Zarryiostrom Chapter Two
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Chapter Two
“Powerborn”
Chesare Illvanna was sick and tired of beautiful clothing. As a Princess of Illymar, she understood the need to look her best for the Convocation, but after a full month of standing in one place day after day, as seamstresses measured, fitted, draped, wrapped, stuck, poked, and prodded, she’d found that she’d had more than enough. There were better things for her to be doing at the moment, or at least less dull things at least, but somehow she always ended up in this same spot, facing endless mounds of the finest silks and the stern expressions of an unending line of seamstresses with their pins and needles and shears. It made her want to scream in frustration.
At least the view is nice, she thought to herself, trying to find a silver lining to this particular dark cloud for what seemed to be the millionth time.
The fitting room was an open-faced terrace with a magnificent view of the ocean, and from the point she was standing she could see both the Mage Citadel and the Grand Cathedral of Zarryiosiad across the bay. She had always loved the view of the Cathedral from the Spire, sitting as it did across the bay, but after so many endless days of staring at it even its grand design wasn’t enough to dispel her boredom. Frustrated at her lack of distraction, she surreptitiously glanced over at her older sister. Lyrahe didn’t seem to be bored at all, standing perfectly still while three different seamstresses marked her dress with chalk at a blinding pace.
At 17, Lyrahe was one of the most beautiful young women Chesare had ever seen, with porcelain skin and raven tresses that curled down her back in an elegant wave Chesare desperately wished that she could emulate. Chesare herself had just turned 16, and she self-consciously reached up to run her fingers through her unruly coppery-red ringlets, jealous of the perfection of her sister’s coiffure. Lyrahe’s hair was always . . . well, perfect. As Chesare ran her fingers through her hair, one of the governesses clicked her tongue at her, a clear signal that she should stop behaving like a barbarian and instead continue emulating her perfect sister. Chesare couldn’t help herself. She grimaced at the governess and stuck out her tongue, earning yet another disapproving look. The governess also crossed her arms over her chest, and gave her a flat stare with one eyebrow arched that told her quite clearly she was very close to earning herself a harsh word or two, or worse, a lecture about maintaining one’s dignity. Chesare sighed heavily, and then returned her gaze to the spectacular view, trying desperately to find something to occupy her mind. Once again, the view failed to provide a distraction, and once again she found her eyes wandering to look at her sister.
Like always, Lyrahe had her nose stuck in a book even as the seamstresses worked, and without even looking at the title Chesare knew that it was yet another romance. Lyrahe absolutely lived for the things, and as far as Chesare could tell, they were her sister’s only vice. Lyrahe especially loved tales of tragic romances, with young lovers divided by fate only to end up dying in each other’s arms or some other such silliness. Her favorite story was Zarryiosiad and Talindril of course. Chesare didn’t particularly care for that story, as she much preferred stories with happy endings, but on more than one occasion she’d found Lyrahe dabbing at her eyes and sniffling, an open copy of Love’s Sacrifice sitting next to her. Chesare let out an undignified snort of ridicule at the thought. When she realized what she had done, she glanced quickly at the governess, but thankfully the she hadn’t heard. Chesare barely suppressed a sigh of relief when she realized that she had somehow gotten away with it.
As the day slowly progressed, and the sun rose to its midday position, Chesare began to feel more than a bit warm. That was very strange, as it wasn’t a particularly warm day, but even so beads of sweat started forming at her forehead. There was a gentle breeze flowing from the ocean, and normally that would have been enough to cool her, but today it did little to help. One of the seamstresses noticed sweat dripping down towards the silk, and quickly produced a handkerchief to wipe it off.
It wouldn’t do to stain the silk, would it? thought Chesare with more than a bit of ire.
She felt a flash of anger totally out of proportion to her irritation, and that anger in turn seemed to make her feel even hotter. She closed her eyes and started a relaxing exercise one of her tutors had taught her to try and calm herself. She had always had a temper, and this was the best way she’d found to control it. With her eyes closed she started counting to one hundred, first in Illymari Standard, then in Elvish, then again in Faeish. She wasn’t exactly fluent in either Elvish or Faeish, but she could read and write both languages very well and at least make herself understood without too much embarrassment. Both of her older sisters were perfectly fluent in both languages of course, with Tais being truly gifted. Unfortunately, Chesare was pretty sure that Tais had had little opportunity to practice her skills, now that she was imprisoned in the Tower.
