INTERLUDE 4B: HIS BEST
“Ah yes. The returner rewarded for their efforts. You shall have to read me twice if you wish to approach me from my author’s angle. There is no unedited experience. There is no untrue interpretation. There is only the memory of words.”
– from ‘The Notes of Timesnatcher’, recovered after the Fall
10th Belara, 992 NE
“The Daughter of Love and Laughter blesses thee as ye part ways. Now, Theoras Vernays, son of Yular and Otra, thou art a man in the making, and must put aside the toys of children. It is for thee to sire sons and daughters in thine own time, and bring them here upon the day of their tenth year, as thou hast been brought. So may it be.”
The priestess lowered the chalice of water and poured it onto the crown of the boy’s head; it was transformed into liquid fire as it fell from the silver rim, a flame that warmed but did not burn him, flowing orange-blue over his hair and into the basin beneath his chin.
The crowd applauded. Mother and Father, at the front, applauded. He could tell their claps apart from the others’. He had heard them so rarely he felt like he had the memories of each distinct clap imprinted upon his mind.
Aladros and Fentor were sniggering. They knew there was nothing manlike about their youngest brother.
Theoras, his head hanging over the basin, kept his eyes shut. He could recall a time when Fentor, the middle brother of the three, had been kind to him, despite Aladros’s goading. Once Fentor reached his tenth year, however, he had switched allegiances, siding with their eldest brother in all things. Including tormenting him.
By now it felt as though things had always been this way.
The fire-water stopped dripping. He raised his head, allowing the servants to dry his face.
Holding back a sigh, he opened his eyes. He thanked the priestess courteously as he’d been taught, before turning aside, following the short terracotta stair down from the altar at the centre of the temple.
He walked with his feet bare, treading the petals strewn across the aisle of the open-air structure, and went to wait with the other children. He still felt like a child; certainly he was over a foot shorter than both his brothers, who were just two and four years his elder. He had neither their sinews nor their proclivity for the arts of magic. Theor’s favourite thing was visiting their farms, which they hadn’t done since last autumn, even though it was the season – Mother said Father was an awful drunk, and it seemed she didn’t want to let him go within ten miles of the vineyards any longer.
He caught Aladros’s sneering face out of the corner of his eye and straightened up, resolving himself to look directly at the priestess and the next ten-year-old, the girl being prepared for the burdens of the adulthood that would be thrust upon her five years from this day.
He welcomed those looming burdens, and the freedoms that would come with them. Five years couldn’t pass quickly enough for Theor. He would be away from this place, these people. He would be far from Mund, working for a living with his hands, sleeping in the fields under the stars…
He clung to the dream and prayed to Enye, in whose sacred space he stood, that it would sustain him.
“The Daughter of Love and Laughter blesses thee as ye part ways. Now, Setema Pharzun, daughter of Zelikus and Gharma, thou art a woman in the making, and must put aside the toys of children. It is for thee to bear sons and daughters in thine own time, and bring them here upon the day of their tenth year, as thou hast been brought. So may it be.”
He waited, and waited, until almost an hour later the last ten-year-old was cleansed.
After the ceremony was over, the five of them walked along the path through the meadow towards the coach-station. Father laid his hand on Theor’s shoulder and, letting Mother, Aladros and Fentor walk ahead, took a more leisurely pace.
Theor looked up at Father with surprise. He had always been half-afraid of the man. He could see himself in Father’s (only somewhat-aged) visage, his future staring back at him. Despite his advanced years the refined features were still mostly wrinkle-free, the fine blond hair still showing in parts through the grey – his brothers had the curly brown hair and Amranian nose of Mother; Theor barely looked like them. But Father…
Still, the tall, slim man had always favoured the others, Aladros in particular. Ginneve, the old Onlorian maid who cleaned Theor’s room and emptied his bedpan, had once explained that it was because Father, the Lord Justice Yular Vernays, had once upon a time detested his own father – the late grandfather the boy had never met.
Do I remind him of his past? Theor wondered, luxuriating in the feel of Father’s hand on his shoulder, the weight of it.
“You’re becoming a man, now, Theoras,” Father said in his level, dispassionate voice. He didn’t look down at Theor, or even at the fields of flowers on either side of the path – he kept his iron gaze on the coach-station in the distance as he spoke. “It’s time we got you a tutor, in preparation for the tests to come. The priestess wasn’t lying about putting aside the toys of childhood. You understand what it is to be a man, Theoras?”
I haven’t the faintest notion, the boy thought.
“Yes sir,” he said.
“Duty,” Father said, nodding to himself as though satisfied, cutting through all the other nonsense options that flitted through Theor’s mind at the question. “Being a man is about duty, Theoras. If there is only one lesson I teach you, let it be this: listen to your spirit. There is a voice inside you which tells you right from wrong. You must learn to train the ear which attends this voice. There are always two roads, and it is always the more difficult of the two you will be asked to follow. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“You must.” Father suddenly sounded tired. “This is a dangerous world. There are many skills you must learn. Magic is only one of them.” Now he turned his face towards his son, trying his best to smile benignly. “Have you taken thought to which discipline you’d choose?”
Theor thought it through as they walked on.
Listen to my spirit… My ‘spirit’ is telling me that Father’s an intelligent man – this question didn’t just come out of nowhere. He wants me to understand duty… doing the right thing… the difficult thing…
Theor swallowed down his true desires.
