hung longbows, shining ebony, nearly as spectacular as her dagger forged of fire-ice.
Beneath her leather vest, tied tightly against her chest, Syrsha’s life pulse flickered fast. Gregorr’s silver tresses streaked across his face, obscuring his eyes, and she wondered what the women would find in his gaze. He did not appear to be afraid, yet sword had not been raised against them since she was a babe. And she had learned enough to know that behind the treeline hid other Sythians, waiting to see what would come of the encounter.
As she crept nearer, the riders stopped, but did not dismount.
In a voice cut with stone, a woman atop a silver horse called, “Identity yourself if you wish to live.”
When the echo of the words reached Syrsha, her hands found her throwing daggers, and she cradled them against her fingers. Otieno and Aldric looked to her, and she realized they had not been able to understand the woman’s words.
