Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters

by Mercedes Lackey

Parthenope’s response was more a squawk than song. All three of them mantled suddenly, like hawks in a rage. Clawed feet scored the thin soil.

  “Meto, here!” Kyria cried. A wave rolled up the rocks behind her, showering her with spray. “Sea Sisters!” she called as she had once before, “Help me!”

  As Meto staggered backward, his sylphs swarmed between him and the Sirens, humming furiously. The Sirens leaped after, powerful wings sweeping them aside, clawing at their prey.

  “He is mine, mine, mine!” they screamed. “He belongs to me!”

  And screamed again as a great wave rose up before them, and a Voice resounded from the depths, “No. . . you belong to the sea!”

  Then the whole weight of water fell, tossing Kyria and Meto up onto the land. As it released them, they saw the retreating wave swirl a mass of feathers away. A woman’s body gleamed above the billow, then was drawn back under.

  “Godly born, you may not die,” that deep voice spoke again, “but you shall dwell now in my waters. Earth and air no more shall bear you—become now creatures of the sea!”

  Blinking, Kyria glimpsed the supple shapes of the Nereids riding the waves, and beyond them the huge shoulders and bearded face of their father. He plunged his trident into the depths. Twisting and fluttering in the whirlpool were three creatures with the tails of fishes and the upper bodies of women whose flowing hair glistened silver, bronze, and gold.

  * * *

  “If Pythagoras is right about the balance of Love and Strife,” murmured Meto, “surely the elements owe us time for love.”

  Kyria smiled into his shoulder and curved her body to fit his. Looking up through the pine branches, she glimpsed a flicker of white as the piece of sail they had tied to a length of deckboard as a signal flapped lazily. In a moment, she should get up and see what the sea was doing, but it was much nicer to simply lie in Meto’s arms.

  She must have dozed off then, for when she opened her eyes again, one of the nymphs was hovering before her, stuttering with excitement.

  “A ship! Despoina, a ship comes!”

  Gasping with mingled tears and laughter, Kyria and Meto scrambled out of their shelter and ran down to the shore. A fishing boat with two rowers was easing around the end of the island, rocking dangerously as Kyria’s father stood up and waved.

  He was shouting, but all they could hear was the song the sea sang to the wind.

  Note: The first discussion of the Four Elements to appear in writing was the work of the philosopher Empedocles, son of Meto, born in Agrigentum, Sicily, in 490 BCE. In addition to being a healer and friend of the Pythagoreans, he was said to be a magician and controller of storms. The Sirens’ isles (the Sirenusae) are still there. They may be seen on Google Earth in that dark spot just southwest of Positano, Italy.

  The Fire Within Him

  Samuel Conway

  Poor old Appollonios! His happy, wine-soaked dreams gave way to an awful pounding in his head, as though some very large bird were pecking at his temple, peck peck peck! He awoke from the fog to discover that, indeed, a very large bird was pecking at his temple. With a grunt, he flapped his arm to shoo it away, but the bird was back in an instant, peck peck peck!

  “Oh, go away!” Appollonios cried. “Stop bothering me.”

  But the bird would not go away. It flittered away from his waving hand only to return right away, its huge black beak pounding at the poor old man’s head. Angry now, Appollonios summoned the Fire within him. He did not mean to harm the bird, of course, only to frighten it off, but much to his surprise the bird threw up its wings and a gust of wind rose that parted the flames to either side.

  “Aha!” the bird croaked. “So you do have Fire within you!”

  “So, what of it?” Appollonios growled. He rubbed his temples, then felt around for his wine goblet. Perhaps a little sip might ease the throbbing, or at least put him in a better mood.

  The bird hopped forward and pecked hard at his arm. “Ouch!” Appollonios cried. “Stop that!”

  “You must help us!”

  “Help you? Why would I want to help such a rude fellow as yourself?”

  The bird raised every one of his feathers until he looked like an inky explosion and hopped about. “A crisis!” it squawked. “Catastrophe! Unspeakable disaster!”