He knew the right thing to say.
“Yes sir. I want to be a wizard, like you, sir.”
Aladros was learning enchantment; Fentor, divination. Theor knew he could stand out in this, build a stronger connection between himself and Father – something the others would never have, unless they tried taking secondary qualifications.
If he’d been expecting praise for his decision, that hope quickly faded. It was with a disappointed expression on his face that Father looked away, casting his gaze back to the coach-station.
“Very well, Theoras.” The voice was cold. “It will be arranged.”
All the way home, he sat in his coach seat alongside his family but he felt alone, going unmolested by the others. It was as though being alone in Father’s presence had settled a sorcerer’s shield about him that still lingered. It wasn’t until he was back in the wing of the house he shared with his brothers that they began to mock him once more, for the way he choked when speaking in front of the priestess, how stupid he looked on his tiptoes over the basin while she poured the holy water over his head.
And it wasn’t until he spoke to Ginneve the next day that he confirmed his mistake. He should have remembered, but there was no taking it back now.
Of course… his grandfather had been a wizard too.
* * *
10th Belara, 995 NE
“What does he want from me?” Theor asked, frowning as he dressed himself. “Thirteen. What new torment has he devised for me today, do you think?”
“Zis is just a ride in ze voods, young master,” Ginneve replied, folding his nightshirt and putting it aside neatly. “It is a celebration! You should be pleased.”
Theor had his reservations. He had no doubt Father would find some way to test him. Kasstel Morne, the tutor Father had employed to teach Theor the rudiments of wizardry, had taken the cane to his backside twice only yesterday. Doubtless the old mage’s reports would’ve reached Father’s ears by now. Last time, when he’d butchered the fire-lizard he was supposed to be skinning, Father had come to his room that night and delivered his own caning. Not at his own hand, of course, but his manservant Holos was more than equal to the task; the massive, silent thug had eagerly brought the switch down again and again. Theor had been forced to sleep on his front, and couldn’t sit down for two days.
He couldn’t help fear that this time it would be worse.
But it was his birthday, and when he left the house’s doors into the bright sunlight of the wet morning, there was no sign of displeasure on Father’s face. He, Aladros and Fentor were already mounted. Holos and a handful of other servants were standing by the stirrups, doing the final checks on the straps.
“Come, get in the saddle, Theoras!” Father said, indicating his steed with a nod of his head.
Brancados, the grey stallion. The most difficult horse Theor had ever sat astride. Never before had a creature been so appropriately named: the unicorn of legend who first bore that name was the foal of Nentheleme’s own champion, and was hardly likely to accept a rider either.
None of the servants came forward to help him. Theor could get his foot up and into the stirrup, but swinging his other leg over took several goes. It felt like a hundred goes, the stares of his elder brothers burning into his back. It was bad enough that the stallion didn’t stop prancing and tossing his neck haughtily, never mind the silent commentary.
In the end it was only Fentor’s nasal laugh that stirred the anger inside him, giving him the strength to vault up into the saddle.
“At last,” Aladros sniffed, turning his own horse easily. He was a man now, and looked the part, tall and broad-shouldered. Fentor wasn’t far behind. But Theor was still a narrow, slight little creature without a masterful bone in his body, and Brancados, beneath him, seemed to realise it. The horse broke from a walk into a trot and Theor was forced to pull back on the reins, struggling to keep the horse in line with those of the others.
The land that belonged to them wasn’t extensive. The Vernays family had ancestral domains stretching almost a hundred miles, but prices within Mund’s walls were at a premium, especially within the forests of Treetown. Nonetheless, the Lords and Ladies of the northern reaches of Treetown had an accord when it came to hunting, and those with the proper credentials were permitted to roam the twisting paths, armed with bow and spear. And of course Father always insisted on using the horses. It was a symbol of their rank and prestige, or a leftover habit from Father’s childhood, or something.
Father drank heavily from his wineskin as soon as they were out of sight of the house’s windows. Perhaps it was just that it was harder to twist an ankle while riding drunk than it was walking drunk.
The trees within the Vernays borders were oak and elm, birch and redebon. The main forest paths were reasonably well-travelled, so their route through the woods was an easy one. On a few occasions they ran into other gentlemen out for a ride or stroll, and Theor was forced to respond genially to the odd comment, it being his birthday and all. But mostly the passers-by directed their comments at Aladros and Fentor, noting their height: ‘oh my how they’ve grown, Yular; young Aladros, my Litheline is coming of age in two months – you simply must meet her…’
Theor was almost relieved when they stopped for a snack.
Holos started building up a fire, and then another servant, Gharalar, unwrapped Father’s fine yew longbow, and produced a quiver of arrows from a saddlebag.
“Come, my sons,” Father said, testing the bowstring before taking the quiver, “let us see how your training is paying off.”
With that he led them into the brush.
Aladros pierced a partridge on the wing, bringing it down better than an expert ranger. That earned him Father’s applause and approval. Fentor missed when he tried to emulate the feat, but before long he’d spotted a quail hopping about on the ground and retrieved Father’s bow in time to make the shot. Father touched him fondly on the shoulder when he returned the longbow.
Then Theor’s turn came.
Longbows were always too long for him – they were a foot taller than him – and too unyielding for his puny arms. Still, he did his best to carry it as they moved through the undergrowth, did his best to keep from banging it on trees and getting its string caught in the bushes. He could only imagine the furore that would be raised if he managed to snap it. He’d never handled Father’s best longbow before, and never would again, if he had chance.
