Lesson of the Fire

  Erbark carried a marsord out of loyalty to Sven, who had given it to him at the end of his warrior’s apprenticeship. He only used it where Sven and his conscience directed, such as when navigating the Morden Moors, or in the current situation that he found himself in on his way to visit Sven’s family at Nightfire’s Academy.

  “Are you Weard Lasik?” demanded the auburn standing in Erbark’s path. There was nothing friendly in the man’s stance.

  Erbark nodded once.

  “I have a message for Weard Takraf. Could you take me to his house so I can deliver it?”

  “I’ll deliver it.” Erbark caught a movement out of the corner of his eye but did not turn to look.

  “I was instructed to place it in his hands myself.”

  “Then I can’t help you,” Erbark told him, moving to walk past the auburn.

  “Oh, but you can.” The auburn waved a hand, and four greens moved into the space between the trees. The auburn smiled. “And you will.”

  Erbark took in their cloaks with a glance and snorted a laugh. None of them carried a weapon. “A few miles outside of the Academy, and you expect me to be impressed by an auburn and a few greens?”

  The auburn frowned, and the first fist of Power threw Erbark backward. The warrior tucked himself into a ball and let its momentum roll him back to his feet. A pillar of fire erupted in front of him as he reached his feet.

  “Alive. Alive!” shouted the auburn.

  Erbark took two quick steps and buried his fist into the stomach of the nearest green, who doubled over and fell to the ground wheezing as if he’d never encountered physical pain.

  The warrior yanked a flask of torutsen out of his pocket and pulled the stopper. Another fist of force hit his hand. The flask somersaulted out of his fingers, its contents showering the ground. He cursed silently and charged the nearest green.

  Erbark slammed into a wall of Power at full speed. Despite the spots in his vision, he rolled quickly to one side and around the barrier. The green on the other side opened her eyes wide in shock before Erbark smashed her nose. There was a crack and a splash of blood, and the green clutched her nose with a moan.

  A fist of force struck Erbark in the back, and he felt a rib crack. He winced but moved around the green with the broken nose. She abruptly stood up and turned to him with a smile, the injury healed except for the blood on her cloak.

  That’s it, Erbark thought. Wear yourself out healing yourself instead of attacking me.

  He drew a javelin from the sheaf on his back and slammed it into her thigh in a single smooth motion. She howled in pain and fell to the ground as her bone shattered.

  The auburn and the other two greens surrounded him, and blows fell like rain. The javelins flew from their band on his back to well out of his reach. His belt of knives snapped and crawled away into the swamp. Erbark tried to move forward, but walls of Power blocked him at every turn.

  Then the injured greens recovered enough to join in, lashing at him with whips of Power. One green’s face scrunched up in concentration, and Erbark’s left arm snapped just above the elbow. He fought the instinct to curl up on the ground, knowing it wouldn’t ward off the attacks.

  Niminth, you know I tried, Erbark prayed silently.

  He called the myst — not to soothe his wounds or attack his enemies, he wasn’t skilled enough to do that without torutsen, but he could insulate himself. With torutsen, he could see what he was doing and could have countered the incoming spells while still using other magic. Blind to the myst, he had to grope and hope he gathered enough of the right motes. The shell of countermagic would hold for a minute or two, and that would have to be enough.

  As soon as the fists of Power stopped striking him, Erbark stood up straight and turned. The greens wore expressions ranging from surprise to confusion to unmistakable fear. His gaze fell to the auburn, and Erbark stepped forward, the wall of Power disintegrating at the touch of his defensive shell.

  The auburn simply sneered. “Five on one, and you have no magic? You can’t win this fight.”

  Erbark smiled grimly. “Try telling a damnen that.”

  The auburn’s eyes widened slightly, and Erbark used the distraction to close the distance and slam a knee into the auburn’s groin. His marsord’s gouger bit tender flesh, and any thought in the auburn’s mind turned to agony.

  Erbark didn’t give him a chance to recover. He grasped the blood-covered hilt and drew the hacker out, pulling the long blade against his fallen opponent’s throat. Blood sprayed, then pumped, and finally stopped.

