Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters

by Mercedes Lackey

  Slowly, the hubbub of the marketplace settled down. “You may think me a madman or a fool I am certain, but good people, please pay heed. This morning I witnessed something beyond belief. What if I told you that a man could fly if he—”

  From every rooftop, from every signpost, from every eave they came, a furious cyclone of wings that filled the marketplace and sent people scrambling for shelter. Appollonios stood helplessly atop the cart as the birds pulled at hair and poked at eyes and screeched in ears, and after only a few clamorous seconds the entire marketplace stood empty.

  So it went for the poor old man. He tried to whisper the secret to a friend, only to have that friend suffer a dreadful bump on his head from a rock that fell from the sky while the shadow of wings swept past. He waited for nightfall and tried to tell the men in the tavern, but the night-owls burst through the shuttered windows and struck savagely with their talons and beaks. People began to tell one another that Appollonios was cursed, and it was not long before no one in the town would dare speak to him; most ran off or slammed their doors in his face the moment he opened his mouth.

  Haunted every night by the image of the boy’s face, he could not bear to stop trying. One morning Appolonios threw his robe about him and began walking in hope that if he could just travel far enough away, the birds would not follow and he could reveal the secret that would cleanse him of his sin. The Fire within him gave him the strength that he needed to journey farther than any man ever had, over mountains and fields, but when he arrived in a new land his first words to the people there were met with a flurry of fury from above. Pecking, thumping, clawing, and cawing, the birds drove the people indoors and left Appollonios alone in the street. Undeterred, he walked farther and tried again, but still the birds were waiting for him.

  There was nothing for the old man to do but to travel so long and so far that the vicious demons would forget all about him. Sustained by the Fire within him, Appollonios walked on, through valleys and hills, along rivers and streams, never once opening his mouth. He walked while the sun rose and fell, while the seasons turned, while Men forgot about the gods and invented new ones to replace them.

  Fire, it is well known, is a hungry thing, and eventually Appollonios began to feel it gnawing at him from within. The old man’s steps were growing ever more slow, and he realized that he might not be able to keep the Fire within him much longer. The time had come at last to settle his debt.

  When Appollonios trudged into the next village, he could not help noticing just how oddly the people were dressed. He certainly must have appeared just as strange to them, judging from the whispers and the smirks, which he ignored. He approached a group of men and in a hoarse voice said, “Fellows, I fear that I do not have much time left. You must listen to my story.”

  The men looked at one another, and then at Appollonios. One spread his arms in a helpless gesture and mumbled something that Appollonios could not make out. “I’m sorry? Please, just listen to me.”

  The man shrugged again, glanced at his friends then back to Appolonios, and shook his head. They did not seem to understand.

  Dismayed, Appollonios turned to the crowd. “Someone? Anyone? I must tell you what I have seen!”

  There were more whispers and some furrowed brows, but no hint of comprehension.

  Appollonios spied a man who was seated at a small desk and scribbling with a quill upon a sheet of parchment. Desperate, he rushed to the desk and seized the quill from the startled man’s fingers. “Look here!” he said eagerly and began to draw. As some of the bystanders leaned in curiously an arm took shape on the parchment, then a hand with fingers outstretched, and then some feathers trailing from the forearm, and then the beginnings of a clever strap . . .

  . . . and then the image was obliterated by an immense dropping of lime from above. The men around him roared with laughter and shook their heads while Appollonios stared miserably at the ruined drawing, and a great black shape banked and soared over the rooftops and out of sight.

  The Fire surged within him, biting, clawing, gnawing. Panicked, Appollonios pushed his way through the startled crowd and stumbled away from the village. The Fire would not be stilled, its hunger raging, and Appollonios knew that he could no longer contain it. As dusk settled he staggered into a farming field and, spying a great stack of hay, he let the fire roar forth. It leaped upon the hay and gobbled it down, growing huge and hissing in defiance of the old man, its many tongues lashing about greedily for more.

