he two men traveling with her had noted that it was an uneventful journey. Nature was passing on to death, heralding the advent of Morwen’s wintry embrace, but this was a welcome change to months of dreary unlife in the Island of Sahova. Where Sahova was bleak and grey, the mainland teemed alive with autumn colors, graced by Bala’s touch. The very flowers were tinged with deeper dyes, and the distant hills she crowned with purple mists. The days were mellow, and the nights were long and calm, with breezes damp and chill, and trees whispering of wistful longings. Kamalia had watched golden vine leaves fall into the moon-bathed streams, birds winging South, the windswept pines and the weeping sky. For several months of endless study and research among the undead, she had felt as if she too had become Nuit. Now she trekked through the wilderness of Sylira she felt more alive than ever, as if she had been born anew.The colors of sunset spilled onto the forest by the time they finished setting up camp near a stream. Their wilderness guide, Bredin, worked quickly to set traps, put out a trot line for fishing, and started hunting for rabbits while there was still light enough to see. She and Cainon, a budding chandler and soap maker from Nyka, attended to their own chores by foraging for nuts, mushrooms, berries, and wild fruits, such as plum and persimmon. The Konti had learned from Bredin and Cainon a great deal about what was edible and what was not. Whenever she came back to the camp with a basketful, Bredin would toss away the bad ones, and identify which ones were ready for consumption. He taught her, for example, that if a nut was damaged, or has been bitten by a squirrel or a bird, it should not be consumed as food. She could also distinguish a few edible fungi now, like chanterelles, bay boretes, and horse mushrooms, and avoid the lethally poisonous, such as the fly agaric and the death caps. Chief among Kamalia’s tasks, however, was to provide fire before the moonrise.
Unsurprisingly, the first time Kamalia offered to employ her magic in creating campfire made her two companions exchange uneasy looks. Outside Mura, Kamalia had learned the hard way that very few trusted magic, and fewer still trusted those who commanded it. She coaxed, wheedled and even begged them into believing her that she would not turn them into llamas while they were asleep. Lighting the campfire had become a ritual that was uniquely hers, and the casting of the spell was a nightly, private celebration of her own power. At the onset of dusk, she would extend ethereal filaments of res from the palm of her hands, wrapping them around the twigs and sticks, before setting the kindling aflame. Several days had passed, and Bredin and Cainon would still pale and swallow in fear, never failing to get unnerved by the nightly spectacle. It saddened her that her fellow travelers would never learn to trust her. Kamalia conceded that they would be eager to part ways with her once they reached the fortress city of Syliras, and perhaps that was for the best.
The moon rose slowly in the sky, casting long tree-shadows into the streamside camp. Her companions slept in their tents, while she took up her harp, strumming the silvery strings beside the crackling fire. Thoughts of her homeland, the Konti Isle, populated her mind. Kamalia had traveled far since then, in ways that could not be measured by miles alone. She knew she would never forget her last glimpse of Mura: the isle gleamed like a silver tiara on a bedspread of deep blue satin, and Mura was the bright, glinting jewel at its heart. Smaller and smaller the White Isle shrunk, until it finally, wistfully vanished. Since the day she had been thrust from her island home, exiled for slaying one of her Konti sisters, Kamalia had thrown herself into this perilous mission, to learn a Lost Discipline meant to stop Sagallius’ devilry and protect all that mattered to her. In all likelihood, she would never again see her ancestral homeland. She simply realized, suddenly and forcefully, that her journey was all she had now. After she reached her long-sought goals, what then?
Kamalia had little time to ponder this troubling thought, for the faint sound of drums roused her from her reverie. They echoed from the forest nearby. On impulse, she laid her harp aside and rose from her seating. She snatched her sheathed suvai and her magic staff—the Pathfinder— before walking towards the direction of the sound. The nostalgic rhythm led her into the dark labyrinth of trees. The sorceress hurried on, but took care to muffle her movements, for she did not relish the idea of stepping into an ambush. The forest was heavy with midnight shadows. Moonlight filtering through the branches gave only enough illumination to fool her eyes into thinking they saw what was underfoot. Roots threatened to trip her at every step, and sudden dips and rises had her half-falling as her foot met nothing but air where she expected firm earth. She used her staff to guide her steps, and soon succumbed to the temptation of employing Auristics to guide her sight. The Konti wizard commanded the magic to course through her skull, before willing the sorcerous energy to gather in her eyeballs, attuning them to the aura of the area. It took most of her concentration, but she stumbled less now.
