Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters

by Mercedes Lackey

“Myfanwy of Castell Coch,” she heard in her mind, “If you can understand me, please indicate so.”

  Myfanwy jerkily nodded her head.

  “It is very important that Glyn speak with you. It is best that no one else knows. Is there a way you can let him in? Or have you a rope?”

  Myfanwy peered out the window. Below, she saw the flame of a lamp, barely illuminating a person she guessed was Glyn.

  Her door was barred from the outside, so she couldn’t sneak down and unlatch the front gate. She didn’t have a rope—and really, could anyone climb that high? She shuddered at the thought.

  As she pondered the dilemma, she also questioned whether she should do anything at all. Her maid, Rhian, said men were trouble. But she often said it with a grin and a twinkle in her eye.

  Glyn said it was important. He’d come back to see her. Nobody saw her, spoke to her, except Siwan and Rhian and the cook and the stable hand.

  Rhian slept in a room nearby—if Myfanwy shouted, Rhian would come.

  Myfanwy suspected that Rhian also wouldn’t give her away if she discovered Glyn in Myfanwy’s room. Rhian held a fierce dislike for Siwan but stayed, she swore to Myfanwy, for Myfanwy’s sake.

  The thing that tipped Myfanwy’s decision in Glyn’s favor was the thing hovering in the air before her.

  It was, if she correctly remembered, a sylph—an Air Elemental.

  Which meant Glyn was a Magician or possibly even a Master of Air.

  Myfanwy hadn’t met any magic users other than Siwan; hadn’t learned magic from anyone but Siwan or from the books Siwan provided her. Her thirst for knowledge and her curiosity about the Element of Air practically made the choice for her.

  The sylph had said no one else should know, so she couldn’t ask Rhian to open the front door for Glyn.

  So what to do about the lack of rope?

  She paced the room, staring at everything. The bed sheets would work, but she might not be able to get the knots out afterwards.

  Then her eyes alighted on the trunk, painted with a unicorn-in-the-forest scene, which held her shorn hanks of hair, each one nearly as tall as she.

  “Tell him to wait,” she told the sylph, who darted away, leaping joyously out the window before plummeting out of sight in a way that made Myfanwy’s stomach lurch.

  Myfanwy swiftly found her embroidery kit and sewed the braids together into one long strip. At the window, she affixed one end to the shutter latch and carefully lowered the makeshift rope down.

  She nearly wept when she saw that it wasn’t long enough, the end dangling out of Glyn’s reach.

  But then Glyn stepped back, took a running leap . . . and seemed to float upward, as if lifted by something Myfanwy couldn’t see. Even as he climbed her hair, hand over hand, he went faster than she would have thought possible.

  After he clambered through the window—it almost wasn’t wide enough for his shoulders—he explained how he’d done it.

  He explained many things that night, and on subsequent nights.

  He was indeed an Air Master, and was able to manipulate the air and wind. He couldn’t fly per se, but he’d gathered an air current to boost him up so he could reach her rope of hair, and used it to make him a little more buoyant on his journey up.

  He’d guessed that she was a Magician, so he’d sent the sylph to see if she was able to perceive it. Even though it wasn’t an Elemental of her talent, her affinity for magic made it visible to her—and she couldn’t control it, other than asking it to do what Glyn himself wanted.

  “I suspected you had talent when we first met—but when I asked my colleagues, none had ever heard of you. Have you always been kept in the tower?” His face was grave.

  Myfanwy nodded. “I’m not allowed anywhere in the castle or the grounds without supervision,” she said.

  “Do you know what your aunt is?” he asked cautiously.

  “She’s a Fire Master,” Myfanwy said promptly. “I have an affinity for Water, though. She’s training me—which seems silly because Fire and Water don’t mix.”

  He blinked. He had the loveliest blue eyes, Myfanwy thought, and a strong chin with a cleft in it, and a ready smile. Now, though, he looked puzzled.

  “Do you know why she’s training you?”

  “She needs help with her cousin’s canals.”

