Keys of Awakening
The Land of Magic

The eagle soared on the wing, gliding effortlessly upon a strong updraft, rising in a spiral ascent to gain better vantage over the land beneath her.

The land itself undulated slightly but was essentially flat, dry, and sprinkled with few trees or shrubs that could offer an effective cover for the small earthbound creatures that scuttled about their business, looking, like her, for sustenance to see them through one more day.

As she rose, she marked the small caravan of humans making for the ribbon of road that they were as yet still unable to see. She had no interest in either, although she had landed on the road once, very briefly, and had been so startled by the experience that she would never do so again.

She would not have wasted a second glance on the humans had one of them not raised a hand towards her and released a call of greeting and a question.

Confused but unable to refuse, she replied by releasing three keening cries of her own and then, just as swiftly, forgot the humans completely and scanned the vast expanse of plains for signs of her next meal.

"I believe he answered you,” Scald said in the wake of the eagle’s distant cry.

He eyed Elan with a quizzical look. Her own call had been piercing and she had released it without any warning.

“She,” Elan said. “That was a mother hunting for her young.”

Her heart-shaped face was still raised towards the heavens, green eyes following the eagle until it was little more than a speck in the distance.

Scald’s look from beneath his cowl was sceptical.

“How could you possibly know that?”

The priestess shrugged.

“That she was a female? Why, by her markings of course …”

Illiom looked up in turn and thought of Who. There were plenty of eagles in the Sevrocks as well, but the mountains offered a wealth of hiding places, unlike these vast, exposed plains.

“Do eagles attack owls?” she asked, without directing her question at anyone in particular.

“I saw two eagles attack a young wolf once,” Mist said, unhelpfully. “Together they actually brought it down …”

Illiom ignored his comment and looked at Elan instead. Sudra’s mark was a faint blue crescent on her freckled left cheek.

“I do not believe so,” the priestess replied. “They compete over food but I do not think that they prey on each other … although I have heard it said that owls will sometimes raid eagles’ nests at night, in an attempt to snatch a young one from beneath its mother’s wings.” She stopped and two frown lines appeared over the bridge of her nose. “I can only imagine that desperate hunger would drive them to be that daring.”

Illiom nodded. Nevertheless, she sent a prodding thought out to Who. Nothing came back. He was probably sleeping a busy night off somewhere.

They had broken camp scarcely an hour earlier. It was the third day since leaving Kuon and Illiom had already had enough of travel. They had not seen a single soul since leaving the main road yesterday in favour of this minor trail that cut south-west to bypass the trading post of Kollum.

This detour had elicited a bitter tirade of complaints from Scald, who must have harboured some hope of spending at least one night in a civilised inn. However, when no one responded to his complaints, the moody Chosen had retreated into a shroud of silence.

Luckily, the rain that had drenched them as they had left the capital had eased and had not returned to dampen their mood after that first day.

The Riders had quickly settled into an easy routine that kept them busy at various tasks, sparing them from utter boredom. They set up camp, lit fires, cooked meals, dug latrines and then dismantled everything before setting off each morning.

The Chosen helped where and when they could, but mostly were just content to seize each and every opportunity to rest and recover.

The descrier Kassargan, who had tragically been blinded recently, went about her own routine as unerringly as the rest, scrying her surroundings with such confidence and competence that, had it not been for the obvious damage to her eyes, no stranger could have guessed her disability. Even so, whenever Illiom saw the Iolan and the ruin that marred her otherwise perfect face, she felt a pang of guilt and a longing to make amends that squeezed her heart until it ached. Had it not been for them, Kassargan would never have been hurt in such a permanent way and all of the descrier’s reassurance did nothing to assuage Illiom’s sense of responsibility.

Of the seven Chosen, only Malco and Sereth seemed to take to travelling with ease and actual enjoyment, but the rest were already showing signs of strain.

The priestess Elan was broody and mostly held herself apart from the others. Despite having received reassuring news that her brother Jalon was safe and well, she remained preoccupied and distant.

Scald donned his cowl upon rising each morning and removed it last thing before bedding each night. Illiom had come to suspect that the garment served other functions besides the obvious one of protecting his scars from the sun-god’s touch. He walked stiffly after each day’s ride and was often heard muttering or cursing softly at the smallest inconvenience.

For once Illiom found herself sympathising with the moody artist; she too was struggling with the side effects of spending long hours in Calm’s saddle. Even had she been willing to help, her condition at the end of each day was not one to inspire any rash offers.

Whilst Undina – the only tribal in the group – did not seem discomforted or fatigued by the journey, she looked at the lands that filed past them, and was appalled by the persistent absence of water. On the few occasions that they chanced upon a half-dry rivulet, she would perform a simple ritual that saw her kneel, cup her hands, draw some water and proffer it to the heavens whilst whispering words that held a quality of prayer. Each time she did this, her tribal tattoos glistened silver against the deep tan of her skin and her green eyes moistened and sparkled.

For her part, Azulya had also been unusually taciturn. Illiom had approached her a few times, and whilst the tall Kroeni had responded pleasantly enough, it was clear that her thoughts were elsewhere.

Illiom had taken the opportunity to practice her archery on the second day out from Kuon. However, the land was so flat and the makeshift target so small that soon two of her turmeric-dyed arrows burrowed themselves into oblivion and could not be found, even when Tarmel and Grifor made it their mission to retrieve them for her.

After that she gave it up as a futile endeavour, relieved that at least she had not wasted any of her precious Altran arrows.

They reached Middle Road quite suddenly, two hours out from their last camp. One moment they were treading along the dusty trail and the next, the old highway lay stretched out before them.

Illiom had never seen anything even remotely like it.

The ancient road that cleaved Theregon in half, neatly separating Iol from Albradan, lay like a burnished mirror, reflecting the sky upon its glassy-smooth surface. It did not seem all that old; in fact it looked as though it had only just been made. Its surface was strangely seamless, as if molten glass had been poured and allowed to set, and its edge was as flawless as if it had been trimmed with a knife.

Argolan had warned them of the energy that they would feel emanating from the road, and that the feeling would be stronger on foot than on horseback, so Illiom dismounted before they reached it and walked Calm the remaining distance.

An eerie sensation shot up her leg the instant she rested her weight upon the smooth surface. Alongside her, Calm’s neigh was unmistakably one of complaint.