Chesare couldn’t understand why what Tais had done was so wrong, and why she had deserved such a harsh punishment. Over a year ago, Tais had fallen in love with an earl from one of the country estates, and had run away with him despite her father’s express order forbidding her to ever see him again. That was bad enough, Chesare supposed, but Tais had been promised to the Prince of Ferralin, a man she had never seen before in order to cement an alliance between the two nations. Unfortunately, her secret marriage to the earl had ended that betrothal quite handily, and their father, King Orem, had been enraged when he found out what Tais had done. He stripped the earl of his lands and titles in absentia, and ordered their oldest brother, Crown Prince Ethan, to assemble an army to both retrieve her and punish the Earl. Lyrahe had thought the entire episode dreadfully romantic of course, but that romantic viewpoint had been shattered forever when weeks later, a nearly catatonic Tais had been unceremoniously returned to the castle by Ethan, who also delivered the Earl’s head in a basket. Chesare couldn’t be certain, but she honestly believed that King Orem had been very close to ordering Tais’s execution for high treason as well, and had only relented at the behest of their mother. Instead of facing the headsman, Tais was placed in the Tower, and not allowed to see anyone without the express permission of the King. A few weeks after Tais’ imprisonment, Chesare and Lyrahe had timidly asked permission of their father to see her, but King Orem had told them coldly that they were never to mention their sister’s name to him again, and neither of the girls had dared to defy that order. In fact, nearly a year later, so far as Chesare could tell no one had been allowed to see Tais at all.
There were many rumors that had begun to spread, and one in particular Chesare found to be more disturbing than most. According to the rumor, Tais had been pregnant when she was brought back to the castle, and had given birth sometime during the past year. What had happened to the child after its birth was anyone’s guess, but the most prominent rumor was that Orem had had the child executed. Chesare refused to believe that her father was capable of doing something so vile, but she couldn’t help but remember the look on his face when he’d denied them permission to see Tais. She loved her father, but on that day his face had been that of a terrifying stranger.
“Your Highness, are you feeling well?” The totally unexpected question snapped Chesare out of her reverie and she looked around in a slight daze to find the speaker.
She noticed that Lyrahe had lowered her book and was staring at her in concern, and that the governess who had given her the disapproving looks earlier also had a worried expression on her face. Chesare opened her mouth to say that she felt fine, but noticed then that perspiration was pouring down her face and the silk the seamstresses had fought to protect had been utterly ruined. She reached up to wipe the sweat from her eyes, and again touched her hair. The sodden ringlets stuck to her forehead and neck, and the sweat began to pour through it to stream down the bare skin of her back.
The governess waved quickly towards a cupbearer, and the servant sprang forward with a cool glass of water at the ready. Chesare took the cup and nodded her thanks, draining it as quickly as she could, but the cold water didn’t help in the slightest, and Chesare began to feel faint. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this hot before, not even when she had been feverish as a child, and she pressed the emptied glass to her forehead, clinging desperately to the cool glass as if it were filled with ice. Her knees buckled, and gentle hands quickly helped her to the floor while the governess frantically called for someone to fetch the physician.
The glass tumbled from her hands and shattered on the cold marble, but Chesare didn’t notice. All she could feel was the roaring heat within her and she knew that if she didn’t do something soon, it would consume her, devouring her completely and leaving nothing behind. She arched her back spasmodically and began thrashing on the floor as her eyes rolled back into her head. She could feel the seamstresses holding her hands and legs tightly, desperately trying to keep her from injuring herself, while the governess tried unsuccessfully to fit a leather belt between her teeth. Chesare’s head jerked from side to side uncontrollably, while tears streamed down her face until she felt the heat doubling, and then redoubling, again and again and again. In her mind she screamed in tormented agony, Archon, please let this end!
With a cry, the seamstresses and the governess leaped away from her, clutching their hands in pain. Anyone who had been touching the Princess’s bare skin had been burned, and their cracked red skin blistered as it cooled. Lyrahe cried out in terror as her sister continued her uncontrollable thrashing, until suddenly, without warning, Chesare stopped moving. Her back arched one more time, almost to the breaking point, and then she collapsed like a rag doll and stopped moving altogether. For what seemed to be an eternity nothing happened . . . until Chesare’s eyes snapped open.
Her green eyes were gone, replaced by two fiery red embers burning in her skull. Her eyes widened and blazed once, flaring from red embers to white-hot coals, and a wave of heat exploded from her body. Her clothes burned away, leaving her naked. The glass that she had dropped during her seizure instantly liquefied, bubbling and pooling where it had fallen beside the Princess’s hand, while the piles of beautiful silk were reduced to ash as a sheet of fire reached hungrily towards the other people in the room. The attendants and seamstresses had already been backing away from the princess, but slowly, almost as if they were paralyzed. As the fires spread outward looking for new fuel, blind terror overcame their paralysis, and everyone scrambled out of the room in panic, trying to escape the flames that reached so hungrily for them. Chesare didn’t notice their frantic flight, as every ounce of concentration in her body was focused on a single goal: shedding the heat as quickly as possible.
