by Cat Bruno
Over and over, she had wailed. Still, moon years later, the voice had called to him, accusing him anew with each breath. Yet, he could never help, too late each time, arriving as the small shop was already raging with flames. Too late, again and again. Each time she called, he arrived too late.
For too many moon years to count, she had reminded him of his failure. Her deep-brown eyes edged with grief, wet with tears unshed. Her skin, soft and smooth under his touch, a shade darker than her eyes, brushing against him as she whispered her pleas into his ear, words rolling and lilting, touched with her homeland. How he longed to hold her against him, kiss her long, lean neck, taste her history as it was written across her body, her years spent in the Southern Cove Islands, trailing after her mother, learning the earth magic of her people. Digging at the ground with her thin fingers, nut-colored nails covered with dirt and mud and warmed by a hot sun, Leorra had grown from child to woman.
She had only set off for Cordisia to escape a tribal war that had already killed her beloved mother, the matriarch and leader, the pulsing heart and guiding light that had taught her everything. Yet, she never left the islands entirely, as her earth magic accompanied her to Cordisia, flourishing as Leorra adapted to her new country.
Moon years later, when Aldric stumbled into her father’s shop, she was a child no more. Stunning and exotic, her body curved, wide shoulders and a full chest tapering to a narrow waist and broad, inviting hips. With one look, Aldric had been taken with her, as if spell-bound. When she spoke, he listened, sipping at her words as if they could quench a thirst he had not known he had. A scent of nuts and berries clung to her, as if she were made of the soil she used in her magic.
He had loved her deeply, almost instantly, as if he had been meant to find her, directed by the gods to her as she had stood outside her father’s door. And then they had taken her from him. For him, there would never be another; even the fire-haired girl whom he had sworn to protect could not replace her. For several moon years after her death, Aldric had sought revenge, searching for those responsible. When peace still did not come, he turned to the earth magic. And it had welcomed him.
Heavy with wine, his thoughts turned to Bronwen. Having known her less than three moons mattered little, for he realized that she was his path out of the darkness, away from a life lived for revenge. He had known it the moment he had seen her glowing before him, and had it confirmed when Leorra disappeared.
Willem was still talking about his cousin when Aldric shook himself free of the memory. Sipping at his wine, he shifted and became clear-eyed and focused once again, and readied himself for his return to Rexterra. Where he had lost Leorra. Where he had first stepped onto the path of darkness.
But, this time, he came prepared, with not only his own powers and the magic of his beloved, but with a Northern healer, trained and skilled. And, in her, the greatest threat the Mage-Guild could ever face. A babe created from both light and dark, with unknown powers at her hand, to call and answer, to control and sway.
And, yes, to avenge.
61
With the brightening sky, Pietro rose, quickly discarding the light blanket that had covered him. As he walked across his room, he grabbed a robe from the nearest pile of newly washed and pressed clothing, throwing the garment over his head and then down his slender, tanned body. His day was a full one, with his first stop already well-planned, a visit to Master Torino, since he had been unable to find the man when he had last tried. Pietro hoped a detailed explanation of what had occurred at the Master Council meeting, including Bronwen’s role in it, would also be forthcoming.
Today, he had neither time nor patience to wait for his serving woman, so he picked up a day-old loaf of bread from his table and ran for the door, gone before the sun was fully visible at the edge of the campus. While he walked, Pietro thought about all the questions that he had planned for Torino, yet he could not forget the Tribesman’s warning. He hated waiting, yet had little choice, and could not yet tell any what he knew.
As he had the night before, Pietro knocked heavily on Master Torino’s door and waited. Before long, the door swung open, and Pietro stared down at Torino, ruffled, dark hair, even as short as it was, sticking up from all angles across his round head. The master’s eyes were deep and clear, without any hint of sleepiness, although the rest of his face was crinkled with lines and streaks of red. His clothing was wrinkled and tousled, as if he had been sleeping.
