by Sean Hinn
Sartean rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course. I do not require a summary of the problem. I require a solution.”
Mila lost her ability to pretend at cheerfulness, and decided to get on with it. “Of course. Despite extensive search efforts, we have not located another source, and I have not been able to even get close to synthesizing an artificial version of the plant. Nor its extract. I have spent the last two years beating my head against this cursed table, and a cycle ago, I decided that I was asking the wrong question.”
“Clearly. And what is the right question?”
“The right question, Master, is not why I cannot synthesize the plant. It is not how I might synthesize the plant, or its extract. The right question is, under what conditions will phenarril grow? In other words, where.”
“And the answer?” Sartean was growing impatient.
“Anywhere I damned well please, Master, provided that I create the right conditions. So, I sent an apprentice to the rim to obtain air samples, and–”
“An apprentice? You did not obtain my permission.”
“No, Master, I did not. Yet I sent him nonetheless, and he returned with several flasks of air from the rim, and a few minor burns, but nothing he won’t survive.” She eyed the wizard briefly to demonstrate that no, she did not fear him as much as he would like her to, and continued. “I have analyzed the air, and while I cannot synthesize phenarril, I am certainly a sufficient master of the elements to combine the correct quantities of gases, particles, temperatures and light to create an environment equal to that which exists in the air that vents from the volcano. I have done so, and I have planted and grown a sprig of phenarril, right here in the lab, and I present it to you now.”
With a flourish of her delicate fingers and a barely audible whisper, Mila evaporated the protective bubble of energy and in her hands she held a healthy, violet young phenarril, just mature enough to harvest a few drops of extract from. She placed it in the open right palm of her Master.
Sartean beheld the plant, and examined it. Its delicate yellow roots lacked any soil or even moisture, yet the stem was whole and the leaves a robust, vibrant purple, almost translucent, like a living amethyst, with thin white lines along edges of the broad round leaves.
“Will the extract’s properties be consistent?”
Mila slid her hand between her breasts, into her gown, and removed a small clear vial with only a few droplets of fluid suspended within, holding it before her.
“You hold one of three identical plants that were conceived on the same day last cycle, Master. The first I have already milked, and analyzed its nectar. It is identical in composition and potency to the extract in our stores. This,” she wiggled the vial, “is the extract from the second. I can test it now, if you like, I have prepared the reagents.”
Sartean smiled savagely, and reached his left hand towards Mila’s face. His middle finger traced a line from the center of her forehead and brushed aside a wisp of hair that had fallen into her eyes. His fingers drew a course down her cheek, resting beneath her smooth chin, and lifted it gently to his face. He leaned in intimately, close enough to feel the sorceress’ sweet breath cease, and whispered.
“You have done well, Mila Felsin.” The wizard’s dark eyes held Mila’s. She returned the stare, a hint of a tremble on her red lips her only expression.
Sartean withdrew. Mila exhaled.
“If you believe it consistent, then I will accept that as fact. The more important question remains. Can this be done at scale?”
Mila was looking forward to this question.
“I have already trained a team of four wizards to duplicate my efforts, Master. In a week, I could create a squarefield of this environment and being planting.”
Sartean’s laugh held no mirth. “A team of four, and a squarefield?” he mocked.
“Well, yes Master, for the quantities I assume you want–”
“You assume much, Miss Felsin. Tell me, how much phenarril extract is required for a single day’s dose of your Flightfluid?”
“Well, approximately ten drops, Master.”
“Yes. And how many drops will a mature phenarril plant yield?”
“Roughly twice that much, Master. Twenty drops, give or take.”
“And how long is the life cycle, from planting to maturation?”
Mila began to redden. “Well, full maturity Master, most of a season, but that is only an estimate–”
“Yes. It is only that. But let us assume it is accurate. How many plants, Miss Felsin, do you believe can be grown in a squarefield?”
