The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  “I’ve received reports that the Galanians are rounding up Sevenlanders within their Empire. They’re offering rewards for information that leads to capturing our countrymen, and given the general feelings against us in the east, there have been many Sevenlanders made prisoner to the Galanians.”

  “When did this happen?” the Mekai asked, his blue eyes intent. Dormael could feel a stirring in the room, the echoes of the Mekai’s anger reverberating through his magic. He shivered.

  “By my reports, they started sometime before the Winter Solstice. They were able to keep it secret for a time, but word of such things leak out eventually. According to my agents, they’re moving the Sevenlanders to camps set up for the purpose of containing us. There are wild rumors about torture and strange experiments, and some of my wizards have gone missing. This doesn’t bode well for us, Wise One,” Victus grumbled.

  “Indeed it does not.”

  “The vast majority of our people who’ve been captured seem to be honest merchants and travelers, and even a few Sevenlander descendants living in the area. There have been a few of the Blessed who have gone missing, but so far most of my agents are still in place. Honored Mekai, I ask your permission to authorize a rescue operation,” Victus said, his eyes burning.

  The Mekai remained quiet for a time, thinking. Dormael could tell that the old man was torn. He loved his people, but there were consequences to such an undertaking. Finally, the Mekai stood and sighed loudly.

  “I cannot authorize you to do this at this time, Victus.”

  “Wise One?” Victus asked, obviously flabbergasted.

  “We cannot destroy these camps just yet. Such a thing would not only swing public attitudes against us, but it would put more of our people in danger over the course of the next few years. If we use magic against the Galanians, we’d be tearing down the laws made in the wake of the Second Great War.”

  “So we let our people suffer because of politics? Wise One, I implore you to reconsider!”

  “Not politics, Deacon Victus, but the law, and good sense. We will send them aid, surely, but until we can somehow get our people released without the resulting loss of life that would come from a coordinated rescue, then I cannot allow it to happen.”

  “But Mekai, our people are dying in those camps!”

  “I know that, Deacon Victus. Someday if you come to be in my position, you will be faced with hard decisions such as this. I don’t like it any more than you do, it tears my soul to say it, but this is how it must be right now. I’ll bring the matter up with the Council of Seven, but be patient for now, Deacon. Things will be made right in time. We must allow diplomacy to run its course here before doing anything rash.”

  “Mekai, please – I can put together a plan for-,” Victus began.

  “That will be all, Deacon. Let us adjourn now and put our plans into motion. I will bring up this matter of the prison camps with the Tal-Kansil. You are all dismissed,” the Mekai said, standing up so quickly that it belied his apparent age. The rest of the delegation in the war room stood as the Mekai did, and all was silent. Dormael shot Victus a glance out of the corner of his eye, and the head of his Discipline stood with his head bowed to his chest, and his shoulders slowly heaving. Dormael knew the man well, and he could tell that Victus was upset by this turn of events. For that matter, Dormael wasn’t sure that he entirely agreed, either.

  The Mekai walked from the room without paying anyone a further glance. As he left, Dormael could feel his power slide from the room and reverberate down the hallway with him. It was disconcerting. Dormael wondered what his own power would be like in the years to come.

  Wizards gained power as they aged and used magic more often. It was commonly believed that using magic altered wizards somehow, so that they aged a little slower, healed a little more completely, and Dormael could not remember ever seeing a Conclave member sick from disease, though there was no supporting documentation on the matter. It was simply generally accepted that as a wizard, you would live longer and grow more powerful.

  There were risks involved, of course, which is why very few wizards lived to be the Mekai’s age. At least, very few that remained ingrained in society. Using magic was dangerous. It was dangerous to everyone, but especially to the wizard using it. Dormael had come back from the brink of death this last time, and he knew he was lucky to have done so. Every year more and more people Dormael either knew, or knew of, disappeared or were reported dead or driven insane.

