Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

The more advanced students could do much more, and often competed for the most complex creations. As she walked through the garden she smiled and reached a hand out to caress the glassy petals of a rose. Made of ice, they had none of the softness of real flowers, but still they had the same delicate construction. A light flick of her finger would shatter the blossom, but Isaura refrained from doing the damage.

She turned from the bush that produced those flowers to another creation, which took on the form of a tree with outswept branches. It differed greatly from the bush, for that rosebush had been shaped by one of the students who had spent much of his life in the Southlands. He had seen rosebushes and was able to recall their details from life, which he then worked into his creation.

The tree, on the other hand, had been created by Corde, a woman barely older than Isaura herself. She’d been brought up as a babe from the south and had no memories of anything other than the Conservatory—at which her parents had studied until their deaths. Corde’s creation reflected her intelligence, as it had a tree’s shape but was formed from a lacey lattice of snowflakes. Each one of the snowflakes, which ranged in size from the palm of Isaura’s hand to something as large as a warrior’s shield, appeared to be unique. Moreover, if one peered closely at any one, it would be made up of smaller flakes, and they made up of smaller and smaller until Isaura could not detect them without the aid of magick.

Corde was one of Neskartu’s few students who began to get a glimmer of the true nature of magick. Her creation constantly shifted itself, as if the branches were swaying in an unfelt breeze. As Isaura drew closer to it, blossoms slowly opened, and in the flat blades of ice, Isaura’s image was magickally graven.

As wondrous as that tree was, it could have been so much more if Corde truly understood that magick was a river. The sorceress had been able to imbue her creation with a lot of energy, and energy from a very pure source, but there would be a point where that would be all used up. The tree would become nothing more than ice. Sunlight would evaporate branches and the winds would tear it apart.

Isaura turned away so as not to invite more displays of imagery from it and hasten its death, but not quickly enough. The image in the petals shifted from her to the face of the youth she had saved in Meredo. It showed him resting and no longer in pain, for which she rejoiced, and she hoped the image was not drawn from her memory but somehow reflective of him at the current time.

That confused her, her hope. She did not know who the youth was or why she had saved him. Yes, she had wanted to undo what Spyr’skara had done. She had not liked the way the Azure Spider looked at her, so frustrating him had given her pleasure. Even after her return to the inn and reunion with Vionna and Nefrai-kesh, when she learned that the new sullanciri had been slain, she did not regret having undone his work.

It was only after Nefrai-kesh had taken her and the pirate back home that she began to think more deeply about what she had done. The possibility that her action might have been the very betrayal her mother hinted at did not escape her. She should have felt horrified about that possibility, and she was—at first. But something had shielded her from regret.

She felt as if, somehow, she had been compelled to heal the youth. She had cast herself onto the river of magick and had allowed it to carry her wherever she was meant to go. It had sped her to him and, once there, helping him was imperative.

Isaura shook her head. She did not like at all the idea that she was not responsible for her actions. At the very least, she had been the one to abandon herself to magick, so everything that flowed from that decision was her fault. If she angered her mother by her actions, she had no one to blame but herself.

The problem was that she felt no shame. She could rationalize it through her knowledge that her mother never would have wanted to see a young innocent in such pain. But ultimately, her mother’s concerns were not her own. Isaura felt that what she had done was right. The other presence in the room had confirmed this. She was some part of a grander scheme, but she had chosen to act. That she had acted as she did felt right, but for the life of her she could not figure out why.

A hissing sound came to her ears and she looked up. A whirling cylinder of ice and snow drifted to and fro as it slowly wended its way into the garden. It dodged around the larger creations, then drifted past smaller, pausing as if to caress the harmless little animals. Once it had worked its way to the heart of the garden, it swirled over her and around her, and she spun, laughing, in its midst.

It drew away, then tightened and congealed into the form of an older man, with a beard and flowing hair, wearing simple garb complete with a furred cloak. His flesh remained translucent and flowed into a smile as his head came up. His hands worked through a series of gestures and punctuated them with a raised eyebrow.

Isaura bowed to him. “Yes, Drolda, I have been away, but no more. I am here again, my friend, and wish never to leave.”

He signed through the secret language they shared.

“The Southlands are strange, Drolda, as well you know.” She sighed. “There was much there I still do not understand.”

Drolda frowned as his finger wove through a question.

Isaura hesitated. “It is not so much that I am bothered. I am puzzled. Yes, puzzled.” She much preferred the idea of being puzzled rather than worried, because a puzzle could be solved.

His head spun around on his shoulders, so he seemed to be peering behind him at the snowflake tree. His head came all the way around, then he exhaled into a cloud that solidified into the youth’s image.

“Yes. He was hurt, gravely hurt. I saved him from poison, but I do not know who he was or why I saved him. He could have been an enemy whose life threatens that of my mother.“

Her friend’s expression soured. Drolda did not like her mother, but for reasons that had never been explained.

Isaura gave him a sad expression. “Do you know who that was?”

The rimeman shook his head, then shrugged, mitigating a portion of the denial. His hands formed a reply.

Isaura laughed. “Forces at play, you say? You are cryptic today, my friend. Gone are the days when you would delight me with simple antics and simple tales.”

The creature of ice caressed her shoulder lightly, then contorted his features into an absurd mask that was meant to make her laugh.

She did, but caught the distinct impression that Drolda was hiding something from her. Before she could inquire, however, he went to pieces as if a handful of powder snow in a gale, and she felt the cold kiss of some ice on her cheek. She had seen him disappear like that many times before, and it always betokened one thing. Though she could have turned and been waiting for them, she instead strode deeper into the garden.

“Princess, a moment please.”

She turned at Nefrai-kesh’s call. “Yes, my lord?”

The leader of the sullanciri stood beside Neskartu’s scintillating form. “In your mother’s absence, I am tasked with your safety. There is a situation in Okrannel that demands my attention.”

“Am I to accompany you, Lord Nefrai-kesh?”

Bands of blue streaked through the sullanciri ‘s white eyes. “Your company would be most welcome, Princess, and I would be honored by it. You would find Okrannel much to your liking. Vast tracts have been returned to their unsullied state. Alas, what I shall be doing would create hardship for you.”

Isaura frowned. Nefrai-kesh, above all the others, showed her respect. The rest of the sullanciri , save perhaps Myrall’mara, deferred to her out of fear of her mother. Myrall’mara, while respectful, tended to avoid her. Isaura did not mind their distance, for Myrall’mara always seemed sorrowful, and Isaura had never been able to reach past that sadness.