Instinctively, she placed her hands on the marble floor, and somehow—she knew not how—began forcing the heat from her body into her hands and then from her hands into the marble itself. A white-hot flare exploded from her, and everywhere it struck, the stone itself blackened and charred. The furniture disappeared altogether in the blaze, and the heavily gilded oaken doors warped and twisted in their frames. She couldn’t have described exactly how she was forcing the heat away from her, but all she knew is that whatever she was doing was working. The flames within her flared angrily one last time, then banked, before slowly abating. Eventually the fire under her skin cooled and disappeared altogether, and a naked and exhausted Chesare weakly curled up into a ball on her side, and fell into blissful unconsciousness.
Several minutes later, the Captain of the Guard and a handful of men-at-arms broke open the door expecting to see the worst. Instead, they found the Princess completely unharmed, sleeping like a newborn baby in the midst of what had obviously been an inferno.
“Your Majesty, Archimagus DeVir has arrived.” King Orem III turned to his Captain of the Guard and nodded, then looked past him towards the new arrival. Archimagus DeVir had obviously hurried, but had taken the time to change into his formal robes before being presented to the King.
“Your Majesty. I apologize for taking so long to arrive,” he said quickly. “I was in a meeting at the Grand Cathedral when your messenger found me.”
King Orem didn’t waste time on small talk.
“We don’t know what happened, Archimagus, though we have our suspicions. Chesare is still unconscious, but she seems to be fine. The Royal Physician can find nothing wrong with her, so we called upon the Citadel. Perhaps you can explain what has happened.”
“Can you tell me exactly what happened before she collapsed?” Cedric asked. “The messenger would only say that there had been a fire and that several people had been injured.”
The King shook his head.
“There was a fire, but that isn’t what injured the others. Apparently, only the people that were physically restraining Chesare during a sudden seizure were injured. Their injuries consist of burns and blisters, but the physician has already seen to their wounds. One thing is clear, only those people who actually touched Chesare were injured, but she herself seems to be completely unharmed.”
“Before I look in on her, may I see the room she was in when this happened? It’s important.”
The King looked at the Captain. The Captain turned to the Archimagus.
“If you will follow me?”
Archimagus DeVir stepped aside and allowed the captain to pass, quietly falling in behind him.
Orem could not hold back his concern.
“Do you have any idea of what has happened? If it was an assassination attempt, I need to know immediately so I can have the security increased.”
“That may be a bit premature, Your Majesty. I do have an inkling of what may have happened, but I need to see the room to confirm it. Rest assured I will know what happened as soon as I see the room.”
Orem looked as if he wished to say something else, but closed his mouth. After several minutes of walking, the procession reached an ornate door flanked by two guards. The guards braced to attention and the Captain turned to Cedric.
“This is the room, Archimagus. No one has been allowed to enter since we removed the Princess.”
Cedric closed his eyes and concentrated on the interior of the room.
“I sense no residual flames. It is safe to enter.”
The guardsmen opened the doors. It took some effort as the heat that had emanated from the room had warped the gilded doors, but the guards were able to pull them apart.
Cedric stepped into the room, taking careful note of the scorch marks. Only one side of the pillars was blackened, and he quickly discerned the pattern. He walked forward, unmindful of the charring and the ash, and stepped to the spot from which the flames had originated. On the floor was a small pool of glass, melted, blackened, and fused into the stone.
A crystal goblet or wineglass, he thought, liquefied in the heat. He whistled silently in appreciation for the power that had required.
“This was where she was lying, yes?” The Captain nodded, and Cedric smiled. “This wasn’t an attack, Your Majesty. The flames came from the Princess herself. I believe congratulations are in order: your daughter is Fireborn.” He gestured at the blackened marble. “And quite a powerful one at that. The heat necessary to cause this much damage—especially to stone—is considerable. When she is properly trained, she will become an exceptional Mage.”
As he spoke, King Orem’s face changed from one of concern, to one of pride.
“You’re certain? There can be no mistake?”
Archimagus DeVir smiled.
“I’m positive, Your Majesty. If I might be allowed to examine the Princess, I will confirm it.”
At that, the King’s face split into a wide grin.
“Of course, of course! Oh, this is wonderful news, Archimagus. Simply wonderful.”