It wasn’t long before the time arrived. He reluctantly went to accept the arrow Aladros handed him – too reluctantly, it turned out, for his eldest brother withdrew the arrow once he reached for it, turning it into a game, almost making Theor flinch as the arrowhead ducked and danced in his direction.
“Aladros,” Father murmured, not even disapprovingly.
And Aladros handed him the arrow without further performance.
“Take aim! Good.” Father’s whisper was harsh. “That’s it… Come, boy. Now is the time! Loose!”
Theor could see the bird as though it were perched on the tip of his arrow. It was a mottled grouse, lightest in colouration at the belly, darker at the wings. Its throat was creamy, almost orange in hue and its little face and beak were pointed west, so that he looked upon it in profile, able to take in every part of the animal.
Wind ruffled its feathers, coiling in its soft down. It was a stupid-looking bird, but it had nobility. Here and now, in the moment of its impending death, it was too beautiful to die.
And Theor’s fingers on the string wouldn’t move. His muscles were tightening; he had held this pose too long but was too scared to let the arrow fly and too scared to lower the bow. He was trapped in his indecision.
The marksman who’d taught Aladros and Fentor was now Theor’s tutor, and he’d told the boy to imagine the arrowhead in the target, see it happening even before he released the shaft. But he couldn’t imagine it happening. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, see it.
“Can’t kill it, but wouldn’t say no to eating it,” Father growled. “Aladros! Forward!”
Within three seconds his eldest brother had the bow off him, the arrow nocked – and within another three the grouse was pierced at the left wing.
It descended from its branch, screaming in pain, trying and failing to fly.
“If you can’t shoot it, you can at least wring its neck.” Father pointed. “Go.”
Numbly, Theor advanced into the foliage, his feet moving automatically at Father’s command, requiring little input from Theor’s own will.
He saw it, writhing amidst the thorns. He saw it now, not as a noble thing, something beautiful – it was just a sad bundle of feathers thrashing in its final moments.
All the horror of death was encapsulated in its frantic motions.
If he weren’t putting it out of its misery there’d be no chance he’d have ever been able to just snap its neck. But as things stood – did he really have any other choice?
This is how we all go, the boy thought, and shivered. One day, this will happen to me. Somehow. Some way.
And as he knelt by the bird’s side, putting out his hand, he felt something within him.
It didn’t start at his fingertips, where he pressed his hand softly into the feathers. Instead, it felt like it started in the soles of his feet, travelling rapidly up his legs and torso; only then did it shoot down his extended arm.
It was almost like a shudder of nervousness, or the feeling of falling – and it flooded out of him, a hurricane of power that weakened him in its passage.
Suddenly the arrow was free, tumbling clear into the thorns.
The grouse looked at him in no less shock than he felt, and cawed what could only be translated as, “Y-you should g-get out of here!” before lifting off through the trees with startling speed.
Theor stood up with the arrow, looking blankly back at the others.
What in the… what…
“It… it fell out,” he called lamely.
Father, Aladros and Fentor no longer bothered keeping quiet as they stomped towards him.
“What do you mean, ‘fell out’?” Aladros asked. “Do you know so little?”
“You removed it, boy?” Father roared.
Fentor had folded his arms across his chest. He was smirking, shaking his head ruefully.
“I knew you were… I knew… but I…” Father seemed unable to complete a sentence; he took a long draught from his wineskin before continuing. “You think this is the proper way to behave? How dare you waste your brother’s shot!” His voice raised to an almost shrill pitch: “If you were a servant I would have you beaten for your temerity! In fact,” he took another long swig and smacked his lips, “Aladros… I’ll return to camp ahead of you.”
Father strode off, shouting for Holos before lifting his wineskin once again.
Aladros and Fentor didn’t move and Theor stood before them, cringing, paralysed, feeling suddenly exhausted by whatever happened between himself and the bird, knowing that he didn’t have the energy to run or strength to resist. He nervously twisted the arrow he’d retrieved in his hands.
“Well, let’s see – what would Father want us to do with him, little brother?” Aladros said, leaning casually on the longbow, looking across at Fentor. “Come up with a good idea and I’ll give you credit.”
“We could always –” Fentor withdrew an arrow from the quiver “– take a pound of flesh from him instead.”
He lunged forwards suddenly, and if Theor thought he was frozen in place before he truly was now, with the unwavering arrowhead just an inch from his eyes.
“Or perhaps a tasteful scar – somewhere no one else would see it…”
Theor felt himself melting, fading, as though he no longer existed – it was like he was watching it all play out inside the bounds of a glyphstone, a recording of events that happened to someone else. He heard himself whimpering, as if from a great distance.
He had only the vaguest impression of the sensation as he let the arrow in his own hands fall to the carpet of twigs at his feet. Even less when they scored him with the edge of the arrowhead beneath his clothes – he just stood there, enduring it all, a blubbering statue with tears in its eyes.
They made him march in front of them as the trio returned to the camp, following the scent of cooking meat. They prodded him in the neck and back of the head with the arrow-tip whenever his strides failed to outstrip their longer-legged pace.
Father stood at the edge of the clearing, hands on hips, awaiting them. Behind him Holos was turning cuts of bird on a spit over the flames. Holos grinned as he looked upon Theor’s quivering stance, but Father just looked cold.