“You feel it too,” she remarked in a soothing tone.

“It tingles just like when a leg goes numb,” Sereth mused, taking a few playful hops.

Illiom knelt and touched the surface with her hand and, as she did so, the sensation spread over her entire body. She closed her eyes, half-expecting images of the past to arise in her awareness as they had done in the ruins of Akta, but nothing came, just the unnerving tingle of ancient power.

She peered closely at where her hand pressed against the road. Its vitreous appearance had caused her to anticipate a cold, hard surface; but it was nothing like that at all, it was a little like touching sand. It yielded to the pressure of her hand, but firmed rapidly the harder she pressed down.

She saw that even Calm’s hooves, no matter his considerable weight, did not make contact with the road’s surface, but seemed suspended just slightly above it. And suddenly she glimpsed a function of the power that coursed through it: if nothing could actually touch Middle Road that was probably why it had not worn down despite thousands of years of use. Its power sustained it through the ravages of time.

“I hate Middle Road.”

Illiom looked at Pell who sat on his stallion a few spans shy of the road itself. The boyish giant was shaking his head, his fire-red hair tousled by the gentle breeze.

“I swear it is cursed.”

Sereth laughed.

“Ha! Yet it seems to seek you out,” he said to his Rider. “You have travelled its length twice already when you came to fetch me with your summons…”

Pell shook his head as if he could not believe that fate would be so cruel.

“Like it or not, this is the way we must travel if we are to get to Calestor before the next moon,” Argolan commented mildly.

Illiom climbed back onto Calm as the rest of the party began heading south along the road. After the intensity of her initial experience, she now barely noticed the tingle of power reaching up towards her.

When they set up camp that evening, they did so at a respectable distance from the road. In that way they had some reprieve from the constant reminder of the road’s secrets.

On the fourth day they watched as the peaks of the Sevrock Mountains crested the southern horizon and loomed over the campsite by the end of the day’s ride. The Riders pitched camp in the range’s foothills and here at last Illiom began to breathe with relief as she anticipated the climb into familiar territory.

The next morning found her amongst the first of those ready to set off and she waited impatiently while her companions seemed to linger and fiddle endlessly with their gear.

The smells as they climbed into the mountains, the sharp clarity of the air, these were as familiar to her as the feel of her own skin, and for the remainder of the time spent passing through the mountains she wore their energy like a protective shield, one that sustained her with newfound courage and determination.

The loftier summits were cloaked in the white mantle of perennial snow, but the lower flanks were as grey as iron. Lower still, beneath the bare rock, in the deep narrow valleys that nestled there, dense woods claimed all the available space.

Middle Road plunged fearlessly through, unconcerned with the mysteries of Holm oaks and Deodar forests. It began to curve and twist, always seeking the easiest passage through the unyielding peaks. Yet if the road remained indifferent to the landscape, those travelling upon it did not. For long tracts, the mood of woods and mountains encroached upon the party until all conversation diminished and eventually died. None seemed immune to the spell and they travelled on as though reluctant to disturb a sleeping giant.

Like a frozen river of power, the road climbed and meandered, reaching for the heights and then descending beyond these to bear the party past narrow, impenetrable gullies and clefts of sheer, stark granite.

The nights were clear and cold, reminders of the winter to come. The mornings up here were frosted with ice and soon the Riders took to lighting fires then as well as in the evenings. Hot porridge became popular.

Occasionally the lay of the mountains forbade any easy route and the road had to rely on the support of a bridge whose black stone fused seamlessly with the mountain granite.

As they rounded a sharp spur and approached one such bridge, two eagles lazily unfurled their great wings and, beating them in unhurried cadence, rose up and away from the intruders. Illiom looked at their undersides, at the distinctive dark brown and snow white striations of the great birds of prey. For a few moments everyone in the party stopped, suspended in reverence as the pair drew away into the heights, the keening calls reminding the humans that they were the intruders in the winged ones’ realm.

Who? Illiom sent out tentatively.

You worry needlessly, came the owl’s reply, alighting in her mind with graceful power.

She smiled, knowing that she would have to be content with his mild rebuke, the only reassurance he was likely to give.

They awoke on their second morning in the mountains to find their camp shrouded in cloud. It drifted slowly by, covering everything in a fine, glistening coat of moisture.

Later in the day the road took them past a small lake where Undina, yelping with delight, jumped from her horse and plunged into the glacial waters. She seemed happy to remain there, until Argolan reminded her that they had a journey to complete. The tribal girl emerged reluctantly, her long brown braid dripping, oblivious to how her clothes clung to her lithe body in a most revealing way. Illiom noticed how both Sereth and Malco averted their eyes discreetly, but not so Scald. The Chosen stared blatantly at the girl as she walked past on the way back to her horse.

Wind, Scald’s Rider, stared at her charge in disbelief and shook her head. Scald caught the gesture.

“What?” he asked. “I cannot help myself if she chooses to parade in front of me like that! I am a man, after all …” he added with a smirk. “Although, if truth be known, I would much rather it was you who strolled past me like that…”

He leered at his Rider until she turned away from him.

“Scald, can you restrain yourself?” Malco asked.

“Never!” the other replied, levelling a dark look at the Blade.

Illiom felt the need to talk to Undina about the incident, to make the girl aware of the effect she might be having on some of the men. But when she did so during a private moment that same evening, Undina’s response took her entirely by surprise.

“I know,” she said with a small smile and a light shrug. “I am not child and men know this… is no problem.”

Illiom was unable to think of a reply. Maybe she had been the naïve one to think that Undina might not know what she was doing.

Despite the ease of travel offered by the road, they met no travellers and saw not a single dwelling nestling in the valleys that they passed. It was as though this side of the Sevrock was uninhabited.

All in all it took them four days to cross the mountains before the road delivered them at last onto the undulating plains that stretched away to the south.

As Illiom cast a thoughtful glance at the mountains behind her, she was surprised to feel a curious emptiness. In little more than a moon she had managed to move on from four long years of self-imposed isolation.

Just that morning she was finally able to release the treasured stone she had picked up that day when she left her beloved mountain retreat with Tarmel. She no longer needed the token; and as she turned away from the mountains Illiom looked toward the road heading south with real anticipation.

She was about to journey into the unknown, and the mysteries that lay there seemed to hold promises as well as answers to age-old questions. Her hunger for these had finally surpassed any comfort that old habits had once brought.