  Marsord dripping wizard blood, Erbark rose and gave his attention to the greens behind him. His lips curled in a snarl.

  “Who’s next?”

  The greens fled. With a heavy sigh, Erbark rummaged through the dead auburn’s pockets. He regretted the necessity, but the greens might regain their courage. Eventually, he found the flask of torutsen and took a swallow.

  Erbark scanned the myst around him, watching for any irregularities in the motes’ movement that might indicate a nearby wizard readying a spell. He saw none, so he released the countermagic shell and called new magic to heal the worst of his injuries as he collected his scattered equipment. He got as far as the broken ribs before the myst stopped answering his call.

  He looked at the corpse with a frown.

  “I should have tended you first, I know,” he said softly. “But there is no dry wood out here, so hopefully your friends will come back after I leave to do the honors.”

  He closed the dead man’s eyes and pulled the edge of the auburn cloak over his face. Wincing at his remaining injuries, Erbark continued along the path to Nightfire’s Academy.

  The dux’s magocrats are getting bolder, Sven. I hope you come home soon.

  * * *

  Erika Unschul watched the flames in the hearth consume the wood while she waited for the soup in the pot to boil. She could hear Asa and her friends playing “Academy” in the nursery. Their muffled voices drifted to Erika.

  “Today,” Asa began in her high-pitched, serious voice, “we are going to learn to use Energy.”

  Erika smiled in amusement. Her daughter reminded her so much of Sven — intelligent, outgoing and eager to teach whatever she learned. Asa could already read and write paragraphs in both Mar and Middling Gien, the language the magic textbooks were written in. Her vocabulary was still quite limited, but she was only three and a half years old, after all. Yet, the bright-eyed girl had a fascination with magic that rivaled her father’s. Already, she made use of most of the words wizards used to describe their use of magic.

  “Energy can be used to make heat or cold, light or darkness. It is all the green specks in the myst and is the easiest for a wizard to use.”

  “I don’t see nothin’,” complained a young boy’s voice.

  That would be Ottar Verunigsud, the class skeptic. Ottar was a constant thorn in Asa’s imaginative little boot, refusing to pretend that her dreamed-up characters and things were really there. Now, Erika knew, Asa would either find a way to punish the boy’s honesty or dismiss his opinion completely.

  If nothing else, Asa will teach him to feign creativity.

  Erika’s brown eyes sparkled in the flickering light as she waited for the expected response. As she moved closer to the fire to stir the soup, her shadow on the wall swelled, almost filling the entire room.

  “What’s taking Sven so long?” she murmured.

  Her husband had left the Academy with promises to return as soon as his business to the west was finished. That had been an entire season ago. She knew Sven often got so caught up in his latest project that he tended to forget his family.

  It’s a fault in him, Erika thought. He should be here with us, raising his daughter.

  The fire’s heat waned slightly. Erika picked up a log from the small pile of wood stacked nearby and fed it to the flames. The flames licked the new wood experimentally, still clinging to the familiar fuels at the bottom of the pile. After a few momen
ts, the flames all but abandoned the old wood in favor of devouring the new. She basked in the warmth.

  Where is he? Asfrid Staute and the other Protectorate wizards can renew the spells without him.

  The fire soon grew so hot it began to hurt her face. She sighed as she picked up a broom and started sweeping the wooden floor. As she put the room into order, Erika noticed the silence emanating from the nursery. Aware that this was not a normal state for children, she decided to check on Asa and her “class.”

  “Sven Takraf, why can’t you just stay home for a little while?” she asked the air.

  As Erika moved away from the hearth, her shadow shrank. By the time she reached the door to the nursery, the fire illuminated the entire room. A knock on the front door interrupted her as she reached for the nursery latch. She glided to the entrance and opened it.

  A mud-covered Erbark grinned at her from the darkness outside. His left arm hung in a makeshift sling, and his face was a mass of bruises. One eye was swollen shut.

  “Erbark!” Erika cried. “What happened to you?”