“Well, you fool boy… Have you learned your lesson? Or shall further instruction be required?”
“I…” Theor wanted to look back at Aladros and Fentor behind him but the memory of the arrowhead striking him made him reconsider. “I am, hm, much chastised, Father.”
“Good. Now sit down in silence while we eat.”
Theor felt hungry as he watched Father and his brothers tearing into the food. For the first time he noticed the servants’ eyes, like his, trying not to watch. They too hungered. They too were on the outside.
But while everyone was distracted he surreptitiously checked his wounds.
As he’d expected from the lack of actual pain, the worst of the cuts was no deeper than a nick, and most hadn’t left more than a surface-scratch. Little blood.
He did his best and managed to keep his calm as his brain processed the information.
So, I’m an archmage. An arch-druid.
He managed to hold back the tears.
Father would never approve.
* * *
10th Belara, 998 NE
The kids ran down the muddy street and the darkmage followed, a black-garbed figure floating serenely on the air, easily keeping up with them. As though he did it as much for amusement as anything else, the darkmage would nonchalantly raise a hand, gesture at one of the fleeing children; the road would rise up, mud spilling over the chosen target, pulling them down to suffocate in the dirt. He ignored all the other screaming people who turned and sprinted away from the scene, chasing after only the little ones.
Nighteye was swiftly catching up. He was high above his quarry, descending with his wings poised, slicing down through the air. But he could easily pick out the details even from up here – starlight was enough for him to see by, and the wizard wasn’t bothering to direct the mist, hide what he was doing.
He could see the exultant body language of the heretic, soaring upright and aloof, untouchable, as he toyed with the children’s lives. The tiny, desperate hands of his dying victims, trying futilely to claw their way from their muddy graves.
He had no choice. He couldn’t chase the darkmage – he had to save the trapped ones first. Even if it meant falling behind. He couldn’t just leave them to drown in the muck of Lowtown.
He shifted even as he landed – there was no gap between intention and actualisation this time. Changing shape was as simple as changing facial expression now.
With a human arm he reached down into the mire – with a single thrust he went into the road up to the shoulder. He could feel the hair on the little boy’s head – he found the boy’s arm and smoothly pulled.
He could tell at once it was no good – he was going to rip the arm off.
Taking a deep breath, Nighteye plunged his face into the road, then used both arms.
It took another ten seconds to get the boy out, and ten more seconds of gently beating on his back until the champion was sure he was okay.
In the time he had stopped to help, the wizard had continued his horrid task by burying two more children, and was about to turn a corner, chasing the rest of them out of Nighteye’s line of sight.
I know what to do.
The next magic he used was no more difficult to bring into effect than puffing out his chest and standing up straight.
When he reached the next group of buried children he was thirty feet tall, and his arms were long enough, hands big enough, that he could scoop the children out of the ground two by two.
The arch-wizard looked back, once, before turning the corner, in pursuit of the last few.
Celestium, he swore as the killer disappeared from view.
He checked those he saved were breathing and hurried on to the corner, stomping his way through the muck with his new legs the size of trees, splashing the walls of the houses. As he went he set his thoughts on the nearby animals. There were an awful lot of rats and even a few snakes hanging around in the nearest alleys – bats in the roofs – birds hunting spiders and scorpions, flies and wasps… He could imagine them in his mind’s eye all at once, what they were feeling, how they could respond to his will.
He rounded the corner. The heretic was hovering there, waiting.
Random people yelling and running behind him.
No sign of the children, except –
Except Nighteye could sense them, still alive but dying, right beneath the road under the heretic’s floating feet. Six of them. Those who had tried to split away from the pack had been the first to suffer the wizard’s wrath, and their shared terror had kept these six kids together – and now they were going to die together.
He could feel the life down there, worms and weeds and roots and even the lice covering the bodies of the children. He could feel it and he could manipulate it, give it shape with his thoughts. But he wasn’t Leafcloak – there wasn’t anything he could do in such a short time-period to make the roots grow long, make the weeds strong enough to haul the kids out of their disgusting tomb.
The dark wizard floated a little higher, approaching his eye-level.
“Why’re you even saving ‘em?” the man asked in a brusque, local accent, South Lowtown to the core. “You’re a fool, druid. If you knew the freedom that comes o’ letting go –“
Heresy.
The magically-swollen musculature of his wiry body maintained its accustomed agility. He was no fighter, but he could snap out a series of strikes with horrendous power and speed.
None of the blows landed – the wizard swooned and swayed in the air. “They’re usin’ you, you know!” he yelled, laughing derisively now.
Then the black figure retaliated with fire, spraying it in liquid form right into Nighteye’s gigantic face so that it ran down his equally-gigantic mask, melting it.
It hurt. A lot.
He put his massive head down, felt his hood igniting, hair aflame… Still, he didn’t stop swiping with his arms, trying to snatch the heretic out of the air. He could sense the slippery wizard just as easily as he could sense the children. Once he had his hands on the killer it would be over.
Nighteye felt nothing as he pummelled the air, his arms colliding with no obstacles. But that didn’t matter, really. Ending it quickly was secondary right now – with his head down, he assessed the positions of the six kids running out of air down there, trying to pinpoint their exact locations. If he didn’t get them out in the next seconds, the liquid fire would pool above them and they’d be sure to die –
He knew what he had to do.
