THE MAGICIAN 3.5 - THE FIREBRAND
By Matthew Weed and Suzanne Bickerstaffe
(matthew.weed@yale.edu, ecksphile@earthlink.net)
Winter-Spring 2001


Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter 00


Chapter Fifteen 



Margul rose late, the exhaustion and consequent illness that had 
attended the last few days on the road finally banished as a result 
of two nights' sleep. The trip had worn on Charla even more than 
on him, and he had been deeply concerned at her tremendous loss of 
weight near the end of the journey. The cold weather combined with 
her continuing efforts to speed their progress through the use of her 
magical talents had cost her greatly. Fortunately, the Manor's Healer 
and cooks were doing much to see her back to health, and the slumped 
posture and trembling hands that she had greeted him with on their 
first morning back were already gone.

A gentle tap at his door told him his servant, Takil, had left 
breakfast for them on the hearth, and was going to summon Charla for 
the morning meal. When she arrived a quarter of a candlemark later, 
Margul was just sitting down, preparing to serve both of them the 
hearty fare that was warming there.

"Good morning," he called out in response to her knock, allowing her 
to let herself in, as had become customary between them over the past
moon-cycles.

"Morning," she replied, as she moved quickly across the room toward 
the table. 

Margul was pleased to see that at least some of her characteristic 
vigor was, finally, in evidence this morning. "I trust you slept well?"

"Yes, thank you," she responded, sitting across the low table from 
him, her long legs crossed before her.

"Good," Margul said. "I have been worried about you."

"I know," she said softly, reaching across the table to squeeze his 
hand before turning to her food. "I was exhausted when we reached 
Randock, and the long trip thereafter was, in retrospect, too much for 
me to take. Much as I have practice at it, maintaining a false image 
and concealing my aura is exhausting, as the spell must be continually 
recast in order to ensure that it remains in place."

Margul sighed. "I suspected as much. You should have told me carrying 
on in that way was tiring you. We could have arranged things differently, 
or I could have delayed our return across the lake for a couple of days 
while you got some rest. As exhausted as you obviously were, our 
return to the Manor itself could have been delayed long enough to 
allow you to regain your strength."

"Thank you for carrying me in and seeing to me," she said quietly, 
unable to meet his concerned gaze. The need to thank him for his 
help and the concern that it implied was in deep conflict with her 
desire to deny any weakness. Only three days before, she had been 
so enervated by the trip that she had collapsed on the quay-side, only 
moments after exiting the ice-boat that had brought them across the 
deeply frozen lake.   

"I was glad to do it," he replied in the same soft tone. "After all 
you have done for me recently, it was the least I could do. Having 

you here has been a tremendous joy." More energetically, he continued, 
"And I am truly looking forward to the Spring and the challenges it 
will provide. After the last few weeks, I'm quite sure we will succeed 
against Dordinal. The minor Houses are all in support, and although 
Ghalbar hasn't returned as yet, I fully expect his journey has also 
been successful. He is quite the diplomat, and if anyone could 
convince the trolls and the northern Houses-- "

"If they exist," Charla interjected, not fully sure they did, in spite 
of her extensive travels throughout the Realm.

"--yes, if they exist," agreed Margul, before continuing his thought, 
"I'm sure that he can convince them to take part if they are able."

"I hope so," Charla replied quietly as she served herself another 
helping of the thick elven soup that had come with their meal.

"Don't worry yourself over-much about that, or anything else." 
Margul said, injecting some false confidence into his voice. "Whether 
we succeed against Dordinal or not, I am sure I will be able to make 

an arrangement with the King where your problems are concerned. He 
knows well that he cannot afford for Forst to be subsumed by Dordinal, 
as it would too seriously threaten his rule. If we lose, Forst will 
have need of a Mage capable of defeating Dordinal's armies. It is 
in Andalor's interest to have you stay as much as it is in mine."

Charla was not so sure, and after the peace of the past few months, 
was truly terrified of the possibility of being forced to leave her 
home again. "I hope that you are right in what you say," she said. "For
Reinald is very close to the King, and I fear the damage that his 

influence could do to my case. It is a sad truth that my survival away
from this place -- and more importantly, away from you," she said, her 
voice and manner softening with this admission, "-- would be 
impossible. I need what you have given me too much to be able to do 
without it again."

"Then know well that I will not let you leave," Margul promised, his 
voice soft with emotion. He reinforced his words with a gentle touch, 
his long fingers sliding down her arm, their hands finally becoming 
tightly entwined. "I would never let you come to harm. I would see
myself dead first.... Charla, I must tell you-- "

Before things could go further, there was a loud pounding on the door.
Margul glared at it, not wanting to stop a process that he had long
desired, and which he had not believed might be possible. However, 
the business of the manor came first, and he had to put his personal
aspirations aside in favor of the needs of his family.  

"Enter!" Margul called, releasing Charla's hand as he did so.

Moments later, Ghalbar filled the door, his heavy outer clothing 
covered with the snow that was falling outside.

"I am glad to see you back," Margul said, though his tone 
understandably lacked the enthusiasm he otherwise might have 
shown. He moved quickly to the hearth to make tea.

"As I am glad to be back," Ghalbar said, waving off the mug Margul 
offered. "I just wanted to tell you we had returned, and all in the 
party are well."

"Good," Margul said, as he placed the unused cup of tea on the 
mantlepiece. "In that case, be sure to join us in the council chamber 
in two candlemarks. We will discuss your news, and Charla and I will 
tell you of our adventures."

"Understood. I will see you then," he said, waiting for Margul's 

permission to leave. At his elder's wave, the younger man ducked 
through the door. 

Moments later, the thump of booted feet on the stone staircase faded 
away, only to be replaced with the rustle of soft cloth behind him.
Margul spun round, chagrined to see Charla standing by the table, 
obviously preparing to leave.

"His return should not be a sign for you to depart," Margul said 
softly in protest. He had hoped they could return to the special 
place they had occupied only moments earlier.

"No," Charla agreed, "however I must prepare for the meeting and I am 

sure that you need to do so as well."

"My preparations will not take two candlemarks, and I would be glad 
of your company," he pressed.

"As I would be of yours," she said, though her eyes did not meet his,
"but I must go to my apartment and take another healing treatment 
before the council, which will doubtless be long and wearying. The 
Healer has been very specific where my care has been concerned, 
and I would hate to disappoint her now."

"So would I," Margul said with a deep sigh, realizing that the battle 
had, yet again, been lost.

Charla moved past him, her fingers barely touching his sleeve as she
passed. "I will be in the old council chamber in two candlemarks," she
said softly, her words barely registering on Margul as she stepped 
through the door. 

Only when the loud thump of its closure reverberated through the room 
did Margul shake himself out of his lethargy. He stepped across to the 
mantlepiece where he had left Ghalbar's tea. He intended to collect 
the mug and set it on the tray, ready for Takil's return. However, 
touching the mug, he was suddenly reminded of the hope for 
a more complete relationship with Charla that had been reborn during 
their conversation. He had been on the brink of confessing his love for 
her. Another candlemark might have seen them break new ground, pass 
into uncharted territory. This hope had been smashed by Ghalbar's 
ill-timed entrance. 

Margul shook his head bitterly. Time didn't seem to change anything. 
In their youth it had been the same. Just as Margul was coming into 
manhood, and finally realizing the depth and character of his feelings 
for Charla, her magic abilities had come between them.  She had 
welcomed his friendship, certainly, but gave no hint that she would 
welcome something more. How could she? He knew well Mages 
did not succumb to the needs and desires of the flesh, those same 
desires that rushed through his veins in a torrent. Then, just as he 
had worked up the courage to dare her to break with convention, to 
turn her back on her abilities and instead claim the love he offered,
Fate had stepped in. Whether it was coincidence, or indeed Ian 
suspected Margul's intentions, the old Householder ordered Charla
to Fairwoods to commence her Mage training in earnest. What prompted 
Ian's action didn't matter, as the effect was the same - to shatter the 
young man's hopes of ever having the woman he loved.

Only when the sound of shattering pottery broke through his turbulent
emotions did Margul realize he had thrown the offending mug against 
the wall. As he watched the brown liquid trickle down the whitewashed 
stones, he felt his hopes for a future with the only woman he had ever 
loved trickle away as well.

*	*	*	*

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she knocked determinedly on the
thick, iron-bound door. 

The Royal Mage himself opened it. "Ah, Shannon. Good. We're ready 
for you."

The rain drummed at the tall windows and the light coming in was
pale and cold. Illumination of the room came from the fireplace and
the torches flickering in their sconces set into the wall. Tarnor and
Hannu stood by the roaring fire, flexing their arms and fingers,
warming up for the exertions to come. The armchairs and other
furniture had been moved back into the center of the chamber,
clearing a wide space in front of the hearth, save for one small 
table.

"Now, you have not eaten breakfast, correct? It might not make a
difference, in fact it probably does not, but I always feel sharper
when my stomach is empty. And every little edge we give ourselves
can't but help, eh, my dear?" Reinald was doing his best to alleviate
the girl's anxiety, but his uncharacteristic chatter served only to
communicate his own.

"Reinald, it's okay. I'm ready for this. Now where shall I stand?"
Her voice was low and controlled, her manner calm and confident.

"Over by the fire, my dear, about three meters away from it and next
to the table, if you please."

"Lady Shannon, stand over here just for a moment," Tarnor called.
He climbed onto a chair, holding a long strip of something. "Yes,
that's right. This is my own contribution to the spell. This is some
leather binding from an old history book. I took it apart and sewed
the strips together myself, chanting incantations as I did so. Ah,
that's right, that's it," he murmured, wrapping the strip around her
head and tying it tightly. Pulling his Mage robes away from his knobby
legs, he hopped off the chair. "Gentlemen, I do believe we're ready."

As Reinald extinguished the torches, Hannu approached and embraced
his daughter. "Do not be afraid," he said softly, as much to encourage
himself as Shannon.

"I'm not," she replied, seriously. "I don't know why I'm not, but I'm
not."

"Very well. Shannon in the center, please," the Royal Mage said. He
lit the solitary candle on the small table. "Quiet, now."

They stood silent for several long moments, so silent that Shannon
swore she could hear all of their hearts beating, as the Mages
grounded and focused their thoughts. Then, as one, they began to
chant. It went on for some time, though less than the candlemark that 
it seemed to her. Tarnor left the circle briefly and, still deep in 
chant, returned with a large book which he handed to Shannon. From
little leather pouches strung from their waists, the Mages took pinches 
of multicolored powder, sprinkling it over the book and the girl's 
head as blue-white sparks danced from their fingertips. The powder 
made her nose itch, and she held her breath for a moment, afraid to 
disturb the Mages' concentration and ruin the spell with an ill-timed 
sneeze.

After another lengthy incantation, Hannu broke the circle to return
with an earthenware jar of glue. Carefully, he placed it on top of the
book, and placed Shannon's left hand on top of the gluepot. Then the
Mages joined hands, arms as high in the air as Tarnor's stature would
allow, and the chant grew louder and more insistent. Rings of
iridescent color encircled the group, throwing rainbow-hued shadows
onto the whitewashed walls. Very gradually, their voices diminished in
volume and the rings faded, finally disappearing altogether when their
hands dropped and the last syllables of the chant were uttered.

No one moved for several moments. Then the circle broke up as the
Mages pushed the armchairs back to the hearth and dropped into them
gratefully.

Shannon was almost finished making a potful of restorative tea when
there was a tentative knock on the door. Andalor poked his head in. "I
don't hear chanting. Is it over? Did you do it?"

"That we did, Your Majesty," Tarnor said tiredly. "Come sit and have 
some tea with us."

Andalor took a seat by the hearth, fingers drumming in impatience,
ready to scream the question that had been burning in his mind since
well before first light. 

Shannon passed around mugs of tea and sat next to her fiance.

"Well?" he demanded finally.

She flashed him a grin. "I don't know if the spell worked or not," she
admitted, "but I remember my lessons from last week -- King Leviath
and his wife Queen Mima, and their six sons. So at least I'm no worse
off than I was, and that's the main thing."

The Mages exhaled in relief. "Well, no point putting it off, I 
suppose," declared Reinald. He got to his feet and chose a volume at
random from one of the bookshelves nearby. Trembling slightly --
whether from nerves or fatigue, no one could tell -- he handed it to
Shannon. "Choose a page, read it to yourself, then give the book to
Andalor."

They held their collective breaths as the girl silently read a page of
the old tome on magic theory. At last she handed the open book

to the King and began reciting from memory. "The material elements 
of any spell have a dynamic effect on the results. One of the foremost 
Mages of his day, Manioc of Fairwoods Glens, wrote during the reign of 
King Dulas: "The choice of material elements is as consequential to 
the finished spell as the words and the intentions of the casters-- " 
She got no further when a whoop of joy went up around the room.

The Mages sprang to their feet, hugging each other and clapping each 

other on the back. Andalor swept Shannon into a tight embrace, and 
they luxuriated in the unaccustomed chance to be physically close.

Finally, the celebrating and congratulations ended, and the group
dropped back into their chairs, smiling.

"You know now what you must do, Shannon," Hannu told his daughter 
gravely. "Read every book you can get your hands on, especially those 
dealing with material that is troublesome for you -- the history, the 
customs, the Old Realm language and the rituals you will have to know 
by heart."

"I will, Dad. Mages, thank you all. I think I can really do it now. I 
think I can pass Ballorca's Ritual, because of what you've done for 
me."

"And you also have the thanks of a grateful King," Andalor said 
earnestly.

"But what I must do right now," Shannon declared, "is eat! I'm 
famished!"


The group laughed. In truth, none of them had had much of an appetite 
in the preceding days. Suddenly, Tarnor's stomach grumbled alarmingly,
and his faced flushed a deeper gray in embarrassment.

Andalor chuckled. "Well, I am going to bring Shannon down to the 

kitchens, where she will no doubt consume a very unladylike amount 
of food. Can I have Lita bring up a tray for you Mages?"

"Yes!" cried Tarnor. "I am hungrier than a troll!"

Still grinning and feeling much more lighthearted than they had in 
moon-cycles, the young lovers left, hand in hand.

The smiles on the faces of the tired Mages slowly faded. Hannu voiced
the question all of them were thinking but had not asked. "So -- how 
long do you think it will last?"

Reinald shrugged. "That remains the one unknown. It may last only a 
day, it may be with the girl the rest of her life. We have no way of 
knowing. We must take each day as it comes, and Shannon must 
work even harder than she has already, wasting no time while she
is still under the effects of the spell."

"Now that we know the spell poses no danger, perhaps we can 
experiment with it on ourselves," Tarnor said thoughtfully. "It may 
well be renewable -- many spells can be cast over and over with great 
effect."

"And others will work one time only," Hannu reminded him. "But I 
agree with your idea. Now that the recovery spell is unnecessary, 
we can devote ourselves to experimenting with this spell, refining it.
Determining how long it will be in effect. And if our fears are 
realized -- that one day Shannon will awake and discover her new-found 
abilities have deserted her -- perhaps we will be able to recast 
this spell. Or perhaps we can conjure a more effective version of it."