  Without the Fire to sustain him, Appollonios felt his strength fade and he fell to his knees. He felt the weight of so, so many years upon him, so great that he could barely breathe. For a moment he thought that rather than drawing it back in, he might instead give himself to the Fire, allow it to consume him, and with him the awful sin for which he could not atone.

  Then he realized that he was not alone.

  At the edge of the firelight stood two young boys, their eyes wide with worry as they stared at the Fire and then at the frail old man sprawled before it. Right away in both of them Appollonios saw the face of the little boy who had fallen from the sky so many years before, and he burst into sobs.

  The boys nudged at one another, shuffled their feet, and at last one drew from his pocket a scrap of cloth which he offered shyly. Appollonios took it from him with a shaking hand and managed to smile. He wanted to thank the boy for his kindness, but he dared not open his mouth lest he draw the wrath of the Air. Without the Fire within him this was certain to be his last night on this earth, and he did not want to spend it alone. Instead, he patted the ground next to him and turned to gaze at the Fire.

  Wary but curious, the boys settled down beside the old man and followed his gaze to the Fire. Free now, it danced with delight as it gorged itself on the haystack. Its joyful voice crackled as it spat out a swarm of sparks that rose in a great swirling column into the air.

  Suddenly the old man’s attention fixed on those sparks as though seeing them for the first time in his life. His mouth fell open. As he stared at them, the sparks fluttered higher and higher until they merged with the stars on the dome of the sky. They reflected in Appollonios’s eyes, and then in his heart. He almost laughed out loud but quickly stifled himself. Furtively, he glanced about. He could not see them but he knew that the birds were watching as closely as ever.

  Letting out a loud, lazy yawn, Appollonios smiled apologetically at the boys when they glanced at him. Idly, he plucked a little, dry leaf from the ground, twirling it before his face before tossing it into the flames. He followed it with his gaze as a glowing tongue licked hungrily toward it, but rather than being consumed, the leaf shot skyward, following the trail of sparks and finally vanishing into the darkness high above.

  One of the boys noticed and whispered something to his brother. Smiling broadly, Appollonios tossed another leaf and watched closely as the flames seemed to leap toward it, but again were denied as the leaf jumped out of their reach and spun its way into the heavens.

  Appollonios said nothing. No birds appeared.

  Both boys were watching now as Appollonios flung two more leaves into the fire, teasing it with such morsels that floated out of its reach before it could devour them. Soon one of the boys, followed shortly by the other, began to toss things into the Fire, their young faces lighting up with curiosity as some were snatched into its jaws while others floated to safety on unseen threads.

  There was a rustle and a flutter in a nearby tree, and Appollonios caught the glimmer of two suspicious eyes. He smiled, innocent as could be, then made a great show of folding his hands behind his head and relaxing onto his back. He even let his eyes drift closed—although not quite fully. He watched, and did not move, and did not speak, while the boys played their game.

  Satisfied, those eyes disappeared into the darkness. Appollonios lay as quiet and as motionless as he could manage, even though his heart bea
t wildly in his chest. He felt fresh tears welling when one of the boys, his face glowing with curiosity, rummaged in his pack until he happened upon a sheaf of parchment which he folded into a shape that was much like a boat. Jumping to his feet, he stretched as close to the hungry Fire as he dared, and set the tiny boat free.

  Appollonios watched happily as the boat skipped over the tongues of flame and spun its way into the sky, higher, and higher still, and then he closed his eyes. In his mind’s eye he saw a little boy plunging helplessly toward the angry sea below, only to be caught up at the last second by a frail folded boat that carried him safely back into the clouds. He knew that these boys saw it, too, that they understood it, and knew that at long last he could let the Fire leave him for good.

  Makana

  Fiona Patton

  The surf slapped gently against the rocks of Kawai Point, tugging at the boy who clung to them as tightly as the tiny opihi limpets he was struggling to harvest. The voice of his foster father, engaged in his own harvest a few feet away, whispered through his mind.