When he roared in anger the darkmage seemed to think it was a scream of pain, and laughed all the louder.
The moment the wizard backed away a little farther, he acted, throwing everything at his enemy all at once.
Sparrows, gulls, blackbirds, with scorpions and snakes in their talons. Rats leaping off the nearest buildings, the biggest spiders he could find riding their shoulders.
It was a distraction. He could feel the senseless loss of life as the heretic whirled, meeting the new threats with waves of elemental forces that tore them into feathers, gobbets of flesh, twists of dust…
But it afforded Nighteye time to bend and scoop aside the whole road, upturning its contents as he slid it so that the suffocating children were released, lying now atop a mound of sludge.
He was relieved to see they were panting for air; some of the bravest townspeople who’d stopped to watch the battle were running forwards to help the kids out –
The arch-wizard, noticing that his victims had been freed, loosed a shriek of rage. Ignoring Nighteye, he swirled around the druid, spraying more fire at the children, both his arms extended – the mud swiftly started taking shape around them, humanoid limbs of pure filth reaching out to grasp them, pull them back down into the muck – his liquid flame was about to touch them, incinerate them right there where they were sprawled –
But his anger had cost him dearly.
As the darkmage sped in an arc around him, Nighteye snatched out a hand, but this time he put on another burst of growth even as he stretched.
The ten-foot-long arm the heretic tried to evade was now fifteen feet long, and the champion gripped him by the left leg, pulled him away from his would-be victims.
Got you now, killer.
Before he brought his second hand up to bear on the heretic, Nighteye had already filled the heretic with so many diseases that he actually heard the man’s shuddering gasp, even over the wet roar of the flames still spurting from the black-gloved fingertips.
He’d reached his limit – at almost fifty feet tall, the champion towered over the nearby buildings, giant-like. It was almost difficult not to tear the wizard in two as he gripped the killer in both hands and started to apply pressure.
The wizard shrieked again, but not in anger this time. This was pain, humiliation.
“Turn – off – the – flames!” Nighteye growled. His fifty-foot-tall body produced a far louder, deeper voice than was normal.
The liquid flame appeared to be pouring out of the wizard’s body through the pores in his skin, like a desperate last-ditch attempt to scorch the druid’s hands, secure his release. His black robe was burning away.
But Nighteye’s hands weren’t going anywhere. Scars would heal, as would his face and scalp, even his hair.
Instead he only tightened his grip.
“You – foolish – boy!” the heretic gurgled.
The champion’s eyes narrowed, feeling the surge of hatred. For some reason he was reminded of that hunting trip, three years ago to the day, on his thirteenth birthday – after which he’d given up meat; after which he’d made friends with Avenar, his loyal grouse, and come into his power.
Now he was sure of his power. Now it was no less natural to him than breathing.
“You tried to kill the children!” he cried. “You killed… hundreds… of my friends.” The champion turned his head aside – there were still feathers floating down through the air. “You’re pathetic! You don’t deserve to… breathe.”
The fiery death-throes of the darkmage only intensified as Theor began to shut down the heretic’s lungs with cold precision.
“Don’t deserve… to live…”
He removed the barriers he’d set up in his mind, or they were removed for him – as he squeezed he knew only that they were gone, the instincts that compelled him to preserve life, washed away in a fiery flood, a wave of crying children, falling feathers –
He felt an oh-so-satisfying crunch as the wizard’s ribcage and collarbone popped –
“Nighteye!”
Leafcloak’s shrill cry cut through the fog in the street, the fog in his mind, and he came back to himself.
Even as he let the limp wizard fall from his massive hands, she swooped down, catching the killer in her beak before he hit the ground.
Those people who’d watched the battle between heretic and giant from a distance were now backing away in renewed awe, as the tremendous bird descended into the street.
Theor saw the other two heretics, asleep, clutched in her talons as she settled down on the scooped-out road-surface.
Then she shimmered, becoming herself again, appearing halfway between the sleeping heretics and Theor’s one. He could sense the life still beating inside the broken wizard – and he could sense the life already strengthening, bones and lacerations mending before Leafcloak even reached him.
People were so much easier to break than to put back together again, but she made it look simple.
Within the five seconds it took for her to reach and crouch down at the wizard’s side, he was in perfect health. She put him to sleep and then hoisted him, dragging him across to the other two. This part she made look difficult, but only because there were onlookers.
Then she looked up into Theor’s face.
“Come with me.”
She spoke gently, and the giant boy shuddered.
“Leafcloak, I, hm… the children, I can hardly –”
“I’ve seen to them already, and we can’t do this here.” Within an instant she was a bird once more, swelling in size as she gathered the trio of darkmages together. “It’s over, Nighteye. It’s over. Meet me at Magicrux Peralath.”
She took to the air, the wind of her beating wings making his hair stream where it was regrowing, loose of his hood.
“This is a sorry way to spend my birthday,” he muttered, shaking the feathers through his flesh, bending into position as he became a titanic owl.
Gasps rippled across the small crowd, and a few of the children lifted their arms, waving at him as he soared away.
Magicrux Peralath was located near the southern wall of Mund, in the centre of a rare grassy area. Like many of the bastions of the magisters, it looked like little more than a small fort from the outside. It was round, a squat structure of grey stone with no access from the roof; Leafcloak was forced to set her captives down on the path that led from the street to the gate. It would be far larger under the ground than one would imagine from outside, of course.
