Duplicitous Magic Read online

  Archenon was afraid he would never belong anywhere. Not here, in this land where the trees were few and the waves lapped around every edge of the border. Not even in his first home, deep in the woods of Elfen Harrows, in the realm of fire. Far from an easy thing for an Elf to admit, and he shivered with a sudden fear.

  Rhonja lowered her chin. “I understand you miss your mother, Archenon. It still does not change the agreement I made with her when she chose Êvina as your home.”

  Her words cut him. Archenon remembered that day all too well, and he knew that what she had said was no mere reminder. It was a rebuke.

  Archenon had arrived at the castle shortly after his coming of age. More than three centuries had passed of his apprenticeship since then. Now, crumpled in his hands, he held a message informing him that his mother was dying.

  “Why will you not use your powers to help me? Your Highness, I would do anything you ask.”

  The radiant shimmer of Rhonja’s skin flared a shade brighter than usual. Archenon held his breath, awaiting her reply.

  She leaned forward, but the distance between them had never been as apparent as it was in this moment.

  “You have made significant progress controlling your sorcery, but allowing you to travel, even with an escort … there is no telling what would happen. I would be reckless to grant you this sentimental wish.”

  Archenon’s fingernails dug into his palms. Despite all Rhonja had done for him, she was also the cause of his suffering. It became clear that in her mind he was but a boy lost in the dark and she the High Queen of Aradria: Rhonja, the Drothnûil Êvina – a beacon of light.

  Rhonja shook her head. “No, you still have too much to learn, my dear Archenon.”

  “Then perhaps you might send someone to aid my mother? You could call upon the Queen of Ûnda to cleanse her body of the disease, or perhaps the King of Caradrea could breathe life into her as her spirit departs with the sickness?” It was a feeble request, but Archenon had few options. “Perhaps you might consider aiding her yourself?” His final words were almost a whisper.

  Though she was no sorcerer, as the wielder of Spirit Rhonja had much experience in foreseeing the most probable turns of events, even if she could not predict the future with certainty. Rhonja knew how to shield herself, and others, from harm, more than any other living being in Aradria. Surely, she could help.

  The High Queen sighed. Her hands gripped the armrests of her throne, a position she often took when meting out judgment. “I cannot simply meddle with life and death whenever it suits me. The monarchs must not interfere with the circle of life. You don't know what you ask, and for that reason alone I cannot allow you to leave. Nor will I call upon anyone to aid her.”

  Archenon leaped to his feet, assuming his full height. He wanted to plead, to cajole, to threaten, even. But if she would not listen to his words, perhaps he could sway her some other way? The ability to enter the mind of another was an art form few possessed and even fewer learned to control.

  Archenon enjoyed this practice and, over time, had come to master it. Once he had managed to tunnel into someone’s subconscious, it would forever be open to him, and Archenon could venture there again as he pleased. As long as the person still drew breath, they remained an open book to him.

  Archenon concentrated. A slight tingle spread from his spine to his forehead. He pushed at Rhonja’s barriers, but, as he always had with her, he faltered. The strength of her mental shield nearly knocked him back to his knees, but Rhonja didn't move a muscle. No matter how skilled he had become, Archenon could not enter her mind.

  Taking a deep breath, his eyes bored into Rhonja’s. His next words hissed through gritted teeth.

  “From the moment I became your apprentice, I’ve done everything required of me. I speak your language, wear your clothes, and sit tirelessly by your side. I can control my powers. If you take away my last chance to see my mother again, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

  - Rhonja –

  Rhonja believed Archenon. No matter what she had done for him in the past, there was no mistaking him.

  The wild elves fascinated her. For all their fierceness and longevity, the Wy-alfen-Iliath were so often like children, unable to foresee the consequences of their actions. They approached everything with passion and loved with an abandon that knew neither age, nor gender, once they came of age. If Rhonja could be certain of one thing with wild elves, it was that no matter how much time passed, they never forgot. And despite his mixed heritage, Archenon was still a wild elf at heart.