The lands to the south and west faded into a dull haze of brown dust and the horizon line that separated earth from sky was completely lost. The terrain looked just as flat here as it had north of the Sevrocks, only now the brown and ochre hues attested to an even more arid landscape.

They reached the crossroad at Sur the following day, the eighth since leaving Kuon, and here they were forced to abandon the perfect surface of Middle Road in favour of a highway that compared most unfavourably with the road of the ancients.

A few sighs of relief marked the occasion, but if riding on Middle Road had been unsettling for some, Illiom soon came to miss its remarkable condition, for the new road was nothing short of decrepit and the party soon found themselves plunged into a stark, barren world.

The road’s edge became hard and brittle and the tall yellow grass that had escorted them since leaving the mountains was now replaced by tough, patchy cane-grass and dead spinifex. Trees also grew scarce and soon vanished altogether, with the exception of the odd skeletal wooden corpse that still braved the heat and stretched skywards as if there lay a promise of new life.

Thus they entered the desert kingdom of Iol.

Within the hour they reached the border town of Sur.

Illiom had been anticipating a stop with the promise of good food and rest in a comfortable bed; but as they rode towards the handful of tiny structures that dotted the wasteland, the hope that they would find either faded rapidly.

What manner of a town was this?

Sur was no more than a sparse scattering of small earthen domes that seemed to have grown out of the earth itself; protrusions of dry, flaking mud that were virtually indistinguishable from the ground that spawned them. None appeared tall enough to allow one to stand upright, let alone accommodate a group as large as theirs.

Yet Kassargan led them directly towards one dome that stood all by itself, even more isolated than the rest.

A door set into the dome’s side opened as they approached and a man emerged. He had a full black beard and wore a yellow robe and a strange cloth hat that sat flat on his head and was bunched lopsided over one ear.

“Vian lestrel u vishaken talik, Saman!”

“Common, if you please, Zulir,” Kassargan said as she dismounted. “Our guests do not speak Iolan.”

“As you wish, Saman,” the man replied after a glance at the rest of them. “My inn is at your disposal.”

He waved an inviting hand in the direction of the dome.

What inn? Illiom thought as she looked around the desolate emptiness.

“You have room for us, Zulir?” the descrier asked, turning towards him.

Zulir bowed slightly and brought his hands together as if in prayer.

“Easily! This is a quiet time, not much trade ...”

His eyes widened in sudden shock as he took in the damage to the descrier’s eyes.

“Tchet klah!” he exclaimed before remembering himself. “By all that is holy! What has happened to you, Saman?”

He looked appalled at Kassargan’s disfigurement.

She smiled back reassuringly.

“Nothing unexpected, Zulir,” she said, sidestepping the question.

Argolan dismounted and walked her horse over to stand next to Kassargan.

“We are tired from our journey and would love nothing more than to rest in your inn. Will you tend to our horses?”

Zulir nodded firmly and, bringing two fingers to his lips, released a piercing whistle. As Illiom and the rest of her companions also dismounted, a small army of youths came at a full run, relieved them of their mounts, and led these towards a nearby compound.

They followed Zulir towards the mound’s opening. Mystified and curious, Illiom lined up with the others and waited for her turn to step inside. When she did, she found herself descending sandstone steps that delivered her into a spacious area, easily capable of accommodating several times their number.

The room was circular with earth-golden walls and ceiling, but it was by no means the full extent of the inn. Illiom peered through dark doorways into other chambers that branched off this main one.

The ceiling was supported by several fat sandstone pillars that, like the slightly concave walls, were adorned with swirling motifs in russet and bright lapis. A number of small openings in the ceiling delivered bright shafts of light into the hall.

Round stone tables lay sunken into the earth, their surfaces level with the floor. Circular seats had been carved out around them and were crammed with fat cushions of bright blues, viridians and shimmering purples.

Once they were all seated, four silk-robed youths entered through one of the doorways, bearing trays full of goblets filled with an amber liquid.

“Tthur is our desert wine,” Zulir informed them, as Illiom took one ruby-red drinking glass from a sweet, satin-skinned girl. The goblet’s fine glass was encased in gold filigree.

“It is sweet and not strong, but a miraculous elixir nevertheless, one that will soothe the tired body and the exhausted mind. Try it for yourselves, and see if Zulir is not speaking the truth …”

Illiom complied and was immediately able to attest that their host’s promise paled in comparison to the actual experience: the wine was honey-sweet, soothing to the throat and – despite his claims of innocuousness – it soon ignited a small blaze within her belly.

She closed her eyes and allowed the warmth to trickle through to the rest of her body. It was such a delicious sensation to be once more in a comfortable and sheltered space that she found herself being lulled to sleep. Distantly she was aware of the sound of conversation, but the words were meaningless noise, distorted by the torpor that had seized her.

She was rudely jolted back into the room by Scald’s booming voice.

“Oh, by Irrsche’s barren tits! You must be joking!”

The blasphemy carried through the room with the effect of a thunderclap and Illiom reluctantly opened her eyes. She had not heard what had preceded it, but Scald’s invective was apparently levelled at Elan. The priestess’ face looked flushed.

“I was not even talking to you, Scald ...” she protested.

“Do I look like I care? You are sitting next to me, you are talking to Kassargan, and I am sitting between the two of you … what choice do I have but to listen to your Iod-forsaken ranting?”

The irascible Chosen jumped to his feet and climbed from his seat.

“I am not interested in working anything out! I do not care about digging into the past! I do not want to think about anything right now! What is wrong with you? Can we have no respite, at least while we can? I am sure that whatever is in store for us will reveal itself in its own good time. Why fill every Iod-forsaken moment with questions and prodding and useless speculation?”

“What would you rather be doing, Scald?” Sereth asked into the hush that followed the Chosen’s grievance.

“How about nothing?! Or maybe just eat, drink, sleep … even try and get myself drunk on this stuff … anything at all, aside from all this endless, futile, insipid talk …”

Sereth nodded and interrupted Scald’s tirade whilst appraising the space around them.

“This space seems big enough to accommodate us doing any number of different things … so what if some of us want to talk? What is it to you? You are under no obligation to be a part of it. Just find a corner somewhere and do whatever you want …”

“Do you know what?” Scald interrupted, standing up and looking hopefully in the direction of the Riders. “Does anyone have a trice-board?”