The single guard at the door sprang to attention the moment she saw the two birds come plunging out of the smog, and before she’d even retrieved her glyphstone from her belt-pouch the druids were changing back to their human forms.
While the magisters came flooding out and started binding the hands and feet and eyes of the darkmages, the old woman took Theor aside, her grip on his arm firm.
“Leafcloak, I know I went too far, I just, hm, I just –“
“You went too far.” The quietness of her voice was awful.
“I could’ve stopped – I could’ve not killed him, but what was I supposed to do? He just – hm, he insisted on killing them, and I just – I just –” Fool boy. “I…”
She put her arm around his shoulders as he started sobbing:
“I just think it’s stupid, these rules are stupid; why can’t I kill him? My power is power over death as much as it’s power over life – why isn’t it in the rules that I have to kill him? Why does he get to live when everyone, everything he killed is just, just dead?”
“He doesn’t get to live –“
“You know what I mean, Leafcloak!”
The tears flowed down the outside of his melted mask.
She stroked his head and spoke soothingly, keeping her voice low so that she wouldn’t be overheard.
“Do you remember what I said to you, Theor? When we were first introduced?” His eyes were closed but he could tell from her voice she was smiling in sympathy. “I never once met someone like us who gained their magic when they gave in to their urge to kill. No. We gain our magic, our authority, from our stance against death.”
“B-but the d-dark-dr-druids –“
“Do you think I’ve not spoken to them too? They’re like us, Theor, except they give in. They start out like us but they use the words you just spoke, to convince themselves any evil they desire is permissible. Not only permissible, but righteous. The whole meaning of their being chosen for these gifts. But they’re wrong. Power entitles you to nothing. Nothing! You know this. You know this personally, don’t you? You are wealthy.”
He drew back, nodding, breathing deeply and looking up at the sky, doing his best to stop crying.
“You chose to be a champion. Just because you can decide – life, or death – doesn’t give you the right. You have to remember your training, Theor.” She sighed, and the leaves on her face rustled as though stirred by a breeze he could not feel. “Go home – I’ll make sure everything’s sorted here. I’m going to take you off assignments like this for the next six months. We’re going to work on your plant-growth and healing skills next – I see you’ve got the size manipulation under control now…”
She spoke. He listened and nodded. He understood why she was doing this, how it would help him. He understood that he had to go home now, couldn’t wait to watch the three executions the magisters would carry out immediately.
The dark-druids were no different from them, and if he stayed, he could change. Perhaps only a little, but it could happen. The darkness could enter his soul. And maybe next time he would squeeze, squeeze harder than he’d ever squeezed before, turning his enemy into nothing more than a jelly to be cast aside into the gutter, rat-fodder…
So when Leafcloak was done talking he took his leave, travelling north-east to the forest of his home.
How he longed to just be gone, pursuing his old dreams of escaping the city. Seeing real forests, where the canals were streams, where the fauna wasn’t imported, living his life as an arch-druid in the wild, no people to trouble him… He needed nothing to survive except his wits and his will – he could climb the mountains to their peaks, exist in the stillness beyond the bounds of the world…
But that would mean changing, in a different way, and he knew his personal desires were selfish. How many could he save, here? Power didn’t entitle you to anything but obligations. Saving others was just the self-evident obligation. The money didn’t hurt either – not that he had spent any of it yet. Though he’d been a man for a whole year today, nothing had changed. Aladros and Fentor were still residing in Mother and Father’s house. They still spoke down to him, expected things of him that he could never provide. And he could never stand up to them. He backed down, time and again.
He was a healer. A protector. Not a bully. Not a killer.
As he flew he curled his talons. He could feel it in his flesh, this strange owl-flesh in which he’d coated his soul – the very beak he wore in this form was a signifier.
That he was wrong.
He could be what he was not.
As he landed near his home and got changed, he looked down at his mask. The beak was melted now. He’d find a new one as close to the original as he could, but it would never be quite the same.
Everything was born a killer. Flies screamed as they felt the deadly touch of the spider’s string. The wolf fed her pups with fat derived from the baby beavers she’d feasted on. Even the plants choked one another, struggling in a slow, desperate dance for sunlight – you could keep them spread out, incapable of violating one another’s space, but only artificially. Only for a period of time. Inevitably chaos would come, new plants filling the gaps until there was no longer enough for everyone – and who was there to say that it was wrong? That Mekesta’s work was unnatural? Perhaps evil was the natural way of things. Death… was natural.
And hadn’t he done evil even in saving those children? Hadn’t he done the work of death? He’d traded hundreds of animals’ lives for the lives of six kids. He hadn’t been able to think of a different way to do it – was that enough to make it right?
He didn’t feel it was.
There was no way to avoid death. So what if he refused meat, ate only vegetables? Were the plants any less alive? Did they possess a small-enough quantity of that indescribable essence called soul that consuming them was somehow okay? Whose responsibility was it to say that, and why? Who got to decide on life?
No one. Only death.
Only Vaahn.
He walked through the treeline, looking at his home. He was approaching from the front, not far from the path – the faux-castle main building and the two lavish wings encircled the courtyard and its pond (deep enough to swim in, and deep enough to drown in if your brothers had a mind). The globes were all still on in the lounge – he doubted anyone would be asleep yet. Unfortunately they weren’t out at the theatre tonight – they’d been out yesterday, and they never went twice in a row.
