Of the darker spells, the waethas, and the curses, aneiras and aniffath, she learned only enough to understand their dangers. Of all spells, said Faolein, curses are the most difficult to undo. Only Master Wizards may attempt it, and rarely with any success.
The lledrion had its basis in knowledge of the eight elements. Each element carries within it some basic intention, the thing which distinguishes it from primal matter: in mist, mutability; in light, illumination; in wind, movement; and so forth. All things have intention, but only animals and the speaking races have will. It is through the power of will that the magician imposes his or her intentions on the material world.
There came a time when it became necessary to put some of these lessons into practice. Then Sindérian insisted on taking her turn alone for the late-night vigils, that she might work in peace and not startle the men with displays of magic. “Not truly alone,” she told Prince Kivik. “My father watches with me. And it is only fair that we take our turn.” Her other reasons she kept to herself. Faolein’s keen senses would be always alert and the camp would be safe—that was all that the others needed to know.
Those spells are easiest which encourage things to do what is already in their nature, he told her on the first of these nights. To make a breeze into a great wind is not so difficult, for even the faintest breeze already carries within it the intention of movement. To call up a wind in a dead calm, that is a greater mastery. The air is still, it intends to remain so. In convincing it to do otherwise you must change its very nature. As for fire, because it is already fluid it is easily shaped, but to make it cool enough to handle you must perform the elemental spell, the lledrion. You speak the spell, and if your will is strong enough, the fire answers in the way that you wish.
So Sindérian spent all the rest of that night, until it came time to wake the Prince’s men for the dawn watch, learning to hold fire in the palm of her hand without being scorched by it. In the beginning it was difficult, and more than once she was burned. But if you are wise you will leave one small scar, said Faolein as she worked a healing spell, to remind yourself never to take your power over fire for granted.
Like all of the animate elements, its intention—in this case heat—is very strong. As you have seen, if you let your will or your attention flag for a single instant, it will have its way.
That lesson learned, she spent the next night shaping fire into one form after another: flowers, birds, wheels, sunbursts, shields, towers. On the third night she wove it into long, shining ropes. Implicit in all this, but never spoken, was the knowledge that fire might also be used as a weapon.
They passed from open country into a region of scattered woods and meandering watercourses. Riding past a stand of low oaks and dense brush, late one afternoon when the shadows were long and the shade of the trees lay full across their road, Sindérian felt a sudden tingling at the base of her skull, a prickling across the skin. She had only time enough to shout a warning to the other riders, at the same instant that Faolein rose screaming into the air, before chaos came hurtling at them out of the woods.
A dozen Eisenlonders, ahorse and afoot, had them half-surrounded in seconds. Knives flashed as the barbarians closed in, going for the vulnerable legs and bellies of the horses. Two horses were hamstrung immediately, throwing their riders to the ground, where the Eisenlonders quickly finished them off. By then the Skyrrans had whipped out their swords and rallied their defenses, and the battle began in earnest. One barbarian fell, ridden down by Lord Skerry. Another was impaled by Kivik’s sword.
Prince Ruan cut to left and right in a blur of motion, killing one man after another.
But an arc of riders appeared out of nowhere, sweeping in from the other side. Horses went down screaming. One man was decapitated, and another cut almost in half as blood spattered everywhere. The hawk entered the fray, swooping down again and again with slashing beak and talons. Sindérian had been so jostled and pushed aside that she was outside the circle. So she could only watch helplessly, knowing herself useless in a fight, until one of the barbarians spotted her, broke away from the melee, and whipping up his rawboned grey bore down on her. She tried to turn her horse and make for the woods, but the mare was fighting the bit and would not budge, dig in her heels and pull on the reins as Sindérian might.
She could see Prince Ruan, silver-blond hair and red cape flying, as he spurred his horse and rode into a wall of swords and spears, trying to reach her. One spearman fell; Ruan slashed at another, reined back, and whirled on a third who was threatening his flank. He broke free, scattering the barbarians before him, and was out of the circle.
By then, the Eisenlonder was already on her. The mare had finally consented to move, but she was far too slow compared to the grey coming in at full gallop. Sindérian ducked and just avoided a whirling axe.
She fumbled for the knife at her belt, knowing all the time that it offered no defense against an armed man twice her size.
But as the blade slid out from the sheath, an unexpected instinct took over. The knife seemed to move of its own volition, and her mouth formed the words before she even thought them: “Cyllig tinar domha!
Tinarach llathan!”
With the strength of Sindérian’s spell behind it, the backhanded thrust took the Eisenlonder in the gut—and kept right on going, up through the stomach and into the heart, coming to a grating stop only when it hit a rib. Her fist on the hilt followed after the blade, shearing through flesh, muscle, and the organs beneath. She managed to jerk the knife loose just as he toppled from the saddle, and her hand came out covered in blood and trailing viscera.
The skirmish was over. The wounded and the dying were scattered on the ground in all directions.
Sliding down from the saddle, Sindérian managed to make it as far as the bushes before she dropped to her knees and heaved out the contents of her stomach. It seemed she would never be done gagging and retching, even after there was nothing left but burning bile.
She had known why it was that healers never carried arms into battle, but the reality was infinitely worse than anything she could have imagined: to be slayer and slain at the same time; to feel the shock along the nerves as the knife went in, the last convulsion of the heart; to hear the shriek that leaped from his mind to hers as the soul was ripped from the body in a white blaze and hurled out into eternity. As for the incredible butchery of how she had done it…She began to shake so hard she could not catch her breath.
Through the grey haze, the shuddering and heaving, she had only a confused impression of the sounds and movements around her.
“Is the Lady injured?”
“Not, I think, in any way the rest of us could possibly understand,” said Prince Ruan’s voice very close to her ear. She realized, with vague surprise, that his was the strong arm supporting her, his the hand that held back her hair as she vomited again and again.
After a time the tremors became less, the screaming inside her head subsided, and she found she could breathe again. Her vision cleared and she became aware of her surroundings. Aell was kneeling in the leaf mold beside her, offering a flask of water to wash out her mouth, but after only a tiny sip nausea clawed at her stomach.