  Wales was riddled with veins of coal; indeed, coal mining was its biggest industry. To transport the coal, there were trains—which were expensive to maintain—and canals.

  Siwan (Myfanwy explained to Glyn) wanted Myfanwy strong enough to assist with the upkeep of the canals.

  “If the Water Elementals are happy, then the canals will run smoothly,” Myfanwy finished. Her brow furrowed. “Except she won’t let me communicate with any of them yet. I don’t think that’s very fair.”

  “It’s not fair,” Glyn agreed, “and it’s certainly not the best way to train you. There’s a great deal Siwan hasn’t told you, or taught you.” He shook his head. “You’re correct: Your training should properly come from a Water Master. The fact that she’s kept you away from the Council . . . I don’t understand it.”

  “Does that mean she can’t train me—or that you can’t, either?” Myfanwy was crestfallen.

  “We can both teach you the fundamentals,” Glyn said. “Basic communication with Elementals works the same for all Elemental Masters. But to show you exactly how, a Water Master would make more sense.”

  Myfanwy felt an uncomfortable twist in her stomach. “But Siwan says she’ll begin training me soon to control the Water Elementals.”

  Glyn shook his head again. “You don’t control them, Myfanwy. You learn to work with them. They’ll do your bidding if they respect you, if you’ve befriended them. The only people who try to control them are those who practice the dark arts.”

  Myfanwy bit her lip. “Perhaps I misunderstood, then.”

  Glyn hesitated for a long moment. Finally, he seemed to make a decision.

  “I don’t think you did misunderstand,” he said. “The Council has had questions about Siwan’s use of magic. They asked me to keep an eye on her in my spare time—”

  “Spare time?”

  He explained that he worked for the mining companies, purifying the air in the mines from the poisonous gases that collected underground. All the Marquess knew was that Glyn went down to test the mines; he thought Glyn’s tests always showed the air was clean.

  “Do you think . . .” Glyn paused thoughtfully. “Do you think you would be willing to find more out about her plans?”

  Myfanwy pondered this. “If you’ll teach me,” she said finally, firmly. For knowledge, she would take the chance. And the words he said had rung true for her. Siwan wasn’t really her aunt, and although she hadn’t been outright cruel, Myfanwy had always felt uncomfortable around her; had always suspected, deep down, that something wasn’t right.

  And so Myfanwy’s life changed. During the day she was taught by Siwan, and at night, Glyn came and taught her his own methods. Soon she learned to control water—move it, mold it—thanks in part to Rhian’s assistance, as the maid brought bowls of water for her to work with, and once snuck both Myfanwy and Glyn down to the kitchen so Myfanwy could work with an entire tub of water.

  She also learned to work with the undines and minor nymphs, although the naiads and river-horses were beyond her reach. Water Elementals could appear anywhere there was a place of their Element for them to manifest in. Even a bathing tub of water wasn’t big enough for a river-horse.

  When Siwan finally decreed it was time for Myfanwy to work with the Water Elementals, Myfanwy had already established a rapport with them, and they knew how to act when Myfanwy “commanded” them.

  She didn’t dare whisper a thank you out loud to them, but she hoped they could hear her thoughts—for
the magic Siwan urged her to use felt oily and dark, and left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Then came the day when she heard the heels of Siwan’s boots tap-tapping up the wooden stairs, echoing in the round tower, and then Siwan opened the door and said, “I think it’s time we go to the river.”

  Myfanwy nearly squeaked with excitement, but she managed to stifle it. Siwan frowned upon anything that wasn’t proper and ladylike.

  Siwan herself was proper—and properly imposing. She was tall for a woman, and austerely thin, with white hair braided tightly around her head. Her eyes might have been blue, but they glimmered with the flames of her talent. She rarely smiled, and when she did, it never seemed quite . . . pleasant.

  The afternoon was overcast, a brief respite in the rain showers that had lasted for weeks and would no doubt continue (Myfanwy had some sense of the weather when it came to rain, and wondered if that was something else she was scheduled to learn). Despite the gloom beneath the trees and the muddy path, Myfanwy savored the rare outing. Plus she could barely contain her elation. Finally!