  Magic could do strange things to the mind, and even the body, if used wrongly, carelessly, or if too much power was drawn into oneself. It had long been theorized that magic was the “blank material” of creation. That it was either the power, or some form of it, that the Gods had used to create the world and everything in it. It was reactive, and at least semi-empathic. Magic will do things that your mind wants without you even realizing you want it, which is why disciplining the mind is the most important aspect of a wizard’s training. Clear intent is imperative.

  For this reason, many young wizards, and even old ones, either injure themselves by carelessly using magic for something they thought would be simple, or drive themselves mad by drawing too much power and hurting themselves or others.

  Dormael had once seen an old wizard, though, when he was in his First Four, who came to the Conclave to speak to the Mekai on some matter that was beyond his scope at the time. Dormael had just been learning about his Kai and how to feel the reverberations in the magic, and how to hear the songs of other wizards through it. One day, while sitting in class, he’d begun to hear a strange song through the magic, as if from very far away. Only a few students in the class felt the song, and the master had used the opportunity to teach them about wizards and the way their power grew as they aged.

  Dormael felt that song over the next two days, growing stronger and stronger, until finally on one fine summer day, Dormael spotted its source. He’d been sitting out on a balcony that overlooked the front gate of the Conclave proper, soaking in the summer sun and meditating. He could remember the day as if it were just a few hours ago, instead of more than ten years.

  The Conclave was its own compound, a sprawling complex with its own warehouses, outbuildings, and even its own docks along the river that ran through Ishamael. What many Sevenlanders called the “Conclave Proper” was the actual tower where children were taught the ways of magic, and wizards resided. It was an old building, constructed just after Ishamael had been declared the capital of the Sevenlands, and it had been built with magic.

  Some of the buttresses and outlying rooms of the Tower were mind-bending, seemingly impossible creations because of magic’s involvement in its making. Dormael was seated on one such part of the tower, a completely open balcony just wide enough for four people to sit upon, attached to the Tower itself by one slender stone arm. Many young initiates had found sitting on the platform dizzying, but Dormael had quickly warmed to the spot. It was only one floor above ground level, and it looked out over one of the white cobblestone walkways that meandered through the Conclave grounds and eventually led directly to the front entrance to the Tower.

  An old man walked briskly along the walkway, almost skipping in the noonday sun. He wore a simple gray robe that seemed tattered even from the quarter mile or so distance that Dormael had seen him coming. He could tell that the man’s hair was wild and unkempt, and it was a dark shade of gray. He could also see that the old man was barefoot. Dormael had thought that strange at the time; the cobblestones would be hot as they baked in the hot summer sun.

  Then he felt it. The old man’s power rolled over the land around him, sinking into the earth and wafting into the sky in invisible, but powerful waves. It waxed and waned like a globe of warm water that one couldn’t see but only feel. He could hear a resonant melody in the magic, a lilting vibration that reached out and touched everything the old man passed, and Dormael could see its effects on the world around the man.

  As he came closer, Dormael cou
ld see the deep green grasses at the edge of the walkway reach out towards the man, as if he were some sort of magnet to them. They waved at his passing, as if greeting him and telling him goodbye, and Dormael could have sworn that each blade were just slightly longer and more vibrant after he’d passed. The light seemed to curl around him, wreathing him in a halo of noonday sunlight, and it made the old man seem to shine like he was reflecting the sun. Once Dormael could see through the reflection, he spotted something that looked almost like heat waves wafting up from the old man’s body, like viewing a distant oasis across hot desert sand. The old man practically screamed his presence in the magic to everyone who was sensitive to it.

  Dormael sat, staring in awe at the old wizard, realizing for the first time that it was this man’s song he’d been hearing for the past two days. It took him a few seconds to realize that the old man had stopped below the balcony and was staring right back up at Dormael. Coming from his reverie, Dormael raised a hand in greeting to the venerable wizard.

  “Good day to you, Blessed,” Dormael intoned as respectfully as a young boy could manage. The old man smiled, his eyes seeming to sparkle behind the wild mass of hair that framed his face.

  “That it is young one, a good day indeed! What more could one ask for than the sun shining, and the birds singing, and all that should be moving in the world doing so? Listen closely and you can hear the river flowing by in town, water that has been on this world for eons, boy! Eons! Flowing by us right as we stand here and speak to each other amiably – isn’t that wonderful? Just imagine!” the old man replied.