  His dark skin was tight against the muscles on his sinuous body. Serpentine decorations of black markings adorned his flesh, visible just above the neckline of his tunic. Rhonja admired his loyalty to his kin. Whenever Archenon made a breakthrough with his sorcery, he added a wild elven tribal tattoo on his skin, bearing witness to his new accomplishment. It was his way of paying homage to the hunters from Elfen Harrows.

  It’s not what he wants, but if he cannot join them in the flesh, then at least he will be there in spirit. Rhonja hoped Archenon found comfort in that. There was a possibility her answer might change him. Even so, she had good reasons for her refusal.

  She struggled to hide the unfamiliar sadness that had crept into her spirit. She didn't desire Archenon’s resentment, but she was not a god. Nature must run its course.

  “The tribe’s shaman will ease her pain. Then, as she withers, she will eventually become the source of new life. Take comfort in that, my dear Archenon. Such is the natural order. I’ll release you from your duties so that you may have time to grieve, but my answer is final.”

  Rhonja averted her face as her heart fought her mind. From the first moment she had learned of Archenon’s existence, some part of her had cared for him, and her adoration had grown throughout the centuries.

  She didn't possess the same romantic feelings Archenon held in his heart, however. To her, he was family. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed an oncoming surge of tears. Archenon’s sorrow and anger burned as her own, but sorcery was extremely treacherous, even if wielded with the best intentions. The image of smoldering flesh she had seen in Archenon’s spirit when he first arrived was never far from her mind. He had already made grave mistakes. And once touched, darkness could never be far from the surface.

  Rhonja arose from her white throne. Afraid she could hide her emotions no longer, she hurried out without another word, leaving her young apprentice alone in the Great Hall.

  - Archenon -

  A terrible weight pressed down on Archenon’s soul. Fuming, he watched his queen through hardened eyes as she swept out of the hall.

  Rhonja had betrayed him. Could she really care so little for his wishes and yet so much for those of people she had never met? She never hesitated to aid her subjects when they needed her. When the shadow plague engulfed the city of Beregend, she’d been there to ease the passing of the dying. When the Fiery Mountain reduced Vulkan village to clusters of cinder, she had sent her own guards and stonemasons to help rebuild.

  Archenon wanted to scream, but instead his mouth twisted into a hard grimace. He turned and stalked out of the throne room.

  A group of castle maids huddled in a nearby doorway. Upon spotting him, their voices faded to whispers. He studied their doll-like faces.

  It was hard not to compare himself to the people of Êvina. They looked nothing like him. He towered over them by at least the height of half a man. His skin was dark, while theirs echoed the white marble of the castle.

  The seams of Archenon’s man-made clothes cut into his flesh, and the woolen fabric left him overheated and uncomfortable, but there was no use complaining. He had to abide by the High Queen’s wishes. Bound by his mother’s promise, he was, despite Rhonja’s refusal, forever at her service.

  He could not betray his mother’s word. The wild elves would never accept him back into their tribe if he did. They would burn away his tattoos and cut his hair, then release him into the woods before huntin
g him down like an animal. It was the punishment all oath-breakers received.

  Like all his people, Archenon was naturally hot-blooded and, when given the choice, wore as little as possible. As such, it was not appropriate for Archenon to walk the halls of Êvina looking like the Elves of his tribe. In this moment, however, he didn't give a Linden’s last nut to keep up appearances for these short-lived creatures.

  He tugged at his clothes, pulling free the drawstring at his waist. One by one, garments fell to the floor until only a pair of black silk shorts remained. The maids were undoubtedly watching him, even if they should not.

  No matter how much the Êvinians sought to teach him their ways, he would not forget his heritage. Especially not now. Flinging wide his chamber door, Archenon strode through as the heavy oak crashed into the wall. He slammed it shut behind him. Alone at last, he stood stock still in the middle of the room and breathed. Each inhalation was deeper than the last.