His grouse, Avenar, was perched on one of the low branches in the last tree.
“You okay, Kind One?” the bird chirped in its grandfatherly tone – he’d aged fast. “You smell funny again.”
“I feel funny,” the boy replied. “You, hm,” he thought of all the birds he’d gotten killed tonight, “you shouldn’t be around me, right now, Av.”
“Are you sure? There –“
“You ate a worm not two minutes ago.”
“Well, yes, I’m not above a little worm! I –“
“It’s still alive, Av.” The boy’s voice was cold. “D-dying. I can feel it. Just – just go home, okay?”
The grouse didn’t take off, but Theor didn’t wait, exiting the bushes, heading for the house.
When he reached the main building the attendant respectfully opened the right-hand door for him, but Aladros was just on his way out and barged through him, right there in the narrow doorway.
“Out of my way, short-ass,” Aladros snarled – the kind of comment that was the closest thing to an apology Theor ever got.
Theor only just managed to go slack in time, let himself be thrown back as his eldest brother met him shoulder-to-shoulder.
But instead of twisting aside, he spun back and caught Aladros by the wrist.
His brother’s bones were as brittle as the stem of a wine-glass. It was difficult not to exert a little extra pressure, test their strength…
Instincts were at work that had lain buried for long years. His muscles and mouth moved as though of their own accord.
“Come with me,” he said, taking a step farther towards the hall, ignoring the wide-eyed attendant.
His pace and grip were inexorable. Even before Aladros had thought of an adequately cutting response to this startling turn of events he was being yanked off-balance, gasping as he was dragged along by his little brother.
“Did you know,” Theor said dreamily as he strode across towards the hall, “twenty minutes ago I was fifty feet tall?”
“What – are you – doing?” Aladros panted, clawing at Theor’s curled fingers with his free hand, completely incapable of budging them even a little.
What am I doing?
Theor didn’t reply, but cast him a sidelong glance. His big brother still wasn’t submitting – there was no panic on the coarse, Amranian features. Only anger.
So Theor just smiled grimly in response.
Seeing that smile caused Aladros to snap – he surged closer, bringing his free hand up into a fist, swinging around to smash the druid in the nose, a full-force, full-bodied blow –
And yelped.
Theor’s bones were harder than stone now, and the split skin sealed before much blood was spilled. The same couldn’t be said of Aladros’s hand, its third knuckle suddenly migrated an inch up the back of his hand, a minor fracture in his wrist…
Theor entered the lounge, thrusting the door open a little too hard, taking it off its hinges. At least it was still intact.
Father was sitting on the velveted couch, poring over the open tome which sat upon the table, his wine-glass in his hand. Fentor was with him, already coiling out of his seat, far faster than Father, outrage on his face as he stood –
A divination spell. Reflexes.
Theor smiled again.
Predict this.
The outrage on Fentor’s face turned to horror, as Theor used his grip on Aladros’s wrist to hurl one brother across the room into the other.
He was pretty sure he’d at least dislocated Aladros’s shoulder with that throw. If the man’s screams were anything to go by, he could’ve partially torn the arm off too.
Oh well.
“Theoras!” Father’s voice was low, sharp, incensed.
The druid halted. He felt the panic he’d so longed to see on Aladros’s face now spreading through him.
What am I doing!
“Master!” came the choked voice of Holos from behind him – the servant was standing in the vacant doorway to the lounge, staring at Theor’s two brothers lying together, sprawled and entangled before the cold hearth.
“Thurula aeloran,” Aladros gasped, rising, pointing his damaged hand at Theor with the central three fingers extended, his thumb trapping his pinkie, “inaeron mervidia.”
Whatever Aladros had been hoping would happen, nothing did, and he sank back down to his knees, crestfallen. Theor’s hidden amulet took care of that.
Thank you Lovebright.
“Begone from here, Holos,” Father said in a tone that brooked no refusal, his slightly-slurred voice still low, his almost-glazed eyes fixed unblinkingly on his arch-druid son.
Holos backed out of the room, then turned and fled.
“F-Father –“
“Do not speak to me.” He didn’t sound angry; his voice wasn’t loud. Dispassionate. Level. “You have brought only shame to this family –“
“It’s my-my birth-”
Father hurled his wine-glass down, shattering it on the hearthstones.
A silence broken only by the laboured breathing of Theor’s brothers settled on the room, heavy enough to press down on the druid’s skin.
“Do not speak to me,” Father repeated, his voice even quieter. “You have brought only shame to this family with your flagrant disrespect, your complete, abysmal lack of control. Do you think that your Mother and I were not aware of your… condition?”
“You – you knew th-”
“Do not speak to me!” Father screamed.
Theor went stiff, eyes wide, fingers clenched, but his foot tapped on the carpet as though it had a mind of its own.
As Father spoke he approached, step by menacing step, and Theor’s world was one of ever-increasing dread, terror, as a man standing and staring while a glacier loomed above, grinding closer and closer –
“You thought we would not notice? Truly? The arrival of this farcical Nighteye, the very same week in which you began to pursue ‘additional studies’ at night? You thought you were so clever. I knew it was you the following morning! And that time on the hunt – the bird, healing itself!”
The scorn lashed him.