Mila was prepared for this as well. “The phenarril plant requires a bit of room to grow well, Master. No portion of it may grow under shadow. A conservative estimate is fifty thousand plants.”
“Fifty thousand. Tell me, Miss Felsin, how many plants would be needed to sustain one person with a dose per day for one year?”
Mila frowned at the idea, but did the math. “Three hundred fifty-two days in a year, one plant per two doses–”
“One hundred seventy-six. Four growing seasons, fifty thousand plants per square, two hundred thousand plants. Assuming your environmental experiment works at scale, annual yield would roughly approximate four hundred thousand doses.”
“Master, many would not survive continued usage for so long–”
“How many people live in Mor, Miss Felsin?”
Mila froze. Sartean blinked slowly, awaiting her reply. “A quarter of a million, perhaps?”
“Over three hundred thousand. In the city alone.” Sartean stepped forward.
“Yet as you say, Miss Felsin, tragically many will not survive continued use of the potion. And we must assume, adoption of use will not be universal. So we do not need that many doses, do we?”
“Ah, no Master. It would seem not.” Mila was horrified.
“I will assume one hundred thousand doses per day will eventually be required. I would therefore require eighty-four squarefields of phenarril to be growing as soon as it can be arranged,” Sartean shrugged, “though these things never go as well as planned. Call it one hundred. Tell me, how many wizards will that require to sustain?”
“Forty at least, Master.”
“Train who you must. You will leave for the farmlands exactly ten days from today.”
“Master! Me? I am not well suited–”
“You are perfectly suited, Mila. Or, rather, I believe you to be. Shall I instead assume your usefulness has run its course? You have trained four replacements whom I am sure would jump at the opportunity for such leadership.”
Mila felt the noose tighten. “It will not be as simple as you extrapolate, Master. A phenarril plant will only yield a few dozen seeds per season, I have only a few hundred with which to begin–”
“I am aware of this, Miss Felsin. Assuming a reproduction factor of ten, it will take you five to six seasons to grow the four-point-two million phenarril plants needed to meet my objectives. You may lose half your seeds to incompetence, and you will still succeed. Will you not?”
“I will, Master. Though I must ask, are you naturally this skilled at mathematics?”
Sartean smiled. “This is not mathematics, child. This is arithmetic, and while I do not feel the need to answer your question, I will.” Sartean leaned in again. “No, Mila. I loathe arithmetic. It is a base science imprisoned by rules. I have known about your discovery since the moment you did, and made these simple calculations a cycle ago.”
Sartean stepped back, and handed her back the phenarril plant. “You are quite clever, Miss Felsin. A gifted sorceress. But the day that you will surpass or even surprise me is not coming.” The Master of Kehrlia bowed his head subtly. “Thank you for your efforts, however. I enjoy your…flair.”
Mila stood alone.
---
Ten seasons later, Master Sartean D’avers again received a knock that he had been expecting. A messenger had arrived with a brief handwritten note from the young sorceress.
I have received your order. The caravan shall depart in five days.
-M.
XXV: THE GROVE
“Trellia, I have brought you some tea.” Barris set the tray down on the small pine table beside the silver-haired Vicaris, and sat across from her. The woman leaned forward in her wicker chair and patted the knight on the knee. “You are kind, Barris, but it is a bit late in the afternoon for tea.”
“Not for this tea, Vicaris. Your brew here in the Grove is amazing; I will drink my fill of it while I remain with you. I barely feel my aches from this morning, and my head is fully healed. See? There will not even be a scar.” Barris moved to pour them each a cup of the steaming, sweetly aromatic beverage, and Vicaris stayed him.
Trellia smiled gently. “Do not dote on me, you young pup. I have strength enough to pour tea. Here.” She passed him a cup and saucer.
“Thank you. Your initiates do nothing but talk about your great leap astride Phantom, and how you sprinted down the trail like a battle-raged warrior. You have made quite a stir, Trellia.”