  “I thought I’d visit Lori.”

  “Olver attacked you again?”

  He shrugged.

  Erika knew the story of the warrior’s love for this townswoman. Erbark visited Rustiford three or four times a year, if he was not busy in the Protectorates, all for the sake of Lori and her twelve children. The Rustifordian must be on her way to forty, yet he proclaimed her the most beautiful woman alive. Erika was somewhat jealous of this man’s devotion to a woman not even his wife.

  Sven could learn from Erbark.

  “Come in. I’ve some soup.”

  Erbark obeyed, carefully setting his travel pack and javelins near the door.

  “Sven hasn’t returned yet?”

  She shook her head as she ladled some of her rabbit and wild rice soup into a wooden bowl. Of course, the main ingredients weren’t the most important. When it came to soups, seasoning was everything.

  “Whatever he’s doing, it’s important. You know how he is.”

  “I know, but two months without even a message?”

  Erbark ate his soup, watching her as she fussed with her apron.

  “I see him little enough already. He’s always off adding a new town to the Protectorates or researching some new spell. He’s so wrapped up in thinking about ways to help everyone else, he forgets the simple stuff. I can’t remember the last time he chopped wood or weeded our vegetable garden.”

  “I’d be happy to do those things while I’m here.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “If it bothers you, tell him.”

  “I’d have to find him.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Erbark conceded.

  “I don’t know what to do with the man, Erbark.”

  The fire cracked and popped in the silence.

  “Do you remember your wedding?” Erbark asked suddenly. “Halfway through his hunting, he finally figured out how to improve the defenses of the Protectorates using Blosin wands. How long did you wait for him then?”

  “Six spans.” She blushed. But he made it worth the wait.

  * * *

  Erika had remained confident that despite the six-span delay, Sven would return to fulfill his proposal to her. Each day, more people told her she was wasting her time on him, that he had abandoned her for some woman on the other side of what was being called the Takraf Protectorates.

  But each day brought word of him, in its own fashion. As Sven renewed the spells protecting the forty other towns in his tiny duxy, people heard of his wedding. The Morden Moors had become safe around Leiben, and many people were able to attend the event. Mar trickled into Leiben by the day, each bringing vegetables and a pot. It was the job of the groom to bring the meat. Erika’s mother, Batha, collected every pot to cook the wedding soup in.

  “Saw him headin’ to Erscht,” an old woman told her. “Blesse’ is the day you’re wed.”

  “Took his time makin’ us extra safe, ‘cause we’re on the border,” a man said, scratching his hair and checking his fingernails, as if lice could live where Sven walked. “We’re on the ... perry-me’er, he called us.”

  Through it all — the hustle and bustle of preparation, the disparaging remarks and sideways glances — hope burned in Erika.

  He will return for me, she told herself. He is a good man, a man who doesn’t go back on his word.

  When Sven finally returned to Leiben after six spans of absence, it was all she could do not to throw herself on him right there. She had to settle for a quiet handclasp, and then she gasped with the rest of the crowd in attendance.

  Trailing along behind Sven, like slaves to a master, were four piles of deer, rabbit and duck. They were suspended on nothing.

  “Unload it,” Batha said quietly. Then, louder, “Come on. We’ve seen him do it before.” To suit her words, she grabbed two ducks by their necks and took them to the space reserved for whatever the groom had managed to bring back.

  He is splendid, Erika thought, keeping her eyes downcast and her hands busy on her shirt. But she sneaked glances at him. Look at what he can do.

  Then his eyes caught hers, and the smile on his face was gorgeous.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked her. “Tonight ...”

  “Ah, Sven!” Erlend, Erika’s father, cried, clapping him on the shoulder and neatly separating them. “Groom can’t be stan’in’ aroun’, can he? C’mon, we’re to get firewood.” Erbark joined Sven at the opposite shoulder with a smile for Erika, and the three men left her there.

  But Sven’s words hung in her mind. Tonight ... They would be wed. Erika set about her tasks, trying to make time move faster.

