“Would you like to stop for lunch?” Haustis smiled at her half-sister, as they both knew they did not need to eat in the spirit world. If they spent a long time here, their friends would feed their bodies where they sat, motionless. But here, it wasn’t necessary for their bodies to take food.
The path they traveled was wide enough for three or four to walk side by side and it was smooth, the dirt packed hard by uncounted feet and covered with many seasons of leaves and blown soil. As they decided they might walk for many more hours before the scenery changed, a set of stairs appeared through the mist, built into the dirt path with wood and rock. They climbed the long stair until they at last ascended beyond the mist and saw a valley that looked like it had a river of cloud winding its way through the broken hills. Haustis stopped and sat on a rock, and Lydria spun in slow circles looking at the landscape from all directions.
“It’s beautiful here. It will be sad when this place no longer exists.”
Haustis smiled. “But Eigrae exists, and it is very real for everyone who walks its paths. True sadness would be if Eigrae no longer existed. Lydria met her eyes and sat next to her on a nearby rock.
“We should go home, or east to Dar’Ahlmon to be with our friends,” Lydria said, not sure if she even believed the words that came from her mouth.
Haustis didn’t answer and Lydria remained silent with whatever thoughts she was thinking lost to her as the sun moved down its path toward late afternoon. It seemed to only take a moment, but when she looked up Lydria saw Haustis – not Haidrea, the Haustis of now who sat beside her, but the previous Haustis who had been killed by Wynter.
“Hello daughters,” she said. “I’m glad you have come back alone.” The two women stood and continued down the path, following the elder Haustis, Lydria on the right and Haidrea on the left. “When you were here last, you saw the sword of Wilmamen did you not?”
“We saw it but quickly as it disappeared soon after Relin removed it from the river,” Haidrea said.
The elder Haustis held her hands out in front of her with her palms up. “The sword of Wilmamen is actually two swords joined together under a single hilt.” As the words left her mouth, an image appeared above her hands of a weapon with two fine, gently curved blades that were separated by a small fingernail’s width, each ending in points – one set several inches lower than the other leaving a thin gap between the blades. The craftsmanship of the blades was extraordinary, the hilt made from jet inlaid with silver in a pattern that reminded Lydria of the plait she had seen on Haidrea’s hair. On any other blade, the jet would stand out as a dark blackness against the shine of the silver and the blade, but the blade of Wilmamen’s sword was darker than anything either woman had ever seen. Both blades were pure Farn’Nethyn and looked like a hole in the air. The blade was much purer and more finely crafted than the small knife Lydria had given to Graenel. It was worked and polished so that its darkness was complete.
“We were too late, mother,” Haidrea said, lowering her head. “Wynter is aware of the blade and he has taken it far to the south, to a place we know not. And it is guarded now by dragons, who we cannot fight, even with wielders by our side.”
Haustis reached out a hand, its skin smooth and pure, and lifted her daughter’s chin. “The blade is not for Wynter. He cannot wield it, but that he now has it is not a bad thing. Wynter is no stranger to The Grey, daughters. Even knowing about it, he will forget its lessons, and so you still have hope. You must retrieve his weapon and make it your own.”
“But Wynter has it and he has grown dragons by his side, and now he has an army of Qorghal to do his killing for him.” Lydria’s voice was sharper than she had intended, and she held up her hand and turned her head, her motions asking forgiveness for her impertinence.
“Wielder, you too are familiar with The Grey and yet you march up it with purpose and resolve and you march back down again with compassion and humility. Ever has it been the place of the good to fight evil, and ever has it been evil who seemingly hold all the advantages. Yet, tell me, who wins most in the end?”
Lydria looked up and saw Haustis expected an answer. “The good win…for a time, yet it seems we are always reliving the same fight over and again. Is that what we are to do, fight a dragon with steel and magic so we can take away a sword? Surely, there are other swords? If the Eifen of the west made Wilmamen’s sword, then certainly they made others – even others of Farn’Nethyn?”