The Vicaris laughed. “I suppose I did leap Barris, but Phantom sprinted. The young are always stunned to see me do anything besides lecture. They must think me to be little more than a dusty old nanny.”
“Initiates think anyone older than fifty to be dusty, Trellia. I am sure I strike them as ancient as well.”
“Oh, you do, Barris. They marvel at the feats of endurance you and Phantom perform, though I think we both know that at your pace, you will be ancient soon enough. Lifting a horse, Barris? You spend your life energies like a soldier spends coin.”
“Nonsense.” The knight straightened in his seat with mock indignation. “I will live forever.”
“Perhaps, Barris. I worry about your young companion, however. He will be a bit worse for wear, I fear.”
“He recovers well, I believe. Your healers are gifted, and learned, all thanks to you I would suppose.”
“They are talented, but much credit must go to the Spring.” The Vicaris sipped her brew and smiled. “The same is true for the tea.”
“Indeed.” Barris agreed. “It is about Lucan that I wish to speak with you. It is expected that he will sleep for a bit still, have you any notion for how long?”
“At least another day, although two or three seems more likely. His broken rib had pierced an intestine, I am told, and he was very near death when you reached the Grove. He is a lucky young man.”
“Luckier than you know. If truth be told, it was a spider that saved his life.” Barris explained about Phantom’s minor bite wound. “In any case, I am impatient to speak with him. There are many questions I have for the man.”
“Let him rest, Barris. Whatever he has done, we will learn the truth. It is of little consequence in any case, given the current climate. There are much bigger perils to worry yourself about.”
“Perhaps. Though I wish to know more about the young man. I saw his talent at the pub in Mor.” Barris told the tale. “He is truly gifted with blades, and clever, if a bit roguish. His relationship with his horse must have been strong as well, for her to alert us as she did that he was injured. Lucan piques my interest, and an abundance of curiosity has always plagued me, I fear.”
“I thought nothing plagues you, knight. Are you not a paragon of virtue and discipline?” she teased.
Barris laughed then. “If only, Trellia.”
“I must admit, I did sense worry from Hope about the safety of the young man.”
“I’m sorry, say that again?” Something scratched at the surface of Barris’ awareness.
“The mare. Hope. She was worried about Lucan,” the Vicaris clarified.
“Have I told you the mare’s name?”
“Oh. No, though I am certain that her name is Hope. Not the name given her by man, but the name Phantom expressed to me when he warned me that the three of you were in danger. When I sent her to the Grove, she responded to the name instinctively.”
Barris’ eyes narrowed in concentration. “Interesting. I did not learn Hope’s name from her, nor from Phantom, but rather from Lucan. I suppose I had no reason to notice it before now, but Hope is certainly her soulname. I never made the connection, but now as I consider it, I find it very odd that Lucan would know that. The horse was not elven trained, of that I am sure. How did he learn her soulname? I have never known a man to use the Bond, and such knowledge can only come from a very deep connection and understanding between species.” Barris paused, the Vicaris seeming distracted. “Trellia?”
The Vicaris returned her attention. “A mystery indeed. You are right to be curious about the boy, Barris. There may be something extraordinary there.”
A young male elf entered the humble shack sheepishly, and Trellia rose. “I heard it as well, Petahr.”
“Very well, Vicaris. Is there anything–”
“No, Petahr, thank you.” The initiate bowed and left.
“Have I missed something, Vicaris?”
“Well, not missed Barris, you would not have heard it. There is a message from the queen for you, sent along the winds to me. Petahr must be eavesdropping again. Nosy little cur, that one. Would you hear it now?”
“Of course.” Barris tensed.
“She wishes you to await Pheonaris, Aria, and Captain Mikallis, who are riding at speed for the Grove as we speak. They will arrive in two days, at dawn, if all goes well. They will be exhausted and require your aid.”
“My aid, Pheonaris?” Barris stood. “Is Aria in danger?”