Torino was not an attractive man, Pietro concluded, although not for the first time; he had thought the same after the very first meeting he had had with the man. And his gruff personality did little to soften his image at the Academy. Many, if not most, of the students thought him to be as bad as Master Black, who long had the reputation as being the Academy’s most disliked Master. That mattered little to Pietro, especially now that he and Master Torino had formed a near friendship, or something akin to it.
In a shrill voice, Torino called, “Pietro, you are earlier than I thought you would be, although I shouldn’t be much surprised, I suppose. Anxious to hear about the council meeting, are you?”
It took a few moments for Pietro to realize that Master Torino was laughing, and the cackling noise unnerved him.
“Well, I have too much to do today, sir, and I know you must as well so I thought it best to get here as early as I could. If now is not convenient for you, then I could return later.”
He hated adding the last words, yet Pietro knew that he needed the master, and therefore had to tread carefully or risk damaging all his efforts to win the man over throughout the last moon.
But, Torino answered, “Now is as fine a time as ever. Sit and listen, and do not interrupt my thoughts or my words. There is much to report, including some interesting news from your homeland.”
Relieved and with his interests piqued further, Pietro sat down in a small wooden chair, hard and uncomfortable, yet determined to hear all that Torino had to say. While the sun rose higher and burned brighter against a cloud-speckled sky, Torino told Pietro all about the urgently called Master Council, forgetting little as his mind was as sharp as his angled Arvumian features, cheekbones slicing across his narrow face and eyes slightly slanted, a shade of blue-gray that could cause the hardest of warriors to pause.
When he spoke of Bronwen, his voice grew a bitter edge, the words twisting and clipped short, harsh and curt. As before, Pietro wondered what Bronwen had done to earn such enmity from the man, yet he held his tongue, not wanting to be the target of Torino’s anger, listening over and over as the man talked, stunned into silence. And trying to commit all that Torino was telling him to memory.
When he finished, Torino curtly nodded, walking across the room as Pietro stood quietly. “You now know all, or as much as any of us Pietro,” the Master called.
As he raised his steaming mug to his mouth, Torino asked, “What do you know of King Herrin and his sons? They are kin to you, if I remember right.”
Pietro hesitated before replying, contemplating whether to fully answer the Master’s queries. The pale, dark-haired face of the Tribesman surfaced, causing a shiver to run through his body. He knew that he would not betray the Tribesman, not yet. Not ever, he hoped.
With the memory of the Tribesman near, Pietro answered simply, “They are kin, but I have only met the king on a few occasions, and I was but a child. He never seemed in perfect health, as I remember, and rumors always surrounded him, especially in times of illness. That he still lives, I think, is a surprise to many, and a tribute to those healers he keeps with him. As to who would wish him dead, well, I cannot say. A tutor once told me something about trying to figure out who would benefit most from such a deed. Perhaps that is where the answer lies.”
“Spoken like a true Rexterran, Pietro,” Torino laughed, still harsh and cutting, and continued, “On the morrow, Bronwen departs. If she fails, I think a case can be made against her apprenticeship. But, that is assuming that she returns at all. For if the king is truly meant
to live, then would not the person or persons who seek his death also wish to stop his healing as well? Ah, but we should not speak of such unpleasantness. Let us wait and see, for there is little to be done from here.”
The Master’s words were unguarded, yet still they surprised Pietro. What has Bronwen done? For a moment, he wished he had not come, for even in his dislike of her, he did not want to see her harmed, as Master Torino seemed to be suggesting.
Yet, he said nothing and waited as Torino spoke between sips of tea.
“For now, there is little to do. Once Bronwen is gone, discussions will begin about who will be next named Master Apprentice. If you do as I have suggested, you will be so named. For now, make yourself known and familiar with a few other healers, although keep our discussions private. When you are not in class, spend time at the clinic.”
Setting his mug onto a table, Torino added, “From what I hear you can often be found in the taverns. And with women. For now, set that aside.”