Then the scent of smoke came to her on the dancing wind, and the poignant fragrance of lilies subdued the reek of decaying leaves. There was a camp nearby, and she prayed quietly that it was not peopled by bandits. She sped her steps toward the smell of smoke, until the drums grew louder and clearer. The tempo shifted, and over the syncopated beat of drums, the flutes soared and the silvery tones of a harp wove melody into the cadence. Kamalia knew at once she had found her sisters. The song was unmistakably Kontinese, achingly familiar, with a serene yet playful melody and intricate layers of rhythm.
Kamalia crept through the shrubs towards the siren music, and crouched low at the edge of the forest, where she came upon a starlit glade. Her eyes widened at the marvel before her. There, whirling and leaping around a blazing campfire, danced four Konti maidens. Five others hung back beyond the circle, singing and strumming silvery harps, playing flutes and small drums. Each had long moon-shimmering white hair garlanded with stars, and opalescent scales that glittered in the firelight. The dancers were clad in silvery gossamer that whirled about their alabaster limbs like wisps. They were slender, fey, and held a beauty that did not quite belong in this forest. Their laughter filled the clearing with song and dream.
For a long moment, Kamalia was content only to watch. Incomplete yet heartrending memories were rushing back.
One of the starlit dancers broke free from the circle. She stood, a hand outstretched in a gesture of invitation towards Kamalia’s hiding place. “Dance with us, fair sister,” she smilingly sang in their native tongue, before whirling away back into the ring of song and firelight. The young sorceress, poised for a hasty retreat, paused to consider the invitation. She did not know how to dance. More importantly, would they welcome her in their midst had they known of her crime in the Konti Isle? A wave of longing struck her with the force of a blow. This was a rare chance to reconnect with her homeland, and she would not allow it to slip away.
Her decision made, Kamalia cast off her cloak, her suvai and her magic staff, to join the fireside fete. Clad only in a pure white robe and moonlight, the Konti wizard stepped into the circle, where the other dancers parted to make room for her. At first, she was unsure of her movements, attempting to mirror the fluid twirls and leaps of her more graceful sisters all to no avail. Many times Kamalia’s steps faltered and her cheeks grew hot. She stumbled through the dance, almost tripping over her own feet, nearly stepping on another’s. She had only a moment to gather herself before the tempo quickened. The other Konti glided around the campfire smoothly, their skirts swirling about them; Kamalia almost fell to break her nose. The too-beautiful Konti who had invited her into the clearing gave her a sympathetic smile, which made it rather worse, before helping her up to her feet.
One of the dancers ran into a tree with an audible “Oof!” and fell to her rump. Every jaw dropped, and to Kamalia’s astonishment, the pale-haired women began to laugh. The moment was an epiphany to the young sorceress. She no longer remembered the ways of her people. How long ago had she forgotten to live in peace and joy beneath the moon and sea? How much of her heritage, the inner calm that was Avalis’ gift, and the passion for freedom that was Laviku’s, did she abandon to pursue this quest for power? Was she Konti still, or had she become a fair-skinned human with scales and gills?
The dance resumed, and this time Kamalia let go of her inhibitions. Soon, she was dancing to the whispers of the wind, to the rhythm of the sea, and to the song of her life. She ran through life at a pace few could follow, yet this moment had caught her. All eyes were upon her as she stamped a counterpoint to the drums, and her arms moved in an intricate weave. One by one, her sisters joined in, and they fell easily into the flow and pattern of Kamalia’s dance.
She was pleased to discover she had not forgotten this emotion. She had never felt so free, so overwhelmed. She had never felt so alive! The air, too, was alive, and it whirled about her in a jubilant rush. Kamalia stretched her arms out wide and swayed to the dancing wind. The sorceress resisted, just barely, to toss off her raiment and let the whimsical breezes play over her skin. She leaped and spun and swayed until at last the music ended. Nothing that beautiful and painful could last forever.
The woman who had welcomed her stepped forward and dipped to one knee, arms wide open in a gesture of welcome. “Oceans guard you, fair sister. I am Lekarra, daughter of Shilen, daughter of Kalinda. These are my friends, maidens of the Suvai, summoned together by our Call. Our glade and fire are yours, for as long as you are willing to share them. What are you called?”