  Dormael was at a loss for words. He’d expected the old man to wave and move on, dismissing him as unimportant, but now he stood just below Dormael’s balcony, awaiting a reply. “Indeed, sir, wonderful.”

  “Indeed! I am Kreslin, young sir, and pleased to speak with you,” the old man said then, bowing deeply with a big, white-toothed smile cracking his wild haired face in two.

  “Initiate Harlun, sir,” Dormael replied, “First year.”

  “Ah, the First Four, they’re still doing that here? It has been ages, indeed, since I walked these halls. The city has grown nicely since I’ve been away. Tell me, boy, does the kitchen still serve that delightful spiced wine?”

  Dormael smiled, “It does, sir, and frosted sweet rolls, too.”

  “Magnificent! I knew I’d have to make some excuse to come here, talking to the Mekai and all that business, but really there’s one thing that will bring Old Kreslin down from the Mountains, and that’s the Conclave’s spiced wine. Been my favorite for years,” Kreslin laughed. Dormael found himself laughing along with the old man, despite the presence of his overwhelming magical power.

  In the time it took Dormael to calm his laughter, Kreslin was seated beside him on the balcony. To this day, Dormael still thought about that over and over again, and even now couldn’t come up with an explanation as to how the old codger had done it. It had startled him as a body, but Kreslin continued as if nothing amiss had happened.

  “You’ve the look of the Southern Highlands, young Initiate. Soirus-Gamerit?” Kreslin asked, laying a friendly hand on Dormael’s shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah, good, good. Beautiful place, the Highlands. Many secrets buried there, much to learn and much more to explore,” Kreslin mused, gazing out across the Conclave grounds, “You’ve great potential, boy. I can feel your song now, in the magic.”

  Dormael was taken aback by the old man’s comment. It made him suddenly embarrassed and self-conscious. “Thank you, sir,” was all he managed to say.

  “Thank your bloodline, young Blessed. It is amazing to me that even after all this time, from long before Indalvian down to young Initiate Harlun, the magic still runs strong in Sevenlander blood.”

  “Sir, how old are you?” Dormael suddenly asked, his curiosity overriding his sense of propriety. Kreslin threw back his wild mass of hair and laughed into the sunlight, and Dormael could have sworn that the grass and the trees moved as he did, and the light seemed to twinkle around him. Dormael could feel his mirth reverberating through his Kai. He had to suppress a powerful urge to laugh right along with him.

  “I am old, indeed, young one – old enough to remember Clan Wars that you’ve yet to learn of in your history lessons. You’re wondering about the magic, and the way it acts as one ages?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dormael replied, abashed now that he realized what he’d asked.

  “Well, where to begin? I’d say that it all depends on who you are youngling. Of course, universally wizards grow stronger with magic as they age – you’ve learned this much, yes?”

  Dormael nodded.

  “Ah, but what they won’t tell you, can’t tell you really, because there aren’t any wizards old enough in the Conclave to know, is that over time you begin to commune more deeply with your power. You become as much a part of it as it is a part of you. You feel the world moving underneath your feet, you feel the sky changing and storms forming on the other side of the sea. Your magic becomes as your eyesight. You find that sometimes your will is made reality without any real effort or concentration. It makes you happy sometimes, but in truth, it also makes you dangerous,” Kreslin said, his mood suddenly growing somber.

  “Dangerous, sir? How so?”

  “Take me, for instance. Right at this moment, I’m having to coax my Kai into passivity, so that a tree doesn’t suddenly grow right in that spot not thirty feet away,” Kreslin said, pointing at a patch of empty grass some distance from them, “simply because I had a thought that an old oak tree would look nice sitting there. It seems harmless enough, surely, but in truth it could be quite a problem. What if I was angry? What if I suddenly thought that a thunderstorm would be nice, hmm?”

  Dormael sighed, “I see what you mean, sir.”

  “It could be devastating, young man. All because of a stray thought. I find that as I age into my dotage I spend more and more time simply meditating and exerting control over my thoughts. It’s quite the bother, sometimes.”