  “Now, now, calm down,” Appollonios said. “What has happened? Is someone hurt, is that what you are saying?”

  “Worse!” the bird wailed. “We have been affronted!”

  “Affront—? What? Oh, do go away!” Appollonios turned his back to the bird, only to feel a sharp peck at the base of his spine. “Ouch! Now see here, you—!”

  “Invasion!” the bird shrieked while flailing its wings. “Horrendous invasion! A grievous insult! You must help us!”

  “Solve your own problems,” Appollonios grumbled.

  “We cannot! We have tried, but we cannot turn back the invaders! Only the Fire that is within you can save us! We—mmf!”

  Appollonios moved quickly for such an old man, and before the bird could hop away, its beak was clamped tight by a firm hand. “Now, you listen,” he growled. “My Fire is not for your war—not yours, not anyone’s. I will not help you if you wish me to cause harm to another. Do you understand?”

  “Mmff,” the bird said.

  “Now, if I release this dagger of yours, will you tell me—quietly, please—exactly what troubles you? Perhaps I may be of some help after all.”

  “Mmff,” the bird said contritely.

  Appollonios released the bird’s beak and sat back on his knees. “Now then. Who is this invader?”

  “It is a man.”

  “And what is he doing to your people?”

  “He is flying.”

  There was a rather lengthy silence after that. Appollonios poked a finger into his ear to swab it out and then leaned closer. “I am sorry,” he said, “What did you say this man is doing?”

  “He is flying!”

  There was another rather lengthy silence, and then Appollonios roared with laughter and fell onto his back. “Oh, you!”

  The bird beat his wings furiously. “He is flying, I tell you! I saw him! The man is flying!”

  “So what if he is?”

  “It is an affront! An invasion! Men belong to the Earth! They do not belong to the Air! He has no place with us! You must help us!”

  Still laughing, Appollonios rubbed at his eyes. “I think perhaps that both of us were enjoying our wine too much last night. Men do not fly.”

  “This one does! He has wings.”

  Appollonios laughed harder and clutched at his sides.

  “It is true!” the bird wailed.

  “A man? With wings? Flying? Oh, bird, you have put me in a very good mood! I think that I could even forgive such a rude awakening.” He sat up and rubbed away a mirthful tear. “All right. I can see that something has upset you, so much so that it has affected the Air that is in your head. Show me this flying man of yours. If what you say is true, I shall give him a good talking to and a kick to the behind, and send him on his way.”

  The bird leaped eagerly into the air and settled on Appollonios’s shoulder. “To the sea-cliffs!” it croaked. “You will see for yourself!”

  Hurrying in the direction of the salty air, Appollonios soon found himself standing at the place where the land gave way to Poseidon’s realm. “It’s quite a long way down,” he said as he peered at the frothing waves far below him.

  “Not down!” the bird squawked. “Up there! See? See how he mocks us?”

  Appollonios shaded his eyes and gazed into the sky. “I see nothing,” he said wearily. “Only more of your kind tumbling about and . . . oh!” He squinted. “Oh, my. How can this be?”

  It was exactly as the bird had claimed. Rising and fallin
g, turning and banking, a man was riding the Air. Not a man, Appollonios realized, but a boy, a very little fellow indeed, and while at first it seemed that great wings were sprouting from his shoulders Appollonios soon realized that they were a contraption the boy had strapped to his arms.

  “Incredible!” Appollonios whispered.” Who would have imagined such a thing could work? He really is flying. Look at him go!”

  “You must strike him down,” the bird hissed.

  “Nonsense!” Appollonios laughed. “He’s just a boy, and look at how much fun he’s having. Surely he is causing you no harm.”

  “Insult!” the bird shrieked. “Insolence!”

  Appollonius brushed the bird off his shoulder with a sweep of his hand. “I shall have no more of this foolishness, now. Surely you can afford to share your realm with one little boy.”