Pheonaris held up a hand. “No Barris, do not be rattled. There are a few things that have transpired that we have not yet spoken of, I will bring you up to speed now. Come now, Barris. Sit. You are where you are supposed to be.”
The Vicaris explained to Barris all that she knew. Since he had left Mor, she had received several messages from Thornwood via the system of magical communication the elves used between the Grove and the capital, a variety of the Speech that carried quickly, but not instantly, on the winds, utilizing the life of the land for conveyance. The elven leaders had convened, and Pheonaris had a vision that Aria would be needed to make haste to the Grove. She told him of Mikallis’ impetuous declaration, and her belated decision to send a trailing company for protection. After the trio had withstood the surge at the Trine, Pheonaris’ second vision instructed the riders to increase their pace, and the three would need to use the Bond as Barris did to reach the Grove more quickly than they had originally thought necessary. The trailing company would never catch them, and so Queen had recalled them.
“They will have difficulty, Vicaris. They and their mounts. The link between Phantom and I has developed over decades, it is not a thing that is easily forged. I can help them recover when they arrive, but I should go to them and assist now–”
“I would tend to agree, Sir Barris, but your queen has ordered you to wait here. She must have good reason.”
Barris thought for a moment, and forced himself to dismiss his disagreement. Terrias Evanti would most certainly have good reason, and he must trust her judgement. He had expected to leave this day, or no later than the next, to ride north, meet with the council, and return in haste to Mor. He admitted to himself that the order to wait brought with it a bit of relief, for as capable as he and Phantom were to make the journey, the cost was not insignificant. He also knew that the order meant he would not be returning to Thornwood before his next audience with Halsen. The delay would make the timetable impossible, and so he would not again see his queen for quite some time yet. It was as it must be.
“I dislike the news about Captain Mikallis, Trellia. The boy is too bold, and it makes me question his motives.”
The Vicaris sat back and eyed Barris. “What is there to question? The boy is in love, and thus made into a fool. His motivation is clear.”
“And dangerous. These are not times for dalliances, nor even genuine romances. Aria will have her fill of responsibilities, and any diversion of her attention is a hazard.”
Barris considered this. He thought of his own ever present feelings for his queen, and felt a tinge of shame as he swallowed his own words about dalliances and romances.
The two sat quietly for a moment as the light from the window began to grey. The storms of autumn would begin accelerating soon, and the shadow of winter was not far behind. The mildness they had enjoyed this season would before long give way to the tumultuous weather marking the end of another year, the realization causing Barris to feel the passage of time in his own life more keenly.
“Did the queen have any other message for me, Trellia?”
The Vicaris did not immediately reply.
“Would you wish that she had, Barris?” she asked mildly.
Barris eyes’ widened, his embarrassment desperately seeking safe harbor, some dismissive thing he could say to dance away from the topic, but as he regarded his friend, the eminently wise Vicaris, he knew there was no escape.
Barris inhaled deeply and groaned. “Am I so obvious, Trellia?”
Trellia reached for Barris’ hand. “Not to all, brave knight, but perhaps to your dearest friends.”
He turned his hand over to hold hers. “You are my one dear friend, Trellia. And I am ashamed to discuss this with you.”
“Nonsense, knight.” She squeezed his hand and released it. “I swaddled you as an elfling, but over the many years, you have become more than a young knight to me, you have become my peer. We are elders of our people, despite our difference in age, and beloved friends besides. There should be no shame between us.”
“Yet there is, Trellia. Though it is not an indication of any barrier between us. I have never spoken of this.” Barris paused a moment. “If you see this so clearly, however, Terrias must as well.”
The Vicaris smiled. “I would not be so sure, Barris. You are quite private and a bit mysterious, if I may say so. And in matters of the heart, even a queen can be dense.”
“Terrias Evanti is far from dense, Trellia. You know this, of course.”