  “We’ll start first with an undine,” Siwan said. “Command it to your presence; bind it to your will.”

  Myfanwy reached out with her power and her thoughts, requesting an undine’s presence. Her heart fluttered when she saw the surface of the slow-moving river ripple, then churn, followed by a sleek, laughing, finned woman undulating out of the water.

  She winked at Myfanwy, clearly apprised of the situation.

  Myfanwy told it to do what Siwan told her to tell it, and it did, and then finally Siwan said, “Now. The river-horse.”

  The churning was more pronounced this time, a roiling white foam, and then it leaped out of the water, suddenly there, drops of water spattering over Myfanwy (though not over Siwan, who had wisely stood farther back).

  The river-horse was magnificent and terrifying. Myfanwy had ridden normal horses, but this was more beautiful and more powerful and potentially more dangerous. His front end was that of a horse, but his hindquarters ended in a large flat tail.

  The undines and naiads and nymphs seemed to have had a network through which they had all been apprised of Myfanwy’s secret trials.

  The river-horse was another matter. Did it know? Would it resist when she outwardly, as a performance for Siwan, tried to bind it—or would it drag her down to her death?

  “My cousins have told me much about you, Water Magician,” it said in a voice just for her, one Siwan couldn’t hear. “You will always be safe with me, so long as you respect us all.”

  Myfanwy held her back straight, not succumbing to the desire to wilt from relief. She did everything Siwan told her to do, and the river-horse—with perhaps a small sense of amusement, it was hard to tell—performed as she bade it.

  The connection she found with it was exhilarating, and she felt humbled.

  She couldn’t wait to tell Glyn. But first, that evening, she dined with Siwan in the banqueting hall with its huge arched window and massive fireplace over which was painted St. Lucius.

  Siwan expressed her rare pleasure at Myfanwy’s accomplishments, and it was an opportunity, Myfanwy realized, to ask Siwan about her plans.

  “When will I be able to work with the canals, do you think?” she asked. “Will I be of use to our cousin, the Marquess?”

  Perhaps it was Siwan’s belief in Myfanwy’s control of the Water Elements, that Myfanwy showed an affinity for the darker magics—or perhaps it was Siwan’s rare indulgence in a glass of wine—that loosened her tongue.

  “Our cousin!” she scoffed. “He hasn’t a fraction of the business sense of his father. He’s far more interested in religion and architecture—” and here she waved a hand at the Gothic grandeur of Castell Coch “—this place, and his own home. Coal is the future of our country, Myfanwy, and he will lose it all, as surely as if he crumbled it in his hand and let it sift through his fingers.”

  She leaned forward, a spark of flame flickering on her own fingertips in her passion. “The mines need a strong hand to guide them, and the canals are the way to do that. If we can do this, Myfanwy, then we will be rich and powerful beyond our wildest dreams.”

  Myfanwy was certain of several things. One was that the riches and power were well within Siwan’s wildest dreams. And the other was that those riches and power wouldn’t be shared with herself. She was a tool, and she would be used, and when she was no longer useful, she would be discarded . . . or worse.

  She squared her shoulders. She would tell Glyn that night. She would tell him of her triumph and of Siwan’s plans, and beg him to take her away with him, wherever that might be. Away from the tower, away from Siwan.

  It was time to live her life.

  * * *

  The rain—her very Element—had other plans.

  The storms had started up again during supper, and as Myfanwy stared out her window at the water sheeting down, she knew Glyn wouldn’t visit her tonight.

  So with Rhian’s help she prepared for bed, although she lay awake, her mind racing and her body tingling with the memory of the river-horse, the knowledge of Siwan’s plans, and her ready desire to be away from this place, this beautiful fantasy castle that was her prison.

  Thus she was awake when the sylph came.