A few shook their heads.

“I do.”

Scald’s head swivelled around to stare at Mist.

“Truly?” he asked. A smile of relief replaced the angry set of his face. “Well, that is so good to hear. What are we waiting for?”

Mist left to retrieve his board and Scald relocated himself to the farthest table he was able to find.

Illiom looked up at Tarmel as he slid down into the seat beside her, and suddenly knew exactly what she wanted to do. She had wanted to speak with her Rider about the attack in the palace, to try and needle from him what he had actually seen when she was injured. The memory of Tarmel’s expression when her attacker had fallen dead – after she had killed him – had been haunting her ever since and she realised that the matter had lain between them like a wall.

She understood now that if all she did was wait, the opportunity to raise that subject would simply never present itself. If it was to happen at all, she would have to create that moment. Yet even the thought of broaching the subject was enough to make her shy away from doing so; it was too easy to hope that the matter would simply go away.

“Tempers are a bit frayed,” her Rider observed.

“Some permanently so, I fear,” Illiom said. Before she could say anything more, Tarmel had turned towards the other table.

“What was that all about?” he asked Elan.

The priestess, still looking flushed by the exchange, shook her head.

“I really do not know. All I did was to ask Kassargan why Iol had embraced magic when the other kingdoms had not …” Her cheeks puffed out as she shook her head. “Honestly, that man is so volatile …”

“No doubt about that,” Argolan said with a thin smile.

The Shieldarm peered at the descrier.

“Do you still want to answer that question, Kassargan?”

The Iolan nodded.

“Yes, I do, unless there are more objections …”

When there were none she pushed her goblet away and leaned back into the cushions.

“Even in Calestor there is still speculation about that question and I am not sure that anyone can claim to have a definitive answer. But consider this: there is very little doubt that the Devastation, whatever its causes, was not a natural catastrophe. The ruins of the ancient cities bear the scars of a tremendous power unleashed against them. It stands to reason that if people have opted to turn away from magic it is simply because of fear, yes? Fear of the past, fear of the destructive powers of magic. So the real question might be ... why did this not happen in Iol as it did elsewhere?”

The descrier reclaimed her goblet and twirled it between her fingers for a few moments before continuing.

“Unlike Iol, yours is a generous land: fertile, forested, and teeming with an abundance of life. Iol, on the other hand, is arid and harsh; a land that does not respond well to the plough and yields only meagre and stunted fruit. Water is always scarce here – if it is found at all – and ways of finding it have become an art form. For us it has never been as simple as digging a well whenever we want water …”

From the little that Illiom had already seen of Iol, she was inclined to agree with this assessment.

“So while your people could afford to turn away from magic, our people could not. If we had taken the same path as you, we would have perished long ago, and the Vurls would rule supreme over our lands.”

“Vurls?” asked Sereth, his eyebrows raised in question. “Someone we are likely to meet?”

“Desert vultures; you will see them soon enough … but my point is this: even if the same fear of the arcane that plagues Albradan had also been present in Iol, our circumstances have forced us to overcome it.”

“Overcome it or become extinct,” Tarmel completed.

“Precisely! However, bear in mind that this is just my thinking, and probably no better than conjecture. Too little is known about Yar Egon to say anything about the First Age with certainty. It is also just as feasible to assume that our people were always more predisposed towards magic, even during the First Age, and that Albradan has always been correspondingly shy of it. Maybe nothing has changed and we are just continuing along pathways that were pre-determined long ago …”

Kassargan shrugged.

Elan nodded, even though she was visibly unsatisfied with this answer. A silence followed and Illiom used it to ask a question of her own.

“Does everyone in Iol get trained in magic?”

“Sudra forbid, no! It is just like any other gift. While some aspects of magic can be learnt by anyone, if there is no aptitude or interest it will never flower. It would be the same as trying to shape everyone into a painter, or into an ironmonger or a warrior. Without the inclination, such efforts will only yield mediocre results at best and will often do more damage than good.”

“So what do you look for to determine who should receive training and who should not?” Tarmel asked.

Illiom wondered if he was asking for her benefit.

“It is like any other calling,” Kassargan replied. “A longing to learn and to know more about magic can be such a sign, but not always. Usually a child will unintentionally do something that attracts attention, something that will mark them as a likely candidate. They might accidentally stumble upon an ability and express it in some limited way…“

“How did it happen for you?” Azulya asked.The descrier paused, tilting her head towards the Kroeni. “For me? I can hardly say. My mother was a descrier so it always felt like a natural development that I should follow in her footsteps. She must have monitored me, of course, but I cannot remember a single incident that can answer your question …”

“Do you think it possible that some of our own people in Albradan may have a predisposition towards magic?” Tarmel pressed.

“Not just possible, I am certain of it. But Albradan is hardly an environment that would nurture a fledgling magical ability; one might not even become aware of their ability until later in life. Do you have someone specific in mind?”

The Rider nodded. He did not look at Illiom, yet she could feel his energy leaning towards her.

“Yes, I do. Someone whom I suspect wants nothing to do with magic at all.”

It was Kassargan’s turn to nod.

“That is quite a predictable reaction to a hostile environment. As with any other aptitude, a predisposition towards magic will not be easily quashed, yet what can happen to children who are forced away from their calling is that they can turn against their own ability. I saw this happen to a friend’s brother. The boy’s father was a spice merchant and held great hopes that his son would follow in his footsteps. The son’s interest lay elsewhere, however; he was drawn to sculpture to the point of obsession…”

A loud outcry from the other end of the room interrupted her. Scald had leapt to his feet as Mist laughed uproariously at some development on the playing board.

The loud but playful exchange continued for a few more moments. When it subsided Kassargan resumed her story.

“So even though his passion consumed him, he could not bear to disappoint his father. In this particular instance the father did not actually forbid the boy from pursuing sculpture, yet the boy knew his father’s wish and so proceeded to deny his innate ability, choosing instead to please his father. He eventually became a mediocre and bitter merchant, one who to this day claims that all art is a waste of time.”

“So what course would you suggest for my friend?” Tarmel asked.

Kassargan shook her head.

“It depends on whether they are ready to break out of their confinement. If they are willing to, they could come to Iol where they might explore their abilities and get some useful guidance. Of course, it is much harder for an adult to master a latent ability; but if there is commitment and discipline a way can sometimes be found.”

