Wild Magic

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Juvalgrim sat in the window looking down on Bairroa Pili. The River was a curving thread of silver, the High City on the North Bank a black mass with a few red glows from smoldering fires and the scatter of torches being fired up along Verakay Lane where the Edgers struggled to keep going. He smiled fondly at the staccato red line. My scum; takes more than a jegging Prophet to squash you.

On the South Bank, the windows of the Low City showed yellow between the dark masses of the groves, the spray of lights muted by the dwindling rain.

He folded the letter the courier had given him an hour ago, tore it in half, tore it again and again. The Amrapake was coming with his army to reclaim his sister and clean out the Low City. “It won’t be long now,” he said aloud. “Ah Rey, I wish you’d been sensible and got out.” He shook his head, slid off the windowseat, dropped the bits of paper into the fire and went to bed.

Goddance. The Twelfth Year

Abeyhamal towers over the forge, taller, juicier, stronger by far than she’d been as the dance began. Her fimbo is as thick as the Ancient God’s arm; it shines with a darkly golden light. She dances power around the Iron Father, around and around as if she is spinning a web about him, gradually tightening the strands so his movements grow more restricted with every circle, more feeble.

With the Kassian Tai and the Honeychild reinforcing her commands, the Falmaree Penhari Banadah pulled the Low City into order.

Honeychild and Honeygirls danced the wynds and kariams of the High City, called women to them, leading them across the Wood-Bridge, emptying the High City of all but slaves, habatrizes and shadow-side women.

Chumavayal Iron Father swings his tools with increasing violence and decreasing effect. Sweat runs down his face, he strikes out at her again and again. His footing is less stable. He stumbles, nearly falls on the Forge. The fire flickers, many of the coals gray over and start to cool.

He strikes again at Abeyhamal and by the luck of the game he cuts a shallow groove in her arm and she drips honey ichor on the Forge Floor. It sizzles and boils on the stone; the sound it makes is like a whimper.

The Amrapake arrived with, his army, the attack on the Low City begins. Juvalgrim fell, taking the Salagaum with him.

The GodDance goes on; the end draws near.

Sibyl

The Sybil stands beside her chair, one hand resting on the stone back. Her eyes have a distant look on them. She herself is insubstantial, little more than shaped and shadowed smoke.

I sit and see the Change is nigh

One by one the signs drift by

Life Force flows

To Low from High

The Forge Wind blows

The Land’s sucked dry

Strangers fly

And so must I

I can do nothing for my pets. My mouth is sealed, my reach is gone. If either comes here or calls me, I’m nowhere.

Gods!

This is the point I loathe. I’m a fool for growing fond of these ephemerals.

Power. Why is it the stupid, the greedy, the mean who have it? Is that inherent in the weave? Is there something about power that repels intelligence and compassion? And yet there is Juvalgrim, a flawed man but a good one; he played with power like a pretty bauble, never took it seriously. Why is one emphemeral corrupted, another almost untouched? I am as old as the earth and I have not resolved that question yet. Power. My limits grate on me.

Honeychild, High Kasso, Salagaum-somehow I’ll manage to keep you clear.

Life is better than burning, memory or not; at least one can say that.

I’d best go now and think of ways of managing this rescue, if rescue there’s going to be.