A Wizard's Tears (7 page)

Vergail walked down the wide, flowing marble steps outside the front of Malana’s cathedral. She stopped momentarily to raise her hand to her forehead, a delicate move to shield her eyes from the burst of sunshine she had received on leaving the cool, dark corridors of the cathedral, where her inner sanctum and quarters resided.

It was a perfect morning, she decided, the faint glimmer of a smile playing on her lips. From the top of the cathedral steps she could see most of the city stretched out before her: a haven of shimmering gold in the glow of the sun. Untaba’s will and guidance shone over the land, bathing all who would listen to his eternal radiance. She felt warm and excited. The day showed great promise.

The city of Malana was a wonder in the misty woodlands covering most of the Emorthos continent. All the buildings were constructed of polished, white stone, with no marks showing where one block of stone met another. Embedded within all the major buildings were rivulets of marbled gold, the more gold in a building indicative of its importance and the stature of the people who dwelled inside it.

From her viewpoint, Vergail could make out the main landmarks of the city. Besides the great cathedral, her own home, which had huge towers and spires aching to touch the sky, she made out the slender, tall steeples of the Guild of Mages, a hotchpotch of turrets and sloping roofs. Not far from these steeples rose the great stone statue of Untaba, a figure of solid gold emblazoned atop a massive white marbled column.

Turning slightly to adjust her vision, she discovered the massive stone pillars that marked the entrance to the Great Library, the building that housed every book ever written in Elrohen, including all known spell books. To the right of this she finally made out her own destination on this fine morning: the rolling green landscape of Malana’s gardens.

Finishing her walk down the steps of the cathedral, Vergail began a brisk stride into the streets, heading towards the gardens. Her presence instantly made city folk near her bow in homage. A small girl tossed a rose at her feet in greeting and thanks. Vergail smiled with pleasure. She helped these people: gave them faith and hope in times when they needed her. She was well respected and friends to many in the city. When someone close died, they came to her for guidance. When children were sick, they came to her for healing. When arguments arose between neighbours, all came to her for a resolution. She was Untaba’s guide, imparting her knowledge of the ancient texts of Untaba and teaching his ways throughout the city, and sometimes into neighbouring villages.

Malana was peaceful. There had been no history of war, or decay. For as long as Vergail knew, the city blossomed. New businesses were always being forged; the wealthy grew wealthier. Markets traded and exchanged goods daily. Fresh food, meats and fine wine were produced constantly. The hubbub and general demeanour of people in the city were good natured, and a solid community had been built, embracing the luxury and polished stone like part of the family.

There was the occasional crime, of course. The mages governed everything – punishment was swift and severe. It was seldom, that people who committed a crime once would ever do so again. Vergail grinned, almost impishly, at how the mages and her own ministrations kept the city in check.

Ah, look how the city people came out to greet her! It was like royalty; indeed, Vergail was, to some, considered to be the queen of Malana. People of all shapes and sizes came out of their houses and shops to see her as she passed, to wave and to smile. She was unique to the city. Nobody had her skills in healing or providing counsel, save perhaps the mages – but they did not have the calm friendly manner that she did.

Vergail carried on, turning a corner and heading into a crescent shaped street, one of many market places within the city. Instantly, the smoke and smell of burning incense wafted to her nostrils. The aroma pleased her.

Surprising the trade woman who sold the incense, Vergail placed a gold coin in her palm and took a pack. The trader bowed low at this unexpected honour, mumbling her thanks. Grinning, the priestess walked on, the incense sticks vanishing under her robe to nestle in an inner pocket sown into the fabric. They would come in handy for her prayer rituals, she thought. They would also aid her teachings.

Vergail had several pupils under her guidance whom she taught basic healing. Ultimately she would pass on her role to a younger woman, when she was old enough herself to leave Elrohen for the spiritual journey to Untaba’s side. It was the way of it: her predecessor had taught her everything she knew, and so she would tell others of the way of the priesthood.

Her reverie ended when she reached the edge of the gardens. Two vast trees marked the entrance – the branches of them entwined together to form an archway. Vergail was about to step through when a cough drew her attention.

Leaning on the back of one of the trees, sat in a heap, was a man. Vergail’s nose flared as she smelt alcohol on his breath. Dressed in rags and tatters, the man was a vagabond and a drunk. He coughed again, a harsh, thick noise that brought up ugly green phlegm. It was obvious he was homeless and had earned a fever for his troubles.

Vergail crouched down before the man, her eyes a vision of watery compassion. “Sir,” she began pointedly, “you have a fever. As high priestess of this city it is within my power to heal you. First, tell me, why are you living on the streets? There are many buildings that will give you solace and help, especially if you have had some tragedy. Why not go, they will give you a place to stay. I can give you directions-“

Her calm voice was shattered by his angry snarl. He looked up at her then, a face filled with contempt. “You mock me,
priestess
!” he said the last word as if he choked on poison. “Malana does not help those not of Untaba’s faith!”

