Ivy slid from the saddle. I jumped down, slowing my descent with magic. Normal magic from my perfectly functional hands.
Yes, some people might decide that almost killing their only friends deserved some sort of self-flagellatory gesture, like not restoring their own magical abilities plus some, but I was not a good person.
“He’ll come around,” Ivy muttered when she bent to undo her saddle’s girth.
“I won’t,” Talsar growled. He came over and leveled a finger down at me, leaning into Ivy’s face. “She nearly got us killed. I can still feel that magic. What kind of long-term effect is that going to have? Give me one reason—”
Ivy grabbed his black coat by its lapels and backed him toward a tree, kissing him all the way. Talsar stumbled, but managed to wrap his arms around her and right himself without breaking the kiss.
I sighed and turned away. They’d had the same fight every night for the last five nights since we’d left the hags’ lair, and it always ended the same.
“He’ll come around,” Ezo echoed Ivy’s words, sliding down from Firenza’s horse and landing lightly next to me. “It took him six months to warm up to me.”
“I have not warmed up to you,” Talsar rumbled from the tree before Ivy recommandeered his face.
“Yes he has,” said Ezo good-naturedly. “He was just mad that I tried to sell his eyeballs to an alchemist when we first met.”
I stared at him. “You did what?”
Ezo shrugged. “I support the sciences. Besides, it was a lot of money.”
Firenza dismounted, shaking her head. “Ezo, I can’t believe you. Talsar needs his eyes.”
“Uh huh,” Ezo said flatly. “And when we met Firenza, she jumped out of closet in a bandits’ hideout and tried to beat us all to death with a severed arm.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE FRIENDLY!”
I took one of Ezo’s candies out of my pocket, popping the ruby-red sphere of sweetness into my mouth. It was nice, actually, not having to travel alone. At least there was conversation.
“What about those two?” I indicated the elves with a jerk of my head. “I assume they’ve got some kind of story.”
“Yeah. Story.” Ezo snorted.
Firenza shuddered. “It has been a long and terrible road.” She eyed them. “But I think this is worse than the fighting. HEY! STOP BEING GROSS!”
I looked over my shoulder in time to see Talsar make a rude gesture behind Ivy’s back. Firenza growled.
“Forget the secrets of the cosmos,” I said. “I’ll settle for figuring out how y’all manage not to kill or maim each other on a daily basis.”
But when I watched them over the next little while, Ivy going off to hunt, Talsar fetching water, Ezo collecting firewood, and Firenza taking care of the horses, I sort of thought I knew. So I dusted off my skirts and reached into my pouch for my spell materials, because Talsar had made one thing clear—whether he trusted me or not, it was my job to start the fire.
Caitlyn McFarland
Originally from the Midwest, Caitlyn McFarland currently lives in Utah with her husband and three daughters. She has a BA in linguistics from BYU, is the author of the Dragonsworn trilogy (Carina Press 2015), and is represented by literary agent Marlene Stringer. When not writing or running around after her daughters, Caitlyn can be found hunched over a sewing machine making dice bags for her Etsy shop.
Website: www.caitlynmcfarland.com
Facebook: caitlynhmcfarland
Twitter: @CHMcFarland
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FIRE WINGS
by Anthony Ryan
35,000 Words
1. Exiles
THE SKULL STARED up at him with just one empty eye socket, the other having been shattered, along with much of the surrounding bone, the natural consequence of colliding with bare rock after a prolonged fall. Angling his head, Shamil couldn’t escape the sense that it was grinning at him, the oddly perfect half set of teeth gleaming as it caught the midday sun. He wondered if this unfortunate had actually laughed as they plummeted to their death, reflecting on the grim notion that, should the same fate befall him, he may also find some humour in it, or possibly just relief.
“I thought it might be a myth.”
Shamil tensed at the sound of an unexpected voice, one hand instinctively reaching for his quiver whilst the other unslung the strongbow from his shoulder. The man who had spoken was perched on a flat-topped boulder a dozen yards away, wrapped in a plain grey cloak that matched the surrounding rock. Shamil blamed this for his failure to spot him sooner, and the fact that the wind was at his back, sweeping away any betraying scent of sweat. Such excuses, he knew, would have availed him little in the Doctrinate, and this particular failure likely would have earned him at best a hard cuff to the head or at worst a full beating. But the Doctrinate was far away, and the fact that he was no longer bound by its strictures one of the few crumbs of comfort Shamil could cling to during his recent sojourn.
“The leap, I mean,” the man in grey said, gesturing to the half-shattered skeleton as he climbed down from his perch. He took a long gulp from a leather flask as he approached, his gait and posture lacking a threat. As he neared, Shamil saw that he was perhaps twice his own age, stocky of frame, and sparse of hair, his broad features showing several days’ worth of stubble. He bore no weapon, and his accoutrements consisted of just a leather satchel bulging with unseen contents and a small emerald pendant that hung around his neck on a copper chain.
The gem was small, but the slight glimmer of light within it provoked Shamil to step back and lower his bow, eyes averted in respect, something this unshaven grey-cloak seemed to find amusing.
“Your people still cling to the old servile ways, I see,” he said, voice rich with mirth. He took another drink from his flask, and Shamil’s nostrils caught the sting of strong liquor. The man’s eyes tracked over Shamil, taking in his hardy leather boots, the long-bladed dagger in his belt alongside his raptorile-tail whip, and the strongbow fashioned from ram’s horn and ash. “What are you? Strivante? No, skin’s too dark for that. Oskilna maybe?”
“Vilantre,” Shamil said, still not daring to look at the stranger’s face. “I bid you greeting, Master Mage . . .”
“Oh, don’t.” The mirth in the stocky man’s voice slipped into weary disdain as he waved his flask dismissively. “Just . . . don’t. Please.” He waited for Shamil to raise his gaze before extending his hand. “Rignar Banlufsson, late of . . . well, too many places to mention but most recently the Crucible Kingdom. Yourself?”
“Shamil L’Estalt.” He hesitated before grasping the proffered hand, finding it strong and the palm unexpectedly callused. This mage, it seemed, had not spent his days locked away in a tower poring over ancient texts. “Late of Anverest.”