  “You must practice patience, Makana. The opihi are wily. They can sense your presence above them, and so you must be wily too. Try to be one with the water all around you; let it ebb and flow through your body. Its rhythm does not disturb the opihi. Its natural dance is one they’re well versed in. They hunker down when the waves approach, and venture out to feed only when the waves recede. That is the best time to pluck them from the rocks.”

  His foster father’s expression had softened when he’d spoken of his first love, the waves that crashed against the southern shores of Kaua’i. A fisherman of renown, Kaiko’olokai was strongly in tune with the Elemental power of the ocean. Like the opihi, he knew when to hunker down and when to venture out, and he was not afraid to take his outrigger canoe into the deepest of waters. It was he who had heard the call of the waves and gone out during a violent storm twelve years ago to pull a damaged, double-hulled voyaging canoe from the maelstrom, rescuing its only living passenger, a six-month-old boy child wrapped in a warrior’s red loincloth. He’d named him Makana-Hinahele, Gift of the Goddess Hina, and had brought him up to love the sea.

  But Makana could not be one with the waves, no matter how hard he tried for his foster father’s sake, any more than he could be one with the wind or the sun above his head or the rocks beneath his fingertips.

  His gaze traveled to a deep outcropping below the low tide mark where he could just make out his foster mother’s hair floating on the surface. Born on the rocks of Kawai Point itself, Kapali’i’Ka’ohu was so sensitive to their power that she could feel the touch of an opihi’s tiny foot on their surface and know when it released its grip to feed. Within the hour the ipu gourd she wore slung over her shoulder would be teeming with the wiliest and most prized of all the opihi, the opihi ko’ele. If Makana remained patient as his foster father counseled, he just might be able to contribute his usual half dozen of the easiest opihi to harvest, those that lived above the surf line. It was barely enough to honor the two people who’d raised him as their own. He needed to do better. Especially today.

  Allowing the waves to move him back and forth as he’d been taught, Makana resisted the urge to twist his head around to stare at the open water past Kawai Point. Lolani-a-Ailana, eldest son of the premier chief of O’ahu, and his entourage were due to arrive within the hour bearing a proposal of marriage for Nalunani, daughter of Makana’s own chief, that would see the two islands allied for generations to come. The ruling ali’i from across Kaua’i had made the journey to receive him. A great feast had been prepared, and there would be singing, dancing, and feats of strength and skill lasting for days.

  “Makana, have you finished your harvest yet?”

  The quiet voice, tinged with just a hint of reproach, pulled him from his thoughts immediately.

  “No, Father.” Cheeks burning, Makana returned his attention to the opihi, staring at the largest of the smooth-shelled creatures clamped to the rock just a few inches from his left hand.

  “Move,” he whispered. “Go on. You’re hungry. You know you are. Move.”

  When it remained stubbornly motionless, he sighed, cocking an ear to the excited chatter of the people lining the cliffs above him. It sounded like the festivities had already begun, with wrestling or maybe racing. Makana himself was known for his speed and endurance among the village boys his own age . . .

  He blinked rapidly, trying to force his attention back to the opihi, still frustratingly clamped to the same bit of rock as before.

  Time passed. A sudden swell splashed across his face and, gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to swipe it away. More time passed. The sun beat down on his bare back, drying a patch of salt water between his shoulder blades and sending a sharp, insistent itch skittering along his spine. He narrowed his eyes, refusing to be distracted. The wind whispered across his cheek, the smell of roast boar wafted across his nostrils, his fingers began to cramp, and his left leg went numb, but then he felt the tiniest shudder of hunger-driven movement touch his thoughts. His hand darted out almost by its own volition and the opihi lay in the bottom of his gourd.

  He grinned.

  By the time he and his foster parents made their way back to the village, he’d managed to harvest a full nine opihi, more than he ever had before. Each time he’d thought he could sense the hunger of the creatures just before they released their grip to feed. Bursting with pride, he almost missed the long, high call of a conch shell announcing that their guests had finally arrived.