"The vital point is that knowledge of our uncertainty concerning the life
of the spell must be kept from Shannon," Reinald said grimly. "If she as
much as suspected that the spell would not be there to assist her, it
would destroy any confidence she has in her ability to pass the Ritual."
He sighed. "We will do all we can. But ultimately, it is in the hands of
the Goddess."

*	*	*	*

Ghalbar was the last to enter the chamber, and Margul was glad 
he had regained his focus and rationality after the outburst whose
effects still marred the wall of his study. Unaware of the scene that 
had preceded his entrance, Ghalbar did not deserve his elder's fury, 
and Margul was glad that the young man had not been there to witness 
his unreasoning loss of control.

"I want to keep this session short, as all of us have been drained by 
our recent travels," he said, as soon as Ghalbar had settled into his 
seat. "Our discussions, I am told, have all been successful, but I 
would like for all to hear what has happened over the past moon-
cycle."

"I agree," Charla said from the seat at Margul's left. "But as you and 
I know our own accomplishments well, I would like to hear of Ghalbar's 
party first."

At his Householder's nod, Ghalbar rose, supporting himself with a 
hand pressed on the top of the great marble table that dominated 
the council chamber. This table was every bit as impressive as that 
which Andalor used in the royal council chamber, and served as yet 
another reminder to House Forst of its by-gone glory.

"As we agreed, I went north to speak with the trolls, and procure 
supplies from them. I was successful on this account and was able 
to get a fair price for the items that I purchased. I was also able to 
confirm the continued existence of the northern Houses and hired a 
troll Mage to act as guide on the journey."

At this point he turned toward Charla, a wry smile on his face. "I 
should never have agreed to allow my cousin Margul to keep you with 
him. The road was dangerous and the troll Mage, who was far from your 

equal, was nearly overmatched by the weather and the other hazards 
that beset us for the five days it took to reach the valley where the 
northern Houses have settled. Considering what I had to pay the Mage, 
I would have been sorely disappointed had things not gone well while 
I was there."

"Well I, for one, am glad that I had Charla with me, and pleased that 
you were able to make a successful journey without her assistance," 
Margul said. He noted with pleasure that the younger man now felt 
comfortable around a woman whose presence had frightened him badly 
only a few short moon-cycles before.

"As am I," Ghalbar agreed before going on. "The road-- in truth a narrow
path that clings to the cliff faces at the sides of many deep gorges-- is
beset with rock slides and other hazards that the troll Mage suggested 
to me might have been created by Mages long past. I do not know why 
the northern Houses blockaded themselves in their upland fortresses 
so long ago, but whatever their problems were then, they are now beset 
by raiders from lands with no allegiance to, and little awareness of, 
the Realm. The northerners' numbers have been badly reduced over 
the past few season-cycles, and they said they were unwilling to 
support us without certain guarantees in return."

"What guarantees?" Margul demanded. He knew simply finding the 
northern Houses was miracle enough, but he was still concerned by 
Ghalbar's words.

"They were obviously interested in what I had to say. Though poor and 
far less powerful than they must once have been, they maintain the 
fires of hatred against Dordinal. They are afraid, however, of their own 
enemies, and asked us to agree to support them in their campaigns 
once ours is done."

"Reasonable," responded Randock. He had come south to await Ghalbar's 
return and make final preparations for the work that he, and the other 
lords who allied themselves with Forst, would have to do in order to be 
ready for the upcoming events.


"I thought so, too, and agreed quickly enough," Ghalbar replied. He 
barely recognized the older noble from the visits he had paid to Ian, 
before the now-deceased Householder took Ghalbar and other young men 
to Fairwoods Keep to add to Forst's contingent there. However, if 
Margul had managed to convince this crusty old man to support him in 
what was to come, Ghalbar was sure that the other landholders had 
probably agreed to throw their lots in with Forst as well. "I also told 
them that if they captured any of their traditional lands and if the 
people there were willing to swear allegiance to them, we would 
support their claims against Dordinal before the King."

"This would certainly seem for the best," Charla said. "After all, the
chance to return to their traditional lands will be a great motivator 
for them, and will open a second front on which Dordinal will have 
to defend itself."

"That is what the leader of the northerners said to me once I had 
made the suggestion. Needless to say, they are very excited by the 
chance to gain vengence against Dordinal and possibly return to the 
homes that they remember as being far more than they actually are."

"Good!" Margul declared. "This is all that we can ask of them for now, 
and later, if things go well for us here, I will be pleased to take a 

party north to help them evacuate their temporary homes and return to 
the Realm. I have always wanted to see the northern lands, but as Ian 
was told that the journey there is as perilous as your path was, I was 
not allowed to go. That was the only part of the Realm -- save 
Dordinal's lands around Hotsprings -- that I did not visit when I was a 
young man, and spent two season-cycles learning about the ways of the 
beings of the Realm." Charla did not miss the note of wistfulness in
his words and determined to ask him about his adventures as soon as 
she could. 

"The rest you know," Ghalbar said with a sigh. "We were fortunate to
return here with no losses, though it may be spring before I feel warm
again. I am sure that our presence in the troll lands will be reported 
to the other Houses when the roads become passable in the Spring, but 
there seemed nothing that could be done to prevent this."

"I agree," Margul said. "We can not control things beyond our lands 
as tightly as we would wish. You have done well on this mission, and 
I thank you for the service that you have rendered your family."

"My thanks for your praise," Ghalbar said, returning to his seat with a
relieved sigh. With this, the assembly's attention turned to Margul's 
part of the mission.    

"Most of you already know what Charla and I have been able to 
accomplish. I have asked Randock to organize the landholders and 
bring their forces to us, so that we may depart on the third twin full 
moon of planting season. This will give us four moon-cycles to 
complete our campaign against Dordinal, though all of you must 
know that our best hope lies in a lightning-quick strike against our 
enemy. We must remove them from Cresscreek and then push on to 
Hotspring as quickly as we can. If we are lucky, we will get to the 
seat of Dordinal by the end of the Spring trading festival. Hegan 
has promised them the safest and most profitable festival in a 
thousand season-cycles, and I intend to make him eat that promise 
just before he tastes my sword," Margul vowed darkly.

"Here, here," the small group around the table cried.

"But before that, there is much to think about and even more to do."
Margul said. "You already know your tasks, so see them through and I
promise you I will mount Hegan's head in the place of prominance our 
ancestors gave to the greatest of their vanquished enemies. Fail this 
House in its time of need, and we will be the ones whose heads lie 

rotting on the fields of Dordinal's ill-gotten empire."    


End of Chapter Fifteen


THE MAGICIAN 3.5 - THE FIREBRAND
By Matthew Weed and Suzanne Bickerstaffe
(magician@galaxy.med.yale.edu, ecksphile@earthlink.net)
Winter 2000-2001

Disclaimers and Acknowledgements in Chapter 00

Chapter Sixteen


The rolling thunder of the traders' caravans made clear the fact that 
the Spring trading season was now in full swing. Beings of all shapes 
and sizes moved about the great marketplace, the vibrant center of 
activity in a rebuilt Hotspring. Already it had regained its prominent 
place as primary trading center of the northeastern corner of the 
Realm, only ten season-cycles after its destruction in the attack of 
the dark armies. The invasion of the evil hoards caused the death or 
departure of more than half of the beings whose ancestors made 
this place a center of trade, culture and activity for nearly a 
thousand season-cycles. That period of peace and tranquillity had 
begun at the time of the arrival of the great family at Dordinal, which 
protected and nourished this place in hopes that some day it would 
become their capital.

Larka, who became the mayor of Hotspring when its last mayor died 
during the invasion, watched happily as activity in the marketplace 
continued to increase as the traders went about the business of 
setting up their stalls. The fact that so many were from the south 
was encouraging. The previous Autumn's festival was marred by the 
continuing violence and disruptions that racked the Realm after the 
defeat of The Dark Queen. Beyond the range of the normal patrols 
of the King's Guard, the fires of revenge smoldered and bloodshed 
continued. Now that Dordinal's new Householder had promised 
protection for traders and their wares, there was hope that normalcy 
would return.

As the day passed Larka began to realize that something wasn't quite 
right with the traders and their caravans. It took him some time to 
pinpoint the cause of his unease. In the old days, the caravans were 
enormous processions whose arrival could be foretold candlemarks 
before they actually passed the gates of the town, so great was the 
noise and dust they created on the roads. But the incoming convoys 
were smaller than he had expected, and the traders less boisterous 
than normal. Only after too many of these too-small caravans passed 
before him did it become obvious that many had suffered greatly on 
their trip north.  

Much as he might want to find out what was happening on the roads, 
he would have to wait until the merchants could be welcomed to the 
village later that evening before making any specific inquiries about 
the difficulties that had arisen. He already heard from Darman and 
the other innkeepers that the merchants who arrived early reported 
much brigandage, and he feared that Hegan's promise of protection 
would prove illusory, as Marvick's promises had before his death. 
The rumor that the merchants were threatening to stop coming to 
market if trade continued to be dangerous worried him greatly.

The town's marketplace was an important source of income for the
innkeepers and others who chose to return shortly after the armies 
from the Dark Place had been defeated. He knew that if the caravans 
stopped coming... Sweet Goddess! It didn't bear thinking about. The 
caravans and the trade they brought were the lifeblood of the region 
at large, even if Hotsprings had other sources of income. Without the 
traders, and the activity that they brought, many towns would have to 
be abandoned. The people would have to go elsewhere -- to parts of 
the Realm where they would have little chance of finding either soup 
or succor for themselves or their families. Thousands were still 
homeless or barely able to feed themselves as a result of the Dark 
Queen's wrath.

The comings and goings of the nobles at Dordinal would never be 
enough to ensure the innkeepers and smiths of Hotsprings itself a 
safe and reliable livelihood. Worst of all, impassable roads would 
mean that those who came to enjoy the town's hot and purportedly 
healthful springs wouldn't be able to come either. These were the 
main source of income for the town, and if they stopped coming, 
the loss of trade would be disastrous.      

Larka turned away from his worries with a deep sigh knowing that 
he could do nothing to lighten them. He knew that he could only 
continue about the process of organizing the traders who had managed 
to survive whatever travails had faced them on the road. 

*    *    *    *   

Margul strode into the great hall of the manor, his plan to break 
Dordinal ready to launch onto his unsuspecting enemies. Unfortunately,
there were too many risks, too many weaknesses and too many 
unknowns. However, Darliss had given him no time to repair the 
problems that still beset his plans, and he would simply have to trust 
in the Goddess to provide the things that his forces needed in order 
for them to meet success. 

Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed as Ghalbar joined him. The 
young man had risen from obscurity to his current position as a result 
of his intelligence, diplomatic skill, observant nature and bravery. 
Margul was very glad that he had come back to the family seat the 
previous autumn. Without this good fortune, much of what he now 
knew and planned to do would never have come to pass.

He was pleased by the nearly three hundred young men and women 
who filled the great chamber to overflowing, their green cloaks and 
their weapons making it clear that these were, indeed, the best 
warriors that money, personal charisma, and family loyalty could 
obtain. It was a smaller force than he had hoped to field, but with 
trouble already brewing on the roads in the North, these warriors 
would be enough to tip the balance of power in that region once and 
for all.

A silence fell as he took his place. 

"Warriors," he said quietly, his voice amplified by magical aids, 
"it is time to begin the work of cleansing our land of the weaklings 
and filth who have ensured that for too many years the alien cabal 
at Dordinal have been able to lord their power and position over 
Houses such as ours." The roar of approval from his listeners made 
it impossible for him to speak.

As soon as the room quieted, he continued. His words allowed those
who had been collected over the past moon-cycles to glimpse into 
the mind and heart that he had kept so carefully guarded from all 
but a few.

"It is now time for those of us in this room to repair the mistakes of

history, and throw Darliss and the rest of Dordinal back into the sea 
from whence they came. As you know, Dordinal has plotted to take 
Cresscreek from us, continuing a plan to strip us of all the lands 
our ancestors won from the woods thousands of season-cycles ago. 
I, for one, shall not permit this, and know that you will support me in 
defending our family's property." 

A thunderous roar of agreement rose from those standing in the room. 
Margul smiled to see his message take root in these hot-blooded 
young people.

"You know well that Dordinal has already taken possession of 
Cresscreek as a result of Darliss' treacherous bargain."

Booing and hissing filled the room, and Margul bit back a grin, 
knowing that whether the plan succeeded or failed, his foolish 
aunt would never walk these corridors again.
  
"Our first goal will be to retake the town," Margul said, and the young
nobles standing throughout the room cheered wildly, waving  bows 
and swords over their heads.

"Our second goal is the one that will bring glory, honor and great 
wealth to all of you, and I look forward to accomplishing it 
immediately after." He allowed a moment's pause to heighten the 

tension in the room before he went on. "As you know, the great 
Spring festival opens at Hotsprings tomorrow, and it is my intention 
to make sure that by its end we, not Dordinal, will hold the town. In 
this, we will be aided by the brigands, whose privations have bled 
the strength of Dordinal since last Fall. These brigands are neither 
our responsibility nor our long-term allies, but their activity and 
apparent numbers will help us as we strike a blow against our 
enemies." 

Heads nodded throughout the room, particularly those belonging to 
the younger nobles who had volunteered en mass to join Margul's 

forces. After all, they knew the ways of the nobles at Dordinal, many 
of whom they had fought against as honor demanded at Fairwoods. 
They knew that such a mighty blow, struck at a time when Dordinal 
was still deeply split by factionalism and strife, would light anew 
the fires of intranescine conflict that still threatened to tear it 
apart. 

Noticing the hotheads' sentiments, Margul smiled, glad that all was 
going as he had so meticulously planned.

"When done, we can simply wait for Dordinal to rip itself apart, and 
then fall on what remains of their forces, retaking what once was 
ours, and gaining new territory in the process."

A young warrior who was not of the House rose and, as Margul knew 
must happen, asked the most obvious question concerning the plan.

"My Lord," he said diffidently. "This is a great and terrible plan, and
if it works will benefit mercenaries like me, ready to fight for a good 
day's wages, as much as it will you in this House. However, I do not 
see, with the forces we have arrayed in this room, how we will 
accomplish all that you intend."

Margul nodded. "You are right," he admitted frankly. "Normally, such a 
small force could not overcome Dordinal's wealth and resources. But 
you forget that one of the Realm's most powerful Mages stands with us, 
and will, I'm sure, have much to say concerning the battle and its 
likely outcome." 

"I can see that this might make a difference," the man said, "but Dordinal
has Mages of its own who can take the field."

At this, Charla, who was standing at the back of the room, spoke for 

herself, her voice soft and yet commanding in the sudden silence.

"They may have Mages, but they will first have to deal with me, and 
will be utterly unprepared for what I know and what I will be able to 
do to help you in your fight. There is no chance...." she said firmly, 
the fact that she was not as sure of herself as it appeared never 
showing on her face, "that their powers will be a match for mine, 
nor their soldiers' valor will match your weapons' effects. More 
than this you need not know, and," she said as her voice rose in 
volume, "you should not ask."


With this, the young man decided that he knew what he needed to, 
and sat down. Whether Charla could defeat Dordinal's Mages or not, he
would certainly risk more than he wished to if he dared question her
further.