Illiom could remain silent no longer.

“Kassargan, what is magic, exactly?”

The descrier turned towards her, her face perfectly serious. It was as if she had been waiting for someone to ask just that question.

“It is the raw and all-pervasive power of existence.” She paused for a few heartbeats, perhaps waiting for what she had just said to sink in. “It is to be found at the core of everything and as a result it sustains everything in existence. And because people are also a part of existence, it is present within everyone … please understand that I am not just referring to the great mages. The powers are within everyone, from the most powerful scholar of the Arcanum to the meekest and most destitute beggar.”

Elan’s brow was creased with incredulity.

“Are you saying that there is no difference between a mage and a beggar?”

Kassargan laughed.

“No, I am not. I am saying that the same potential powers are present within both. In the beggar they have not grown out of their seed-form, whereas in the mage they have blossomed into a great oak.”

She paused as yet another explosion of mirth and outrage flooded the hall from the players’ corner.

Tarmel leaned forward.

“So what is it that makes one a beggar and another a mage?”

The descrier smiled and raised her face towards the ceiling, as if she heard something of great interest up in the vault of the earthen dome.

“That is a question that deserves a considered answer, Rider, but I fear that it may not be a short one …”

Tarmel displayed his indifference with a shrug and then, for good measure, he added, “I have all night.”

“It has to do with our individual essence ...” Kassargan resumed, her voice dropping to a near whisper so that her audience had to lean in to hear her at all, “that aspect that is sometimes referred to as our soul. In reality this is the only part of us that truly matters, for it is the only thing that does not eventually turn to dust.”

Kassargan pursed her lips and seemed to be listening to something. Illiom wondered if she was scrying for their reactions, or monitoring their expressions with her inner sight.

“In a way, the individual soul can simply be seen as a fragment of the universal soul. It is small, invisible, untouchable, and yet also intimately connected to the body. Although smaller than the tiniest seed, it is said to expand at birth to permeate one’s entire being … and by this I do not mean just the physical body, but the entire bubble of power that surrounds every living thing ...”

Kassargan paused, smiled, and shook her head.

“But I digress. What I mean to say is that there are a number of powers that are available to all, especially prior to the moment of birth. They are the powers that are indispensable if the soul is to successfully enter into union with a physical body. And the four main powers at play here are the ones known as Nargal, Marba, Cabir and Saman. In common parlance these correspond to the powers of undoing, of seeming, of becoming and of knowing. The first of these, Nargal or Undoing, is essential for the soul to forget her true nature. This allows the soul to successfully cloak selected aspects of her Saman, of her knowing, for without this cloaking she would not bother with embodiment at all ...”

“Now I am struggling,” Tarmel interrupted. “Why would she not bother?”

“Because it is the soul’s Saman, her knowing, that informs her that she is not separate from the infinite vastness of the universe,” Kassargan replied. “Why would something so expanded choose to contract into something so limited? It is only because she has forgotten who she is! “

“Wait, wait, wait!” cried out Elan, holding her temples. “You are saying that the soul chooses to forget her true knowing in order to embrace an illusion offered by her seeming? But why? Why bother to do any of this in the first place? Why would a soul do such a thing?”

Kassargan nodded slowly.

“I do not know, Elan,” she said softly. “Why did Sudra choose to descend to Âtras and live as a mortal?”

The priestess looked up in surprise.

“She did so out of compassion for those lost in the Dream …” she stopped speaking and her eyes widened. “The Dream … is that what you mean by the power of seeming, by Marba?”

The descrier nodded.

“Every soul may have a different reason for choosing to come into embodiment, but the usual reason has to do with the need to grow, the need to experience and to witness, and the need to love.”

Argolan, who had listened quietly until then, now spoke out.

“So what happens then? After the soul begins to Dream?”

“That is where the tricky part begins,” Kassargan answered. “Once a soul begins to wear the mask of embodiment offered by her own Marba, the third power comes into play. Cabir, the power of becoming; this causes the soul to fully embrace her role in the Dream, just as though it were real. This illusion is so all-pervasive that the soul comes to believe that she is the limited speck of nothing that all beings think they are.”

“Well and good,” Azulya said, leaning back into her seat. “But I still do not see how this answers Tarmel’s question.”

“Which was … what was my question?” Tarmel asked, looking puzzled.

“The difference between a beggar and a mage,” Kassargan reminded him.

Clearly she had not forgotten.

“Bear with me; I am nearly there, Rider. When the soul comes to believe that she is the body that hosts her, she becomes that body. Then anything that affects the body also affects the soul. Every injury, every slight, every event leaves an impression upon it. These impressions are like scars: some heal quickly and vanish completely while other, deeper ones are lasting and, if they are not removed and cleared, will even survive the death of the body and arise again in the soul’s next embodiment …”

“Whoa!” Sereth exclaimed. “Next embodiment? Do you mean to say that you believe we live more than one life?”

Kassargan shook her head.

“No, I do not.”

“But then …” Sereth looked confused.

“I do not believe,” Kassargan pushed past his interjection. “I know.”

Everyone stared at the Iolan.

“But that is another matter. Let me finish answering the first question before we venture into deeper and possibly more intricate matters. The impressions or scars left upon the soul by previous embodiments must be resolved before the soul can be restored to her naturally vast magnificence. But these can only be resolved in the arena where they were birthed: in embodiment. This causes the soul to live as many lives as are required for these impressions and scars to be rectified, cleared and removed.”

Once again the descrier paused but she held up a hand to prevent any interjections.

“This is very important, so listen carefully,” she said slowly. “It is the soul’s own vast and dormant power that gives shape to the very lives that offer the best opportunity to clear the impressions that hold her bound within the Dream.”

Then turning to face Tarmel, she reached towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“And so it is that one soul becomes a mage and another a pauper, why one becomes a servant in the scullery and another becomes a king or a Draca.”

Illiom looked at her Rider and saw how puzzled he was by the descrier’s explanation.

“No … wait,” he said. “If the soul creates the best opportunity for her to become free in each life, then why is it that we live many lives and not just one? Would not a single life be enough to restore us?”

Kassargan nodded.

“It would, but for one thing: in embodiment the soul is cloaked by limited perception. As long as we are asleep and unaware of our true nature, we cannot become free. In order to become free we must first wake up, we must awaken within the Dream …”

Tarmel shook his head.