Torino turned his back then, busying himself with a plate of cold eggs that smelled sour. Pietro watched as the man bit his sharp teeth into them, and his stomach turned. The Master’s final words had been part warning, and Pietro could feel his cheeks burning after the scolding.
Offering a full Rexterran bow, Pietro said, “Of course, Master.”
His words were smooth and controlled and he walked from the room without further reply.
Once gone, Pietro shook his head, as if in disbelief, and continued on the soft path, heading from the Academy grounds toward The Gull House, despite the Master’s warning. While he walked, Pietro wondered how he would feel if Bronwen did not survive her Master Journey. To his surprise, he had no answer.
62
Bronwen was awake with the sun, staring at her unclothed body in the yellow light that shined through her windows. In the corner of her room, a large mirror leaned against the wall, and she walked to it, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. Turning to the side, she examined herself, noticing the way her stomach rounded. Her breasts were full, as was her face, she thought, nearing the mirror until she was close enough to touch it. Leaning in, Bronwen felt her chin brush against the cool glass. But it was her eyes that earned her focus.
“What in the hells?” she exclaimed.
Lifting her fingers to her eyes, she rubbed at them. Again, she looked. With a gasp, she pulled away from the mirror and walked across the room toward the trunk of clothing near the bottom of her bed. After opening the lid, she sorted through the contents, throwing robes and dresses on to her cot. Because of Willem, she now had a wardrobe to rival that of any privileged young Cordisian woman, although most of it would not soon fit her, she thought with a grimace. Uncertain what to pack for the Healer Journey, she fell onto the cot and reached for a simple robe.
After sliding it over her head, she searched through a mound of discarded clothing until she found a pair of linen pants. Loosening the laces as much as she could, Bronwen pulled the pants on. Looking at the pile of colorful dresses, she sighed and rose from the cot. Without packing any of it, she crossed the room, slipped on her sandals and departed.
On the morrow, she would leave, although she still had not told Sheva.
Just over the west side of the Academy, the sun rose, bright and pink. As Bronwen walked to the dining hall, she saw no one, although she knew that Sheva would be awake and preparing the morning meal. For moons, Bronwen had distanced herself from her foster mother, somewhat intentionally, she realized. Now, with her departure hours away, she could not avoid her any longer.
When she arrived at the dining hall, Bronwen paused, her hand on the iron handle of the door. After a long moment, she pulled the door open and entered.
The room was empty and she crossed it hurriedly, before she could change her mind. Near the back was the kitchen, where Bronwen knew that she would find Sheva. With her dark hair pulled into a knot at her neck, her foster mother stood at a large sink. For a moment, she watched as Sheva scrubbed at a large pot. There were several other women in the kitchen as well, Tretorians like Sheva, and one of them, who Bronwen did not recognize, noticed her.
In heavily accented Common, the woman called, “Food will be served soon.”
Bronwen watched as Sheva turned from the sink. When their eyes met, Bronwen smiled, trying to cover the uneasiness that she felt.
“Bronwen! What in the name of the light’s shadow are you doing back here?” Sheva cried, wiping her hands on her apron.
With sadness that she could not seem to hide, Bronwen softly said, “Sheva, I have something I need to tell you. Is there somewhere we can go?”
Watching Sheva’s smile disappear, Bronwen pulled at the edge of her robe, hating that she could not speak the truth. Saying nothing, Sheva led her from the kitchen, walking to another corner of the dining hall.
When they were both seated at a small table, her mother’s soft brown eyes full of concern, Sheva quietly asked, “What is so urgent, Bronwen, that has you here so early?”
Dropping her gaze to her hands that were folded in her lap, Bronwen hesitated to answer. There was much to say, much that Sheva did not know. And much that she could not, Bronwen thought.
Finally, she said, “A few days ago, it was decided that my Healer Journey would begin on the morrow.”
“It was not meant to start for moons, I thought,” Sheva replied, her words thick.
“Perhaps Master Rova can tell you more, mother, but I have been instructed to say little.”