  The bird landed in a sprawl, hopped to its feet, and puffed its feathers angrily. “One boy today. How many tomorrow? Men belong to the Earth. They do not belong to the Air. This outrage must stop! Here! Now!”

  “So what would you have me do? Throw a pebble at him?”

  “Burn him, Appollonios!” the bird shouted. “Burn him with the Fire within you!”

  “What? Never! Never say that again, you devil. I should kick you into the sea for demanding such a thing of me.”

  “But you must stop him!” the bird shrieked. “He is not of the Air. What next, if you do not stop him?”

  “Why not stop him yourself?”

  “We cannot. He is too fast, too nimble for us.”

  “I will call to him, then. You, there! Boy! Come down here at once! Come down, I say!” He spread his arms helplessly. “He cannot hear me.”

  “Use the Fire,” the bird began but cowered back when Appollonios drew back his foot, “to warm him, I meant. Yes. If he is too hot, he will come to the Earth to rest. Then I shall peck out his eyes.”

  “You will do no such thing. When he returns to the Earth I will scold him soundly and send him home to his mother. Is that agreed?”

  “Agreed.” The bird hopped about excitedly. “Agreed!”

  “Fine, then.”

  The boy circled lazily overhead, the shadow of his wings sweeping again and again over the cliffs. It really was remarkable how he had fashioned them. Such an elegant design, so simple, so brilliant, and such a shame to make him take them off. Even so, Appolonios had agreed. Taking a deep breath, he raised both hands slowly above his head. He summoned from within him the most delicate Fire, barely a candle-flame, and surrounded the boy with it.

  The bird looked on.

  Appollonios’s hands traced gentle circles that followed the boy’s path through the air. He felt a warm droplet strike his arm, then another upon his forehead. “He’s beginning to perspire,” he said to the bird. “He should come down any moment now.”

  The bird said nothing.

  Another drop fell upon his fingers and trickled down the back of his hand. To his surprise the trickle slowed, halted, then turned to white before his eyes. It was not perspiration at all. It was . . .

  “. . . wax?”

  High overhead the boy began to beat his arms feverishly. The feathers were separating from his wings and dancing raucously around his body. With every heartbeat the boy’s wings faded away while the cloud of feathers grew thicker.

  “Oh, no!”

  The bird idly preened its chest while the boy fell.

  With a desperate cry, Appollonios rushed to the very rim of the cliff. The toes of his sandals dislodged several small stones that tumbled down, down, down to the foaming waves. He stretched his arms out as far as he dared, and then farther still. The boy saw and reached plaintively toward him. Appollonios could clearly see the terror in his eyes, the tiny glimmer of hope that faded to agonized despair as the boy passed so tantalizingly close to the old man’s fingertips.

  “No. No . . .”

  For the last time the boy desperately beat his featherless wings as he plunged down, down, down to the foaming waves below, disappearing beneath them as though he had never been.

  Appollonios peered at the waves and prayed to every god of Olympus that he might see the boy struggling to the shore, but Olympus paid no heed that day, and there was no sign of the little boy who had learned to fly.

  The old man hung his head and wept while the waves rolled and roared below, and then he swiped away the tears with an angry fist and spun about to face the bird. “Demon!” he shouted. “Monster!”

  The bird shook out his wings and fussed with an errant feather. “Why, gentle Appollonios, what troubles you?” it asked.

  Appollonios roared and allowed the Fire to rush forth in a great blast more powerful than he had ever before summoned. Nonplussed, the bird simply flung up its wings and a whirlwind appeared, catching the fire and carrying it skyward in a swirling pillar of heat and light. “Peace, Old Man,” it croaked. “There is no need to be unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant?” Appollonios stood aghast. “You foul, wretched thing! I will show you what is ‘unpleasant’ indeed. You murdered that poor boy before my eyes.”

  The bird tilted his head. Its dark eyes glimmered. “Me?” it said. “I did nothing. I merely asked for your help. It was your Fire that struck him from the sky.”

  “You tricked me.”

  “Tricked?” The bird tucked a wing against its breast. “Why, I did no such thing. How was I to know that the silly creature would make himself such fragile wings?”