Vergail stood, her eyes hardening, the compassion ebbing from her. “Untaba shines his guidance down-“
“I curse Untaba’s very name!” The man spat on the ground, emphasizing his point. “Where was your god, when my family burned alive? Where was he, when all my life, all my possessions, all my love, was swallowed, engulfed by a burning blaze? You pray, you teach his infinite wisdom, yet he took away those that I loved, in a blink of an eye.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” stated Vergail coldly. “It must have been their time to leave this world. Yet you should reconsider your views and renew your faith. The way of Untaba is just.”
The man chuckled insanely, and took another swig of a fiery brew held in a bottle by his side. “You, and this city, are blinded by this faith. So much love for this god, yet we get nothing in return. This faith has addled our brains and our senses, and made us ignorant and obnoxious to other people’s beliefs. Tell me, priestess; would you use your skills to heal my ailments?”
“No,” Vergail said harshly. “I will not use Untaba’s light on a non-believer.”
“There you go, you see?” the man scoffed. “I am not a bad person. I wouldn’t hurt anyone – I would do anything for anybody. Yet you, high priestess of Malana, are beneath me because of your short-sightedness. One day, your ignorance will come back on you and shatter this life of yours!”
Vergail said nothing, merely voicing her anger by turning and walking into the gardens away from the man. She would not be told such blasphemy! The man was lucky she did not call the mages onto him for it. His ramblings and coughing disappeared as she strode deeper, surrounding herself in lush green grass and gorgeous flower fragrances. Soon, she had forgotten him completely.
She walked through into a clearing amid the colours and delights of the gardens. In the centre of this clearing stood a stone, a towering, curved monolith – pale white, with grey markings etched onto its surface. Around the edge of the clearing were smaller, but similar stones, eight in all, with a symbol on each of their pristine white surfaces. At midday on the longest day of the year, the centre stone stood directly under the sun. Carved by the mages long ago, this clearing was a conduit for their power, and, so some claimed, a portal into another realm.
Stood before the great stone, dwarfed by its size and immensity, was a mage clad in a bright white robe, hooded, his head bowed in prayer.
“Suralubus,” said Vergail, announcing her arrival to him. He turned then, and lowered his hood. Piercing blue eyes met her own, and the man smiled, showing polished white teeth. His hair was thick and brown, and reached his shoulder blades. This was the leader of the high mages of Malana, mused Vergail, and a handsome young man at that.
Suralubus had achieved mastery over The Waln, the greatest known level of magick a mage could aspire to. He knew vast powers and commanded them almost at will. His power was worthy of respect alone, but the man was also a great leader and communicator. He was well liked by his brethren. Vergail grinned at him. He was well liked by her too!
“Thank you for coming,” he nodded approval to Vergail. “I know you are busy.”
“It is my pleasure,” responded the priestess warmly. “I am sure you have good reason to see me.”
Suralubus’ face turned grave. He gestured to the stone before them. “I have felt a tremor here,” he announced. “A strong tremor came to this stone from the very ground. Something disturbs the land of Elrohen.”

Keldoran broke the silence in the carriage with a loud shriek. Pain flooded through him, as if his body had suddenly been placed inside a hot furnace. He convulsed and collapsed on the floor, sliding off his seat in agony.

His eyes blurred as pandemonium erupted in the carriage. He felt a distant hand on his forehead: Relb. Then a voice, Yvanna’s, asking whether he was ok. A shadow hovered over him, and it was Corg, pulling him back up onto the seat in alarm.

“Keldoran,” it was the juggler’s soothing, melodious tones. “Open your eyes. Focus. Look at me.”
Keldoran’s eyes flicked open, but without sight. Slowly, the pain fled from his body, and as it did so his eyesight returned. “W-what, what happened?” he gasped, feeling numb and shaken. He stared wildly at the others, as if they could answer. Yvanna, Relb and Nagoth all stared back, concern and fear apparent in all their faces. Corg, however, looked him in the eye, equally worried, but with understanding.
“What happened is something I have not seen for a long, long time.” He said quietly.
There was a hush as all eyes turned to the juggler.
“The land is calling to you, Keldoran,” said Corg. “Its heartbeat pumps the blood in your veins.”
“I do not understand,” replied Keldoran. “What do you mean?”
“Land magick,” answered the juggler. “You have an Earth elemental force within you. It detects when the land is threatened. You are bound to the energies of the soil, of the rock, and the trees.”
Corg leaned forward then, eyes locking onto Keldoran’s fiercely. “You are already a mage, Keldoran: a naturally born mage at that!”
Keldoran opened his mouth to respond to this crazed statement, but fire engulfed his stomach once more and he blacked out into unconsciousness.