“I think that I will need some time to ponder this,” he said, by which Illiom knew he meant that he had heard enough for one day. She barely managed to stop herself from smiling.

A palpable silence followed the descrier’s last words, a silence which she herself broke.

“Elan, something troubles you?” Kassargan asked, leaning slightly towards the priestess.

Elan hesitated for a moment, her face looking paler than usual.

“This view that you expound …” she started, “it makes no distinction between Gods and mortals. How can …”

She was interrupted by another, louder uproar from the players’ table, one that involved most of the onlookers as well as the players. Scald, it seemed, had managed to pin Mist’s king into a corner and was making short work of the rest of his forces. Even mild-mannered Wind was inciting her Chosen towards slaughter. Argolan glanced over at them, a touch of annoyance in her eyes. She turned back to Elan with a raised eyebrow.

“You were saying?” she prompted, as soon as the ruckus subsided.

The priestess cast one last look at the contestants, shook her head, and then turned back to Kassargan.

“What is the difference between us and the Gods?”

A half-smile appeared on the descrier’s lips.

“A predictable question from a Daughter of the Goddess,” she conceded. “There is not just one truth, Elan, although most of us are raised to believe so. Truth is a matter of perception, and many truths can occupy the same reality without the necessity for contradiction or conflict.”

She paused just long enough to pour a measure of Tthur into her goblet.

“In this case one can see that there is a gulf of difference between the two: the Gods have a much broader canvas than we; they are aware of forces and powers that far exceed our own. One could say that their awareness is closer to the infinite whereas ours is closer to the finite. They are called immortals for they do not shed their bodies as we do.”

She sipped her drink.

“On the other hand one could say that the only difference between us and the Gods is one of awareness. While it is undeniable that our canvas is more limited than theirs, that could be simply because we are fledglings, and not yet masters. It is true that we shed our bodies when they are worn out and that the time allotted to our embodiment is like the wink of a God’s eye, and yet change and growth are the currency of our mortality ...”

Elan frowned.

“What are you saying? That the Gods do not change?”

“Of course they change, but much more slowly, precisely because they have immortality in their grasp!”

A mischievous smile curled the descrier’s lips.

“Their immortality makes them infinitely more complacent. With no such luxury, we mortals are free to soar to ecstatic heights or plummet to abysmal depths within a single lifetime, exploring a range of experiences undreamed of by the Gods. And if you stop and think about it, even our mortality can be unmasked as an illusion: certainly, our bodies fail us, but when they do, our souls migrate to new ones. Our form of immortality seems fragmented whereas theirs appears to be a continuous stream …”

This flow of insight and wisdom from the descrier fascinated Illiom. However, despite her interest, she found herself becoming increasingly distracted by a thought, one that soon demanded her complete and immediate attention.

She stood up and excused herself. She made a point of glancing at Tarmel, who met her gaze with a questioning expression, and then she stepped away from the sunken table and made for the stairs.

She opened the door to blinding, bright daylight and stepped outside to feel the hot caress of Iod upon her face. She scanned the sparse surroundings, her eye taking in the baked domes of other, smaller structures, and the absence of all human activity.

Everything was quiet in the noon light: the air was much warmer here than below. Nothing stirred and the town of Sur seemed abandoned.

She heard the door open behind her but did not turn. Illiom looked down at her hands.

“You saw me,” she said at last.

Silence.

“During the ambush,” she elaborated. “You saw me.”

Behind her a brief hesitation, then the answer came.

“Yes,” said Tarmel.

Illiom looked up. The blue of the vault of sky was washed out and faded.

“What did you see?”

His reply was immediate.

“I saw you kill a man who was about to kill you.”

His answer did not appease her so she repeated her question.

“What did you see?”

This time his answer was delivered more quietly.

“I saw what looked like a flash of lightning streak from you towards him. I saw him struck down where he stood.

She responded with a series of small nods.

“Why did you say nothing about this before?”

“I could see that you were not ready to discuss it.”

The silence that stretched between them became unbearable.

“Have you … did you talk of what you saw with any of the others?”

There was a sharp edge to his response.

“I would not dream of it.”

She knew then that she had offended him; she turned to look at him.

He was standing closer than she had anticipated. She searched his eyes.

“What am I going to do, Tarmel?”

His shoulders inched upwards. His head tilted to one side and his eyes narrowed.

“Are you asking for my advice?”

She nodded.

“As soon as you are able to, speak to the others about this,” he said.

Illiom started to protest but he brought up a hand, touching her lips with his fingers, stopping her words. When she looked up into his eyes, his hand dropped away.

He glanced down at her lips, took a deep breath and stepped back a little.

“Was there anything else?” he asked.

She shook her head. Then, as he was about to turn, she took his hand into both of hers and held it for a moment.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He nodded, and with a sad little smile turned and led the way back inside.

That evening they dined on rich, spicy foods and drank more Tthur before retiring to the small underground rooms that would house them for the night. Hers was the smallest room that Illiom had ever seen – more like a tiny cave of soft and rounded sandstone than an actual room. It was screened by a curtain, the only separation between private and public space. It comprised a narrow hollow with a single chair as the only piece of furniture. To one side there was a long horizontal sleeping space, a nook carved into the wall itself. Within that lay a quilted mattress and, in other smaller nooks, a few essentials: a candle, a pitcher of water and a clay mug.

The silence in the cell was so complete that at first Illiom found it disquieting.

Yet when she did finally sleep, it was as if she had been cast into an empty void, into which she fell for the remainder of the night.

Waking up the next day was like hitting the bottom of that void. She opened her eyes to darkness, identical to the one she had closed them to.

Something disturbing had startled her awake. Her throat was parched and a worm of fear had lodged itself inside her chest. She strained to listen but no sound came from the passageway at all.

She got dressed and walked the semi-dark length of the passage until she emerged into the main hall.

Several others were already up. Illiom searched their faces, half expecting to see some confirmation that her fears were real and not imagined, but the others deported themselves much as they did most other days.

When everyone had risen and eaten, they purchased supplies to see them through the rest of the way to Calestor and then emerged into the daylight to begin the day’s ride.

Zulir saw them off with the care of one investing in his future.

The road from Sur led to the southwest and into a flat landscape of earth, dust, and tough grasses and shrubs. The earth here was leached of all colours by the relentless sunlight and the absence of water.