"You now know all that you must," Margul continued. "We shall take to 
the boats this evening, and will, barring unforeseen circumstances, 
stand outside of Cresscreek ready to take it by the dawn of the day 
after the morrow. At that point you will get your final orders and 
whatever assistance Charla feels you will need for the forthcoming 
battle. Until I see you then, I wish you a safe journey, silent 
footsteps and most importantly, tight lips," he said, his eyes locking 
with Charla's before her gaze swept the room. 

Cowed by this far from subtle message, the warriors began their 
preparations for the forthcoming campaign.   

*     *     *     *

What if? What if? The looking glass held no answers, merely reflecting
back the worried features of the attractive girl. Her eyes squeezed 
shut. I can do this, she vowed. I will do this, she demanded of 
herself.

The weeks and moon-cycles had rocketed past in a blur. Every waking
moment were spent in study, in drills, in quizzing. Even sleep promised 
no respite, as the Realm kings and queens of ages past cavorted 
through her dreams. And all too often she would awaken, sweating and 
trembling, to Ballorca's nightmare words pronouncing her unfit to be 
Queen, unfit to marry her beloved Andalor.

True, Andalor had promised he would marry her anyway. But that
wasn't good enough for him, Shannon thought miserably. What chance
would their marriage stand if it came at the cost of his kingdom? She
knew he meant his promise, and she knew he'd keep it. She loved
him all the more because of it. But his lifetime of training, of
discipline, of denial would be for nothing. Keeping his promise could
result in the destruction of their marriage, the Realm and of Andalor
himself. No. If she could not pass the Ritual of Readiness, she truly
wouldn't be worthy of him. It wouldn't be right, she thought, and I
don't think I could live with that burden of guilt.

But staying in the Realm, trying to make a life for herself was no
solution. Shannon knew that despite intense pressure - and possibly
because of it - Andalor would never agree to betrothal with another
woman. If she stayed in the Realm, she was certain that Andalor
would eventually wear her down. Some day, when she was lonely
and frightened, she would accept his proposal, and in doing so bring 
disaster to them all.

So the alternative was clear. If she failed, she would have to leave
the Realm. She would ask the Mages and Professor Neumann to create
the vortex one last time, the vortex that would bring her back forever
to Mulder and Scully and to their world. Shannon's eyes grew moist and
she quickly blinked back the tears.

Funny. She didn't think of her birthplace as 'her world' anymore. Her
place was here in the Realm, in Fairwoods, by Andalor's side. All
right, she thought. I'll do it. I'll show that fussy, overstuffed jerk
of a Protocol Minister that I'm good enough. I *will* pass. I *have*
to.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Andalor entered,
leaving the door open out of habit for decorum's sake. His mood was
subdued. "Shannon, it's almost time. I thought maybe... maybe we could
talk?"

She stood, brushing the wrinkles from the rough cloth of her plain
beige dress. It had been sewn by her own hands, the traditional dress
of the woman who would be Queen. Custom held that the prospective
Queen, even the wealthiest and highest-born of nobles, would be
attired in plain, unassuming garb. The purpose was twofold -- so that
the new Queen be reminded of the poorest of her subjects, and to
underscore the fact that it was only the results of the Ritual that
mattered. Money and position would not elevate her to the throne if
she failed the test. Tonight, Shannon would sleep in a wing of the
Castle cleared of any other occupants, left to whatever mental,
emotional and spiritual preparations she could make for the all-
important ritual the following day. She had been waiting for Ballorca
to escort her when the knock came at the door. "Where do you want
to talk? Ballorca may come at any time, and-- "

He smiled and held out his hand. "We have close to two candlemarks.
Come. It's a beautiful night. Let's go up on the battlements."

Silently they traversed the corridors and climbed the stairways. On 
the way, Andalor could not help but cast his mind back to his 
conversation with the Mages almost a moon-cycle before. They had 
been a grim-faced lot, gathered for comfort and warmth around the 
hearth. Try as they might, the Mages were unable even to replicate the 
spell they had cast on Shannon, much less refine and improve it. 
They reproduced it in every detail, every utterance and gesture, 
but it had no effect whatsoever. The only difference was that there were 
only two Mages casting it, with Hannu as the intended recipient. 
Unfortunately, there was no other Mage whom they trusted enough to 
include, as the reason for their work could be discovered. Foiled 
in their attempt to recast the spell, they looked anxiously to Shannon 
for signs that their spell might be waning, but the girl was 
cheerfully plowing her way through every volume of Realm lore she 
could get her hands on. Regretfully, the Mages concluded that the 
spell would last as long as the Goddess wished, and no longer.

They finally passed through the final archway and onto the battlements.
Shannon gasped. A billion stars and the twin full moons glittered in 
the sky as if displaying their splendor solely for the young couple. 
Her eyes roamed the walls, flickering to the empty sentry towers. 
"Andalor! Where is everyone, all the guards?"


The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. "Aldara thought this
might be a good time to brief them on some uniform changes, and have
them measured by the Castle seamstresses."

"Oh she did, did she? And did a certain Royal Personage suggest
something of the sort to her?" Shannon grinned broadly at her fiance.

He looked at her in mock indignation, then smiled and shook his head.
"No, I was as surprised as anyone. In fact, I'm beginning to believe
that I am surrounded by conspirators. Reinald and Livirnea at this
very moment are speaking to the - ahem! - fine, upright dowagers
who serve as our chaperones, on what subject I have no idea. And
Hannu himself suggested this might be an opportune moment for us
to spend a bit of time together."

"Certainly looks like a set-up," Shannon agreed. "What's over there?"

"Right this way, my beloved." Andalor held out his arm, and giggling,
Shannon took it. They went to the furthest corner of the battlements,
where a small table had been laid. Andalor helped her into a chair as
Lita arrived, carrying a tray.

"Eat up, chicks. You must both keep up your strength." With a
flourish, she uncovered all the dishes and platters, and began filling
their plates with some of the most prized delicacies of the land.

"There. See that you eat, now. I will be back in exactly one
candlemark, Your Majesty. One candlemark - no more, no less. If you
catch my meaning," Lita said, winking. She could not have made her
message more clear if she had screamed it from all four corners of
the battlements. Then she disappeared down a staircase.

Andalor poured wine for the both of them, then picked up his goblet.
"To you, my wonderful Shannon. I am so proud of you, working so
hard. As far as I'm concerned, you have shown all that it takes to be
Queen, and more."

"I'm just praying that Ballorca thinks so," she said, setting her wine
down untasted. She surveyed the table. "This is starting to look like
the condemned woman, having her last meal."

"Don't think like that," Andalor pleaded. "You will do fine tomorrow,
Shannon. I know you will. After all, you still have the Mage's spell
working for you."

A forkful of fieldbeast casserole hesitated for a moment on its way
to her mouth. Then the fork completed its trip and chewing, Shannon
shrugged.

"There, you see? It will be fine, I promise. Please eat. Let's just
enjoy this time together. Goddess knows there's been little enough
of it."

"I certainly can't deny that."

For his sake, she made an effort. Both of them avoided the topic which
would make such a difference in their lives, preferring small talk and 
gossip as they ate. In the end, they managed to do justice to Lita's 
feast.

Shannon rose and moved to the battlement wall, looking over the quiet 
cottages that slept in the moonlight. Coming up from behind her, 
Andalor engulfed her in his arms, kissing her neck.

"Soon," he murmured, "soon we shall be married, with no chaperones,
no one to follow us around, spying on us to make sure our behavior is
'proper'. Shannon, it's been so hard for me not to be able to show you
how I feel."

She turned in his arms, holding him close. "I know, Andy. I know. But
you must promise me something."


He tensed. "What?"

"If... if tomorrow does not go well, if it does not go as we wish, I
want you to promise me that you'll accept it without question, and
that you'll also accept whatever I decide about my future."

He stepped back from her and surveyed her gravely. "I can't do that,
Shannon. Without you beside me, I have no life, not one that has any
meaning for me. To do my job, to continue to function, I need *you*."
Closing the distance between them, he wrapped her once more in his
arms. His lips moved closer, finally touching hers in a long, deep kiss
that left them breathless and wanting more. He stroked the skin of her
cheek, bleached pale in the moonlight. "You see how it will be for us?
I want this, Shannon, I want it more than I have ever wanted anything
in my life."

She grasped him tightly around the neck. "I swear I'll do my best,
Andalor. I swear it."

Goddess, help me, she thought.


End of Chapter Sixteen
 


THE MAGICIAN 3.5 - THE FIREBRAND
By Suzanne Bickerstaffe and Matthew Weed
(ecksphile@earthlink.net, matthew.weed@yale.edu)
Winter 2000-2001


Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter 00

Chapter Seventeen


When the knock at the door came, Shannon didn't know whether to 
exult that the long wait was finally over, or dive back under the 
covers of her bed.

She had slept well, thanks to a visit from Kyla the night before. Her 
chamber was comfortable but unfamiliar and her nerves were 
understandably on edge. Without Kyla's healing treatment and relaxing 
psychic massage, the girl doubted she would have gotten any rest at 
all. But she refused the hearty breakfast that Lita brought. Maybe 
there was something to Reinald's theory that the mind functioned 
better on an empty stomach and maybe not, but she needed any advantage 
she could get. In any case, Shannon doubted she could keep anything 
down.

Sitting stiffly on a chair by the hearth as she waited, she wore the 
traditional garb of the Candidate for the Ritual of Readiness - the 
sleeveless self-made dress and the hooded scarlet cloak. At the soft 
tap on the door she jumped, and, heart pounding so hard she thought 
it would burst from her chest, she rose to answer it. 

"The appointed time has arrived. Are you Ready?" the High Priestess 
asked in Old Realm. There was an entourage of perhaps two dozen 
priests and priestesses with her.

Here we go, thought Shannon, and she quietly uttered the requisite 
reply, "I have prepared to be worthy of the King and the beings of the 
Realm."

The High Priestess gave her an encouraging nod and a hint of a smile. 
"Then follow me to the place of testing, that you might prove your 
Readiness to support your King in his leadership of the Realm." She 
and the other clergy drew the hoods of their white cloaks down low 
over their faces. Shannon did the same, and stepped out into the 
hallway. She put out a hand in the automatic act of closing the door 
behind her, but caught herself at the last moment. By tradition, the 
door must remain open, symbolic of the Candidate's lack of presumption 
of passing the Ritual. Sweat broke out on her brow at the thought of 
such a tiny mistake costing her everything.

But again came a small smile from the High Priestess. Shannon let 
out an unsteady breath and, flanked by the clergy, followed the holy 
woman the prescribed five paces behind, her head bowed in humility.

They wound their way down corridors that had been emptied of the 
beings that would normally be scurrying about in their duties. As the 
party descended the last staircase and exited the Castle, the cool 
spring morning air, redolent of new growth and early flowers, gave 
Shannon cause to hope. The cobbled courtyard was uncustomarily 
devoid of beings as well, but she could feel the stares of her friends 
and enemies alike as they peered furtively down from the tall Castle 
windows, only too aware of the drama being played out before them.

The first stop was the temple. Before the altar, Ballorca awaited the 
women in the traditional hooded cloak of deepest black lined with 
scarlet. The newness of the garment did not escape the nervous 
girl. I hope he doesn't plan on getting a lot of use out of that, she 
thought uncomfortably. The High Priestess mounted the white marble 
steps of the altar and turned, facing Shannon and Ballorca. The other 
priests and priestesses formed a semicircle behind them.

Shannon knelt, then prostrated herself on the floor, and the High 
Priestess began the first long chant of the day. At times Ballorca 
would join in, at times it was the other clergy, but for now, all 
Shannon had to do was lie prone on the cold marble floor and await 

her cue.

Finally, after nearly a candlemark, the High Priestess took a small 
torch and ignited some fragrant herbs in a wide, shallow bronze 
bowl. "Who presents herself to undergo the Ritual of Readiness?" she 
intoned in Old Realm.

The girl pushed herself to her knees, her tense and now thoroughly 
chilled muscles protesting. "I, Shannon, daughter of Hannu and 
betrothed of King Andalor, present myself for the Ritual, in humility 

and hope."

Ballorca extended a hand to assist her to stand. Shannon 
accepted it gratefully. With some difficulty, as she was over a foot 
taller than he, he pulled back the hood of her cloak, and resumed his 
place at her side.

"Who shall administer the Ritual of Readiness?" chanted the High 
Priestess.

"I, Ballorca, son of Myrak and Minister of Protocol, shall administer 
the Ritual." He then began to chant in a surprisingly rich and 
melodious baritone and went on for some time, listing his antecedents 
and affirming the traditional rights and responsibilities of his 
office.

Shannon waited tensely for her first important chant. It had been 
one of the last things she had learned, as Ballorca had delivered the 
text she was to know by heart only a week before. Whether that was 
decreed by tradition, or the Protocol Minister had 'forgotten' to give 
it to her until then, she did not know. But the timing could not have 
been worse.

Ballorca's chant quieted and the High Priestess descended the altar 
steps to stand immediately in front of her. "Shannon, Candidate for 
the Ritual of Readiness, declare to all here present your intentions."

The girl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Then, in a strong 
alto only slightly shaky with nervousness, she began her chant. She 
sang the Old Realm words of her love for the King, her determination 
to be a supportive wife, her promise to produce heirs. Shannon was 
so deeply focused that a short time later she was startled to realize 
she was hearing the echos of her final lines reverberating around the 
great temple. Again, she was rewarded by a small smile from the High 
Priestess, and Ballorca's eyebrows raised in surprised approbation.

The High Priestess began the next chant, shared with interjections 
from Ballorca and Shannon. The girl never missed a beat, picking up 
her cues and chanting her part with a confidence alien to her. At one 
point, even Ballorca tripped over the words of the little-used rite 
and earned the startled glance of the Priestess. But Shannon was 
letter-perfect, ending the chant with her contribution to the three-
part harmony.

She felt movement behind her as the assembled holy men and women 
knelt. The High Priestess charged them with praying for the duration 
of the Ritual, imploring the Goddess for her wisdom and fairness in 
its conduct. Then she drew down the hood of Shannon's cloak once 
more.

She nodded and recessed up the aisle. Shannon followed, with Ballorca 
in the rear. So far so good, the girl thought. But at least she had 
known what to expect up to this point. The Ritual to come was a total 
enigma, and any joy she felt at her success thus far was dampened by 
her fear of the unknown.

The sun, now high in the sky, beat down on the herbs and flowers of 
the temple garden, releasing their fragrance as the trio weaved their 
way along the serpentine path. Finally, they came to a small timber 
cottage that stood near the high wall enclosing the castle. The High 
Priestess opened the door and stood aside to allow Shannon to enter.

A blaze crackled comfortingly in the hearth. On the raised dais in 
the center of the small room, another fire flickered in a low iron 
container that reminded Shannon of an hibachi. Two wooden-handled 
implements of some kind extended from it. The dais also held three 
chairs cushioned in scarlet velvet and a small table. On the table were 
a huge old book and a silver tray bearing a gold flagon and three 
tiny golden goblets. Scarlet velvet also draped the chamber's sole 
window, effectively sealing the room from the outside world. 