Her words were not untrue, and Bronwen looked up, knowing that Sheva watched her still.
“It was his decision, then?” she asked.
“Not just his. There was a session of the Master Council.”
Frowning, Sheva said, “I’m surprised he did not tell me of his plans.”
“I’m sure that he had reasons for not doing so. Really, though, it is not so different than what was originally planned. I leave tomorrow and will be gone for a moon year. When I return, if the Master Council approves, I will be a full Master.”
With a cry, Sheva whispered, “I knew this day would come, but I had thought I still had moons to prepare for it.”
Smiling, partly in relief, Bronwen laughed, “I thought to have moons to prepare as well! You should see my rooms! There are clothes everywhere and I have less than a day to ready myself.”
Nodding her head, Sheva got up from the table and said, “We must go there at once. I will help you pack what is necessary.”
Even though Sheva’s words were not surprising, Bronwen still quieted, uncertain how to decline the offer.
Finally, she rose and said, “Oh, it will not take me overlong. I just have to throw some robes into a satchel.”
Watching her, Sheva stated, “Promise to visit me again before you leave, even if only briefly.”
Hugging the woman, Bronwen mumbled, “Of course.”
When Sheva released her, Bronwen stepped back, ready to flee. Yet, her foster mother grabbed her arm, and again looked at her.
With words barely above a whisper, she asked, “What is it that you are not telling me?”
Her life pulse beating hard under her robe, Bronwen pulled back from the woman, and hastily answered, “I have told you all that I can. Ask Rova if you like.”
Stepping further away, Bronwen said, “We both knew this day would come. I shall write to you when I can.”
Still Sheva watched her.
Nervously, Bronwen said, “Did I tell you that lately I have been remembering more of my childhood? Just the other day, I had memory of my parents. My mother’s hair was dark, yet my father had hair as mine.”
Sheva’s eyes had widened as Bronwen spoke, a strange look spreading across her face, and Bronwen wished she had not spoken of her returned memories.
Before she could apologize, Sheva said, “Bronwen, do not let my shock over your words diminish your happiness. And do not be afraid to speak of your memories with me. I have always known that I would have to sha
re you, and I am more grateful than you will ever know that I have had you in my life at all.”
Reaching for her again and hugging her tightly, Sheva added, “Now, I am certain that you have much to do, and, as you suggested, I am going to find Master Rova and speak with him. I want to make sure that he has provided all that you might need for this trip, as any mother would. We will speak later.”
Let Rova answer her questions. I have told enough lies.
63
It was dark still when she crawled from bed, having slept little the night before. Stumbling across a clothes-strewn floor, Bronwen looked around the room for the mage-light. She still had not found it when she collided into the desk across the room and cried out as the corner of the table pushed against her bare leg.
“Damn!” she hissed, balancing herself.
After a few moments, her fingers found the small orb beside several bottles, and she tapped at it until a soft, glowing light filled the room. As she looked around the room, Bronwen sighed, embarrassed by the mess that she was leaving. Clothing and empty bottles dotted the floor and books were piled high against the far wall. Even though Willem had assured her that a trunk of clothing and supplies would be waiting for her when she crossed the Tretorian border, Bronwen had still filled two large satchels with her healer’s tools and several extra robes.
Before she had arrived home last night, she had visited Master Tywinne again, finalizing details, although neither she nor Willem had told him their own plans. For the first few days of travel, she would be as any other who set out on a Healer Journey, even wearing healer’s robes. Yet, on the Arvumian border, two men waited, and, if things went as planned, Sharron as well. She had departed the day before, begging leave to visit an ailing mother, or so she had told Master Rova. Aldric would travel with Bronwen, although he had been warned to keep himself well-warded, a skill Bronwen knew he had long mastered. Willem had planned well, and, in Arvumia, several horses would be waiting with the hired guards. She had not asked how much coin it had cost him, and it seemed to matter little as he had given her three small bags as well. Enough to leave Cordisia altogether, she knew.