  Enraged, Appollonios summoned the Fire once more, but before he could send it forth his anger melted into sorrow. Falling to his knees, he beat the ground with his fists and sobbed, tears flowing until he could find no more tears within him, while the whole time the bird toyed with a pretty rock it had found. At last Appollonios rose to his feet and mopped at his eyes. “He was just a boy.”

  “He was of the Earth. He had no business in the Air.”

  “He was a boy! A little boy, having so much fun. Did you see him as he fell? He was crying. He wanted so much for me to save him.”

  “Then perhaps you should not have struck him down.” Quickly the bird threw up his wings, ready to summon the whirlwind again when it looked as though Appollonios might lash out again with the Fire.

  Instead, Appollonios folded his arms and glared at the bird. “You tricked me into murdering an innocent little boy,” he hissed. “You have put his blood on my hands. Now I cannot rest until that blood has been washed away.”

  “The ocean is there,” the bird said, pointing with his beak.

  Appollonios shook his head. “Oh, no. There is not enough water in Poseidon’s entire realm to wash this blood away. My hands will only be clean again when Men march across the sky in columns so thick that you will never again see the clouds past their feet.”

  The bird raised all of his feathers at once. “You would not!”

  “I would, and I shall. Demon of the Air, for your murderous treachery I shall teach men the secret of flight. I saw how those wings were fashioned. That boy was only the first of millions.”

  With an angry shriek the bird launched himself into the sky. “Beware, Appollonios!” it squawked. “If that secret leaves your lips, we shall intervene. You will never share it!”

  “Away with you!”

  “Beware!”

  “Away, I said!”

  The bird beat its wings in a storm of black feathers and darted toward the nearby trees where it melted into the shadows and vanished, leaving Appollonios alone on the cliff-top with the sea endlessly rolling and roaring below.

  The face of the boy at the moment of his death lingered in poor Appollonios’s dreams through the long night that followed, and followed him into wakefulness when morning came. Eager to right that terrible wrong, he hurried from his home and made his way toward the
town as fast as his old legs could carry him. The first person he happened to see was a young woman drawing water from a well. “Hello there!” he called. “Listen to me. I have seen a great wonder. I saw a boy who was able to fly.”

  The woman’s lips were too polite to call the old man crazy, but her eyes were not. “No, no, it is true!” he said breathlessly. “This is what I saw. He had fashioned great wings from . . .”

  No sooner had those words escaped his lips than an enormous bird swooped down from above. It dived not upon Appollonios, but upon the woman, who screamed and dropped her water jug as the bird battered at her head with its wings and struck a vicious gash across her brow with its beak. Appollonios tried to shoo the bird away but it continued tormenting the woman until she turned and ran off, leaving Appollonios all alone by the well.

  Undaunted, Appollonios continued on his way. Before long, he spied a pair of men working their vineyard. “Ho, Fellows!” he called to them. “I say, please spare a moment. I have quite a story to tell you.”

  “I hope it is a short one,” one of the men groaned as he cracked his spine. “We have a lot to harvest.”

  “It will take no time at all and you will be glad that you heard it. You see, I saw a boy who could—”

  Right away a flock of birds swarmed down from a nearby tree and engulfed the men in a roiling maelstrom of feathers and beaks. Alarmed, they all bolted from the field, leaving the birds to help themselves to all of the juicy grapes that had been left behind.

  Appollonios scowled at them as they gorged themselves. “I see your game now,” he muttered. “You will not win, you devils.”

  The birds ignored him, though, and went on gorging themselves while Appollonios turned and hurried toward the town.

  The marketplace was as crowded as ever when he arrived. Appollonios nudged his way through the bustle until he came upon a mule driver who was unloading his cart. Quickly Appollonios clambered onto the cart and raised his hands over his head. “Listen to me, everyone!” he shouted. A few people turned curiously in his direction as he waved his arms wildly and shouted as loudly as he could, “You must hear me!”