by Sean Hinn
Sartean had intended to provoke the man with his unsubstantiated and arrogant declaration that he had found the solution to the kingdom’s woes. He did not, however, expect that the fool would so easily take the bait. Never underestimate man’s propensity for stupidity, he reminded himself. Even the mightiest are but slaves to their own arrogance.
---
Sartean walked beside the king, Halsen adorned in full regalia upon his armored steed. The pair had made their way through the choking ash-covered streets of Mor for the better part of an hour, and Halsen was losing patience.
“This had better be good, wizard.” The king coughed himself breathless, and continued. “My cloak is ruined, and my lungs are filling with ash. So help me, I will strangle you myself if this was not worth the effort.”
“My king, I would never inconvenience you so were it not necessary. Here, may I?” Sartean reached towards the king tentatively, and Halsen nodded. He touched the king’s boot, and within moments the ash clinging to the man had fallen away. “I wish I could do the same for your lungs, Sire.” Sartean did not say that he could clear the man’s chest of foreign particles with less than a thought. The wizard’s ability to heal was unparalleled, but kept a closely guarded secret. Without that secrecy, the whole of Mor would be hammering at the stone doors to Kehrlia day and night, the tower reduced to little more than an infirmary, a magnet for the sick and all manner of unclean human filth.
“Do not worry about my lungs, Sar. Worry about your…what is this?”
The squad rounded a corner near the northwestern reaches of the city, and before them lay an immaculately scrubbed avenue, a dozen men scurrying about with brooms and brushes and pails. The ash continued to fall, but never was it allowed to accumulate, teams of laborers moving down one side of the street and up the next, the result a nearly spotless boulevard that was less soiled than before the ashfall.
“Impressive, Sartean. Though I doubt this can be duplicated in scale...”
“It can, my king, but you have not yet seen the whole of what I have to show you. As we make the end of the street, I would direct your attention to the right.”
They approached the corner, and to the right stood the northwest reaches of the outer wall of Mor. Or rather, an improved section of it. An energetic and excited man quickly approached the procession and bowed to the king. Halsen motioned to his anxious guards to stand easy.
“Your Highness, it is an honor!” He then bowed to Sartean. “Master, I did a little more than ya asked, but we’re ‘bout done with the corner. We can keep going if ya like, I guess we just got a little carried away.” The gaunt man stood proudly before the pair.
“I am pleased, James. How are you enjoying your new position?”
“Very much, Master!” The man grinned excitedly. “I like being a foreman! We got lot’s o good men, and–”
“That will be all for now, James, please continue your work. I will see you in the morning.”
“Yessir, Master! Your Highness,” the man bowed again and ran off to continue to work.
“Forgive him please Highness, he is untutored in decorum.”
“I don’t care about his decorum, Sar. What in Fury have you got going here?” Halsen shook his head in awe.
From the corner where the northern and western walls met, and fifty paces in each direction from the joint, the walls of Mor towered nearly twice as high as they had before. The color of the seams clearly indicated that the stones had been freshly laid, and thirty men hurried about, mixing mortar, hauling gravel, and pulling stones up the walls with a well-organized series of pulleys and ropes.
“Is this why I lack laborers, wizard? I did not authorize a rebuild of the wall!” Halsen glared at Sartean.
“No, Sire, though I understand how it must seem. No, these men were assigned to repair a few cracks in the wall that had appeared after the tahrquake two days ago. They have taken it upon themselves to be, ah, industrious, it would seem.”
Halsen eyed the wizard. “I see maybe thirty men, Sartean. This task would have taken more than a hundred fifty men to be completed in such a brief period of time.”
Sartean nodded. “You are correct, Sire. I would calculate that a hundred fifty is a very accurate estimate, if you include the labor needed to clean the nearby streets. My men, however, do the work of three, and half are not present before you.”
The king scoffed. “One man does the work of one man, Sartean. Believe me, I have tested the concept extensively. What are you not telling me?”