The High Priestess closed the door behind Ballorca and approached 
Shannon, once more drawing back the girl's hood. Then she crossed to 
the dais, poured a ruby-colored liquid from the flagon and handed 
around the goblets. She raised her own, as if in a toast. "By the blood 
of the Kings and the beings of the Realm, we here present affirm our 
loyalty to this land and its customs. We affirm the Ritual of Readiness 
and will abide by its wisdom. And on our lives we swear never to 

divulge what passes here this day." Nodding at Ballorca and Shannon, 
she drained the contents of the little cup and returned it to the tray. 
The other two did likewise, Shannon somewhat relieved to find that 
rather than blood, the cup contained a very pleasant fortified wine. 
At a gesture from the Priestess, the three mounted the dais and sat. 

Though the language was still Old Realm, the words were spoken 
rather than chanted as Ballorca stood and began. "The next phase of 
the Ritual has commenced, wherein you will prove by your knowledge 
your worthiness to serve as Queen. Candidate Shannon, please stand."

Nervously, the girl rose.

"The first of three tasks I put to you - name the progression of Kings, 
from the rule of Glendor the Proud to the rule of Bishepo the Lame."

Inwardly, Shannon sighed with relief. The order of Kings was one of 
the first things she had studied after the Mages' spell had been cast. 
Unhesitatingly, she rattled off the thirty Kings in chronological 
order.

Again, Ballorca's eyebrows ascended in grudging approval. Then he 
picked up the book from the table and leafed through to a particular 
page. "On the left page is a passage written in the Elvish tongue, and 
on the right is a passage written in Garsintil, the language of the 
Gargoyles. You will read both aloud, demonstrating your literacy, and 
then you will translate each passage into both Old Realm and New 
Realm." He took his seat, his small, dark eyes never leaving her.

This was a more difficult task, as it demanded fluency in four 
languages, none of them her native tongue. Heart pounding, she read 
the Elvish passage, translating it fairly easily into New Realm, and 
haltingly into Old Realm. She noticed the High Priestess smile 
slightly as she finished. However small the gesture, it imbued her 
with confidence as she started the more difficult Garsintil passage. 
She read it aloud, stumbling occasionally, but on the final line her 
heart sank. Resolutely, she began the new Realm translation, stopping 
just short of the end. She was torn -- should she try to bluff her way 
through, or take the riskier but more honest path? 

Ballorca prodded, "Go on -- or is there a problem?" 

Sighing, she opted for the latter. "Minister Ballorca, the word 
'falousch'....


"Yes, what is it? Do you not know the meaning of this word?"

"Well... there is no precise translation of this word in New Realm. 
Or Old Realm either, for that matter."

"Oh, really? Would you care to expand on that?" he demanded.

"The- the word is a sacred one to the gargoyles who venerate Hortha. 
It implies a oneness with the god and all gargoyles. But it is... it is 
more than that." Shannon recalled her lessons with Tarnor, and the 
discussion they had held about the intricate, highly symbolic language 
of his species. "It embodies the gargoyle belief system and work ethic 
and... well, just about everything that is of importance to their 
culture." Anxiously, Shannon stood waiting for Ballorca's response, 
wondering if he thought she was merely trying to cover up a lack of 

knowledge with a glib excuse.

The High Priestess beamed. "I do not think you will hear a better 
explanation than that, Minister Ballorca. Well done, Candidate 
Shannon."

"Yes... well...." huffed the Protocol Minister. "Very well, you will 
translate the passage into Old Realm -- with the exception of that 
word. Begin."

Slowly and carefully, she translated the passage from one unfamiliar, 
rich old language to the other. When she had finished, Ballorca 
removed the book from her hands without comment. Then, "In the 
troll tongue you will recite the Twelve Beliefs of Trolldom, and how 
they correspond to the laws of the Realm."

Goddess help me, thought Shannon. She knew the Twelve Beliefs, but 
trying to tie them to all the laws to which they could apply, and in an 
unfamiliar language on top of it, was a herculean task. Haltingly, the 
girl began, and spoke until she was exhausted and trembling from the 
effort of her concentration.

Curtly, Ballorca nodded. "Acceptable. Not perfect, but acceptable."

Shannon could have sworn the High Priestess winked at her. "You may 
take your seat for the final task, Candidate Shannon," she said kindly.

Gratefully, the girl sank into her chair. Between nerves, fatigue, and 
not having eaten in nearly a day, she felt lightheaded and shaky.

Ballorca paced around the dais. "For the final question in this part 
of the Ritual, I will propose a situation to you. It is the first full 
moons of winter and you and His Majesty are hosting a party at the 
castle. The full Council of Representatives is in attendance. You are 
dancing with Prince Mavor, with whom the King is in negotiation for 
mining rights to a quarry in the southeastern area of Fairwoods Glens. 
What is the nature of your conversation with His Highness?"

Shannon sat perfectly still, her mind racing over the thousands of 
pages of material she had read, thinking about the countless 
conversations she had had, recalling the role-playing sessions with 
Lita. Why the little bastard! she thought. It's a trick question!

"I have no answer for you, Minister Ballorca."

"No answer? Really! And why not? Do you not wish to be Queen? 
Have you not prepared for this examination?"

"I have done nothing *but* prepare, Minister." Shannon kept her tone 
polite and respectful, refusing to be goaded. "The reason I cannot 
answer your question is that the situation you describe could never 
arise."

"Is that so? And perhaps you can enlighten me as to why?"

"With all due respect, I would be happy to, Minister." Shannon rose 
from her seat, back straight, posture regal. "In the first place, the 
day you describe, the first full moons of winter, is Rashel, the Day 
of Reflection for all who worship the Goddess. There would be no 
party that day. Secondly, the full Council of Representatives would 
not be at Fairwoods that day out of respect for Rashel and the 
traditional gargoyle feast that celebrates the strength of their family 
ties that is also held on that day. With the gargoyles missing, the 
full Council would logically not be present. And finally, Minister, 
the King would not be in negotiation with Prince Mavor for two reasons. 
The first is that by the Treaty of Naroun, all elven lands reverted to 
the King, but to be held in trust in perpetuity by the ruler of the 
elves. Since the land is technically the King's, he would not have to 
negotiate for it. And in any case, there would be nothing to negotiate 
for - the southeastern portion of Fairwoods Glens is all forests and 
marshes. There is no quarry there to mine."

She surveyed the back of the Protocol Minister, heart pounding. It 
seemed to take forever, but finally he turned to face her. And when 
he did, Shannon nearly fell over.

Ballorca was smiling! Not a gloating, nasty sort of a smile, but a
real, honest to goodness smile. "Well done, Candidate Shannon.
Please take your seat."

"A word of explanation is necessary before we proceed to the final 
and in many ways, most important part of the rite." He began to pace 
and avoided her eyes, as if uneasy about something. "The Ritual of 
Readiness is among the most ancient and time-honored of our 
ceremonies. Some of it follows what has been written from time 
immemorial, such as the passages you have read. The purpose of other 
parts of it is described, but the Ritual leaves it up to the Minister 
of Protocol to devise the specifics, as in your last task.

"The final portion is dictated by the Ritual. It is a test of courage. 
While it is necessary, and will always be carried out if I have 
anything to say about it, it is admittedly a remnant of a more violent 
past. Even I will admit a certain... distaste for it. I will tell you 
frankly that there have been candidates in the past, successful to 
this point, who on hearing a description of this test have declined 
to participate and have failed the Ritual for that reason. There have 
been others who participated, but either could not complete it or who 
did not meet the exacting standards required. They also failed."

Shannon sat, stunned. What could be so awful that a woman would
come so far, and then back out, with so much to be gained? "M-may I 
ask a question?"

Ballorca nodded gravely.

"May I ask what this test of courage is?"

"Of course -- it is your right. I can tell you only that it involves 
pain - a great deal of pain. It is symbolic, though perhaps 
anachronistic in a way. But it is also, as I said, the most important 
part of the Ritual. It is meant to cull out those women who are not 
prepared to give up their lives and comfort for the King and for the 
Realm." The Minister of Protocol paused uncomfortably. "I want you
to know that I derive no personal satisfaction from carrying out this 
part of the Ritual. It is only my duty to my office and my steadfast 
belief in our traditions that give me the will to oversee the test 
of courage. I will give you a moment to decide."

The Minister's unease did nothing to quell her anxiety. But she hadn't 
come this far, she hadn't worked as hard as she had to wimp out now. 
"There is no need, Minister," Shannon said quietly, with more fortitude 
than she actually felt. "I am ready to undergo the final part of the 
Ritual."

"You are certain?" the High Priestess asked gently.

Shannon took a deep breath and nodded.

"So be it," Ballorca said solemnly, but he looked a bit pale. "You see
the brazier at the edge of the dais?"

Warily, Shannon nodded.

"In it are two implements made of iron. As you can see, they have 
been heating in the flames of the sacred fire for some time. Since 
last night, as a matter of fact. At the end glowing in the coals, one 
bears the crest of Andalor's clan. It is small, no larger than a silver 
coin. At the end of the other is a slightly larger figure, a circle 
symbolizing the Realm. The Ritual dictates that either the Minister of 
Protocol or the High Priestess will hold the first implement to the 
skin of the Candidate's arm for a count of five. Then, should the 
Candidate... qualify... and wish to go on, she herself shall hold the 
other implement to the same area, also for a count of five. The 
Candidate may stop at any time. But of course in so doing, she 
forfeits the chance to marry the King and rule at his side."

Ballorca drew himself up to his full height and stood stiffly before 
her. "The rite having been fully disclosed, do you, Candidate Shannon,
wish to participate in this final portion of the Ritual?"

She closed her eyes. Did she *wish* to? Hell, no - she wasn't stupid, 
nor masochistic. But it wasn't a question of what she wanted. It was 
what she had to do. Goddess, Mulder and Andalor, be with me, she 
prayed. Please help me to be strong. "I do," Shannon whispered, her 
eyes never leaving the hypnotic glow of the brazier. She tore her 
glance away to confront Ballorca. "Who's-- who's going to do it?"


"That is your choice. Either myself or the High Priestess will perform 
the task. Either of us will adhere strictly to the Ritual."

She looked from one to the other. Both were pale and composed, 
though it was evident that neither would enjoy carrying out this part of 
the Ritual. That makes three of us, Shannon thought grimly. But 
Ballorca had that "oh, please, please don't pick me" look that she 
had worn so often herself in high school. "High Priestess, would you 
mind?"

The Minister of Protocol relaxed visibly, and Shannon calculated that 
she may have gone up a few points in his estimation.

"You are sure?" the High Priestess questioned again.

She nodded. "Yes. I have to do this."

"Very well. Please remove your cloak."

With trembling fingers, Shannon unfastened the cloak. Now I know why 
they insist that this dress be sleeveless, she thought with grim humor.

"Do you use your right or left hand?"

Both! she thought, a little hysterically. "My-my left. That is my 
weapon hand."

"Extend your right forearm on the arm of the chair. Do not move it."

Easy for you to say, she thought. She noticed the High Priestess's 
lips were moving in prayer as she went to the brazier and selected 
the little branding iron. The tip was red hot, and Shannon could 
discern the small eagle that was Andalor's family crest. Indeed, she 
couldn't take her eyes off it, like a rabbit mesmerized by a cobra. 
Inexorably, it descended onto the tender flesh of her forearm.

For the first second she felt nothing, just heard the sizzle as the 
iron burned into her skin. Then the pain hit her with the impact of 
an avalanche. Mulder, be with me, be proud of me, she thought, 
gritting her teeth and willing her arm not to move. "For Andalor!" 
she whispered.

Suddenly, the iron was gone and the pain, while not gone, was 
bearable again. 

"Well done," the High Priestess said softly into her ear. "Well 
done."

Weakly, Shannon smiled as the High Priestess resumed her seat. 
She noticed the woman was trembling. Evidently, she hadn't relished 
her part in this any more than Ballorca did. The thought was somehow 
comforting.

"Let me know when you are ready," the Protocol Minister said gravely.

Let's get this over with, she thought. "I am ready."

The Minister of Protocol pulled the second branding iron from the 

brazier. Shannon looked him straight in the eye as she extended 
her left hand to take it from him. "Thank you, Minister Ballorca." 


He appeared startled, and uncustomarily moved.

She didn't hesitate. Drawing things out would just make it worse. 
"For the Realm!" she declared, and pressed the red hot iron over 
the first burn, perfectly encircling it. Eyes shut, she held her 
breath, thinking of Andalor and her love for him, thinking of her 
friends in the Realm, of Mulder and Scully. She forgot to count, 
forgot everything but her loved ones and the pain, the terrible, awful 
pain.

The next thing she was aware of was Ballorca taking the iron from 
her grasp. "Enough," he said. "More than enough." He returned the 
implement to the brazier and once more filled the little gold goblets 
with wine. Shannon took hers with a hand shaking so badly she 
thought she would surely spill it. With great dignity, the Protocol 
Minister stood in the center of the dais, and raised his cup. "Lady 
Shannon, word will be sent out to all corners of the Realm that the 
King's betrothed has, this day, passed the Ritual of Readiness,  
demonstrating great wisdom and uncommon courage in the process. 
My congratulations." He nodded and the three drank deeply.

The High Priestess stood and grasping Shannon's left hand, 
chanted a prayer. Something about being fruitful and multiplying, 
the girl thought muzzily. That would have its attractions later, she 
was sure, but for now all she wanted was to get out of this place 
and get back to her room and sleep for a week. The holy woman 
fastened Shannon's cloak and helped her to stand. Dizzy, she would 
have fallen off the dais had Ballorca not rushed to support her. "Take 
some deep breaths. It has been a long and trying day." 

You're telling me. Wait a minute, I must really be out of it, Shannon 
thought. Ballorca is actually being compassionate and kind -- to me! 
She shook off the dizziness. Finally feeling steadier, she nodded and 
they made their way to the door. But she was totally unprepared for 
the sight that greeted her.

Illuminated by torches in the deep dusk, the garden was filled with 
what seemed to be the entire population of Fairwoods, with Andalor 
and her friends at the forefront of the crowd. Ballorca motioned to 
the King, and he was beside his fiancee in a moment, gathering her 
into his arms. Shaky and exhausted, she laid her head on his shoulder 
and tuned out everything else.

Ballorca cleared his throat, and the hum and rumble of the crowd 
ceased. "Beings of the Realm, be it known that King Andalor has 
chosen his betrothed wisely. Lady Shannon, daughter of Hannu the 
Magus, has undergone the Ritual of Readiness and has been found 
worthy."

Wild cheering and shouting broke like a damburst from the crowd. Tarnor 
and Hannu did a joyous dance, as Livirnea and Reinald hugged each 
other. The reception from the Noble Houses was more tepid, merely 
polite and politically-expedient applause covering what was no doubt a 
huge disappointment for them. One man alone -- a tall, gaunt older 
noble -- stood silent, his expression grim.

The King acknowledged the crowd, waving and smiling. "Don't worry, 
Shannon. I'll get you back to the castle as quickly as I can," he 

murmured.

Ballorca and the High Priestess melted into the throng. Eventually, the 
crowd began to break up, doubtless making their way to the many 
alehouses to celebrate. Their friends rushed up.

"Oh, splendid, my dear," chortled Reinald. "You have done marvelously, 
simply marvelously."

Livirnea beamed. "I knew you could do it, Shannon. I'm so proud of 
you!"