By mid-morning, Illiom noted that even the stunted vegetation around Sur was gone, and the land stretched away into the distance to be swallowed up by dust and haze.

Noon came and went and they opted to continue without pause since they were still sated from their breakfast feast.

By mid-afternoon the breeze that had been their constant companion since leaving Sur picked up and started to blow in strong, intermittent gusts directly into their faces. The road deteriorated to such a point that it no longer resembled a highway at all, becoming instead a rutted, pot-holed ruin that made the ride far from pleasurable. A few hours later, Illiom felt as though this endless trudging against the unrelenting wind had been the main activity of her entire life.

To converse became impossible so they travelled in silence, accompanied only by the howl of wind. Even thinking became a challenge. Yet the road continued to degrade until, half-covered by sand for lengthy tracts, it became almost indistinguishable from the surrounding land. The small cairns of stone that had marked it thus far suddenly revealed their purpose: to show the travellers where the road had been before the shifting sands had obliterated it. As far as Illiom could tell that was the only thing that stopped them from losing their way completely.

Iod’s light became an indistinct white glow in the haze ahead as he steadily descended towards the horizon. As if the God’s setting was a signal, the wind became fiercer, lashing at clothes, stinging exposed skin, and getting into their eyes.

Argolan called a halt.

She led them away from the wretched highway, towards a clump of boulders that jutted out of the ground. Here the Riders covered the horses’ faces with wet cloths to protect their eyes and nostrils.

It was a disgruntled party that retired to their sleep rolls after a hastily eaten dinner peppered with granules of sand. The desert-born grit made its way into everything: food, water and even inside their bedrolls.

As Illiom lay in the dark listening to the interminable howling, she thought that she could make out just one lone star shining through the haze in the south. It glowed red.

She remembered all the times that she had looked wistfully at that very same star from her mountain hermitage. She did not have a name for it back then, but she did now: it was Irrsche the Malevolent, the star of calamity and sorrow.

At dawn the world was shrouded in an uncanny stillness; a silence so deep that it seemed to swallow up the small noises made by the humans as they stirred and made themselves ready for the day’s ride.

Sudra hung full and dazzling near the western horizon, waiting to see her lover rise over the opposite rim of the world.

The Riders moved purposefully, like dream phantoms, progressing from task to task without speaking: packing bedrolls, preparing food, watering the horses. The preparations were lengthened by the need to retrieve a few things that the wind had worked loose and blown away during the night. This gave Pell a chance to light his fire-offering to Iod as the sun-god rose. Elan, in turn, seized the opportunity to offer a blessing to her Goddess and Illiom was glad to join her. The last time she had seen Sudra so resplendent was when she and the others had gathered together on the eve of the Harvest Moon Fair. Even though that had been only one moon ago, that event now felt as though it belonged to another age.

As Elan faced Sudra, the Goddess’ light caught the crescent on her cheek and caused it to glow in sympathetic recognition. In that instant, Illiom caught a glimpse of Mist, the Daughter’s Rider. The look that he cast towards his charge seemed layered with complexity: it contained awe and wonder, and beneath that she noticed something else, something akin to a yearning.

Soon they were mounted and picking their way once more along the ruined highway. They did so quietly, with an air of optimism brought about by the awareness that, at the most, only three days of travel remained before they reached their destination: the Iolan capital of Calestor.

The silence persisted as they ventured through vast ochre plains that stretched away in all directions, interrupted only by sheer rock monoliths that jutted out of the land like grim sentinels.

Illiom stared when the first fortress appeared.

It was perched on top of a tall conical hill, maybe half a league towards the north. She could just make out the crenelated walls and massive towers bracing the perimeter wall against attack. The fortress, the hill, and the surrounding land all seemed to be made out of the same ochre-coloured stone.

When the second fortress appeared some time later, Malco turned to the descrier.

“I did not know that Iol had such defences.”

Kassargan tilted her head for a moment.

“Those are not defences, they are ruins.”

“From the First Age?” the Blade asked.

His pale blue eyes gazed longingly at the ancient fortifications.

Kassargan shook her head.

“From Dur Egon. These fortifications were all built sometime after the Devastation, when our people were tearing each other apart and Iol was nothing better than a hundred small factions warring for supremacy. Anyone with a hill, a well, and enough people to defend it, tried to claim dominion over the rest. Now they are all deserted and nothing lives there.”

They pressed on.

The hard ground soon surrendered entirely to the sands and the road disappeared intermittently beneath the dunes. They followed it as best they could and in this way were led deeper into a landscape dotted only with the occasional remains of a wain that had come to irreparable grief and now jutted out of the sand to remind travellers of the dangers of the desert. Eventually only the stone cairns indicated the way they should follow.

“I am surprised that Iol has any trade at all with the rest of Theregon,” Scald remarked. “Who in their right mind would choose this route?”

Sometime later the ground dropped away towards a depression and the road made for a small clump of sad, spindly olive trees, the first Illiom had seen since they had left Sur. It was one of Iol’s rare wells, Kassargan informed them, adding that they would do well to water the horses and replenish their skins here, for this was the only one between them and their destination.

As they rode down toward it they startled a half dozen Vurls who were feasting on an unrecognisable carcass that lay near the water’s edge. The great birds stretched their wings and became airborne, reluctantly leaving the remains of their meal to the new arrivals.

Illiom watched them soar overhead; their wingspan almost twice the length of her outstretched arms.

“I am not going near that water,” Scald saw fit to announce.

“Nor I,” Sereth agreed. “If that is what it did to … whatever that was.”

Kassargan dismounted and approached the bloody remains strewn across the ground. She knelt and touched a clump of fur.

“The water is safe,” she announced after a moment. “This goat was already dying when it came here. The water did not cause this.”

Scald shook his head.

“Still not drinking it,” he said adamantly and, turning, led his horse away from the well.

The Riders drew water and, using Pell’s cooking implements, filled an old wooden trough. Then, two at a time, they watered the horses.

Wind made her way over to where Scald had just sat down in the partial shade of an old tree. She held her hand out to him, palm up.

“I will take him,” she offered, reasonably. “He needs water.”

Scald looked up and after a moment offered her the reins.

“Fine, just do not complain when he keels over and you have to carry me to Calestor,” he muttered gruffly.