“Your Highness, these men are under the influence of a powerful potion I have perfected since our last meeting. You will recall our last discussions.”
“I do. I had ordered you to find a way to magically enhance the efforts of my labor force. This…” he looked at the wall again, shaking his head. “This is the result?”
“It is, Sire. Now, I will caution, there are side effects–”
“To Fury with your side effects, Sar! You will resolve them, I have no doubt. Wizard, this is amazing! But…how can we accelerate this? How much of this potion can you make?”
“More than you could imagine, Sire. I am a sorcerer, after all.”
Halsen’s lip curled in contempt, but he let the arrogance slide. “What do you need, Sartean? Tell me what resources you require.”
“I require no resources beyond that which I can already obtain, Sire. Kehrlia has worked tirelessly on this solution for your kingdom, and I have already begun preparations to distribute our potion as needed. Sire, if I am to address the matter of the ash and the vulnerabilities of the wall before these problems threaten Mor’s stability and sovereignty, I will need to move quickly. We do not yet know what these quakes portend, but I can only assume they will continue. Yet that is not our primary worry; it is but one more complication we face. I only require your seal on a document that will enable me to work unfettered, and to direct the efforts of the citizenry to meet your objectives. Bureaucracy, Sire, is our greatest enemy, as evidenced by the failures of your most trusted advisors.”
Halsen regarded the wizard for a long moment. “You shall have your document, wizard. However.” The king turned his horse to face Sartean head-on.
“Yes, Sire?”
“I am not a fool, Sartean. I know what power you ask for.”
Sartean nodded gravely. “I do not take you for a fool, Sire. And I know that what I ask is unprecedented.”
“Indeed. Unprecedented, and dangerous. Sartean, I will require frequent reports from you, and if at any point I determine that you are exceeding your mandate, or failing to meet it, I will withdraw my consent and punish you most severely. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Sartean nodded again. “You are telling me, Sire, that if I do not wish to come to the same end as Barrington and Fennar, I will meet your objectives, no more, no less.”
“No, Sartean D’avers. I am telling you that if you fail to please me, you will pray for a death as quick and painless as Barrington and Fennar enjoyed. I recall that you are not a devout man, but I promise you, you will find religion before I have finished with you.”
The king continued to glare at Sartean.
“I understand wholly, my king. I will not fail you.” The wizard bowed deeply, and held his bow until the king spoke again.
“No, wizard, you will not. Continue your work, and I will prepare your document. Attend me at sunset.” The king turned back to the palace, leaving Sartean to consider his threat.
The wizard did no such thing. After a moment to allow the king’s squad to round the corner, he called to a nearby laborer.
“Yes, Master?”
“Find Master Vincent Thomison, and tell him his presence is required at Kehrlia immediately. You will find him at his manor. Tell no one, and do not fail to make clear that this is a summons, not a request.”
“Yes, Master D’avers.” The ash-covered man ran through the streets of Mor at a speed even Sartean marveled at.
XXIX: THORNWO
OD TRAIL
Captain Mikallis Elmshadow felt his consciousness slipping away again, his mind desperately trying to escape the turmoil and chaos that emanated from his heart.
He was failing Triumph. He was failing his people. He was failing himself.
He was failing Aria.
Night had fallen again, and the added degrees of concentration required were more than he could maintain. For more than two days he had ridden without rest, the tortuous pace emptying him of all strength and confidence, leaving behind only a shell of the elf that had so boldly declared his loyalty to his beloved princess a few short days ago. He had withstood the stares. He had withstood the murmurs. He had even borne Aria’s distancing, for he believed that his worth would be soon proven, and his honor and loyalty would win her heart. Yet he had been the first to falter, a wound to his pride that had festered and bled, its stench so thick within Mikallis that he could scarcely breathe. Each time the young captain called to Pheonaris for assistance a new wound opened, deeper and angrier than the last, his very soul now a lacerated mess of shame and dishonor.