  “But you make trips down to the Conclave for spiced wine,” Dormael pointed out, trying to cheer the old man up, “It can’t be all bad.”

  “Oh, nothing is all bad. But I can no longer live among my people, young Harlun. Things being as they are, my only companion is my magic, and the wilds that I traverse. On the upside, however, I have discovered many, many things about the world. Many secrets, and I’ve had my own little adventures, of course.”

  “Secrets? What kind of secrets?” Dormael asked, his interest piqued with thoughts of adventure.

  “Ah, but that is for an old man to know, and a young Initiate to discover when he reaches the right age.”

  “Is there treasure and hidden tombs?” Dormael breathed, his eyes growing wide.

  “Aye, you won’t have to search far for hidden tombs and forgotten ruins. But there are other secrets as well, young one. Secrets hidden, even, in the most mundane of things – like a leaf or a blade of grass. Search there for something, young one, and you may just find that secrets lie all around you,” Kreslin whispered, leaning close to Dormael as if they were sharing some dire information. “I must be going now. It has been nice speaking to you, young Initiate. Until we meet again?”

  “Will we? Meet again, I mean?” Dormael asked.

  “Who can say? The future shrouds greater secrets than any of us can discover, until they reveal themselves to us. Farewell, young Blessed.”

  “Farewell, wizard Kreslin.”

  Dormael had looked down at his hands for only an instant, and when he looked up again Kreslin was gone. When he concentrated, Dormael could feel the old wizard’s power waning, fading away somewhere into the Conclave Tower. He’d felt strange after that encounter, bemused and a little melancholy after hearing what Kreslin had to say. On one hand he had to look forward to growing powerful and traversing the lands in search of hidden secrets, and on the other he had exile and loneliness.

  “Dormael – a
re you alright?” Victus was saying to him. Dormael snapped from his memories.

  “Yes, yes. Sorry about that, just thinking about something,” Dormael muttered, touching the painful bruise on his chest experimentally. Not surprisingly, it still hurt.

  “Sit down, Dormael. The three of us need to talk,” Victus said, indicating his seat. Dormael realized that he was still standing, and that Victus and D’Jenn had already sat down. Lacelle must have left on the Mekai’s heels, for they were the only three people left in the room. Dormael sat down, putting most of his weight on his right arm and grunting as he did. His entire body still hurt from the fight with Jureus, and it protested his every move.

  Victus sighed and ran his hands through his wild dark hair, gazing intently at the mahogany table for a few moments. Dormael and D’Jenn sat respectfully, letting the Deacon gather his thoughts. Victus had ever been a hot-headed man, especially when he was fighting for a cause that he thought was right. Dormael could tell that he was torn over the issue with the Galanians.

  “This entire mess…it’s just not right,” Victus began, slapping his hands on the table.

  “What do you mean?” D’Jenn asked him.

  “Think about it, men. Think of the chain of events here. First, Dargorin moves into Neleka, and annexes the country. After a brief period of occupation, he does the same to Shundovia. But then he stops, but not until he fortifies the border with Moravia to the south, and masses an army there. He just…stops, and doesn’t move for a few years. Why?”

  “Perhaps he was giving his men time to recover. Years and years of war can’t be good for morale. I mean, I’m no military commander myself, but…why else would he stop?” Dormael said, shrugging his shoulders and wincing at the pain that burned across his left chest muscle.

  Victus fixed Dormael with a withering glare. “I think that all these years in the field have dulled your mind a bit, boy. Or perhaps it was the near-coma you were in recently, which we’ll speak on later.” Dormael winced. “No,” Victus continued, “It simply doesn’t make sense for him to do so. He gained nothing by sitting in Shundovia for that time, except the revenue from taxing the conquered territory. What you have to consider is his next move. He didn’t move into Moravia, nor did he conquer Solace Island, which was all but annexed by the Moravians when he occupied Shundovia. He left all that damned gold to the Moravians, which doesn’t make a damned bit of sense when you think about it! No, what does he do next?”