The land of Elrohen heaved and rumbled.
Faeries flew up out of the grass in their droves,
agitated by the movement of the earth beneath them. It
shuddered, as though it was an upset stomach with
indigestion. Cracks began to show in the mud and fields as
the soil opened up to the bubbling energy underneath.
The ground was restless after the unnatural touch of the sorcerer’s
feet.
The Slardinian hissed as the trees swayed and parted
before them, seeming to have minds of their own. The
sorcerer, unflinching at his effect on the land, walked boldly
across it, charring and burning the dirt at his feet, leaving a
trail of dead ash behind him.
They came upon the road where Nagoth had surprised
the mage and his party earlier. Without hesitation Lorkayn
started walking along the road. Somehow, he knew the way
he had to go. His visions were telling him.
Seek the city of
gold. Find the priestess.

His bewitched companion followed without thought, seeming to pay little attention to the cracks that appeared and blasted their way through the road in wake of the sorcerer’s footsteps.

Yvanna dabbed Keldoran’s sleeping face with a rag dipped in cold water.
They had informed the mage of Keldoran’s pain, and he had stopped the carriage momentarily to inspect the unconscious young man. Nodding to Corg in agreement, he had mentioned the increased urgency of getting to Malana. With that, he had mounted his horse, and the powerful steed brought the carriage back to life.
Yvanna had been asked to keep Keldoran’s face cold and free of burning fever. Apparently it would help him. So she rubbed his face gently, pouring cool water over him, as instructed, but being extremely careful not to touch him directly, lest she catch his strange ailment.
“Do not worry,” Corg spoke to her, noting her gentle touch, as if she were stroking a poisoned scorpion. “It is not contagious. The land is affecting him.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” The question came from Relb. He looked pale, obviously shaken by the morning’s events. It was clear he had not understood why Keldoran had fallen ill.
“Let me try to explain,” said Corg. “Long ago, when the land of Elrohen was new, people claimed the three gods, the Endless as they were once called, forged this world. Each poured their own piece of magick into the soil: Morduk, the god of nature, poured his will into creating the lands, the seas, the animals, everything. Untaba, the god of survival, poured his will into creating the balance and interaction of the elements blasted into existence by Morduk. Then, Sla’hek, the god of spirits, bound both these wills together into one cohesive world: Elrohen.
“The result is what we see today, a world rich in life and magick. The magick of these gods, though, never ebbed. Pockets of it could be found throughout the land. It is the power that gives the mages their spells. Certain words and objects, when uttered and present, tap into the magick of the gods.”
“So,” pondered Relb, “that’s what a mage learns through his spell books? A way to harness this magick that already exists in the world?”
Corg nodded. “Yes. However, some people born to this world have an innate, natural ability to harness the magick. They require no spell book.”
Relb’s eyes were wide in wonder. “Keldoran?” The juggler nodded again. “Keldoran is one of these people. His body and soul is bonded to the very magicks of the land itself. So, naturally, when the land is scorched, or threatened, or destroyed, Keldoran’s body mimics the lands pain.”
“Which is what is happening now,” murmured Yvanna, stunned by his realisation.
“Yes,” answered Corg enthusiastically, glad he had the attention of all in the carriage. Even the accursed Norfel was rapt, listening to his every word.
“So,” concluded the juggler, “it would seem the land is suffering some tragedy as we speak. Keldoran is very ill.” “The sorcerer!” Nagoth’s voice split the air thunderously. “The ground at his feet smoked and charred in ruin. He must be the cause of the land’s discomfort.” “If what you say is true,” said Corg, not looking into the Norfel’s eyes, “then this sorcerer must be alien to the land. The magick within him is conflicting with the magick of Elrohen.”
The statement caressed the carriage with silence. Yvanna mopped away a fresh rivulet of sweat from Keldoran’s face. Asleep now, she regarded Keldoran’s chiselled features. He was handsome, she decided. His face looked at peace, despite the fever rife in his body. Slowly, carefully, she brushed back his hair with her hand. A small smile of compassion crept to her lips, but as soon as she felt the feeling she snatched her hand away. It was an odd feeling and she did not care for it at all. It reminded her of how she had felt when she had looked after her father. Frowning, she turned to Relb, offering him the cloth. “I think it’s your turn!” she announced. Relb nodded at her, glad to be of assistance, and to be actually doing something rather than sitting and worrying in silence. Yvanna swapped places with him in the carriage. She stared out of the window, her face a picture of concern as she dwelt on old memories.