I am nothing. I cannot even keep pace with the woman I have sworn myself to protect. I have shamed myself before all of Thornwood, and my love will never be returned.
The rhythmic pounding of the saddle against his bruised and battered thighs was the only sensation his body was aware of. His eyes had long ago stopped being able to focus. He knew he held Triumph’s reins, though his link to the Bond was but a thread, only strong enough to know that it was Pheonaris and Aria preventing his mount’s heart from surrendering to the peaceful embrace of death, and the promise of rest it whispered.
Mikallis only knew shame, and self-loathing. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else was even real. Nothing existed beyond the knowledge that his Aria would by now have lost all respect and admiration for him.
My Aria, he thought. She is not my Aria. She has never been my Aria.
The admission burned like hot coals in his stomach, scorching his guts, boiling his very blood. The feelings he had for Aria were beyond love. Beyond desire. Beyond passion. They were all. Mikallis would scorch the very world to protect her, to earn her love, to feel her kiss.
To possess her.
The noblest part of Mikallis knew that his obsession was wrong. That it was not elven, not even human. That it was centered in lust and hunger, not selfless, real love. Yet he could not extinguish it. He did not want to extinguish it. He only wished to sate it, to bathe it in Aria’s own love and passion. Nothing else would soothe him. Nothing else would satisfy.
As the miles wore on, Mikallis’ heart skipped between competing ideas of grief and determination. He would somehow complete this ride, he would persist, he would earn her respect again; her love was not lost. Then…it was lost. It was never his to lose. It could never be. She did not appreciate his devotion to her. He could never make her see.
No, I will. I must only survive this moment. Dammit Triumph, ride!
He had forgotten how to communicate with his mount. Five years they had ridden together, and before this ride, he knew every nook and crevice of the stallion’s spirit. He could inspire him with a thought. He had loved the horse, as a father would love a child. Now, Triumph was failing him, in this of all moments. As the Captain’s desperation reached a climax, his link with Triumph began to fade. Despite his frustration, he constantly reminded himself that this was his companion, his friend. Yet his friend resisted him.
The Captain’s shame cut painfully when he first called to Pheonaris for help that first dawn. The gash he suffered when Aria, unprompted, send a part of her will to support him…this was the injury that broke Mikallis’ spirit. She had only moments before called to Pheonaris herself. A part of him was saddened to hear her pain, to hear of Sera’s pain. He had eventually admitted to himself, however, that the larger part of him hoped she would falter, that they would be forced to stop and rest, that his own weakness would be mitigated by the idea that only the powerful Mistress could maintain their pace. As soon as he had admitted as much to himself, he found himself longing for Aria to withdraw her spiritual support, not because he did not need it, not because it did not comfort him, but because the withdrawal might mean that she had begun to fail, and he would not seem so inadequate in comparison.
This did not happen. If anything, he felt Aria’s support increase over time. He saw her spine straighten, saw Sera’s stride lengthen, his jealousy and despair overwhelming as he watched his Aria ride with pride, strength and poise.
She is not your Aria.
The war within Mikallis raged on, and his heart weakened. The riders rounded a turn, and Triumph nearly rode straight into the wood, Mikallis barely pulling the reins in time to turn the charging horse. They rode on, Mikallis no longer even aware that he was not alone, the slight tendril of consciousness remaining to him only sufficient to keep him on the saddle. Aria sensed the danger.
“He is weakening, Mistress!”
“I know, Aria! You cannot help him, he will not make the Grove!” Pheonaris called back.
“We must not leave him! I cannot!”
“You must, Aria! You must ride on, we must ride on!”
“Can you not stay with him, Mistress? I can continue, Sera and I can go on!”
“No! I must accompany you! You must trust me, Princess of Thornwood! Let go!”