It was Lita who finally noticed that Shannon wasn't really responding. 
"Look at the poor chick! It's some food and some sleep she needs now. 
We can celebrate tomorrow, when she has rested. Don't fret, Your 
Majesty.  I'll have Lady Shannon's room nice and cozy, a hot meal 
ready in the twitch of a gargoyle's ear." She scurried off in the 
direction of the castle.

Reluctantly, the others withdrew, words of congratulations to Shannon, 
to the King and to each other still being exchanged. Andalor 
maneuvered himself and the girl to a stone bench nearby. She 
made no effort to fight the mind-numbing fatigue that overtook her.

"How was it?" Andalor asked anxiously.

"Can't tell you. Shhhh!" Shannon put a finger up to her lips. "Secret. 
I promised."

"I know you can't tell me details. But was it difficult? As difficult 
as you thought it would be?"

"Oh yeah. Yeah, it was hard." She snuggled further into his arms, 
then cried out softly as her right arm came into contact with his 
leather belt.

"What is it?" he demanded. She resisted, but he pulled her arm out 
from under their cloaks to scan it in the flickering torchlight.

"What-- oh sweet Goddess! Was this a part of it?"

"Can't tell you."

"I remember my mother had a similar mark, but I never knew where 
it came from... Oh Goddess, Shannon, I'm so sorry, I had no idea. If 
had had known, I never would have asked-- " 

She held her hand to his lips, quieting him. "You couldn't know." Then 
she smiled mischievously. "But you owe me -- bigtime."

Andalor laughed and held her closer. "I know I do. For this and for so 
much more. Oh Shannon, thank you. You passed and now we can be 
together forever. And thanks to the Mages, too. Their spell made all 
the difference."

She roused herself to chuckle dryly. "Oh, it helped. It was great while 
it lasted. But it stopped working over two weeks ago."

"Stopped! But-but you never said anything!"

"Not much point. Just make everyone a lot more worried," she 
explained sleepily, once more snuggling into her fiance's arms.

"Shannon, my Queen! You are a marvel, do you know that?" He glanced 
down to see her sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. Tenderly, he 
scooped her into his arms and began slowly walking towards the 
castle in the darkening night.


End of Chapter Seventeen



THE MAGICIAN 3.5: THE FIREBRAND
By Matthew Weed and Suzanne Bickerstaffe
(matthew.weed@yale.edu, ecksphile@earthlink.net)
Winter - Spring 2001


Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter 00


Chapter Eighteen

 

Margul jumped in surprise at Charla's light touch on his shoulder. 
His head snapped up to meet her eyes which seemed to have taken 
on an unusually deep shade of blue.   

 
"Walk with me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I would be happy to."     

He rose from his writing desk, and put the document that he had 
been working on into a drawer, ready to return to later. Margul 
turned to the woman whose quest had become as important to him 
as his desire for revenge on his family's traditional enemies.

They began walking through the camp, its fires and other sources of 
light provided by magically-treated wood that gave off minimal light 
and no smoke. These preparations, as well as the deep valley in which 
they settled for the night, hid Forst's small army well from any 
prying eyes that Dordinal might have set outside of the thick earthen 
wall built around Cresscreek the preceding winter.


The silence between them seemed only to disturb Charla further, and as 
they moved away from the camp, Margul grew increasingly worried by her 
apparent restlessness.

"What troubles you?" he finally asked, stopping their progress after 
nearly a quarter of a candlemark's walk away from camp.

"I am worried about tomorrow, and the days that come after that," she 
admitted, her eyes shadowed by emotions that Margul could only partly 
name.

"Why?"

"Though I believe that I have done everything that can be to prepare 
myself for what is to come, and think that our warriors will come out 
of tomorrow's struggle as healthy as magic can make them, I am very 
afraid of losing one of them before I can tell him that ... I love him 
more than life itself."

"Who?" Margul asked. His tone was not fully able to contain the flood 
of unreasoning jealousy that crashed over him.


"I fear more than anything else -- more than the loss of my powers, or 
my freedom -- losing you to a swordsman's lucky stroke, or Mage's 
carefully cast spell."

Margul staggered, shocked by Charla's words. She had been careful 
to maintain physical space between them ever since their abortive 
conversation nearly four moon-cycles earlier. Though he loved her no 
less now than he had then, he had come to accept that his feelings 
were not returned -- and would never be. To be told that they might be 
was... much more than he could have hoped for. However, he was still 
not sure what form her love took and needed to know more before he 
could truly rejoice in what she had just told him.

"I must know... what you mean by what you have just said."

"I thought that I was clear enough," she replied tensely. So mired in 
the turmoil of her feelings was she that she barely remembered to 
shield before her emotions took control of the weather. With a shock, 
she realized that a Magestorm now would warn Dordinal of the presence 
of a near-by Mage of unusual talent. She tried to get a grip on herself.

"No!" Margul snapped. "I have desired you as man does a woman since 
I was but fourteen summers old, and have always understood that my 
hopes for a relationship with you would be impossible as a result of 
your damned Mage creed of non-involvement. You have given me some 
sense that you might possibly want me as well, but have never made 
things clear. On the night before the most important day of my life, I 
must know whether I go to war with all of the love of the woman whom 
I have always felt was my destiny, or just a shadowed part of it."

"I see," Charla whispered, only now realizing what her uncertainty 
over this very choice must have cost him -- now and in the past. 
"First, allow me to tell you something of the path that has led me to 
take this choice, and the fear that has followed me on every step." 
She paused, and then turned off the path, guiding their steps down 
a small animal trail that neither would have seen without the aid of 
the diffuse Mage-light that bobbed gently over their heads. 

As they walked down the new path, she continued to tell her story.  
"When I was younger, I was caught between the hope that I would be 
able to lay claim to you as a woman will the man she loves, and the 
fear of the loss of my powers and consequent inability to defend 
myself. I had only the village Mage to ask on such matters, and she 
did not know whether a relationship with you would cost me my 
livelihood and defenses or not. Further, I believe that she may have 
told Ian of my intentions. Rather than letting me learn what I hoped 
to, Ian sent me away to train under Reinald. The Royal Mage was able 
to tell me that there were records of such things in the very distant 
past, but over time it came to be considered unseemly and even 
dangerous. In any event, very few Mages in more recent times have
felt the stirring in their hearts and loins which would even give them
cause to think of such a thing. Mage Mulder and his bondmate, the 
Warrior Healer, is possibly the only Mage in the Realm today who has 
sought out such a relationship. Or perhaps, it sought him," she mused.

There was a slight pause as she collected herself and moved to sit 
by the side of the path. Margul, shocked by her admission, could do 
nothing but join her, his eyes locked on her increasingly flushed 
face.

After a moment's further thought, she continued to tell him just how 
close they had come to avoiding the twenty-five year long separation.
That separation was a primary reason for the restlessness that had 
led each of them on the difficult and sometimes dangerous adventures 
of their youths.

"While with Reinald, I missed you terribly, and my training suffered 
much as a result. I decided to complete my training and then come 
back to the manor, a decision that was as much against Reinald's 
wishes as was my ultimate choice to learn my craft *my* way."

"So why didn't you come? Why did it take you *twenty-five* season-
cycles after your banishment to return?" he demanded. His eyes burned 
with tears that he saw Charla shared. 

"I'm getting to that now," she replied. Her own raw emotions forced 
her to reinforce her shield before she went forward. "I studied the 
laws of the Realm carefully, and learned that if a woman should 
become pregnant by a man of noble blood and his identity was known 
to her, she has the right to demand marriage, if he were not already 
married. She also has the right, whether married or not, to demand 
resources and protection from his family for herself and the child 
that she brings into the world." 

She paused for breath before plunging forward. "Any powerful female 
Mage is more than able to control her cycle, and the training I 
received from the village Mage and the elves at Fawnleaf included this 
skill. The feelings I had for you made me realize that my powers were 
not worth what I was missing -- whether I lost them or not. So I 
intended to come as close to our family home as I could, call you 
to me, and seduce you. Thereby... thereby creating a child, and an 
unbreakable bond between us and by extension, myself and the rest of 
the family. But before I could implement my plan, I fought with Reinald 
over my training and he banished me from Fairwoods. 

"He must have communicated with the village Mage at Forst, as the 

approaches to the manor were heavily guarded, and there was no way 
for me to get either myself or a message across the waters to you.  
I was forced away from the manor by the patrols that Ian set against 
me, and then chased from Mage to Mage, always in fear of pursuit by 
Reinald's henchmen. By the time I believed he must have lost interest 
in me, I feared that you had found another, and later, once I realized 
you had not wed, worried that you would reject my advances. I did not
think about the possibility again until you became my only hope for 
rescue from the King's decrees last autumn. You can not imagine my 
joy at finding you unwed, and apparently as pleased to see me as I was 
you."

Margul was so tense his muscles screamed. "So why did it take you 
nearly a full season-cycle to come to this point, Charla? Why did you 
reject me when I tried to tell you what you must have known I intended 
to last winter?" he demanded sharply, pained at the time that they had 
lost, and the apparent lack of trust she had in him.

She made a fluttering, helpless gesture with her hands. "Many reasons. 
I was not sure that we were still compatible. I was not sure that 
what I remembered as being so passionate when I was younger still 
stood as my true destiny. Even when we were interrupted by Ghalbar's 
return that day, I was still uncertain of my feelings for you.... Not 
sure that I was ready to risk giving up all that I have been, for the 
joy that loving you would be for me." 

"And now? Are you certain now?" Margul inquired gently. "I know much 
less of Mages than you do. I cannot assure you that my love, no matter 
how great, will balance any loss in power that you may suffer."

"It would not matter," she said softly, her fingers moving to untie the 
sash that held her cloak closed. "For I have realized that the thing that 
I fear above all others is not knowing what it feels like to be held by 
you, and to know that you have the same desire for me. A desire that 
leads me to be as willing to give up my powers now as I was when only 
a half-grown woman." The sash dropped loosely on the ground.

He stayed her hand, and frustration twisted his features. "Much as I 
want this -- and oh, Goddess, do I want it! -- we must *think*. Our
victory tomorrow rests largely on your powers, Charla. Do we have 
the right to do this now, to put all of our plans in jeopardy, to risk 
the lives of those we have recruited to follow us on this great 
venture? What if, by allowing ourselves to finally partake of the 
happiness we have craved for so long, we condemn our House and 
our troops?"

She wrapped her hands around his. "There is no accident in my 
timing, Margul, nor any lack of care for our mission." In reply to his 
quizzical gaze, she continued. "Just before we left, I found a scroll 
in the ancient library of spells I came across in the manor, only 
days after my arrival. The scroll dates back to the earliest days of
recorded time. In it, it speaks of a time even earlier, when the few 
Mages who had the inclination were known to marry. The scroll makes 
it certain that I will not lose my powers. In fact, they may well grow 
as a result of opening myself to you." 

She paused for a moment in order to gather her courage. "If it 
is not too late, I want to tell you that I want to be your lover. Your 
wife. The mother of the new generation, that will lead our House 
into a brighter future."  

Once again, Margul felt near tears, but for an entirely different 
reason. The long wait, the seeming hopelessness of his desires -- 
all were banished by her words. His heart nearly burst with an 
overflow of unaccustomed joy. "I hope that you know that I love you 
in every way that a man can a woman. I will love you all my days and 
beyond," he promised softly.

With these words, the Magecloak she always wore slipped from her 
shoulders, baring her body to the man who would, she knew now, be 
her lover, and ultimately, husband. The man whom she would fight along 
side and, if necessary, die for on the morrow. But also the man with 
whom this night she was determined to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, 
a yearning that, though dormant for many season-cycles, now crowded 
everything else from her mind.     

*    *    *    *

The Professor smiled. Even the stoutness of the iron-bound door 
could not keep the sounds of merriment from spilling into the hallway. 
It had been far too long since they had had cause for joy in the 
Realm. He knocked loudly, then let himself in.

"Ah, Gunther! We are so happy you could make it!" Reinald embraced 
him, then plucked a goblet of wine off a nearby tray, and handed it 
to him.

Neumann surveyed his friends approvingly. Living under the shadow 
of the Ritual and its potential consequences had aged all of them, but 

now it seemed those same season-cycles had dropped from their faces. 
Everyone stood straighter, glowed with health and happiness, shone 
with relief. Laughter tinkled from every corner of the chamber, every 
group of two or three chattered animatedly and smiled easily.

"Go ahead," Reinald urged. "Why don't you mingle?"

The Professor toasted his friend with a sip of wine, then made his 
way to a group by the fire.

"Professor Neumann! I'm so glad you were able to get away from your 
workroom for a while," Shannon exclaimed. "Can I get you something to 
eat?"

"Perhaps later," he replied smiling. "I just wanted to tell you how 
proud I am of you, Shannon, how proud your mother would have been. 
And of course, to wish both you and Andalor every happiness."

"Thank you, Professor. I think that maybe for the first time, she 
really would have been proud of me," the girl replied wistfully.

"Not for the first time, child. Have no doubt about that."

Andalor clasped his fiancee's hand. "Isn't she wonderful?" he enthused.

Shannon giggled. "Andy, stop it! The whole Ritual was an exercise in 
humility, and you're going to undo all of that by swelling my head."

"I don't care," the King said stoutly. "You are wonderful and you are 
going to be the most beautiful, talented Queen in the history of the 
Realm. And our distant friends said the same thing -- Shannon and I
spoke to them earlier. Mulder was beside himself," he said, grinning 

at the memory.

"They both got carried away," she murmured, but her pleasure was 
apparent in the pretty blush on her cheeks.

"And does this mean I will have my able assistant returned to me on 
a full-time basis?" Neumann asked mischievously.

Livirnea looked to Shannon, who shrugged. "Due to Liv's excellent 
lessons, I now know what a Lady in Waiting is and what she does. 
But I still haven't figured out why the heck I need one, and probably 
never will. So as far as I'm concerned, Liv can do whatever makes 
her happy."

Livirnea grinned and hugged her friend. She had been chafing to get 
back to the Professor's laboratory and the wonders that it held. She 
had tried her best to hide it, but clearly had not done a very good 
job of it.

"You've earned it," Shannon said warmly. "After putting up with me 
for all these moon-cycles!"

By the large round table in the center of the room, Reinald and Hannu 
were conversing, with Lita listening on avidly. "And just before the 
poor thing passed out, do you know what she told Andalor? That 
the spell had died, two weeks before! She didn't let anyone know, 
she just carried on as if it hadn't happened and walked into that 
Ritual, knowing that she had only herself to depend on!"

"Aye, Shannon doesn't need a ceremony to make her Queen," Lita 
declared. "Shannon has made herself a Queen."

"Indeed she has," Hannu agreed, beaming with pride.


Only Tarnor's sharp ears picked up the sound of the timid tap at the 
door. He excused himself from Jourdain and his family and went to 
answer it.

"Oh, High Priestess," he cried in a loud, clear voice. "This is an 
honor!"  Instantly, as intended, the conversation dropped to a murmur 
and then died.

"I do hope I am not interrupting," the Priestess said, uncomfortable 
at the sudden silence.

"By no means, Priestess. Just a little celebration," replied Andalor 
smoothly. "May I offer you a cup of wine?"