  Without warning, he sprang across the room and punched a fist into the wall, again and again and again. He heard the snap of his breaking bones but didn't care. Eventually, Archenon’s breathing slowed, and his eyes closed as he crumpled to the marble floor. On the wall, a red streak dripped slowly against the pristine white.

  3

  Archanath

  - Archenon -

  A week later, Archenon sat on the windowsill in his chamber, waiting for a raven to arrive with news of his mother’s condition. He gazed toward the eastern shoreline of Êvina. Beyond the ocean lay his former home, deep in the woods, in the Land of Fire.

  On occasion, he allowed maids to enter his chamber to do their chores. He permitted them to braid his hair in the traditional way of the wild elven hunters. Archenon didn't like their touch, however, and he sometimes caught himself grimacing as he watched the Êvinian girls work. Their sharp hairstyles and pursed, painted lips contrasted with the Elven women who wore their hair as they pleased and never powdered their faces. He imagined his mother shaking her head at how subdued these girls were, bound by etiquette and custom.

  With his mother so close to death, he pondered the choices made for him. Her reasons had been justifiable, but there was no one like him in this land. No other Elves lived here. And though his father had been human and would be long dead by now, Archenon had spent a great deal of time attempting to picture him.

  It pained Archenon to know his father would have had no recollection of his mother, let alone known of his existence. Ithriel had told Archenon of how she had erased his father’s memory after they had mated. The ability to wipe human memory was a talent possessed by all purebred Elves, though it had become an uncommon occurrence among the half-breeds as well. It thoroughly annoyed Archenon that he didn't possess that particular skill.

  He jerked his head up as someone knocked on the door.

  “Enter.”

  Pyralis, the High Queen’s most trusted advisor came in and stared at him with bright eyes. “No word yet.”

  Archenon stared back. Pyralis was a so-called wise man of Êvina—a wizard. Untidy silver hair brushed his shoulders, but his walnut-colored eyes, tinted with green, shone with wisdom and clarity. Despite his furrowed features, he left the impression of youth and vigilance. Even for a wizard, he should have died centuries ago. Only some extraordinary magic could be keeping him alive. Rhonja should have issues with Pyralis’s unnatural longevity, but she had never openly expressed any concerns about the matter to Archenon’s knowledge.

  “Why hasn’t she come to me? She knows I’m in pain. Why does she send you in her place?” Archenon’s words were a cold whisper in the room. He had grown fond of the old man over the course of his apprenticeship, but resentment toward Rhonja replaced the adoration he had held in his heart for so long.

  “I am sorry,” Pyralis said.

  Archenon’s mouth turned dry. “Me too.”

  Perhaps this was meant as punishment for his carelessness back when he had come into his powers. A sting of regret shot through Archenon as he recalled his actions and the fateful decision made for him when he was too young to have any say in the matter. If Rhonja continued to refuse to help his mother, he would have to find another way.

  A heap of scrolls lay on Archenon’s desk. Their contents included records of history and geography, and a number of scribbled spells. Archenon eyed his teacher. “Do you know any spells to prevent death?”

  “I have heard of those summoning Night Mara, but…” Pyralis shook his head vehemently. “No! It’s far too dangerous. What you talk about is dark magic, my boy.”

  So there was a way! Archenon forced back a smile. “Please leave me.”

  Pyralis lingered in the doorway. “Spells of that nature always backfire. The consequences would be severe. Promise me you’ll let this matter go.”

  Archenon turned back to the window. He had no intention of heeding Pyralis’s advice, but he nodded. “Of course.”

  He locked the doors after Pyralis had left and closed the drapes. His eyes drifted to the desk. Scrolls flew across the room as he began his search. Nothing—not one word on dark spirits. Archenon sighed. Of course there would not be any here. There was only one place in the castle where he might find what he was looking for.

