Mary Herbert - Winged Magic

Gaalney made no reply but followed Kelene and Demira along the road, past a stone wall and several piles of rubble, to the wide central square of the city. The huge open space in the very heart of Moy Tura had once been a market and gathering place for the entire community. Its broad expanse was paved with slabs of granite, and at its center, where the four main roads of the city converged, a tall, black obelisk towered nearly twenty feet into the air. Atop the obelisk hung a golden rayed sun, the emblem of the goddess Amara.

Kelene watched the Khulinin sorcerer gaze around at the city of his ancestors, and she saw the subtle shift of expression on his face, from awe to anger. It was a change she had witnessed on many magic-wielders’ faces. It would have been very difficult not to feel anything. The rage that had massacred an entire population still lay mutely evident in the shattered wreckage of the old square, where skeletons of walls and hollow foundations lined the open space.

The grand Sorcerers’ Hall showed the worst of the attackers’ fury, for its desecrated remains still had unmistakable signs of heat fractures and scorch marks from a large fire. It was known from the Korg’s tale that the attackers had thrown hundreds of bodies into the burning Sorcerers’ Hall—and Kelene believed it. Two hundred years had not been enough time in this semi-arid land to totally erase the bits of ash, remnants of bone, and the black stains of soot that still lay in the cracks and crevices of the ruined stones of the hall. She and Rafnir had made no attempt to restore any part of the old foundation.

But if the square had been the scene of tragedy, it was also the center of returning life—little to be sure, but life nonetheless. Turning away from the dead hall, Kelene pointed Gaalney toward a side street where he could see several restored buildings just off the square. At the corner of the street and facing the square was a house of some dignity, completely rebuilt, and gleaming in the sun like a pearl among dross. It was the house Kelene and Rafnir had chosen when they moved to Moy Tura. Broad, open, and airy, it was a comfortable abode for people used to living in cramped, movable tents. It had taken Kelene some time to adjust to the differences in housekeeping, but now she loved the house and called it home.

Gaalney’s tired face lightened when he saw it.

“There is a guest hall down that street,” Kelene told him. “You may leave your things there and clean up if you wish while I find Sayyed. Rafnir should be at outhouse for his midday meal. Join us there. If Veneg would like to rest, there is a stable by the guest hall or he can join the other horses out in the fields.”

Gaalney’s mouth lifted in his quirky smile. “Guest hall, huh? How many people do you have here?”

“Not enough,” Kelene replied honestly. “We built the guest hall for the people who visit but don’t want to stay. At the moment we have three historians from the Five Kingdoms, an architect from Pra Desh who is helping us learn to build, two bards, two healers, several exiles who are trying to earn their way back into the clans, and a priest from Clan Dangari. The rest of our residents, the permanent ones, equal all of eighteen.”

Gaalney grimaced at the cold numbers. Even he as a newcomer could see eighteen permanent residents—no matter how many guests they might have—were not nearly enough to make a viable colony. He spoke his thanks for her information and turned his stallion down the road to the guest hall.

Demira trotted across the square toward the Sorcerers’ Hall. Kelene did not need to tell her where to find Rafnir’s father. Sayyed had been going to the same area almost every free moment since he’d arrived nearly two years ago. The mare bypassed the old foundations, walked up the main road, and turned left into the ruinous streets west of the hall.

Before the Purge the area had been one of the finer residential neighborhoods in the city. While a few of the houses had been destroyed in the fire that consumed the hall, many other homes had simply been plundered and left to rot.

One day, out of curiosity, Sayyed decided to see what he could find in the crumbled ruins. Beneath the decay and rubble, he was fascinated to discover a wealth of artifacts from the golden age of Moy Tura, and most important of all, a few precious relics and scrolls left by the magic-wielders themselves. He had been excavating ever since.

While some visitors thought Sayyed’s work was rather frivolous compared to the rebuilding and everyday chores, Rafnir and Kelene found his self-appointed task invaluable. Useful items were kept by the colony, the magic relics were sent to Gabria, and the jewelry and rare items unearthed in good condition were readily traded by numerous clanspeople interested in their past or sold to merchants from Pra Desh who detoured from the main caravan routes to pay a visit to the city that had once been forbidden. The coin Sayyed raised went in turn to buy livestock and needed supplies for the tiny colony.

Magic-wielders though some of them were, the inhabitants of Moy Tura could not use magic to provide everything they needed. Living creatures like wool-bearing sheep or work horses could not be created, and unfamiliar things, such as carpentry tools or masonry equipment, could not be duplicated until they had some in hand to study. They also knew they could not function effectively if they used magic all the time. The gift of the gods was infinite, but mortals’ ability to use it was not. Wielding magic was exhausting and sometimes dangerous, and the sorcerers had long ago learned that physical labor combined with a judicious use of magic was the safest and most effective way to get a job done.

That morning Sayyed was relying on simple muscle to accomplish his task. Kelene and Demira found him in the roofless room of a once-luxurious house. Sunlight poured into the ruin, washing the fallen rock and rotting floor timbers with a warm, golden light. The young woman slid off her horse and poked her head through a large gap in the wall. She saw Sayyed carefully lifting chunks of stone one by one from a pile by the far wall. Hot from his labor, Sayyed had removed his tunic and wore only his leggings and leather boots.

Kelene grinned at his bronzed back. Still slim, erect, and vigorous at forty-four, Sayyed was handsome enough to attract most women. Just below middle height, he had a short, neatly trimmed beard and sharp, piercing black eyes.

Once his face and eyes had been filled with gaiety and mischievous good humor, until the plague struck the clans and claimed his beloved wife, Tam. Unable to bear the memories and sadness of her passing, he had left the Khulinin to live with his son and Kelene in Moy Tura. He had brought only Tam’s animals, his Hunnuli, and a fierce desire to bury his grief in hard manual labor. He had found plenty to do in the ruins of the city.

Several dogs and one white cat lounged around Sayyed, patiently waiting for his attention. The dogs wagged their tails in greeting to Kelene; the white cat lifted her head with its jewel-green eyes and meowed softly.

The sorcerer turned his head to welcome Kelene. They had grown close since she saved his life three years before, but Kelene sensed a deep, aching loneliness in her father-in-law that nothing yet had filled.

“Kelene, you’re back!” he exclaimed in a voice rich with excitement. “Come see what I found.”

The woman held on to her message a moment more and hurried to see what he had discovered.

“There’s an old chest under this pile,” Sayyed explained. “A good one from what I can see. It’s still intact.” He smiled, a flash of white beneath the dust and the black beard. The value of the objects did not interest him. He enjoyed uncovering the mysteries, learning the secrets of the past, discovering new items that might be useful. He had no idea what was in the chest he’d found, and he could not wait to find out.