Haustis reached out to hug Lydria and Haidrea. “The spirits fade, daughters, and it is up to you to determine how your magic will continue to shape the world for good. Or ill. Retrieve his weapon and make it your own. You have already started along this path, continue to follow it until the whole weapon is by your side. You are not alone in the world, and I will be with you here.” Haustis touched each of their hearts with her palm.
Leaving the spirit world was difficult, but after Haustis had walked away, Lydria and her sister turned back the way they had come and were soon staring at each other as they sat on the cold bricks of the central square of Nethyngal. Relin, Hokra, Pars, and Kimi were all there to meet them and welcome them back, handing the women food and water and waiting to hear their news. It was Lydria who spoke first.
“The news is mixed.” Lydria sighed heavily, exasperated that their way was not made clearer. “We need to remove the weapon from Wynter, but the spirits do not say to follow him to the south. We need to trust our own guidance and counsel in this. What would you do?” She looked at all her friends, silently asking each of them for their opinion as her eyes scanned back and forth among them.
“Surely, if we are to retrieve the sword, then we must head south. So many Qorghal racing through the woods should leave a clear enough path.” Relin’s logic was sound, but he didn’t sound convinced that the path he spoke of was the one he wanted to follow.
Kimi did not voice an opinion, only that he would follow Lydria. Hokra suggested they go north, at least to Safarngal to speak with his father about the ruins of Nethyngal. Pars, who wanted nothing more than to return to the Chags city and spend his days in their libraries, agreed.
Finally, Lydria looked to Haustis who had said nothing since they left their grandmother in the spirit world. “We should consult the stones and see what they say. That is what Haustis bade us do, and so that is what we should do.”
Saying nothing, Lydria stood and pulled a stone from her pack and held it as she had before to determine the path they should take. She waited and concentrated on the sword, on removing Wynter’s weapon, on directions. No sign came to her through the stone and her collar remained a dull blue; there was no glow or pulse as she tried again to use the stone to find their path. Sitting down again, she held her hands in front of her and looked to the embers burning low and bright in the fire pit and willed them to a large fire. The pit remained unchanged, and Kimi looked up, pawed at her and cocked his head sideways. Lydria spoke to him but heard nothing and when she tried to see through his eyes, she saw only the cat’s face through her own.
“I cannot use magic.” She said the words quietly and slowly, hoping they weren’t true, but as she said them, she considered what she had done in the forest the day before. “The cost of my magic was my magic…yet I still wear a collar.”
The others gathered quickly around her, and it was Hokra who held his hand to her, his enormous palm covering her head, and slowly drew away.
“The magic still exists within her,” Hokra said. “But it is very faint.”
“Perhaps your magic is connected to the spirit world?” Haustis knew the moment the words escaped her lips that she was wrong. Her mother had said that the two were different and the coming of one meant the end of the other. Also, she knew that her own strength had not yet failed though she could feel it weakening inside her.
Laying a hand on Lydria’s shoulder, Hokra held out his other hand for the stone the woman carried openly. She looked into his enormous eyes and saw warmth there and concern. She passed him
the stone and he held it in front of him and closed his eyes, slowly turning on the spot until he had traversed an entire circle. When he finished, his eyes flew open and stared straight as if someone had jumped from behind a bush to scare him. “There is a white path that takes us north toward Safarngal. Let us take that road to start and see what we might learn by the time we arrive.”
The others agreed as there was little they could do in the ruins of Nethyngal. Chasing Wynter, the Qorghal, and dragons through the southern deserts would be madness. Hokra raised the cot Relin had prepared for Ilsit, and it floated at the Chags’ waist. The others quickly gathered their things and walked down the pitted cobbled streets of Nethyngal, the echoes of their footfalls reaching only the ears of insects and woodland animals.