  * * *

  The festivities lasted for seven days. Every morning the kahuna and kaula, priests and prophets, gathered to make sacrifices and read the signs in the clouds and on the waves. Every afternoon they joined Lolani-a-Ailana and the premier chief of Kaua’i and his family to watch the dancing and judge the games.

  Makana himself won three foot races and was named the fastest boy in his village. Presented with a lei by Nalunani herself, he felt a strange tingling make its way across his scalp and turned to see Ka’ohu, Kaua’i’s most senior prophet, watching him closely. He made himself scarce for the rest of the day but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to happen.

  On the final morning before Lolani and Nalunani were to leave for O’ahu, Makana stood with a group of friends, craning his neck to watch as the kahuna and kaula gathered before the village altar. Unable to see over the heads of the adults in front of him, he elbowed a larger boy in the ribs.

  “What can you see, Pono?” he demanded.

  The other boy elbowed him back. “Your head about to be tossed off a cliff.”

  Makana ignored the threat with practiced ease. “And?”

  “Our chief and his family.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Talking with Ka’ohu and the O’ahu prince.”

  “What about?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Come on, Pono. Your father is the chief’s kahuna nu’i councilor. You always know.”

  “Oh, all right.” Crouching down, Pono gathered the boys around him in a tight circle. “I heard my father talking with the other kahuna yesterday. Word is that O’ahu’s chief is deathly ill . . .” He paused. “. . . from an enemy’s sorcery.”

  The boys all gasped, and he nodded his head with grave authority. “This enemy is so cunning that none of the chief’s kahuna have been able to counter his evil magics or even find him,” he continued. “They were just about to give up hope when an aumakua ancestor came to Lolani in a dream and told him that only Air, Water, Fire, and Earth magics coming together, in secret,” he added in a harsh whisper, “could defeat this sorcerer. Lolani was to journey to the island of Kaua’i to ask Nalunani-a-Okalani to be his wife, and if she returned to O’ahu with him, the vast power of the ocean would follow in her wake. They say that Lolani himself is so beloved of the
winds off the Wai’anae Mountains that a cooling breeze follows him everywhere he goes. That’s Water and Air.”

  “I heard,” one of the other boys now interjected, “that Nalunani’s cousin Keahi is to travel with her. She trained as a wahine kaua warrior and a fire priestess of Pele.”

  Pono nodded. “My father says she’s the most powerful kahuna wahine in generations. That’s Fire.”

  Once again Makana felt the strange tingling across his scalp. “And what about Earth?” he asked, rubbing absently at his left leg as it began to grow numb again.

  Pono watched the movement with a knowing look. “Earth is hidden,” he pronounced. “That’s why the kahuna and the kaula are gathering today, to ask the akua for guidance.” He straightened. “Now, hush all of you,” he ordered with all the arrogance a fifteen-year-old could muster. “They’re starting.”

  Around them, the people stood quietly, the silence broken only by the soft beating of a prayer drum. Makana could almost see the kahuna pule, the prayer priest, lifting an ipu gourd filled with seawater over the altar covered in fruits and vegetables. If the akua accepted these sacrifices, they would have their answer and the Earth Mage chosen to battle O’ahu’s sorcerer would be revealed. Feeling a sudden panicked sense of unease, Makana began to back away as quickly as the numbness in his leg would allow. He made it almost to the edge of the crowd before the shouted words “Amama ua noa!” halted him in his tracks.

  “Now the prayer has flown,” he echoed in a strangled whisper. His leg began to throb so painfully that he almost gasped out loud, and a roaring filled his ears so loudly that he almost missed the name shouted out in triumph.

  Almost.

  “Makana Hinahele!”

  * * *

  “No, no, Kaiko. He’s just a child.” Tears flowing down her face, Makana’s foster mother shook her head vehemently.

  “Kapali.” His foster father’s voice was thick with his own unshed tears as he wrapped her in his arms. “We’ve always known this day would come. Ka’ohu told us so the very night I carried him in from the sea. Hina gave him to us to raise, not to keep.” He turned. “Makana, come here please.”