"No, thank you. It is late and I was just going to bed, but I thought 
you should know this." The High Priestess paused. "Yesterday, at 
exactly the same moment as Lady Shannon passed the most difficult 
part of the Ritual, the Seers had a vision. I will not bother you with 
the details -- there was much symbolism and imagery that would have 
no significance to you. Suffice to say, the Seers have divined the day 
of the Royal Wedding."

There was an excited rumble from the assembled friends.

"And that day is to be?" Andalor inquired.


"The first twin full moons of summer," Daanna blurted out.

"That is correct!" the High Priestess said, amazed.

Daanna shrugged. "I saw the vision, too. I usually do, you know."

"Perhaps we should start some training for you among the clergy," the 
Priestess mused, then continued her message. "I know it is short 
notice -- lately that seems to be all I have been able to give you, and 
I do apologize. But the vision, shared by all, was a unique occurrence. 
I know Minister Ballorca will not be pleased, having to orchestrate a 
Royal Wedding with so little time."

"Well, the Seers could not have done a better job predicting the proper 
day for the Ritual. I am sure the case will be the same for the Royal 
Wedding," Andalor said. For once, the boot was on the other leg. Now 
Ballorca would have to race against time to meet an impossible 
deadline. For his part, Andalor was extremely pleased that the wedding 
would be so soon and the long period of waiting was almost over. He 
had never taken so many cold baths in his life, and if he had to endure 
one more ribald comment from Dorbo about it....  "Minister Ballorca 
will manage -- somehow."

"There is one more thing," she said. "Something else that will no 
doubt cause the Minister some consternation."

"Which is?"

"As you may know, Royal Weddings by tradition are held when the sun 
reaches its highest point in the sky. I am not sure what it all means, 
if anything, but the Seers saw your wedding taking place in the last 
rays of the setting sun, as the torches in the courtyard are being 
lit."

"Then that is the way it shall be, and Minister Ballorca will just 
have to adjust," Andalor replied. "Now -- are you sure I cannot get 
you a glass of wine?"

"Quite sure, thank you, Your Majesty." She bowed low before him. 
Then, she bowed just as deeply to Shannon. Everyone in the room 
gasped. This was a totally unprecedented gesture, for the King's 
betrothed to be accorded the same respect as a crowned Queen. With 
a small smile, the High Priestess made her exit.

*    *     *     *

Hegan cast yet another look at the pouting, aggrieved visage of Lady
Darliss and again wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. He
only hoped that his House appreciated his sacrifice.

His fiancee had not been pleased with his decision that they were to
be wed in Hotsprings. Actually, 'not pleased' did not go quite far 
enough. She had been enraged, and he had an opportunity to witness 
the temper that thus far she had been successful at hiding from him.
For a full three candlemarks she ranted, cursing her fate at being 

denied the huge, elaborate Fairwoods wedding she had always dreamed 
of. How from childhood, she had dreamed of a wedding in the Great Hall, 
a ceremony rivaled only by that of kings. A reception at Forst House, a 
party which she would plan herself, with all the delicacies the Realm 
could produce. Musicians playing non-stop, dancing that would last well 
past the first rays of sun the next morning. A wedding that would have 
set the standard for all the Noble Houses forever after. 

In vain, Hegan tried to explain that such a display of wealth would
be looked upon as self-indulgent and insensitive in this time of 
rebuilding. He had his thoughts on the matter, of course, his own 
reasons for wanting the wedding at Hotsprings that his fiancee 
would never be privy to. Equal to the political considerations were the 
financial ones. Hegan well knew that Darliss would drain the Forst 
coffers for their wedding, and if there was one thing he did not want, 
it was a further impoverished Forst. On Darliss's death, Forst's lands 
and wealth would be transferred to Hegan of Dordinal, by the 
provisions of their nuptial agreement. He did not intend to inherit an 
empty vault. 

At one point she had even threatened to nullify the nuptial agreement. 
Although Hegan never for a moment believed her threat, he put on the 
performance of his life, even working up a few tears to convince his 
fiancee of his undying love for her. He wisely chose that moment to 
present her with his wedding gift, a dazzling matching set of jewels 
-- earrings, necklace, bracelet and ring. The rubies and diamonds 
of each piece sparkled in the heavy gold setting of the crest of 
Dordinal House. For Hegan, what made the gift even better was that 
he had acquired it at no cost to himself, as it had been among the 
property of one of his recently deceased rivals.


The effect on Darliss was as intended -- she was rendered speechless 
by the extravagance of the gift. That precious silence lasted far too 
short a time in Hegan's opinion, but at least any talk of the 
cancellation of the nuptial agreement was permanently put to rest. 

Lady Darliss was not finished, however. She managed to extract several
additional promises from Hegan in return for her willingness to be wed 
in Hotsprings. One of those promises explained their present mode of 
conveyance. Darliss was adamant that their arrival in Hotsprings was
to be equal to their station in life, and from somewhere she heard 
sedan chairs mentioned. Likely introduced from somewhere outside 
the Realm, the idea of an elaborately decorated compartment, drawn 
not by horses but on the strong shoulders of members of their Houses, 
appealed greatly to her. If only to stop her whining, Hegan had ordered 
the wheels removed from one of Dordinal's best coaches, and carrying 
poles installed in their place. More difficult was finding 'volunteers' 
from Forst and Dordinal to convey the unusual vehicle, and he had 
had to deplete his contingent of warriors and Lady Darliss's 
bodyguards by a dozen to do so. As they jostled along the road, the 
curses of those volunteers were occasionally audible inside the 
compartment.

Hegan sighed. "What is it, my lovely? You seem troubled."

"This just isn't the way I pictured it. I should never have agreed to
this." She sniffled unappealingly.

He grit his teeth, determined to be pleasant until they were wed.
"But, my beloved! You are being conveyed like no queen has even been, 
we have no less than ten wagon-loads of food, wine, your clothing and 
jewels with us -- what could you possibly lack?"

"The eyes of all those she-bitches in Fairwoods who thought I would 
never marry!" Her lower lip quivered and tears spilled from her eyes. 
"A ceremony by some village priest in front of a bunch of moronic 
peasants and lower beings is no compensation, no matter how we 
get to Hotsprings!" 

Hegan pulled her hand into his, resisting his urge to crush every bone 
in it. "But we spoke of this, my joy, did we not? While it is a great
privilege to enjoy a life of nobility, there is also duty. You must 
know that I, too, am disappointed I could not demonstrate my undying 
love for you before all of Fairwoods. But duty calls us to Hotsprings. 
Blame me only for the fact that I cannot bear to remain unknowing of 
your soft feminine secrets a moment longer than absolutely necessary. 
I swear to you, Darliss, I feel I shall explode if we do not consummate 
our great love for one another at the earliest possible moment."

At that, she tittered, and her cheeks grew rosy.

He patted her hand. "Fear not, my precious flower. I promise, you will 
have an extravagant Fairwoods gathering soon."

She could not know that Hegan was thinking of her funeral.


End of Chapter Eighteen


The Magician 3.5 - The Firebrand
By Matthew Weed and Suzanne Bickerstaffe
(magician@galaxy.med.yale.edu, ecksphile@earthlink.net)
Winter - Spring 2001

Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter 00




Chapter Nineteen


Margul's hands were scraped raw by the long struggle across the 

night-darkened fields outside of Cresscreek.  Though Charla's spell 
could make his warriors' weapons sharper and their armor stronger, 
it was useless in protecting undefended flesh against the sharp rocks 
and other obstacles that were impossible to avoid in the dark of 
night.

Fortunately, sunrise now drew near, and with it the light needed to 
allow his hand-picked warriors to sweep into the village. But first --
Charla would once more need to do what she alone could to ensure 
their success.

*	*

Gaptel sat atop the earthen barrier that his warriors had forced the 
beings of Cresscreek to build for them over the preceeding winter. 
Lord Hegan had assured him that such defenses would not be necessary, 
but as captain of Hegan's men, Gaptel knew that a defenseworks could 
be as imposing to the beings trapped within as they were to an enemy 
outside. Stealing from the villagers, torturing the males and enjoying 
the pleasures of the village's females did not provide his warriors 
with nearly enough distraction. So he ordered them and the villagers 
they guarded to build the fortification on which he now sat. The 
morning light was just becoming strong enough to see the fields 
beyond, and he knew that his men would soon be marching the locals 
out to do their day's toil.

A flicker of movement caught the very periphery of his vision, and 
moments later a terrible shockwave threw him to the ground. He 
jumped to his feet and began running toward the great clamor rising 
a short distance away. But before he had run more than twenty paces, 
another terrible noise assaulted his ears and he was felled again by 
another, more powerful shockwave. When his head cleared, he rose 
and scrambled up the wall, fully intending to run the rest of the way 
to where sounds of battle could be heard.  

Before he could do so, a green-clad figure bore down on him from 
the wall-top, sword in hand. Gaptel quickly drew his own blade, ready 
to do battle with his shorter foe. He smiled contemptuously. His 
longer reach and notable advantage in youth and skill would more than 
carry the day against this foolish female.

However, the moment his sword impacted against her blade, he knew 
something was terribly wrong. His sword seemed to shatter before her 
strokes, and was quickly reduced from one of Dordinal's oldest and 
finest weapons to a short stub. It dawned on him that their dance 
would end in his death unless he could escape. 

His enemy stepped forward, a confident smile on her face, ready to 
deliver the killing blow.

Having nothing better to do with his weapon, he threw its remains at 
her with all the force his growing terror could exert. The blow slowed 
her only slightly, but it was enough to give him the chance to kick her 
feet out from under her and escape. For the moment, this would be 
enough to save him from a warrior whose weapon had certainly been 
bespelled by a very powerful Mage.  A Mage powerful enough, he 
realized with rising concern, to throw the thunderbolts that had broken 
his well-constructed defenses. Those strikes were sufficient to open 
two gaps nearly fifty paces wide in the wall. Squads of men and women 

wearing Forst's colors now ran through them, brandishing their 
weapons.

There wasn't time to curse Hegan's pride or the over-confidence of the 
foolish woman whom he was soon to marry. Clearly there were members 
of the Forst clan who had no intention of giving up their lands simply 
because someone of Darliss' rank said they should. Members of Forst 
who were willing to part with tremendous riches in order to hire a 
Mage powerful enough to pose a serious threat to Hegan's plans. 
Gaptel was glad that he had taken the danger of a Forst reprisal 
seriously and ensured Dordinal's position at Cresscreek with the 
powers of one of the Realm's now-rare Black Mages.      

*	*

When Charla's first thunderbolt passed over them, Margul and his 
troops rose and began running toward the smoking gap in Cresscreek's 
defenses. His squad numbered but twenty warriors. These, and the 
thirty who would soon join them through the second gap Charla would 
open in the palisade surrounding the town, would have to take the 
northern half of the village. It would then be possible to bring the rest 
of Forst's small army up to destroy what little remained of Dordinal's 
resistance. Or so Margul dearly hoped. Much had to go right for things 
to happen as they desired, but the chaos that had sprung up in the 
village was encouraging.

Margul scrambled across the ditch that was the village's only 
remaining defense against attack, and waved the rest of his people 
forward. The destruction Charla's power had wrought was truly 
awesome; those who were atop the palisade died on it. This gave 
his people a few moments' time to cross what remained of the 
structure and select the best possible path toward the village 
common. With Dordinal troops as thick as beast-bugs, any path they 
chose would be risky. Margul could only hope Charla's efforts would 
be as effective against Dordinal's on-rushing warriors as they had 
been against its engineers.

As more and more of the enemy fell before his companions' skill, 
Margul saw that Charla had succeeded beyond their wildest hopes.  
Some of his people were struck down -- after all, hands, necks, 
elbows and knees could not be fully protected. However, it appeared 
that ten of the Dordinal lackeys were falling for each of the warriors 
lost by House Forst. If his enemy continued to lose people at this 
rate, Forst would claim victory by high-sun at the latest.     

*	*	*                 

"Lord Gaptel!" The stripling raced to catch up with his captain.


"What!" Gaptel snapped, turning his growing frustration at what he 
saw happening around him on his unlucky subordinate.

"My blade," the youth cried. He held out a sword that had lost most 
of its former impressive length. "When the first Mage bolt hit our 
defenses I was standing with Gramber and Polkar on the parapet, 
watching for movement in the forest. We saw nothing and as the sun 
rose, we prepared to take the wine that we had liberated--"

"Is there a point to this?" growled Gaptel. 

"Sorry, milord! Helgas and Malkil were killed. The rest of us met 
them in battle, and before I could take a breath, my companions 
were dead, and I was facing all three of the enemy, whose weapons 
glistened with my friends' blood. I thought to charge them, but knew--"

"Will you get on with it? If you hadn't noticed, we're under attack!"

"Yes, milord, I'm trying."

"Extremely," Gaptel thundered. "Now, out with it!"

"I was in battle with a female. Her sword reduced mine by half, but 
I was able to get a good swing at her head. But her helmet! It was 
like hitting solid rock, I tell you, and my cursed sword shattered 
again! Had my feet not taken wings, she would surely have ended my 
life there and then."

"Where is this woman now?" Gaptel demanded, wondering if, by some 
mischance, it was the same female warrior who had attacked him on the 
other side of the village.

"She is over there," replied the youth, pointing at a slender form who 
was engaged against four of Gaptel's best warriors. 

She bore no resemblance whatsoever to the far older warrior who had 
attacked him, but Gaptel watched in growing consternation as she 
ducked and dodged, clearly toying with his troops. Their blades 
clanged off of her helmet and the light armor that all of the Forst 
warriors were wearing. Light or not, it was terribly effective against 
his people's weapons, and he watched horrified as each of his 
soldiers fell before her skill. Soon, the bodies of Dordinal's best 

fighters lay sprawled at her feet.

Gaptel's blood turned to ice, fearing that his family would lose what 
Hegan had worked so hard -- and paid such a price -- to win.

"Have our warriors pull back and take as many of the villagers with 
them as they can," he commanded the stripling. "It seems that if we 
are to hold this cursed place we will have to take some hostages." 
He knew he had sealed his people's fate with this command. Their 

only hope lay in his next orders. "And while you're at it, find Mage 
Alkem! See if she can do something to even the odds." 

The younger man blanched. "Y-yes, Sir!" he cried. His heart heavy 
with dread, he ran off, searching for warriors whose blades had not 
yet tasted the power of Forst iron. The surge of hopelessness that 
crashed over him was nearly as deadly as Forst's swordplay.  He 
didn't need his leader's comparatively well-trained mind and hands 
to see that their situation was hopeless. For even if they escaped 

Forst's attack, King Andalor's justice must ultimately catch up with 
all of them. Everyone in the Realm would demand it, and they would 
be right to do so. For warriors learned from the moment they were 
able to pick up a sword that taking innocents hostage was the lowest 
form of cowardice. A cowardice that must and would be punished 
by death.  

*	*	*

"Lord Margul!"

The cry brought Margul to a halt, his head turning rapidly to identify 
its source. Fortunately, the distraction did not cause his prey to 
escape the fate that he had intended. Others were already in pursuit 
and would soon take his enemy down as they had so many this morning. 
Things were going far better than Margul had hoped. He knew that 
several of his leading force had been injured or killed as a result of 

a lucky blow or carefully thrust spear, but his losses were minor at 
worst. The seeming invincibility of his troops was doing more than 
either their surprise attack or Charla's presence alone could to 
destroy Dordinal morale.