Aria’s heart broke. She knew her friend must feel so ashamed, so alone. Her dear, prideful Mikallis. She sensed the distance between them increasing as Triumph slowed.
“He will join us later, Aria! Let go! Now!”
Aria let go. She knew she must do as her Mistress directed, but it tore at her to abandon her friend, to abandon Triumph. Such pain they must feel, she knew. The sound of hooves behind her faded, and the reduced exertion of her spirit was both a relief and a source of sorrow. She closed the distance between her and Pheonaris, and settled back into her pace.
Behind her, a haunted cry split the night air.
“Ariaaaaa!”
---
Aria and Pheonaris continued through the night, and the trail widened enough for Aria to bring Sera alongside Spirit. Pheonaris looked over her left shoulder to see Aria and Sera approach, and made room on the trail for the pair.
They raced beside one another in silence, Aria comforted by the closeness to her Mistress. No words needed to be spoken for the two women to know what the other was thinking. Aria was terribly saddened at the thought of Mikallis’ sorrow, and Pheonaris would know this. The sweet brave elf would be crushed by what he saw as his own failure, but Aria knew that his shame was misguided. She did not fault him. She did not see his inability to keep pace as a weakness. She only just had learned the complexity of the Bond, and she knew that it was not a thing that could be explained, only discovered. That discovery would come between horse and rider in its own time, she now understood. It was not a matter of character, nor strength. Aria sincerely felt that it was little more than luck that she had stumbled upon an understanding of the Bond, and she could no more fault Mikallis than she could congratulate herself.
Yet Mikallis would not see it that way, she knew.
Aria suspected, however, that her Mistress would see another angle. She would see Mikallis’ presence on their journey as a distraction, no more. Aria was as safe as anyone could be in Pheonaris’ presence; further protection was not needed. Mikallis would not know this; the Captain saw life through military eyes, and would not know Pheonaris as Aria did. The woman was not merely capable of great power. She was wise, intelligent. Pheonaris possessed a sensitivity to her surroundings that only a century of training and experience could impart. Aria had seen evidence of this countless times during her tenure as an initiate. Mikallis would not know this, and his concern for Aria would not allow him to leave her fate in another’s hands, not when the world faced such looming dangers. Pheonaris would understand this, but that understanding would not cloud her judgement. No, Aria decided, her Mistress would not be glad to see Mik
allis struggle as he did, but nor would she lament his absence. In times such as these, pragmatism was required.
Pheonaris eventually broke the silence, her voice only slightly raised to carry over the sound of beating hooves.
“Dawn approaches, Aria. How do you fare?”
“We are well, Mistress. Sera is uncannily strong. How do you fare? You must be exhausted.”
“You know I am not, Aria. You have learned how the Bond works. Spirit’s comfort refreshes me. She is well, so I am well.”
“What is the cost of this, Mistress?”
Pheonaris did not immediately respond. “Life, Aria. The cost if life. You must by now know this as well.”
Aria did not ask the more specific question that was foremost on her mind, for she knew that Pheonaris understood what she had asked, and had chosen not to answer.
“The trail narrows ahead, Aria. You may take the lead if you wish. Do not look back to me, concentrate on the trail ahead. We are but a few hours from the Grove. Lead me home.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Aria replied, and gave Sera her head. The filly kicked at the trail enthusiastically, pleased to surpass Spirit. Aria could almost sense the pride coming from her friend.
The women raced on as the morning light advanced. There would be no sun this day, Aria observed. An overcast had thickened from the east during the night.
XXX: THE MORLINE
Shyla sat beside Wolf on the log raft, stroking his fur and brushing the ash from the animal’s eyes as it continued to fall unabated. The Fang was well out of sight by then, and no longer northwards of them, but now due east behind them, as the Morline meandered northwestwards through the gently sloping basin between The Maw and the lands of men. Despite the distance between the company and the fuming mountain, the fall of ash had not relented, and the mood of the travelers remained sullen and hushed.
