Analindë (The Chronicles of Lóresse) (19 page)

«Beautiful, isn’t it?»

Analindë whirled around looking for the voice. A swirling mass of Energy spun itself into a shape leaving an elven man standing before her. He was tall but bent with age, which meant that he had to be well over a thousand years old. «Yes, it is.» She answered cautiously; she’d never seen Energy used like this, never spoken like this. Had he heard her?

«Do you know yet how to show yourself?»

«No.» Who was this man?

«Think yourself as you are. But here. Leave yourself where you are, by all means do not try to move yourself here, but form your thought into self.» He gestured down at himself, his legs, his arms.

Analindë concentrated hard, envisioning a tall young woman, newly into adulthood, with long braided hair the color of darkest night. She opened her eyes, looked down, and took a surprised step back. Layers of soft underskirts caressed her legs as the floor pressed curiously against her feet. She was here.

No. She wasn’t. She sensed her body back up in Therin’s tower. How did it work? She peered over at the old man.

«There, that was not so difficult, was it?» The friendly words belied his expression. His face was stern and strong. He wore a court mask, the blank facial expression her mother instructed her to use whenever she was around those she did not know or did not trust. Analindë responded in kind, keeping her face neutral. She dropped her gaze to hide the stars swirling in her eyes. She was an intruder here. She stilled the urge to fiddle with the rings that were all too real on her fingers.

«It worked better than I expected,» she said while hesitantly brushing her hand against the ruby gown she wore. It was made of the finest silk and was fanciful. It would stain easily and was fashioned in an archaic style, one that even her great-aunt wouldn’t have worn. The floor-length gown had a fitted bodice and flared at the hips. The collar of the jacket was tall and fanned out behind her neck. If not for the three-quarter length sleeved jacket, her shoulders would be bare. Her hair was caught up at the back of her head; she didn’t dare reach up to see how it was styled. The dress felt flattering. She’d just never thought to wear such a thing.

She fidgeted and fought the impulse to study the dress further. Feeling overdressed, her eyes left her hands and sought out the purposefully blank eyes of the aged elve. What would he think of her? Her palm’s were clammy; she turned them away from her skirts so she wouldn’t soil the fabric.
Would her imaginary hands actually sweat?
The thought darted through her mind.

Sensing at least some of her thoughts he said, «It cannot be helped. For centuries I have appeared thus, in a pair of old work pants and shirt.» The corner of his mouth twitched. «You are a mage.» It was a statement, not a question.

«How did you–»

«Your gown. Most mages appear in robes or gowns of some sort. Clothes appear like towers. If you ever build a tower or home of your own, it will appear from an image you hold deep within yourself. Once it starts building itself, there is little you can do to influence it but watch it take shape.» He smiled briefly. His regal stature belied the humble trousers and shirt. This was not an elve to be trifled with, no matter what clothes he wore.

«But the Metal Masters and–»

«They are different. The elements answer to them differently than they would to you. Analindë, isn’t it?»

«Yes, I’m Analindë. My pardon Lord, but you are?»

«Master Donarion, the keeper of this place.»

Analindë bowed low before him. She had never heard his name before but sensed he wielded great power and position. «My pleasure,» she said, wondering if this way of communication was like far-speaking? She’d have to ask Master Therin.

Impassive silence pressed in on Analindë. Should she leave? No, not until he dismissed her. The stars in his eyes began to move in a pattern she did not recognize and she began to worry. When she could take the weight of them no longer she looked away to study the room and said, «It’s beautiful.» He didn’t strike her down or reprimand her so she let her eyes continue to drift about the room. For all its plainness, the room didn’t feel cold or barren. It felt familiar, as if she should somehow recognize the place for what it was and be happy.

She’d never been here before or anyplace like it, so the feeling baffled her. «This place is comforting. Welcoming. Like a safe harbor for those who seek it. Why? Or, um, how?»

Master Donarion’s eyebrow quirked up, stars stilled in his eyes. «You feel that, do you? Hmmm, tell me what you think of this.» He shuffled to the far wall where there was a tall narrow table and opened a medium sized chest that she was sure hadn’t been there a moment before. He opened the chest as she crossed to him. A golden ball glowed within the chest, radiating solid, glorious power so expansive that it tugged her toward it. She stopped and consciously held herself back to keep from stepping closer to pick it up.

«It’s ancient. Powerful,» she blurted.

«Yes it is.» He studied her aloofly for a moment. She was seconds away from fidgeting with the rings on her fingers when he turned from her and thankfully shut the ancient chest before opening a second smaller chest to its right. With the aggressive pull of power gone, she noted that a faint melody—that she couldn’t quite pick out—now drifted about the room.

He beckoned her closer. She darted forward, forcing herself to veer to the right toward the smaller chest, not left. Her soft silk slippers brushed the polished wooden floor, and a corner of her mind wondered if they’d snag if the floor had been rough. The second box contained a single seed resting on silver satin. Puzzled, Analindë studied it intently. She glanced briefly at Master Donarion to gauge his intent. In that moment, he reminded her strongly of her mother, head cocked to the side, waiting to see if Analindë could figure her way through the quizzing games they’d used to play.

Master Donarion’s face was blank. Even the stars in his eyes had dampened down, barely sparking. Daring boldness rushed through her. Before she could think twice about it, she sent a tendril of thought out, winding herself around and through the tiny seed. Recognizing its potential for greatness, Analindë withdrew and returned to herself.