“You think to impress us with your antics? Tell me – are you now a mighty wizard? Azalar shakech! Iz zim lathar!”
The hand which had held the wine-glass was now an upraised fist, burning in a nimbus of white-hot flame.
He held the fist there, shimmering in incandescent power, then –
“No,” Father said sorrowfully, lowering the hand. “You have naught you have earned and far more than you deserve. If it is your wish to get yourself killed, be at it! I shall suffer to feed and clothe you of my purse, until such a day comes, Yune willing. Now, begone from my sight.”
Theor felt the paralysis on him begin to loosen – he exhaled heavily, slumped –
“Wait – on second thoughts, halt.”
The boy looked into Father’s face.
“First, help your brothers to their feet. Heal their wounds. Go!” he barked, seeing Theor’s hesitation. “Be at it!”
The druid did his best to keep the tears from flooding down his face as he did what he was told, to hold them back until he was safe in the privacy of his room.
But, as with everything, he failed.
* * *
4th Illost, 998 NE
“Feychilde! Ve are coming!”
The fact that the shield was still up spoke to the fact that the sorcerer was okay, out there, somehow.
Killstop and Stormsword will save him, Nighteye reassured himself.
He stood in the doorless doorway of the assassin’s guild on Welderway, looking at the ghouls frenziedly hurling themselves at the sorcerous barrier Feychilde had left in place. Half of the wretches had run off somewhere, but a fair number remained – the half-ring of protection extended into the street and there were enough of them to surround it in rows two or three deep.
He’d fought some reanimated skeletons once, but the ghouls were even more human-like than zombies – they might’ve been feral, but they had actual emotion in their eyes. He’d fought a few demons during Incursions that could’ve almost passed for Mundians – but he always had the comfort of knowing they really came from the Twelve Hells. The fact that these ghouls were people until recently…
“We can kill these things, right?” he asked aloud.
They looked alive, even if all his senses screamed the opposite.
“I certainly mean to,” Fangmoon replied, moving in front of him.
“What about their, hm, bites?”
“They’re no vampires.”
“I’m gonna try puppeteerin’ one.” Spiritwhisper spoke telepathically from the shadows of the doorway. “I never managed it with a demon, but, you know – got to try.”
Shrugging his shoulders to loosen himself up, Nighteye followed Fangmoon into the fray. He saw the druidess lunge through the invisible line of protection, gripping one of the ghouls with both hands at the throat and pulling back. The ghoul couldn’t enter the barrier until it was dead – the head popped off, tumbling to the cobbles outside the shield, and Fangmoon was left holding the limp remainder of the body.
Nighteye glanced across to the other side, viewing the snarling creatures on the opposite edge of the protective ring. Seven at the front of the crowd caught his eye.
Two children, street urchins, one of them younger than ten, both troubling to look upon in this state.
Three old women, long grey hair hanging from the parts of their scalps that were still intact, wearing similar rags to each other.
Two young men, tall, strong, shoulders thick with the muscles of blacksmiths, crashing into the shielding more heavily than the others.
All of them had the same long arms, dirty claws. The same distended jaw, determined gaze.
The druid grew and reached through the shield, taking the two men’s skulls, one in either hand.
He took no pleasure in his task – it was gruesome. It was horrible.
That was what he told himself.
Yet he couldn’t deny the physical release that came over him as he just let go. Now that the limits were removed.
Theor crunched his hands down on Aladros and Fentor’s heads. Felt them burst.
The very instant he did it, he tossed the ghouls aside and waded out into the others. He struck them with his fists and forearms, shattering their puny bodies. He stomped down, ground them into the cobbles with his heels. He shook off the ones that leapt upon him and bit him, smiling as he felt his wounds heal, then turned to pursue and pulp the ones that had got their teeth into him, squishing them to paste against the walls into which he’d tossed them…
“Nighteye!” Spiritwhisper shouted psychically.
“No,” Theor said, the word booming from his magnified throat as he kicked a ghoul in its face, flinging it through the air, watching its neck snap as its head caved in –
Then he heard Fangmoon’s scream of defiance.
Turning, letting the rage simmer for a moment, he realised he was twenty feet tall. He dwarfed his fellow druid, who’d been pulled out of the other side of the shield –
Two vampires stood over her, lashing at her with their claws.
More were on the way, darting up the street in staggering bursts of speed.
“Fangmoon!” he roared, stepping across the shield in a single stride, drawing back a foot to kick out –
He was too tall. His upper body must’ve been extending through the barrier of force, leaving his shoulders, neck and head vulnerable.
One of the vampires leapt for his face, flickering through the air far more quickly than he’d anticipated.
He could run faster than a hound, swim faster than a fish, but he couldn’t move like a diviner, and this was like that.
Nothing he could match.
It landed forcefully with its legs spread, feet on his shoulders, teeth and nails buried into the exposed skin of his forehead, bearing forward, pushing him with incredible strength –
“Killstop!” he heard Stormsword – Emrelet – screaming in his mind. “Killstop! Vhere are you!”
And then Feychilde, sounding close to death, the psychic voice drained of almost all its energy: “Killstop… be ready…”
Theor was thrown off-balance by the vampire’s crashing impact, toppled – and by the way the creature stayed fixed to him as he fell within what should’ve been the shield’s boundaries, sitting on him and tearing into him instead of being thrown off him by the invisible impact, the druid knew that the sorcerer’s protection was now gone.
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