The call came from Vestra, one of the best of his female warriors.  
She was with his squad as it charged across the remains of Cresscreek's 
defenses. She disappeared, however, only moments after their first 
charge and was working her way around the southern part of the 
village, looking for ways to disrupt the defenders' position from 
behind. The fact that she had chosen to come this far north meant 
either there were few defenders in her region, or she had seen 
something that deserved his attention.

"What news have you?" he asked, one eye on the battle.

The older woman stopped before him, reeling on her feet as she did so. 
"I was not far from the site of our first assault when I came upon a 
single man who was attempting to retake the top of the wall. His 
weapon was very well made and his accoutriments the finest of any 
Dordinal warrior I have ever seen. We fought and had it not been for 
the improvements to my blade and armor, I am not sure that I would 
have beaten him. As it was, he escaped, and led me on a merry chase 
through the village. I thought that he might be the guard commander 
for this place, and so followed him. 

"Unfortunately, I encountered other Dordinal scoundrels and so lost 
him for a time. When I saw him again, he was conferring with a 
younger man whom he seemed to send on an errand of some import. 
I could not get close enough to challenge him further. In truth, his 
blows seem to have affected my vision in some way. I felt it best to 
describe him to you before going to see the Healer."

"You were right to leave the front -- though I would hardly call any 
part of this village safe." Margul scanned the battle before turning 
back to her report. "Describe him to me and then find Healer Marik 
and have him see to you."

"He is tall -- probably a handspan taller than you are, my lord -- and 
garbed in Dordinal's silver and black, with a blue sash 'round his 
waist. He was wearing no helmet when I first saw him, though I must 
assume that he was going to the armorer for a new weapon as his 
was destroyed in our combat. So I can't say whether he will wear a 
helmet or not when he rejoins the battle. If not, his hair is dark 
like most of the Dordinal chieftains', and I think that his eyes are 
either blue or hazel."

"Good," Margul growled. "This will be more than enough for me to 
find him and take his head." He slung his sword over his right 
shoulder and turned toward the village square, ready to seek his 
prey.

*	*	*

Charla lay drained some distance from the battle site. The spell to 
strengthen the troops' weapons and armor had been tiring. More 
importantly, she had been exhausted by producing the energy needed 
to open gaps in fortifications as large as those built by Dordinal. 
However, she could take grim satisfaction from the fact that she had 
done what was needed, and would soon be able to watch the main part 
of Forst's small army complete the crushing victory that seemed well 
within their grasp. A victory that would be spoken of for generations 
to come, if the reports that were coming from the village were to be 
believed. How satisfying it would be to gather their troops, claim 
their victory, and then drive on Dordinal's seat. She knew that she 
would meet Darliss there. She shied away from thinking about what 
she would do when the traitorous lady lay prostrate before her. There 
was too much temptation along that path....

*	*	*

Margul's rush to the village common was delayed by a short but bitter 
battle with a Dordinal scamp whose blade was virtually useless against 
his magically-enhanced weapon. The Head of Forst didn't even wait to 
see the havoc wrought on the soldier's body from the tremendous 
downward stroke of his sword. Rather, knowing that his enemy was 
dead, he ran on, now determined to find the Dordinal captain. 

Moments later he stood in the small and formerly well-kept common, 
watching as his warriors began securing it as a base from which they 
could move outward, pushing all resistance before them. Margul saw 
that they were confident of victory, a certainty that he was coming to 
share. He was shocked, then, by the pounding of feet and a sudden 
impact against his spine. 

The agonized scream that blasted his eardrums as he rolled with the 
impact and tried to rise shook Margul to his very soul. His eye found 
one of the mercenaries that his family had hired. The younger man's 
right arm and shoulder were withered away, his hand nearly decomposed, 
the flesh dripping between the blackened and smoking bones. Margul 
didn't need his lover's knowledge to recognize the Black Arts at work --
the evidence was before him and the stench filled the air. The soldier 
had saved his life, his body taking the brunt of the evil spell. 
Margul grabbed the tunic of another of his troops who, in spite of his 
panic at the display of black magic, stopped and assisted the struck 
man to shelter.

Cursing violently as pain radiated from his ankle and up his leg, 
Margul started after his men. He could only scramble for the 
protection of a near-by building ,as warriors both young and old 
began to run in all directions, the sweet taste of victory now 
replaced in their mouths by bitter fear.


*	*	*

It had taken much time for Charla to regain her strength, and even 
now, candlemarks after her castings on the troops' war-gear and 
against the village palisade, she felt weak and only partly in touch 
with the Mage energy that usually flowed through her body like a 
rushing river. She was conscious however, and when she heard voices 
calling her name she knew the news they brought her could not be 
good.

"Lady Charla!" a voice cried. "Your help is needed immediately!  A 
Black Mage has appeared in the village, and has attacked our lord 
Margul's party."


Exhausted though she might be, Charla's fear at the thought of losing 
what she had found the night before was more than enough to drive her 
to her feet, her aura blazing in nearly uncontrolled waves. She didn't 
care that her energies could now be sensed by any Mage within two 
days' ride. All that mattered was the danger to the man she loved, and 
the terrible threat that a Black Mage could pose to the Forst troops 
who had been sweeping to victory only moments earlier.

She ran toward the village, aura and eyes blazing with equal intensity.  
None who saw her dared stand in her way as she ran, hair streaming 
behind her, toward her goal. She took the ditch in two mighty leaps, 
feeling something snap in her knee as she did so. The cries of the 
battle and the blossoming pain from her injury were but minor 
distractions as she charged toward the center of the village. 

She needed little time to see where her enemy must be working, as 
members of both armies were fleeing the village common, terror stark 
in every face she passed. She slowed only slightly when she saw 
Ghalbar, his cloak askew and face taut with concern.

"Where is he?" she demanded, not needing to tell the younger man whom 
she meant.

"The last I saw of him he was crawling toward what is left of the inn. 
I am sure that he was hurt, but I was too far away to do anything for 
him."

"He lives then?"

"When I last saw him, yes." 

Relief washed over her, instantly replaced by cold determination. "I 
will break the Mage. Find someone to help Lord Margul to the Healer's 
tent."

"I will!" Ghalbar responded. He motioned for the attention of a small 
group of warriors who had gathered in the protection of one of the 
village's cobbled alleys.

*	*	*

Although Alkem's intervention slowed Forst's advance through the 
village common, Gaptel knew she would not be able to stop them 
from recapturing the town. Though dedicated to the Black Arts, she 
was far from the most powerful of Mages, and could only make the 
recapture of the village horribly expensive for his enemy. The Mage 
who had worked on Forst's weapons and broken the palisade would, he 
was sure, soon arrive to crush this threat to her employer's plans.  
Gaptel feared that Alkem's dwindling power would soon be lost to his 
forces, leaving them to continue a hopeless battle. Her sole claim so 
far had been to destroy the squad of  warriors who had been setting 
up a command tent on the abandoned green. Even that left her reeling. 

But Gaptel had seen another warrior, one with unusually fine 
clothing and weapons whom he thought might be Forst's commander. 
The man had been injured, and forced to crawl into the old inn where 
the Black Mage's power would be wasted in hunting for him. Armed with 
a new weapon, Gaptel also had his seething emotions in his favor. 
These, along with his enemy's injuries, would be enough to give him a 
good chance at victory, no matter the spells that must have been cast 
in support of his enemy. He began circling around the village square, 
sword in hand and ready for battle.

*	*	*

It took Charla only a moment to find the Black Mage once she reached 
the open area that had once been a well-maintained park. The elf was 
bent over one of Forst's dead, apparently collecting his eyeballs. 
Charla knew many of the spells that could be cast using these highly 
prized bits of flesh, and was equally determined that this Mage, at 
least, would cast none of them again.

"Turn and face your better!" she commanded, hands already moving in 
readiness for her first spell.

Alkem turned, eyes widening in shocked recognition. Charla had been a 
young and very angry woman when they had last met. Her powers were 
frightening even then, and Alkem saw that where she was badly 
outclassed before, her enemy now had truly awesome power. She could 
only shake her head in envy of the human woman's obvious abilities, 
evidenced by the power that destroyed the defenses the Dordinal 
commander was so sure of a few disastrous candlemarks before. 
A power that gave the Forst warriors near indestructibility. Alkem 
knew that these abilities would destroy her as well if she did not do 
something, and quickly.

*	*	*

Margul slumped against a table in the inn's dusty main room, a place 
where beings of all kinds had eaten, drunk, talked and laughed for 
untold season-cycles. A space that had seen much happiness, sadness 
and often love, now it lay dark and filthy under Dordinal's iron-fisted 

occupation.

After his long and painful journey across the inn's yard, he had no 
doubt that his ankle was broken. Though, he thought with some 
bitterness, better a broken ankle than the horrible injury that the 
young warrior had taken for him.

The sound of a door closing somewhere in the old inn told him that he 
was not alone. He was fairly certain that the elf-Mage had not seen 
him enter, and so whatever being made the noise was at least not 
gifted with Mage powers of evil. He prayed that one of his 
subordinates had the presence of mind to call Charla. Hopefully, 
weakened though she might be, she would be able to destroy or at 
least negate the decimating effects of a Black Mage, who would draw 
the line at nothing.    

A heavy footstep told him that whatever being drew near, the time for 
contemplation was over.

He moved as quietly as his injury would allow, taking up a position 
next to the door through which the other must enter. As soon as it 
opened, he swung his sword like a club, striking the other at the 
knees. As he hoped, his well-dressed victim dropped heavily to the 
floor, cursing violently and scrabbling for the sword he dropped. 
Margul knew instantly that this must be the Dordinal commander. 
Before his enemy could reach his sword, Margul leapt on his back, 
to be joined moments later by other, as yet unidentified, warriors 
who stormed into the room when they heard the sounds of the struggle.

"Surrender!" Margul grunted as his enemy fought to break away.

"No!" the other cried, redoubling his effort to escape the growing mass 
of men. "None of the house of Dordinal will ever surrender to such as 
you."

Margul's head snapped around in response to the sound of Ghalbar's 
voice, as the younger man pronounced the Dordinal commander's fate. 
"In that case, I pray that the Goddess will accept your soul once you
have completed your journey," he exclaimed as his sword fell, taking 
Gaptel's head with it.

The battle over, the pain from  Margul's ankle now became blinding 
in its intensity. The last things that he remembered as he slipped 
toward unconsciousness were Ghalbar's concerned voice, and the 
shrieking of a terrible wind accompanied by the crash of Mage-born 
thunder.

*	*	*


Charla smiled when she recognized the small elfish Mage. Though a 
skilled magician in her own right, the other had been one of those 
whom she had coerced into teaching her what Reinald would not. Much 
as the other might know her weaknesses, Charla knew well that if she 
kept her head about her, Alkem, Black Mage of the Darkwoods forest, 
would not be able to defeat her.  

She was familiar with her opponent's favorite spells and how to 
negate most of them. Those that could not be reversed could be 
deflected easily enough. With her victory certain, Charla began to 
focus on the rage that she felt toward Alkem. The elf had resisted 
teaching her what she wanted to know more than any other, and the 
fact that her former teacher very recently posed a mortal threat to 
Margul added to Charla's determination to destroy her opponent.

She began murmuring the spell that would negate Alkem's shield. The 
other, sensing her intent, tried to reinforce her defenses, but was 
simply not strong enough. When the shield fell Charla let her emotions 
run wild. The resulting Magestorm grew into a terrible tempest, 
lightning crackling in the air like flash-mites at the height of 
summer. With a flick of her hand the storm concentrated its fury, 
wind rising and rain pelting down in ferocious counterpoint to 
Charla's rising temper. Finally, with storm and emotions at a peak, 
the Forst Mage moved her hand and a blinding bolt of lightning came 
from the boiling cauldron that the heavens had become.  A terrible 
crash of thunder split the air, the sound alone sufficient to shatter 
windows and rock the nearby trees.

The sound and light were replaced by a deafening silence, and a 
smoking crater where the Black Mage Alkem had stood.

End of Chapter Nineteen


The Magician, Book 3.5 - The Firebrand
By Suzanne Bickerstaffe and Matthew Weed
(ecksphile@earthlink.net, matthew.weed@yale.edu)
Winter - Spring 2001


Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter 00


Chapter Twenty



"Will there be anything else, Mage Reinald?" Pitir placed the lid on 
the old teapot and rose expectantly.

The Royal Mage sat at the refectory table a short distance away. His 
eyes never glanced up from the hastily scrawled parchment he was 
studying.

His apprentice cleared his throat and waited.... 

Still nothing.

"Mage Reinald? Is everything all right?" Pitir demanded at length.

Reinald's head shot up, his brow furrowed. "Eh? Oh yes, fine, my boy. 
Make the tea, would you?"

"It is all made and ready for your guests, Mage."

"Ah yes, so it is." The Royal Mage got up as swiftly as his stiff bones 
would allow and chose a thick old book from the shelf. "Very well. I 

want you to select three spells from this book, and we will work on 
them in the coming weeks."

The troll took the volume and looked at his master in wonder. This 
was the first time he had been given the opportunity to decide his 
course of study.

Catching his apprentice's expression, Reinald shook his head 
advisedly. "Make no mistake, this is an important landmark in your 
training. The spells you choose will tell much about you. There 
are no wrong spells and no right spells. Still, there are spells which
connote more or less wisdom, more or less selflessness, more or
less courage. I will be quite interested in the choices you make."

"Thank you, Mage!" The troll's homely features shone. "I will not 
disappoint you. I will put much thought into my selections, indeed, 
I will stay up all night if need be, working by the light of candle 
and hearth, until--"

In spite of the seriousness of his former expression, Reinald's eyes 
twinkled. "At times, you remind me of Jhorghab, Mage Apprentice. 
Run along now, and choose wisely. I will see you tomorrow, bright 
and early."

"Yes, Mage!" Pitir replied, backing from the chamber. "I will choose 
most wisely, you will see, you will be so proud...." The troll's voice 

trailed with him out into the hall and didn't cease even when the 
massive iron-bound oak door swung shut. But this Reinald did not 

notice. Once again, he sat engrossed over the parchment.

It was not long until Andalor arrived at the Royal Mage's door and 
knocked. Receiving no answer, the King cracked the door open and 
peered around it. "Ah. You got the news, I see." He swung the door 
open, admitting himself and Jourdain and Aldara, who had just arrived.

"Yes, I received it. But I wonder if you make of it what I do. I am 
deeply disturbed, Andalor, deeply disturbed."

Aldara waved the Mage back into his chair and bent over the tea 
tray. Quickly, she handed out mugs of restorative tea and took her 
place at her husband's side with their friends around the hearth.

"All right," the King sighed. "Now what do you find so disturbing?"

"Do you not see it?" Reinald demanded, incredulous. "Clearly, there has
been the use of magic by Forst in making this attack at Cresscreek! 
From the description in this report and from what I know about House 
Forst, I can make only one guess as to who supplied that magic. And 
my experience with that person can only give me great unease about
this whole situation."