«It is a potential of what may be, a delicate living thing waiting for the right moment. Patience?» She guessed.

He said nothing; his face gave away nothing. He did not even nod in her direction. He simply studied her for a long awkward moment and then closed the lid and opened another. Inside the third chest lay a charred hunk of wood.

Her home. She recoiled.

Analindë yanked her mind back away from the panic to refocus on the burnt wood. This time she was drawn into memory.

It’s was blazing hot. What crazy idea had gotten into Master Zithrien to make him want to work on fire making spells in the middle of summer? Morian’s knees ached. He’d been crouching for far too long. He grabbed a few sticks of wood he’d gathered that morning and, one by one, placed them into the fire pit he’d just dug.

Always the long way or the hard way! Morian knew it to his core that the old man did it just to make him suffer. Why, the old Master could have made the pit without even batting an eye, whereas it had taken Morian most of the morning to dig this hole himself and now he was going to miss lunch.

He finished laying the sticks in the pattern Master Zithrien had asked for and looked up at the old man’s expectant face. He hoped in vain that for once the old man would find nothing wrong with his work.

Old Master Zithrien stared at Morian with such a piercing gaze he began to think the old man was reading his thoughts. The old man’s gaze flicked to the wood he had prepped for the fire. Barely glancing at it the old man said, “You need larger pieces of wood.” Anger flared inside Morian; his efforts were never good enough. Always there was something wrong. “Go out and collect more. What you have collected will be good enough to start a blaze but will not be enough to sustain it.”

“But you don’t need wood to–”

“You will first learn to control fire using wood. Now, you will need logs that are twice the size of your forearm.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Morian turned toward the small grove of trees and stopped when Master Zithrien added.

“Fire is a dangerous thing, my young apprentice. It can be a good friend or a dangerous foe. I would that you could see that it takes much learning and study to master all of its facets.”

“Yes, Master Zithrien.” He bowed and left quickly. The flash of concern and frown that descended upon the old man’s face barely registered in the back of his mind. The old man was always holding him back, always slowing him down. He didn’t understand. Merryn had already mastered fire and took every opportunity to let him know that she knew something he didn’t. It was always, “Look at this new spell I’ve learned,” or “You haven’t learned that yet?” Well, before the day was over he was going to call a fire she wouldn’t be able to laugh at anymore.

Trees were scarce here in the plains;
the only wood source for the village was a small cultivated grove filled with quickly growing trees. Master Zithrien’s strictures echoed in his head as he searched for dead growth. “Look for dead wood. It cannot have any moisture in it, otherwise it will smoke, not burn.”

“What does he know, the old windbag.” Morian spied a perfect tree lying on the ground. Excitement leapt within him before dying a sudden death when he got a closer look. Half of the tree was submerged in drying mud. “Just my luck!” He kicked the trunk and prepared to move on when the most brilliant idea came to his mind.

He tugged the small tree away from the muck and brushed as much mud as he could off of it. Then he sent a drying spell into the wood, chasing away any and all water he could find. When he finished, perfectly seasoned, dry wood sat in front of him. “He’ll never know.” Morian’s lips curled upward in a gleeful smile at the thought that he was going to fool the old Master.

Maybe, just maybe he’d get to eat lunch today. Morian cut the log into pieces using the saw from his pack, then tied the logs together with a cord.

The bundle was heavy and sweat was steadily trickling down his back by the time he’d trudged across the grassland separating the village from the grove of trees. The sun beat down upon his head and dust blew in the air choking him. He felt parched. Morian dumped the logs beside the fire pit, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a gritty arm, and asked Master Zithrien, “Will these do?”

The young apprentice watched the old Master’s face intently as the Master looked at the logs. Unease soured his stomach as one eyebrow went up and then the other.

“You used a spell to dry the logs?”

He didn’t know what to say. He considered lying, then managed to nod his head. After a moment, the old man’s eyebrows descended, and the young apprentice felt somewhat safer. He vowed then and there to never take another shortcut again wherever the old man was concerned.

Master Zithrien finally spoke, “Use a few of your logs and restack your pile of wood, then leave the rest to the side for later.”

It wasn’t long before Morian had mastered the basics of making and putting out fire and was feeling better about himself. Master Zithrien had even relaxed his stance a bit.

The sun beat down upon them both, but still the young man was happy because he was making fire. He let the fire leap a little higher, enjoying the way the red flames licked the logs. He didn’t know why the old man was so concerned. Why, there was nothing to it.

“Smaller!”

The command broke into his thoughts and he jumped. He’d forgotten the imposing guard who stood over him. “But it’s so easy, I–”

“But can you control even the smallest bits of it? The smallest and largest fires take the greatest skill and strength. We start out with the small, yes?”

Always the small, the tiny, the little steps. Why not the big? If it took the same amount of skill, why couldn’t he try with the larger fires? He caught sight of Merryn as he reached over to grab another log to place on the fire. She stood smirking at him from between two shops twenty paces away. When she saw him look up, she held up her hand and a blue flame sprung to life, hovering above her palm before winking out. It was a level five fire spell.

She’d never stop, would she!
He’d show her.
Now knowing what to do, he pulled at the Energy within himself and called for a fire that would guarantee her respect for the rest of his life.

“Morian! No!” Master Zithrien’s shout came from somewhere beside him.

He would show them both; he knew what he was doing. Morian raised his arms to the sky and called forth fire to burn the logs that lay stacked neatly to the side of his pit.

But something went wrong.

Terribly wrong.