  The meal could feed hundreds. The meat was more than enough for the soup. Wild rice and roots, onions and spices were added to make the blend plentiful. By rights, a gathering this size should never have had enough food for more than a bite for anyone, but whole cauldrons were still full when people finished their seconds.

  Hundreds of people congratulated Sven and Erika as they sat side by side in the center of it all, eating their soup. She beamed back at them, her heart and mind focused on him like a bootmaker to her craft.

  As the meal finished, the tale-telling and laughter began. Elders from two dozen towns and villages within the Protectorates began an impromptu contest, each striving to tell the better tale. Stories and songs of Marrish and Dinah, Niminth and Sendala, even the comedy of Mytaraza — the heroine who had orchestrated a rather unusual protest among the women of Marrishland and the Gien Empire in order to convince the two nations to make peace. And every tale was bawdier than the last — a squeamish foreigner might even say cruder. But by Seruvus they were funny!

  Ordinary people made fools of a hundred pompous magocrats. Mapmakers set out on a thousand ludicrous misadventures and almost always ended up dead by the end of the story. Men masquerading as women. Women pretending to be men. Men disguising themselves as women disguised as men. Mistaken identities. People pretending to mistake someone’s identity. The tales went on and on all afternoon and into the evening.

  “Did you hear the tale of the mapmaker who survived twenty-four missions into the Fens of Reur?” asked one storyteller. “Neither has anyone else.”

  “What do you call six mapmakers at the bottom of a pool of quicksand?” countered another. “An expedition.”

  “How many mapmakers does it take to start a fire during a thunderstorm?” a younger woman asked the crowd. “One. Lightning always strikes a mapmaker first.”

  Sven sat next to Erika and laughed heartily, and she laughed with him. At one point, she brazenly snuck her hand into his, and he stopped laughing immediately, his eyes softening as they turned to look at her. Green eyes that held the world met her own. He took his hand away and theatrically raised his arms above his head, pretending to yawn. She shivered a little.

  He’s moving the wedding ceremony on, she thought. Next to her, Erlend and Batha were speaking quie
tly to themselves and laughing. They knew what he was doing.

  “The fires’re gettin’ hot. I think I could use some cooler air,” Sven said after a minute.

  Erika pressed a hand to Sven’s forehead. “It feels like you might have a fever. Perhaps you’re comin’ down with somethin’. Maybe you should lie down.”

  Erika helped him to his feet and led him to her house. They brushed the mud from their boots, and she lifted the hide door open for him. She let it fall behind them, leaving them both in the dark and quiet of her hut. The hearth fire had been extinguished. She directed him to the side of the bed and helped him undress. He lay down. She pulled off his boots, rubbed his feet gently.

  Now it was his turn to tremble. She bent over his naked body in the darkness and kissed him softly on the lips, lingering just long enough to make him eager for more before she disappeared back into the dark.

  “Just try to get some sleep,” she said and then giggled. “Isn’t this silly?”

  “It’s tradition,” he said quietly, his hand holding hers.

  “I know,” she answered, removing his hand. “So you’ll just have to wait a few hours.” By the door, she saw his boots. She grabbed them and took them with her.

  Outside, Erlend and Batha watched her return. Batha smiled at her, and Erlend nodded.

  “The first sign of a successful marriage’s the wife’s willin’ness to take her husban’s boots,” Batha said.

  “An’ the second sign’s the husban’s denial that anythin’ ever happened,” Erlend laughed.

  Erika laughed, too.

  “A strong marriage begins through waitin’. If the wife trusts the husband to return from the hunt an’ does not fool aroun’ while waitin’, the marriage’ll be strong. If the husban’ respects his wife’s right to take his boots, the marriage’ll last,” Erlend said. “It’s the same for all the Mar. We trust an’ respect each other, an’ it makes us strong. When that trust dies, so do the Mar. This’s why the ceremony’s the way it is.”

  “We know how impatient you are, Erika, but you’ve got some waitin’ to do,” Batha added.

  Slighly embarrassed, Erika said with mock anger, “He made me wait six spans! Let’s see if he can handle six hours.”