"Yes, I admit it appears magic was used. But who are you talking 
about, Reinald?" Andalor asked, mystified.

"It was before your time, my boy." Reinald rose to pace restlessly.
"Many season-cycles ago, well before you were born -- in fact, not long 
after your father ascended to the throne -- a young woman was sent 
here for training by her House. Now, it certainly does not happen every 
day that a member of one of the Houses has Mage talent."

"Or any talent whatsoever," Aldara muttered under her breath. Andalor 
caught her words and smothered a grin.

Unaware of the interruption, Reinald went on. "It was rumored that 
her father was not her father, if you know what I mean. Who he may 
have been was never disclosed, as the family chose to ignore the 
gossip and perpetuate the myth of her parentage. It was unlikely that 
he was a Mage as Mages do not tend to indulge in that sort of thing... 
with the exception of our beloved Mage Mulder, that is. Certainly he 
was someone with considerable Mage talent in his line. But Charla was 
an embarrassment, and was sent to me for training."

Reinald paused, remembering. "She was immensely talented, and could 
have become one of the most powerful and respected Mages of our 
time...." 

"Could have become?" Aldara repeated. "What happened?"

Jourdain nodded. "I remember her. Lovely thing she was - tall, strong. 
Would have made a good warrior, too, had her gifts not been for magic. 
But--"

"But for her headstrong insistence that her training include the Black 
Arts!" Reinald boomed dramatically.

"She actually expected you to teach her those?" Andalor asked. "She 
wanted you to train her to be a Black Mage?

He shook his head slowly. "No. No, she denied wanting to be a Black 
Mage. She said, for what it was worth, that she only was interested 
for the sake of knowing, not for the sake of applying that knowledge. 
But of course I could not take that risk. Certainly not with a Mage of 
her potential and strength. The temptation to use that knowledge 
would be overwhelming. I gave her an ultimatum - comply with my 
decision to teach only the White Arts, or leave. She left." Reinald 
threw himself once more into his armchair.

"So you think that she has acquired this knowledge elsewhere, and is 
now using it to further Forst's cause?" inquired Jourdain gravely.

"I know she has acquired the knowledge of the Black Arts -- it is a 
small and close Mage community and word does get around," Reinald 
replied. "What I do not have is absolute proof that she has used them. 
Otherwise, her name would have been on Tarnor's list of Black Mages 
a long time ago."

"Reinald, may I see the report?" asked Aldara.

He handed her the piece of parchment.

Andalor frowned. "Do you think she used the Black Arts to further 
Forst's cause?"

"I do not know -- I only suspect." Reinald's expression was closed, 

his jaw set. 

The King was puzzled. "I read the message we received. Obviously it 
was written hastily, and seemed, to me anyway, to be the usual mixture 
of fact, conjecture and rumor. But I saw nothing that would lead me 
to believe that Forst has used the Black Arts. True, the use of Mages 
in battle has its ethical detractors. But strengthening of weapons and 
armor by magical means has been done before, though many generations 
ago in our past."

"I must agree with His Majesty," Aldara commented, looking up from 
the parchment. "If anything, there seems to be clear evidence that 
it was not Forst but rather Dordinal who, fearing the battle was lost, 
employed the skills of a Black Mage."

Reinald nodded. "Yes, that appears to be the case. And I would not 
doubt that Dordinal would sink to that level -- they have done it 
before. But this Margul is an unknown, both the man himself and his 
methods. Who is to say he would not employ the same heinous ways
that Dordinal has?"

Jourdain shook his head. "I know little of this Margul. But what I have 
heard leads me to believe the best of the man, unless proved otherwise. 
I have heard he is both intelligent and charismatic -- a far cry from 
Lady Darliss, whom he wishes to replace as Head of Household. As to 

whether or not he has plans after he achieves his objective, I cannot 
say."

"And what do your sources say, Aldara?" asked the King. 

Aldara indeed had excellent sources. Over the season-cycles she had 
put into place a remarkable network of beings who supplied her with a 
constant stream of information. Some were paid to keep their eyes and 
ears open for anything which might be important to the King. Others 
were mere vendors or servants who became privy to such information 
in the course of their work, and were only too happy to pass it on to 
show their support for their King. And others still were gossips, whose 
stories might or might not have any truth to them.

"That is why I wanted to read your report, to check what I have heard.
Some of my sources were on the scene in Cresscreek. They have 
confirmed Forst's use of magic - only to strengthen weapons and bring 
down the fortified walls."

"That is still more use than I would approve of, myself," Reinald 
said stubbornly.

"Perhaps so, Royal Mage. But it is also true that those fortifications 
were built by Dordinal with the equivalent of slave labor." Aldara's 
tone, originally mild, began became more heated with the passion of 
her words. "Dordinal has held Cresscreek in an iron grip for almost a 
season-cycle now, taking advantage of a time when the Realm was still 
in the process of rebuilding after the War with the Dark Creatures and 
when the Dark Queen began to make her evil presence felt. They knew 
they could get away with this, as the energies of the King and his 
troops were necessarily directed elsewhere. They took advantage of 
the interspecies fighting by going in to 'calm' the region. They stayed 
to steal the villagers blind and force them to labor under their 

direction. I cannot weep for Dordinal -- for those who would use those
same villagers as hostages in this battle."

"What?" Cries of outrage came from both Jourdain and Andalor.

"It's true," Aldara said, emerald eyes flaring with indignation and 
anger. "I have it from three separate sources that Dordinal rounded 
up the villagers to use them as hostages, perhaps even living shields 
if it became necessary. If the use of some magic by Forst prevented 
this horrible act from occurring, then I can only applaud."

Jourdain rubbed his grizzled beard. "That does put things in a different 
light. By the Dark Creatures, this is a new low, even for Dordinal!"

Andalor nodded. "It is just as well their leader was killed. I assume 
he was the one to give the command, and he would have given his head 
to the axman for doing it!"

"Just because Dordinal was in the wrong does not make it right for any 
means, including the Black Arts, to be used against them," the Royal 
Mage insisted.

"Quite true, Reinald. But it remains to be seen if the Black Arts were 
indeed used by Forst. My sources say nothing of this."

"That may be so, Aldara, but your sources may not have been objective, 
either. Dordinal inspires very little love or loyalty outside their own 
House. Knowing Charla, knowing the kind of knowledge that she has, 
makes me very nervous. Perhaps she used the Black Arts, perhaps -- 
this time -- she did not. But will she always be capable of resisting the 
impulse to use them?"

Aldara shrugged. "That I cannot say, Royal Mage. I hope so, for Forst's 
sake. From what I have heard, Margul is the kind of leader Forst needs. 
And if my information is correct, he and his troops are on their way to 
Hotsprings to make that a reality."


*    *     *     *

"Milord, Vestor is here to see you."

The austere old noble looked up from his accounts book. "Very well, 
show him in." He rose to greet the stocky man. "We were not scheduled 
to meet. I therefore assume something has happened."

"That it has, my lord. Another opportunity -- an unexpected one."

"Interesting. Come, sit by the fire and have some wine. I would offer 
tea, but I remember your disgust for that beverage."

They settled themselves in deeply cushioned armchairs. "There is 
news from Cresscreek, milord," Vestor announced. "You may have 
heard rumors, but I can now confirm them. Margul of Forst has taken 
Cresscreek from Dordinal. Beat them soundly, even though they were 

outnumbered."

The elder's brows rose. "So. Hardly a surprise. Dordinal has been 
getting by on the l reputation of its supposedly unbeatable troops for 
a long time. But you and I know that reputation hasn't been deserved 
in many season-cycles. "

"True," Vestor replied, nodding. "Others, including ourselves, might 
have also beaten them. But there is an important difference."

"And it is?"

"They had help, milord. Many of the heads of minor Houses, smelling 
the blood of the despised Dordinal, have rushed to this Margul's side. 
He has made some shrewd alliances. I do not know whether he intends 
eventually to turn on them and steal their lands and treasuries, or 
not. But should he successfully depose Darliss as Householder, he will 

be a force to be reckoned with in the Council. He already has many 
votes swung to his side. And there are few in the Realm who would weep
to see Dordinal taken down a peg or two." Vestor's eyes narrowed. "He
could make Forst acsension into the higher ranks of the Noble Houses a 
reality."

"Not necessarily good news for us, then," the elder responded. 
"Dordinal is a known entity, living on a reputation earned in by-gone 
days. Margul is a mystery man, with a growing reputation which 
apparently is deserved. He might prove to be a problem for us."

"And that's not all, milord. The other source of their help -- and 
probably the greatest factor in their victory at Cresscreek -- was a 
Mage."

"A Mage? Forst using a Mage? Who was he?"

"She, milord. From what my sources tell me, it is Charla of Forst,
returned to help make Margul's dream a reality."

"Charla? ...Ah, Charla!" he exclaimed in sudden enlightment. "Though 
how much 'of Forst' she is is questionable. Interesting.... Certainly, 
neither Margul nor Charla has any reason to support Darliss. So they
have decided to join their talents against her, eh?" The elder noble 
was silent for some time. "Where are Forst's troops now?"

"By all accounts, on their way to Hotsprings, to move against the
bulk of Dordinal's troops there. Hegan brought them with him to take
part in his procession."

"And your assessment of that situation?"

"It will be a difficult battle for Margul to win. He will be even more 
outnumbered than he was in Cresscreek. But he has momentum 
on his side. If some of Darliss's troops decide to switch sides in 
the middle of the battle, it could become quite interesting to watch. 
And there is always Margul's Mage...."

"Very well. Vestor, I want you to go to Hotsprings... to protect our 
interests, shall we say. If nothing else, with the trade fair at 
Hotsprings, there will be untold riches and goods there. It would 
be a shame if such wealth were to fall into anyone's hands but our 
own, wouldn't you say? And who knows -- you may be able to use 
your unmatched skills in relieving the Realm of an upstart or two in 
the process."

"With pleasure, milord." Vestor smiled in anticipation.

"Just mind -- all identifying regalia must be removed from you and 
your men. We don't want to show our hand yet."

"Agreed, milord. But this a too great an opportunity to miss!"

 
*    *     *     *


"Finally!" Charla thought, spying Margul's dark head bent in 
discussion with one of the nobles from Highlands. The camp had 
grown significantly over the four days of their march toward 
Hotspring, and now that they had reached it, troops from many of 
the other Houses were pouring in as well. The minor Houses had come 
out in support of Forst's attack on Dordinal for reasons that varied 
as widely as the quality of their warriors. The only thing binding 
the allies together was a growing mistrust of Dordinal and its 
apparently insatiable thirst for power.  

Most happily of all, nearly every one of the hundred and fifty Forst
warriors based at Fairwoods had joined their small army.  A few were 
still loyal to Darliss, but with the entire council now present, 
Charla knew that Margul would soon be able to declare himself head 
of House.

Highlands brought nearly their entire strength and Norwood sent much 
of its Fairwoods contingent. Charla smiled grimly as she watched the 
byplay between Margul and Linder of Highlands. The Highlands 
Householder was one of the few older nobles to survive the Dark 
Queen's assault on Fairwoods, and as a result had been able to 
take notable advantage of the confusion that racked Dordinal. His 
reasons for being here were obvious: land and wealth. A defeat of 
Dordinal would benefit Highlands nearly as much as it would Forst. 

Norwood's attendance on the camp was more difficult to understand.
Unlike Highlands, whose traditional seat was nearby and so could be 
threatened by  Dordinal, Norwood had no obvious reason to join Forst 
in attacking Hegan's House. Other than the wealth that their warriors 
could carry off, little financial benefit would come to them. But 
Norwood did have traditional ties to the north, and apparently wanted 
to be included for that reason as much as anything. Charla hoped, for 
their sake, that Norwood had a seer in their ranks, as victory for the 
allied Houses was far from assured. There could be no doubt that if 

they were defeated, Norwood would pay a terrible price in exchange for 
its support of Dordinal's enemies.

The negotiations between Margul and Linder of Highlands had closed by 
the time she reached her lord's side. Margul turned on hearing her 
light footsteps, a wide smile creasing his normally stern features.

"How are the preparations proceeding?" he asked, barely remembering to 
keep his hand from touching hers in public.  Both felt that the other 
Houses might respond badly to news of a relationship between the 
claimant to Forst's position on the counsel and a powerful Mage. As 
a result, the two were, as Ghalbar had said with mirth that they did 
not share, "behaving themselves' until the battle was over. But both
were feeling the strain of not being able to touch when they were in 
close proximity to each other.

"All is well," she announced softly, her steps leading them toward a 
quieter section of the camp. "I spoke with Ghalbar and he is doing 
what is necessary to make sure our allies will have their war-gear ready 
for me on the morrow. We have nearly four times as many warriors as 
we did before Cresscreek and our morale seems very high."

"All good news," Margul approved. They strolled further from the great 
cook fires that dominated the center of the camp.

"Yes, all that is best," Charla nodded.  "I can, of course, remove the 
spell from our allies' gear should they attempt to strike against us."

"A wise precaution," Margul said. "Though I doubt it will be necessary. 
Highlands and Norwood seem ready to fight honorably, and the 
mercenaries we have picked up along the way are sufficiently 
terrified by the rumors surrounding our victory at Cresscreek to make 
me fairly sure they will act as we want them to. But I don't think the 
military preparations are the reason for your coming to me like this," 
he guessed. They stopped beside one of the tents that had 
sprung up like the early flowers of planting season.

"You are right," she sighed, knowing he would almost certainly 
refuse to do what she so desperately hoped for. "I want to cast a 
shielding spell for you."

"Absolutely not!" Margul replied with more heat than he knew. "I cannot 
afford to go into battle with any more protection than any other Forst 
warrior. It would damage my crediblity before the troops and make me 
appear weak before the other Houses."

Charla stiffened, barely suppressing her emotions -- both her anger 
and her concern for her beloved Margul. "Your warriors will think you 
the fool if you don't go into battle with every advantage!" she cried, 
her aura flaring around her.

"No!" Margul exploded, "it is you who doesn't understand! I cannot be 
seen as a coward, hiding behind a Mage's protection." He raged on, "It 
does our House no good for me to appear like a youngling forest-beast, 
ready to run to my mother at the first sign of danger!" Suddenly, his 
expression changed and the light of understanding appeared in his eyes. 
Before she could interrupt him with another argument that might sweep 
away his newly-found calm, he spoke. "I know, my dearest. I know that 
you are afraid for me," he sighed, reaching to embrace her. "But the 
spells that you will soon cast on our gear, along with the hundreds of 
warriors who have come to our banner from throughout the Realm, will 
be protection enough."

"But--," she whispered, eyes filling with tears.

"No, Charla, there can be no buts in this, you must allow me to be seen 
as willing to accept the risks that our warriors have agreed to take," he 
murmured, gently rubbing her back. "I will do everything to see myself 
safe, for I would not want to die after knowing the joy that you are to 
me.  But I must do this without undue help from you."


"I understand. I promise not to cast a shielding spell." What she did 
not say is that she would be on the battlefield, ready to shield him 
with her own body if necessary, if he would not accept her magical 
support. Their kiss bound her to a silent promise that no matter what 
might happen, she would ensure his safety.

End of Chapter Twenty