Kamalia responded with a gesture of her own, on one knee and bowing her head slightly, both hands over her heart. “May the Seer light your path, fairer sister. I am Kamalia, daughter of Nokomis, daughter of Shahal. I am a traveler, and a student of magic and the Ancient Tongue.”
“Timandre?” One of the silver-haired females asked.
So they knew. Kamalia nodded almost uncertainly. The women exchanged glances, and they appeared as if they wanted to ask more were it not for the calm, silencing gaze Lekarra sent them. She had expected fear or revulsion, but they showed none.
There was compassion in Lekarra’s eyes as she rose and smiled at her. “A star shines upon the bell of our meeting. You have journeyed far and long, far from home,” she said melodiously, and Kamalia knew she did not mean distance. She helped the sorceress to her feet, and gave her a brief sisterly embrace. “Share with us our midnight feast, as you have shared with us your dance. And then we can exchange stories.”
Kamalia, still dazed by the quick succession of the events, allowed Lekarra to lead her to the fireside. One of the songstresses was softly playing the harp, intoning a thankful prayer to Avalis. The other women sat and talked and laughed, passing around bowls of bamboo-cooked steamed rice, topped by spiced mushrooms and river sole meat. She had missed the comfortable, unguarded air about her people, and the effortless sisterly bonds that few humans could fathom and reproduce. For a while, she was content to observe, sipping from her cup of gleaming Konti wine. She asked them about the recent events in Mura, about their Call, and their destinations. When it was their turn to ask, they were full of questions about the places Kamalia had traveled, her adventures, and her work as a wizard. But most of all, her grand quest. She had deliberately left out the names and the details, not because she did not trust them, but because she worried about their safety.
“Who is this dark god you seek to defeat? And to what end?” asked Lekarra softly.
“I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is safer this way, for he may have eyes and ears everywhere. He pulls a thousand strings and weaves more. He seeks to ascend his rank in the pantheon, and become the god of magic. And if he is left unopposed, he will achieve it,” for he has done it before, Kamalia thought, but did not risk to say it aloud. Sagallius the Puppeteer, Sagallius the Benshira, Sagallius the Usuper.
“Long before the dawn of our race, there are myths that tell of an ancient god whose domain was magic and wisdom,” Lekarra said serenely.
“And that god has been vanquished by other deities for a reason,” the sorceress said softly. “A god of magic, let alone an insane one, would threaten the very foundations of our world. What would become of magic and its wielders if a wayward god seizes that crown? What new designs would he amend upon the laws of djed?”
“And is magic so important to you? You have your Sight and your Suvai. You may learn new weapons, new ways.”
“My magic is my life! I cannot just forsake what I have learned throughout my existence,” Kamalia said passionately. “It may only mean some kind of weapon to you, but to me, without it, it is akin to being a dancer without feet, or a seer without Sight."
Compassion crossed Lekarra’s face. “Forgive me, sister. I meant no disrespect.”
“None was perceived, sister,” Kamalia sighed. “Not that I have much choice. Were I to abandon magic now, so would my thirst for it grow. A cancer writhes within my heart that cannot be cured by the healing hands of the Opal Order,” she said, referring to the magic that had grown sentient inside her, an effect of severe Overgiving.
“If it is a mission so dangerous, why do you not seek the wisdom of the Grandmothers Circle? Surely they would know what to do,” another Konti asked. It was said that the Grandmothers communed with the gods and goddesses.
“I cannot,” Kamalia said sadly. No matter how hard she tried to be resolute about her quest, tempting images kept flashing through her head: her mother and her sisters, the glimmering lake and the silver woods, the call of the ocean, glade and starlight, song and dance. Gromhir. It had been a good life; she had once looked longingly beyond the seas, dreaming of distant lands. How narrow and little that ambition seemed now. For as long as she lived, Kamalia swore to protect all that mattered to her from the cords of Sagallius. “I have brought this foolishly upon myself. I cannot let the Grandmothers get involved in this. I have done something that marked my existence a threat to him, and I am left with no choice but to face what I must. Even now, I know he and his followers are looking for me. But I am not alone in this ordeal; there are others who seek his end, and that is why I am headed toward Syliras.”
“You are not alone,” Lekarra rose, and gently took Kamalia’s hands in her own. “We are sisters. If you come with us, our suvai can protect you.”
Kamalia smiled regretfully, but before she was able to voice her decline, Lekarra’s smile suddenly faded.
“A storm comes,” she said firmly. All the Konti froze. “Brace yourselves.”