23 - Powerless
The journey to Safarngal went much faster than the trip south. The way was quiet, and Kimi told Haustis the forests were already starting to regain a more natural rhythm without the Qorghal. Even Haustis said she could feel Eigrae breathe more easily, but she knew it was a temporary reprieve. “With Wynter as their god, the Qorghal will find full purpose for their destructive powers.” The Eifen nearly spit Wynter’s name out of the air and each time she did Lydria felt guilty that she hadn’t killed Wynter when she had the chance in the Cobalt Tower.
The guilt Lydria felt, however, was nothing compared to the fear and apprehension building in her as day after day she found she couldn’t perform any magic at all – not even something as simple as starting a fire or a lifting a pack.
As they reached the river valley leading to Safarngal, Ilsit was walking and making good progress thanks to food, fresh air, and the healing provided by Hokra. He stopped by the side of the river and called Lydria to him, signaling to Haustis that the others should go on. He washed the grime of the trail from his face and cupped his hands together and drank deeply from the river before rising and draping his arm across Lydria’s shoulder.
“Daughter tell me what happened in the forest of Nethyngal as I lay a moment away from joining my father and mother.” Ilsit’s face creased up in a smile as Lydria met his gaze. The Eifen chief looked younger than he had since she had known him, and she tilted her head slightly to the side to take in his face. A face, she thought, that should be ravaged by the starvation and beatings, but seemed oddly smooth and care free.
“You look at me as if you are seeing me for the first time,” Ilsit said, acknowledging her gaze and interpreting her look. “While you were in the trees, I was walking down a valley, very much like this one. The water was clear and the sky as blue as your eye. In the distance, I could see a group of people, standing by the water. They were laughing and happy and a young man turned to me and smiled. He started to lift his arm, I think to wave me to him, but the young woman by his side, held his arm and shook her head. The man patted her hand lightly and walked from her toward me. By the time he got close enough, I could tell he had been crying, and he said, ‘Ilsit, it is not yet your time. But worry not, we will be here waiting for you when you are ready’.”
Ilsit’s lips pressed together and his nostrils pinched before he blew out a sharp breath. “It was Drae Ghern,” he continued. “So now, my face has changed because I am free of worry. Most of my people have hopefully made their way west along a different road, my father has regained his love, my daughters live, and I am at peace, but I worry again because you are not.”
They walked along without speaking for several minutes, watching the walls of the valley rise in the distance as they followed the twisting contours of the river. “I cannot perform magic, and it has been such a part of me that I feel another person without.”
“But you still perform magic. I have seen it.”
“How?” Lydria cut her question short and followed Ilsit’s gaze to the sleek form of Haustis who turned just as they looked and from her tunic a golden ray of light caught her neck and it shone like polished onyx.
“If your magic was gone, do you not think the amulet Haustis wears would be gone as well? After all, it is your finger that resides within it that keeps her alive. Does it not stand to reason that if your magic fails you, it will fail in everything you have done?”
Lydria considered it and wondered. If Grettune were here, she thought, they would have a rousing discussion about the implications of what Ilsit suggested. What does happen to the magic cast by a wielder when the magic of that wielder or the wielder herself, is lost?
“I do not think magic works like that, father. When Wynter’s magic was taken from him, his traps still worked, and his castle still stood.”
“That is true, if Wynter’s power was taken because you took his stone.”
The conversation was intriguing and Lydria opened her mouth to respond to Ilsit’s theory when instead she told him of what she had done in the forest. “I was so angry with the Qorghal, for what they had done to you, and your people, for what they had put us through, and I was angry with the stone for not letting me kill the filthy creature.”
“You could have killed it easily enough with the sword at your side.” Of course, she could have. “But then, it is easier when you don’t get blood on your hands, is it not?”
Lydria stopped as Ilsit kept walking, slowly with his hands behind his back. Her eyes followed him, and she nodded her head in silent agreement. “It does not explain why I cannot use magic though.”
