Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  Taren felt something unhinge deep inside him in response, and the surrounding air felt charged with hair-raising tension as during a lightning storm. Glass shattered somewhere in the distance, and the clunking of falling objects reached his ears. The seat beneath him trembled as if the ground was shaking. A startled cry sounded in the distance but was drowned out as the seeress continued to speak.

  “There is an infernal device, its purpose beyond comprehension, its power vast enough to bring ruin down upon this world. You must prevent those who seek to use it for ill. Beware of the seeker with ebon wings and the men who were yet are no longer. Keep close the one who follows the weft of fate, for a truer companion you could not wish for. The deathless wanderer has lost his way—it is up to you to guide his feet onto his true path. You must control your power and wield it wisely, thaumaturge, for the fate of the planes shall rest on your shoulders.”

  The seeress suddenly shuddered violently, then her head drooped, her hands releasing Taren’s. With the break in contact, the frightful images and overpowering sense of doom abruptly retreated. A loud slam was followed by the strain of protesting wood, and Taren lurched in his seat, nearly upended. Someone cursed, and he could hear items clattering to the ground. He blinked stupidly, looking around him and feeling he was somewhere else. As before, he was sitting at the table before Hetsatsa, who was hunched over so far that her head was nearly lying on the tabletop.

  Everything else was different, though. The wagon was dark, the candles extinguished. No, that wasn’t exactly right—they were instead missing from the edges of the table. Smoke had filled the air. Someone coughed and moved in the gloom, and he became aware of Yethri stamping out a curtain that had caught fire. The inside of the wagon looked as if a cyclone had struck—trinkets and clothing had all fallen from their hooks and shelves and lay strewn about on the floor.

  He stared at Hetsatsa then Yethri, shocked by the experience and trying to massage the blood back into his hands. “What the Abyss happened? Your grandmother, is she—”

  “Happens to her all the time. But this…” Yethri waved a vague hand around. “None of this has ever happened.” She seemed rattled as she helped her grandmother, gently pulling the old woman back into her chair and holding another cup of tea to her lips, this one smelling strongly of mint. “Come on, drink your tea, Grandma.”

  “That was intense.” Taren tried to comprehend all that he had heard. Power to break the world? Death and tragedy shall follow close upon my heels? Those I love best will die and be seduced by evil… His head was reeling, and he had a pressing need for fresh air, for the wagon was suffocating with smoke and incense, stuffy and hot. He felt curiously drained somehow, chalking it up to the effects of the wine from earlier making him feel woozy. He stumbled to his feet and leaned against the doorframe, breathing deeply of the fresh night air.

  “Aye, so it goes,” Yethri muttered, “yet not every day do the spirits foretell such doom and gloom. ‘The fate of the planes shall rest on your shoulders?’ Who exactly are you, farm boy?” Yethri studied Taren intently, suspiciously, as if seeing him for the first time. “Nay, on second thought, don’t tell me… What the spirits speak of is for your ears alone. Although this is certainly a first—having them pick up the wagon and toss it about like a drunk shaking a handful of dice.”

  He stared, not understanding what had occurred. Did I somehow do this to the wagon? He remembered the electric sensation around him, and now he felt woozy and drained. “We should get her outside into the fresh air,” he decided after a moment, seeing how unsteady Hetsatsa looked.

  Together, they helped the old woman, who seemed only half conscious, back outside to her seat by the small fire. She clutched her tea, sipping at it occasionally as she stared, unseeing, into the fire.

  Taren sat in one of the other chairs beside the fire, his mind spinning from the cryptic foretelling. Can this be truth? He’d always wanted to believe he was meant for great deeds, yet what Hetsatsa had spoken of was too much to comprehend. Surely, I can influence my own fate… Perhaps the seeress hints at what could be, not what will.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and he started, for he’d been staring into the flames, mesmerized, for some time. Yethri squeezed his shoulder, then she leaned forward and peered into his face, her green eyes gleaming in the firelight.

  “I don’t know who you really are, Taren, but it sounds as if the gods have quite the adventure laid out before you.” After a moment, Yethri relaxed and walked around the fire, facing him and spreading her hands. “Sorry about all this… Not quite what I expected. Hopefully, this won’t end the night on a sour note.”

  “I suppose I should’ve known better.” With such a heritage, it’s doubtful my life would be as simple as my mother may have hoped, for the gods have a way of twisting the most carefully wrought plans to their own aims. That last part was from an adage Gradnik was fond of.

  “Cheer up, Taren! You still owe me my deed for payment. I, for one, don’t want to go to bed after that and be plagued with bad dreams. At least we can enjoy more of this lovely evening. The maypole dance should be about to start.” Yethri’s eyes sparkled, her good cheer returned, cheeks dimpling when she smiled.

  He heaved himself to his feet, his gloomy thoughts banished by her infectious charm. “Is your grandmother going to be all right?”

  “Aye, she just needs to rest a bit. This foretelling was a bit… nay, a lot more demanding of her than most.”

  Not just for her.

  “I should help you straighten up the wagon before we leave.”

  Yethri’s curls bounced as she shook her head. “Already done. I tidied up when you were seeking to become one with the fire earlier.”