Cedric politely inclined his head. When he looked up, he caught a different expression on King Orem III’s face. The look was covered completely in an instant, but for a split second, Cedric DeVir knew he had seen something disturbing, for the look on King Orem’s face had been one of pure, unadulterated avarice.
When Chesare opened her eyes again, she didn’t know where she was. A few moments of panic set in, until she recognized the gauzy canopy above her. Somehow she was in her own apartments, lying in her own bed. She started to sit up, when a gentle hand pressed down upon her shoulder to hold her down. She turned to see who was with her, but didn’t recognize the distinguished man. Black hair with two white streaks at the temples clearly marked him as Dakkadian, but he wore his hair short and neatly trimmed in the current Illymari fashion instead of long, as a Dakkadian would. She also noted that he was dressed in a Mage’s robe and wore an Archimagus’s pendant, so she obediently relaxed and waited for him to speak.
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal, Princess. A great many people are very worried about you.” His baritone voice was surprisingly deep, and the clipped, precise accent confirmed his nationality. At those words, the memory of the events of that afternoon returned to her, and Chesare’s eyes widened in alarm. Despite the presence of his hand, she shot bolt upright.
“There were flames everywhere!”
She looked down at her hands, remembering what she had done to rid herself of the heat, and half expected to see them blackened and burned from the fire. Instead, she noted with relief that her hands were perfectly fine.
“Other people were there, Archimagus. Were they injured? What of Lyrahe? I didn’t hurt her did I?”
The rising panic in her voice was accompanied by tears welling in her eyes but a quelling gesture from the Mage calmed her and allayed her fears.
“Your sister is quite well, though others in the room were indeed injured, if not as badly as they might have been. Their injuries have already been treated and according to the Royal Physician they will be fine with time and bed rest. You needn’t worry about them.”
His voice sharpened, and took on the same intonation she had come to expect from teachers and instructors.
“Attend my words.” He raised his hand, and a tiny flame sprang out of one finger and began to dance from fingertip to fingertip. When he was certain he had her complete attention he spoke. “Watch the flame as it moves. See how it twists and turns, always in motion and yet somehow always in control? I want you to concentrate on the flame. Now imagine the fire burning inside yourself, as if you are an iron furnace holding the heat at bay.”
Chesare stared at the flame that was flickering in front of her. His words washed over her, and his voice melded with the brightness of the flame to produce a hypnotic effect.
“Now, imagine the flames pouring forth from the furnace within you, seeking to join the flame that you see before you. Meld the flames together, until they are one.” The fire flickered mildly and then doubled in size, and he smiled in approval. “Very good. Very good! The flame is now yours to command, Princess. Take control of it, and make it move the way you want. Bend it to your will.”
Chesare frowned in consternation. Bend fire to my will? I can’t do that. Still, as the flame moved over his hand from fingertip to fingertip, left to right, she concentrated on it, willing the flame to change direction and move from right to left. The little fire continued merrily upon its original path, unconcerned with her attempts to control it.
“Fire is fickle, Princess. It can be a powerful ally and a steadfast companion, but it must always be subservient to you. If you fail to control it, if you fail to bend it to your will, it will eagerly consume you.” At that, the fire flared brightly, instantly tripling in size. The sudden expansion startled her, and she flinched, raising her hands up to protect her face. The flame froze for a second, then flew away from her and struck a far wall, flaring again, and then dying away completely. For an instant, the Mage looked utterly startled. He frowned at her briefly, squared his shoulders, and then started the lesson anew. A flame once more appeared above his fingertips, and once more began its journey from the left to the right.
“Attend. To control a thing, you must first lose your fear of it. To fear something is to give it control. Surrender control, and you become a slave. The fire is yours to command. Make it your servant.”
Chesare let her hands fall to her lap, and concentrated again on the flame. She began to feel strangely drawn to the man seated next to her, as if they shared a connection, almost a resonance. He clearly felt the same thing.
“Excellent, Princess. I can feel you exerting your will. Concentrate on the flame, and make it yours.”
Chesare took a deep breath, and for a third time she concentrated on the flame. It took only a few moments, and suddenly she felt the same resonance that she felt with the Mage within the flame itself. She seized upon that resonance, and used it to slowly exert her control over the flame. The movement from left to right slowed, and then stopped completely. A second later the flame began moving again, this time from right to left. Abruptly the flame disappeared altogether.
The Mage grinned widely at her.
“Congratulations, Novice. You’ve done very well indeed for your first day.”
At that he stood up, and turned toward the doorway. For the first time, Chesare noticed her mother and father standing there, silently watching the exchange. Her mother looked worried, but her father looked proud.