  Archenon moved stealthily through the castle when he left his chamber that night, careful not to be seen as he made his way to the Grand Library. Even in the dark of night, the white wood of the bookshelves and ghostly marble floors reflected any scrap of moonlight, illuminating the room with a soft light.

  Archenon’s eyes flickered back and forth between the balconies separating the countless bookcases and the double doors behind him. The library was empty apart from the thousands upon thousands of scrolls stacked on top of each other.

  The bookcases were marked, the categories of their contents carved with a gentle touch into the wood. Geography. Mythology. Fire. Air. None of which was right. Only one category might have what he was looking for. Archenon searched the scrolls in the section marked “Spirit.” There were hundreds of scrolls marked “Rhonja” with a number attached. It would not be in any of those, so he didn't bother to pay them any attention.

  He opened one scroll after another. Most of the information was familiar, but he could not find a single mention of Night Mara. Archenon grabbed a ladder and climbed to the balcony above, ready to tackle the next section.

  Something creaked down below. Archenon squatted behind the rails and peered around the room.

  An entire section of shelving marked “Fire” moved, gaping wide like a doorway, and a figure emerged. He removed his hood, revealing silver, shoulder-length hair. Archenon’s teacher turned his head this way and that as he strode across the room.

  “We must hurry,” Pyralis whispered.

  A smaller, rodent-like figure bounced on his hind legs before jumping onto Pyralis’s cloak and scurrying up to his shoulder, his large tail wrapping around the wizard’s neck. Pyralis and his companion quickly disappeared through the double doors leading out of the library.

  Archenon shook his head in puzzlement. Where had they come from?

  The wood creaked again as the hidden doorway from which they had come began to swing close.

  Without pausing to think, Archenon swung himself over the rail and slid down the ladder. He hit the floor with a thump and sprinted for the closing doorway. As he slipped inside, the door closed behind him.

  It was pitch black. Archenon muttered a couple of words, and a flame formed in the palm of his hand. The space where he stood looked nothing like the rest of the castle. The downward spiral staircase in front of him matched the obsidian stone walls. A musty smell crawled up his nose, and his throat clogged.

  He bit down on his lip and started descending the stairs. He had no idea how far he traveled, but eventually he reached the bottom and the opening to a tunnel.

  Archenon hovered at the entrance before him. He should not be taking any chances. He placed his free palm on the wall and muttered, “Traps, things hidden. S
how yourself. Visande dèj.”

  A ball of light shot through the tunnel and disappeared, leaving three glowing embers the size of his fist scattered ahead of him. Archenon took a step forward, and his foot kicked against a layer of loose gravel. He picked up a handful, placing most of it in his pocket before throwing one pebble at the ember in the middle of the tunnel floor. A surge of wind tugged at him as the floor cracked open, leaving a wide circle surrounded by stony spikes.

  Archenon sidled closer. The wind quickly picked up, forcing him back. Something like a small tornado whipped out of the crevice. He shielded his eyes as particles of dust scratched at his skin. Archenon pushed himself against the air current, but he was thrown back yet again. A sharp pain ran down his spine as his fall met the bottom steps of the stairwell.

  The storm continued to build. He had to get out. Nothing could stop a force of nature like this, which raged as if made by magic. No, it was magic.

  Everything in Aradria had a counterbalance. That was what Archenon had been taught. He must either fight the hurricane with extreme ice or, better yet, extreme heat. He rose to his feet, closed his eyes, and reached for the burning sensation always present in his veins.

  “Archanath,” he whispered.

  His skin flared like the sun, tendrils of flame leaking from his hands and licking their way down the tunnel to encase the walls.

  To his relief, the wind stilled and then died. Panting, Archenon slid to the floor. “Fria,” he said, allowing the flames to die down and his body to return to normal.

  He stepped forward, keeping a close watch on the remaining two embers still shining brightly from opposing walls further down the tunnel. The open pit still loomed before him as well. Archenon shuddered and allowed a single tendril of flame to escape his hand and slither into the crevice. The void never ended before he lost sight of the flame.