  It had felt like only a couple minutes, but she was right, for a glance in the wagon revealed the mess had indeed been straightened up. Feeling guilty for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, Taren slipped a few coppers from his purse. “I feel bad about not leaving something for her efforts.”

  Yethri took his hand and closed his fingers back around the coins. “Then show a lass a nice time. Perhaps some wine and a few more of those tasty almonds?”

  Taren remembered the bundle of almonds in his pocket and removed the treats. Yethri popped a few in her mouth then grabbed his arm and tugged him back toward the thick of the festival. He stopped at the first wine vendor’s booth and bought them each a cup of wine.

  The crowds were migrating toward a large, grassy clearing near the town center. Minstrels were playing a popular song, and people were gathering around the maypole.

  “Come, Taren! The maypole dance is about to begin.” Yethri pulled him eagerly toward the crowd.

  The maypole was about ten paces high and gaily decorated with blue and white ribbons, the colors representing the kingdom of Ketania. Young maidens held the streamers away from the pole, giving the illusion it formed a circular tent. After a few moments, the group of minstrels, consisting of two lutists, a flutist, and a drummer, began playing a sprightly tune. The maidens danced in a complicated weave, ducking low and raising their ribbons high in alternating sequences as they danced around the pole. The result was the streamers wrapping around the pole until it became banded with alternating blue and white ribbons. Around and round the dancers moved as they neared the pole. When they couldn’t weave the ribbons any more tightly, they let them fall loose and turned toward the audience. The music ended, and the dancers bowed to the crowd, who cheered exuberantly.

  The dancers retreated into the crowd, many of them drawing partners forth as the dance was opened up to everyone. The minstrels launched into another cheery tune, and before Taren knew it, Yethri had his hand and was guiding him through the other dancers near the maypole. A couple dozen other couples, ranging from barely more than ten summers up to sixty or more, all danced around them.

  Taren felt like a clumsy oaf, unfamiliar with the dance, but Yethri showed him the steps. After a couple stumbles and an accidental tread on her foot, he caught o
n and became adept enough to avoid making a further fool of himself. Yethri took it all in stride, and her face was radiant in the lantern light as she grinned in delight.

  At one point, Taren saw Elyas in the crowd, a tankard raised in salute to him as he danced past with a wave. Elyas had his arm around Bretta, a curvy girl who looked near to falling out of her blouse.

  The song transitioned into another, followed by a third, and Taren lost track of all time. Eventually, needing a break, they stepped away from the dancers. Taren fetched them more wine, and they watched the dancing and chatted for a long while. Later, he wouldn’t remember much of the conversation, only Yethri’s contagious cheerfulness.

  Eventually, the music ended, and the town’s mayor took the small stage where the minstrels were performing and rapped a wooden gavel on a podium.

  “Welcome, friends and neighbors, to Swanford’s Midsummer Festival!” the mayor exclaimed. When the goodhearted cheers quieted, he continued, “I’d like to thank everyone that participated in this wonderful event and those who volunteered their time and donated coin to ensure that it is a great success.”

  He went on for a while, calling people out by name, but Taren didn’t care about the rest. He was too busy trying to focus on the lovely young woman beside him through the haze of the wine, her thigh pressed tightly against his on the long bench they shared with a number of other townsfolk. Her eyes twinkled with amusement, cheeks flushed from the wine, and he thought she was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen.

  The crowd cheered again, much more heartily, and Taren turned his attention back to the stage to see his old friend Gradnik step up near the podium. The old man looked awful—he was battling illness, which Taren had found out earlier when he’d stopped by the old man’s shop to say hello upon arriving in town. Regardless, he dragged himself on stage to set off the pyrotechnics as promised.

  “Let’s get closer to the stage,” Taren suggested.

  Yethri agreed, and they wove their way around the crowd until they were beside the edge of the stage, looking across at the hundreds of revelers.

  Gradnik coughed wetly, his whole body shaking from the fit, before he caught his breath again. “Good evening, folks,” he managed before another coughing fit struck. Once it passed, he raised the wand overhead dramatically.

  “Firrsu!” he commanded.

  Sparks of blue and white arced from the wand into the sky while the crowd oohed and aahed. The sparks erupted overhead into explosions of light. Gold, red, green, orange, and purple streamers followed, scintillating and sparkling, lighting up the night sky and the upturned faces of the delighted crowd.

  The show went on for long minutes, Gradnik waving the wand around, ever the dramatic showman. After a time, a particularly fierce coughing fit overtook him. He leaned on the edge of the podium and Taren saw with horror he was about to keel over.

  Taren vaulted onto the stage and was at Gradnik’s side in an instant, catching the old man as he fell. He eased him down to a sitting position. The wand fell from Gradnik’s hand and rolled beneath the podium. His frail body shook with coughing, and Taren could only kneel beside him powerlessly, thinking back to Shenai’s suffering and hoping his friend wasn’t afflicted with consumption as well.

  The mayor appeared at the podium, his face briefly concerned before smoothing out into a practiced smile. “Thanks for coming, folks, and have a wonderful evening!”