“She will need to begin her training immediately, your Majesties. As I said earlier, she is exceedingly powerful. To have an untrained Fireborn with as much raw talent as she possesses remain unsupervised could have unfortunate consequences to those around her. The Mage Citadel is where she needs to be for now.”
Her father frowned.
“What of the Convocation? It’s less than a month away. Will she be able to attend?”
The Mage crossed his arms.
“That is entirely up to her, of course. If she is mindful and attentive, a month will be more than sufficient to prepare her. If she’s wicked and idle, a lifetime wouldn’t be long enough. At the Citadel, we shall find out which it will be.”
He turned to Chesare and raised a single eyebrow.
“I am Archimagus Cedric DeVir, Novice. I am the Eighth Seat of the Mage High Council, and I will be one of your instructors at the Citadel. Try and get some sleep. You’ll need as much as you can get before you begin your training.” He paused. “I have high expectations for you Novice, as do your parents I’m sure. With the amount of raw talent you possess, you will rise very high among your peers. You are the first Powerborn in ten generations born to the Illvanin family, and much is riding on your shoulders. Do not disappoint.”
He turned back to the King and Queen, bowed respectfully.
“By your leave, your Majesties. The Citadel will expect her on the morrow.”
The King nodded, and the Mage walked from the bedchamber.
The King smiled at his daughter, but the Queen placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him from the room.
“She needs her rest. Tomorrow will be an important day.” She turned to her daughter, “Try and sleep, Chesare. We love you.”
She stepped back and Chesare caught sight of Lyrahe, who waved cheerfully at her from the hallway. Chesare returned the wave, and with that her mother closed the door, leaving Chesare alone with her thoughts. Chesare found that she was afraid of what the morrow would bring, but then she remembered something the Mage had said. To fear something is to give it control. Surrender control, and you become a slave.
That thought provided an odd sense of comfort, and with that she fell asleep, dreaming of dancing flames.
During the ride back to the Mage Citadel, Cedric DeVir couldn’t help but think over the day’s events. The emergence of a Powerborn in the royal family of Illymar would send shockwaves through all of the royal families that would attend the Convocation—a conclusion that King Orem had already reached if that one veiled look had been any indication. The situation Patriarch Varic had described earlier—the possibility of an Illymari/Dakkadian alliance through an arranged marriage—was no longer a much of a possibility. Dakkadia’s most powerful bargaining chip had just been nullified, and they didn’t even know it. King Orem no longer needed fresh Mage blood injected into his family line, so a marriage between one of the princesses of Illymar and one of the sons of Dakkadia was most likely no longer a possibility.
On the other hand, the shrewdest thing for Orem to do now would be to negotiate a marriage between the Princess Chesare to the older boy, Phaedron, and after the marriage grant him estates in Illymar. This would serve to create a new line of Mages, while keeping them firmly under Orem’s control. It will be interesting to see if this thought occurs to him.
A disturbing thought came to him then, sending a brief chill through his bones.
If indeed they can be controlled.
Before beginning the test for the Princess, he had taken steps to ensure his complete control of the situation as an untrained Powerborn could be a danger to everyone around her if preventative measures were not taken. He had believed that he had been in absolute control of the conditions of the test, but even so she had somehow seized control of the flame, and hurled it away from her with no conscious effort, a feat that should have been flatly impossible. His shock and surprise—brief as they were—had been genuine, and he knew he hadn’t been able to cover it quickly enough. Shortly after that, when she had finally achieved resonance, the well of power he had felt within her had been incredible. It was galling to admit it even to himself, but self-deception had never been one of his flaws: one day she would dwarf his ability with fire magic. In fact, he strongly suspected only one other living person could match her potential.
The only Mage alive with her raw talent is Morvandis, and she is less than half his age. This is yet another interesting development in a day full of them.
A match between Princess Chesare and either Phaedron or Valeriad, the Powerborn sons of his half-sister Aveliad, would make for very potent Mage offspring indeed, and Cedric firmly believed King Orem would be a fool if he didn’t pursue that connection as aggressively as possible. Illymar had been too long without a Mage in the royal line, and Orem desperately needed to fan this potential spark into a flame. He wasn’t sure exactly how strong the boys were, but all of the reports he had received concerning the two sons of Aveliad mentioned that they were exceedingly powerful, and that Morvandis had pushed them very hard during their training. That could be good or bad he supposed, but it wasn’t skill Morvandis lacked, it was humanity and morality.
For their sakes, I pray the boys have learned those virtues from their mother.