“I would have thought that you among all women would know the answer to that question, Lydria. You are your father’s daughter. Think.”
At Ilsit’s mention of her father, she was at once in her bed, a younger woman, staring at the ceiling as her father cried out in the adjacent room. She was in a tent on a battlefield where men with no wounds complained they could not see or could not move. Each of those men, she remembered, eventually regained their sight, and their movement, and eventually they picked up a sword, or bow, or pike, and went back to the field.
“Then you think I will regain my power?”
“I think you haven’t lost it. Only, perhaps, the will to use it. What you’ve done has upset the balance of nature. Eigrae herself has not done such a thing in all its many generations. You know there are consequences to your magic. Now you know that not all of them can be healed with bandages and fine needlework.”
The others had slowed and were waiting for them, Hokra several score paces ahead of the rest. Before they caught up with Haustis, Pars, and Relin, Ilsit stopped and turned Lydria to face him. “Know this, daughter, that you cannot cast right now, is, I believe, a testament to your nature. A man without conscience would feel nothing and would desecrate nature indiscriminately. You are not such a person, and because of this, you will be stronger.” He put his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward, kissing her forehead. “Come, and let your worries be cast aside. You don’t want such creases in your skin at such a tender age.”
As they made their way up the valley, Hokra raised his hands in greeting as others of his people ran toward him. As their prince, Hokra was respected, but as a Chag Ca’Grae, he was revered for his kindness and skill. To a young Chag who approached him without ceremony, he bent to one knee and held the youngster by the shoulders, and when he rose the child ran off toward the towering walls of their city which they could only just now make out against the sky.
By the time they reached the southernmost edge of Safarngal, the valley walls had risen sharply to either side of the river and at the border Graenel, King of the Chag Ca’Grae waited alone to greet his son and his companions. Unlike the first time Lydria had seen them greet each other, Graenel did not wait for the respectful greeting to his king, instead, moving forward quickly and locking his son in a hug of relief and gladness. When they separated, Graenel hugged the rest of his son’s companions and linked arms with Hokra and Ilsit and walked north where he said the town was making ready a great feast to welcome their safe return.
In the dimming light of dusk the Chag Ca’Grae, Eifen and humans talked, and ate, and sang and dance
d. It wasn’t until the next day when they sat in Graenel’s personal chambers that they told the story of Wynter, the desolation of Nethyngal, and the loss of the sword of Wilmamen the spirits had urged them to find.
“This news makes me in turn happy and sad and yet it seems there may be more to your stories,” Graenel said, looking squarely at Lydria. “If it would please you all, before you leave, would you speak to our archivist, that he might write down your tale to be recorded in our library?”
At the word library, Pars’ attention was glued to Graenel. “Sire,” he said slowly, not wanting to show his excitement at the prospect of an unseen library, “might it be allowed that I be permitted to examine your library? It is most odd to find one in any but the largest cities, and I have to admit to never having seen or heard of one belonging to your people.”
Graenel smiled and looked at his son. “You have not told this man of our modest collection?”
“Had I mentioned the collection to this man, he would have walked back here by himself though a horde of Qorghal stood before him.” Hokra gave Pars a friendly clap on the back which made the man spit out the piece of fruit he was eating, and cough lightly to cover his discomfort. “I shall bring him to see it myself, though I warn him against being too excited by the prospect, as I doubt our few scrolls will warrant the term library in his eyes.”
Lydria saw Hokra gently keep his massive hands on Pars’ shoulder to keep him from running out of the room but waited only a few seconds before rising and escorting him out, giving Lydria a curious wink with his twin eyelids as he left.
“So,” Graenel spoke to Ilsit and Relin who flanked him at the table where they ate. The king sat in a stone chair, while the taller Eifen ate comfortably at the table from cushions on the floor. “You say that Nethyngal is deserted now?”
Magic's Genesis- Sword of Wilmamen Page 17