But as Illiom watched the interaction, she thought she detected a gratified look in the Chosen’s eyes as he yielded the reins to his Rider. When Wind joined those waiting their turn by the well Illiom approached her.

“You have a way with him that no one else seems to have mastered.”

Wind turned at her comment, glanced in her Chosen’s direction and produced a slight smile.

“He is not as bad as he wants people to believe,” she said. “He is a complicated man.”

Illiom frowned.

“Do you mean that he does this on purpose? Making himself disliked?”

Wind peered at Illiom with surprise in her pale aqua eyes. She nodded after a moment.

“I believe he does… though I have yet to discover why.”

The Rider’s smile deepened and Illiom’s mirrored it after a moment.

“I wish you luck with that; I would love to hear of your findings.”

“Then you would be the only one,” the other replied. “I think Scald has succeeded in distancing almost everyone …”

“Bar you.”

“Bar me, but then, I do not have much choice in the matter, do I?”

Then it was Wind’s turn at the trough and the conversation ended, though Illiom did wonder about the Rider’s last comment regarding Scald. It seemed to her that Wind did indeed have a choice and that she had chosen to engage with Scald rather than simply fulfil her duty as his Rider.

They ate a cold lunch before resuming their journey.

They were skirting a spur of rock that rose out of the crest of a sand dune like an angry fist, when they heard a cry from the front of the column.

Illiom jerked her head up. She saw nothing alarming, just the entirely unexpected flank of a mountain rising up from the land directly ahead. That impression quickly disintegrated and she stared in disbelief as what she had taken for a mountain revealed its true form: a broiling, shifting mass that was moving inexorably towards them.

Still she did not comprehend what she was looking at until Argolan screamed.

“Sandstorm!!”

The illusion of solidity was so compelling that Illiom continued to sit, frozen in the saddle, staring at it. Its advance was so rapid and relentless that she did not know what to do.

Angar swore.

“Where in Hel did that come from?”

The Riders spun their horses around, yelling warnings, calling on the Chosen to turn away from the advancing storm, as though it was a monster marching against them.

“Illiom!”

She heard Tarmel’s voice but it was just one more sound in the sudden cacophony. She sought him out and, spotting him, turned Calm towards her Rider. However, before she could complete the manoeuvre, another horse slammed violently into Calm.

Illiom’s mount whinnied in fright and reared. Illiom barely managed to remain in the saddle and the next she knew she was clinging to her horse as he fled at full gallop.

A quick glance around her revealed two things: first, she could no longer see the others; and second, Calm was heading straight for the sandstorm.

She tried desperately to steer him away or bring him to a stop, but to no avail.

She thought she heard a voice, faint with distance, calling out her name. A moment later the deep blue of the sky winked out and Illiom’s world became a murky brown haze as the roar of wind and sand engulfed her.

The storm was upon her with the ferocity of a predator.

The ground and the air became indistinguishable from each other and the light failed so rapidly that it was as if Iod himself had fallen and the dark had claimed victory over the light.

Illiom clutched at the saddle-horn with all her strength as Calm floundered blindly on. She was just wondering how he could possibly find his way when the gelding screamed, fell away from under her, and Illiom was thrown through the air.

The dreaded impact with the hard ground never came. Instead she found herself rolling and bouncing down a steep bank of sand until she came to a halt, pummelled and winded.

Illiom lay still for a moment, afraid to move. Only when she realised that she was essentially unharmed did she dare try to sit up.

Spluttering blindly, she called out to Calm, but it was hopeless; it was like shouting at thunder. She struggled to her knees, groping around blindly, calling desperately for her horse.

The only response she received was the wind’s howl and its cruel lashing at her face.

She lost all sense of direction. She let herself fall back to the ground and there curled up into a ball, protecting her mouth and eyes with her arms, chin pressed down hard against her chest. She still called from time to time, but she sounded as feeble as a child whose only comfort was in hearing the sound of her own voice in the midst of a fearful nightmare.

Time stretched into eternity and she lost sense of its passing.

The storm raged on incessantly.

She was parched but had nothing to drink, for her water-skin was fastened to Calm’s saddle.

Her eyes stung with sand, making it impossible for her to keep them open, and she would have wept if her body could have spared the moisture, if her eyes had not been caked shut.

The hours passed and the only noticeable change was that it grew cold. She had no idea if it was day or night.

Yet, little by little, the storm did abate. Sometime later, she painfully managed to blink most of the sand out of her eyes. When she was able to see again she peered around her but all was in darkness.

There was nothing she could do but wait for dawn and visibility to return.

So she huddled down, cold, exhausted and thirsty. Perhaps she slept or maybe she just lost consciousness for periods of time; she could not tell which.

At one point in that endless darkness she thought she saw a glow.

Was it dawn? The relief that she experienced at the possibility that the sun was finally rising was overwhelming. Yet was it dawn? Was she even awake or dreaming again?

Out of the gloom a faint shimmer of lights danced towards her, carried by vague, shadowy shapes. One of the shapes stooped low to peer into her face, and in the light’s weak glow it revealed to her its own.

The face was etched with jagged geometric patterns. Beyond the folds of a russet hood she caught a glimpse of jet-black hair and a beard chiselled to a sharp point. The indigo eyes were like those of a wolf, wildness looked out at her from those depths.

Something about the eyes seemed very wrong to her, for she could see the colour of those eyes and yet she could also see that the eyelids were closed. How was this possible?

The apparition reached out a steadying hand.

It spoke with a strange lilting voice.

Illiom shook her head, ineffectually attempting to deflect the creature’s hand.

“Go away,” she muttered.

“Thurk’ellei?”

The voice became clearer, more defined. It did not matter, it was just as incomprehensible.

“Give me water or … go away …” she managed to reply.

This is a dream, she thought.

Either that or this was a desert spirit come to claim her soul. She could still remember the terrifying childhood stories about them, and of what happened to the unfortunate who became lost in the desert lands of the mages.

“Thurk’ellin sri kutch’ahn …” the voice insisted.

She let herself fall back into the earth’s embrace.

Water …

No longer able to speak and by now lost in a delirium, she tried to conjure the liquid element from the air itself, from the earth, from the invisible night sky. When she began to feel the moisture upon her lips, she smiled with the knowing of what this was: nothing but a cruel phantom that teased her lips into opening, to wait for a flow that would never come.

After that, she ceased to notice anything else.

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