  The sinuous, pale blue creature seemed ragged in the lamplight, as if the rain had torn bits of it away. Air and Water weren’t in opposition, but they couldn’t exactly coexist, either.

  Its mere presence was an omen. Myfanwy shot to her feet. “Glyn—”

  The sylph wasted no time with pleasantries. “The mine is flooding. Glyn needs your help. You must come.”

  She saw in her mind’s eye which mine the sylph meant. She was grateful for that, because she could get nothing further from the sylph. It dipped and darted through the air, agitated, unwilling to leave through the rain but unhappy to be trapped, just as she was.

  Myfanwy swiftly drew on the set of men’s clothes Glyn had brought her. Boning and bustles and overskirts meant restricted movement, and these garments were for an emergency—which was now.

  In the time since she had met Glyn, her hair had grown to the floor again, and Siwan had just yesterday sheared off the braid. Myfanwy had placed it in the trunk herself, not wanting Siwan to see how the other braids were tied together into a rope.

  Now, Myfanwy feverishly sewed the newest extension to the golden rope . . . praying it would be long enough.

  As she had so many times before, she affixed one end to the window latch, and threw the rest out the window. It tumbled down into the sodden darkness.

  She couldn’t see how close to the ground it came.

  She couldn’t even see the ground, although she knew, from the many hours and days she’d gazed from the window, just how far below it lay.

  And it terrified her.

  Panic flooded her as she gripped the wooden frame. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that the sylph was gone—whether it had fled or dissipated, she didn’t know.

  All she knew was the ringing in her ears, the shaking of her limbs, and the knowledge of what she had to do: the thing she feared the most.

  But she would do it, for Glyn.

  It took every ounce of strength she had to lift one leg and straddle the sill. Her stomach lurched and roiled, and dizziness threatened to consume her, but she battled it back. It was hard to breathe, but she sucked in what air she could, girded her loins, and twisted her body as she slid her other foot out the window.

  She was slimmer than Glyn, thankfully, and the narrow space didn’t confine her. She poised, half-in and half-out, her booted toes clutching for purchase on the sandstone bricks.

  Now or never. All or nothing. She slid backward, out into the darkness and the rain.

  She couldn’t see the ground, and yet that didn’t ease her fear. Inst
ead, she focused on one moment at a time, one movement at a time: grip the braid, slide one foot and then the other down, lower her body, and repeat.

  She trembled, not just from the fear but from the strain. Her arms and hands ached. But letting go was far more terrifying than anything, and she crept lower, and lower still.

  Until she reached the end of the braid.

  Myfanwy felt beneath her with one foot, but the ground didn’t meet her. She looked down. There was no light; she couldn’t see if she was inches from the grass, or feet, or yards, or more. She hung there, her mind a blank, no hint what to do.

  She realized that in a few moments, her straining arms would give way; her fingers would no longer be able to grasp.

  She didn’t want the choice to be taken away from her. She released both feet from where they touched the wall, stretched down as far as she could—and let go.

  And fell.

  She would have screamed, but she swallowed the sound.

  Then, something caught her. Not an abrupt stop, but a slowing down, an easing of speed, something cradling her.

  Her feet touched the ground.

  Then her knees, and hands, and she didn’t care that her trousers were getting soaked, just that she was on solid earth again.

  Hurry, said the sylph—the same one, or another, or many?—and then it was gone.

  She stumbled toward the river, blinded by the rain and darkness, using her Water-magic instinct to guide her in the right direction. She toppled down the bank, skidding in the mud.

  For the second time that day, she called into her presence the river-horse.

  She might have a terror of heights, but she had no fear of water, despite the fact that she hadn’t a clue how to swim. (You couldn’t learn to swim when you’d never been in a body of water larger than a bathing tub.)

  Most importantly, she trusted the river-horse to keep her safe.

  “Hold tight,” it told her, “and don’t give in to panic when we go below. You’ll not drown.”

  Still, when they plunged beneath the surface, she tensed. It wasn’t natural for a person to be below the depths, and not only was the water icy cold, but it was dark—oh, so dark.