  The crowd cheered again and began dispersing. A number of people stopped by to inquire about Gradnik’s health and wish him well.

  Gradnik had withdrawn a handkerchief from a pocket and coughed weakly into it. When he removed it, Taren was startled to see blood on the cloth.

  “Gradnik, will you be all right?” he asked.

  “Just need rest, lad,” the old adventurer croaked.

  A couple of older men came over and helped Gradnik to his feet.

  “We’ll get you back to bed, Gradnik. Great show you put on,” one of the men said.

  “Be well, Gradnik,” Taren wished him, filled with worry.

  His friend was in bad shape, but he recognized one of the men as the local herbalist and healer.

  Yethri touched Taren’s hand, and he looked over, surprised she was still there. “Take the wand,” she said, her face oddly blank and eyes staring.

  “What?” He looked at her in confusion.

  “The wand,” she repeated. After a moment, she blinked rapidly then smiled at Taren. Wherever she’d been for a moment, she had returned.

  “What is it?” she asked, noting his concerned look.

  “I’m not sure… You tell me. That was odd… You went blank and told me to take the wand. Where did you go just now?” The manner in which she’d spoken had reminded him of her grandmother during the foretelling.

  “I was right here by you, watching the pyrotechnics,” Yethri replied, looking mystified. She frowned, noting the dispersing crowd. “Is the show over? Did Gradnik leave already?”

  “It is. Didn’t you see him collapse on stage?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “Nay. Is he well?”

  “I don’t know… He looked pretty ill. I fear he might be sick with consumption—my aunt died a few months back from the same. I sure hope he recovers from whatever it is. You don’t remember any of that?”

  She shook her head, suddenly looking concerned. “Nay, I was standing with you, watching the pyrotechnics. The next moment, everyone is gone, and you’re here looking at me like you saw a phantom. What was that about a wand?”

  Taren knelt down and retrieved the bright-red wand from where it had rolled beneath the podium. “You said very clearly, ‘Take the wand.’”

  “Guess you’d better take it, then.” Yethri smiled wanly, but she had an anxious look on her face.

  He shrugged and stuck the wand into his pocket, planning on returning it to Gradnik next time he saw him. Over near the wine vendor, a figure was sitting on a bench, leaning up against the table and seeming to stare right at them. Oddly for such a warm night, the person wore a cloak, the cowl pulled low over the face. Taren stared at the figure a moment, an uneasy feeling stealing over him.

  Yethri nudged him, and concern for the girl filled him after one look at her pallid complexion. He quickly forgot all about the cowled figure.

  “Come on,” she said. “I’m feeling a bit dizzy. Will you walk me back to the wagon?”

  The crowds were quickly dispersing, following the conclusion of the pyrotechnic show. Parents with young children returned home, leaving mainly older youths and young couples behind to carouse late into the night. Many walked hand in hand with a special companion, even more were drunk or well on their way, and nearly everyone had a smile.

  When they arrived at Hetsatsa and Yethri’s wagon, the door was closed, but soft candlelight was leaking through the gaps around it. Yethri had been mostly quiet during the walk back. Despite her assurances she wasn’t troubled by what had occurred earlier, she certainly appeared to be.

  Yethri sighed. “It’s getting late, and I should make sure Grandma is all right.” She scuffed one foot in the dirt as if reluctant to go.

  Taren looked around for Elyas and his two friends but didn’t see them around the square. They would likely still be back at the Melted Candle or one of the ale tents. “I’d better find my cousin. Hopefully, he’s not too besotted by now to make it back home.”

  “We’ll be in town another day then be leaving in the morn the day after tomorrow. Will you come back to see me before we leave?” Yethri’s hopeful green eyes were luminous in the lantern light.

  “Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  “Me too.” Yethri looked conflicted a moment then abruptly stood on her tiptoes and kissed Taren on the cheek. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  Taren flushed and grinned like a fool as she quietly opened the door and climbed into the back of the wagon. She glanced back with a smile and a wave before closing the door behind herself. He turned and started down the street toward the M
elted Candle, barely noticing anything around him. All he could think about was Yethri and the hopeful look in her eyes at the thought of seeing him again. He touched his cheek as if that would bring back the feel of her soft lips pressed there.

  The next day couldn’t come quick enough.

  Chapter 12

  Elyas nearly knocked Taren’s teeth loose with an enthusiastic slap on the back after he told him about his night with Yethri.

  “Balor’s balls! My cousin finally found himself a pretty maid to pull his nose out of his books.” He laughed heartily. “Hopefully, she’ll make a man out of you yet.”

  Taren felt his cheeks go hot, but Elyas didn’t notice in the darkness. If it had been high noon, Elyas likely wouldn’t have noticed, for he was having difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. Vonn had been barely coherent, and Erwan immediately passed out in the back of the cart once the group left the festival. Taren had waited to tell Elyas about Yethri until after the other two had headed home.

  “I thought I saw you dancing with a red-haired lass,” Elyas continued, tongue loosened by the ale. “But by that point, the entire evening was swirling past in a jumble, so I couldn’t tell just who you were with.” He belched and stumbled but maintained his feet.