Chapter 22

Fires flared in the distance as Siska looked over the city from the high vantage of the hilltop. Tressen was burning. Even over the trio's distance to the first buildings, sound, greatly attenuated, could be heard clearly.

Salira touched her arm. "I must find Tarmal," she said, her eyes marked with worry. Even though her face looked for all the world to be that of a girl flush with youth, her eyes betrayed something of her true years. No young woman in her teens bore concern that personally.

Siska nodded and clucked to her slim horse, setting him to walk. Her orbs sped forth from their nearly static positions about the three women with a soft whir and many flashes of gleaming silver.

So intense were the flames in the city that even Thean, not blessed with mage sight, and unable to see the light that the spheres emitted, could make out the path that Salira chose.

Worry knotted the guts of the three women; each worried for the others, and for themselves, if truth were told. War lay in that city and there looked to be enough of it to swallow them whole without slowing. Salira peered over her shoulder at Thean's odd motion to see the squad leader pulling forth her sword partially then sliding it back into its scabbard, loosening it for a fast draw later. Thean smiled at her notice.

"I don't know how much use a sword may be with two wizards about, but I would rather not find out I needed it and could not draw it quickly," she said.

Salira nodded and returned the smile. "I've never seen a sword fail to work," she said. "Spells, however, I've seen fail more than once. There is a reason most wizards wear a knife, too."

They passed through the outer buildings of the city. Even there, where fighting had not yet reached, buildings burned in two directions. None of the three were aware of the Theocracy's agents operating within Tressen, recruited from amongst her citizens and corrupted by their foul religion. Even these agents, though, could not spread so much chaos alone, and Salira's judgement on human nature was not far wrong: people seemed to choose such times of upset to settle old grudges or spread trouble further.

The trio passed close by one burning house, where a family huddled in the street, blankets wrapped about their bedclothes, to ward against the chill winds that blew, though intermittently mixed with the heat of the fire. The woman of the house, a middle-aged lady with her hair bound into a tight bun, wept upon the shoulder of one of her elder sons. The father darted across the street and pulled something from a portion of the house still not involved in the blaze.

Siska waved her hand toward the house, muttering a draining spell that sucked the energy from the flames. Instantly, the blazes died out and the heat dissipated. What little had survived that much of the fire could now be salvaged. Though the woman called out after the trio, they never slowed and were soon moving around a corner onto one of the long avenues that radiated from the core of the city - and from the harbor.

"That was kindly done," said Thean, peering back at the family as they rushed into the house to reclaim what might be found.

Siska shrugged, but did not look back. "Were I truly gifted, I could have repaired the house," she said in a flat voice.

Salira grimaced at the apprentice. "You're expecting too much of magic, Siska," she said. "It is a tool, not a thing to do all that needs doing in the world."

"If not wizards, then who?" snapped Siska. "If the world needs so much done, who is to do it if wizards can't? The One? His hand has not touched the world in a millenium, or at least not directly. He has left us to carry the world on our own shoulders, and people not gifted in the arts look to us who are to bear that burden."

Salira blinked at the tirade and sat silent for a long moment as they passed another block of houses. "I don't think the world expects so much of us," she said quietly. "We're just people, too. Frankly, it's a bit arrogant that you wish to take on all that responsibility - or crazy."

"Oh, one moment it's 'Siska you've a wondrous gift and are the most powerful mage ever'," said Siska, her voice sour with sarcasm. "Then it's 'You're being arrogant if you think the world needs you so much'." She turned her horse and stopped, facing the other two women, her mount stamping irritably at the sudden changes in direction and mood. "Please make up my mind for me. I'm just an apprentice, yet everyone seems to think I should behave like a full wizard. When I begin to think like I think a wizard should, I get snapped at for reaching above my station."

"No one is..." started Salira.

"They are!" yelled Siska, waving a hand toward the palace, then yanking the Magus' staff from beneath her saddle straps. The crystal topping the staff glowed fitfully in reflected light and with light beyond that. "They made me Magus, didn't they? So am I an apprentice or their leader?"

Salira had no answer for that question. "Magus?" she asked, eyeing the staff. "It certainly looks like I hear that staff looks. You're saying that is the Magus' staff?"

Siska quirked her mouth into a peculiar expression. "So they are telling me," she said. "They say only the Magus can wield it and they say since I wield it, I am the Magus." Salira felt Thean nodding against her shoulder where the petite soldier was holding onto her.

"Oh, dear," said the wizard. "Such a burden on such a young woman."

The staff flashed fitfully again and Siska clutched it high in the air. "I would rid myself of it, were it not needed," she said.

"You've mastered it?" asked Salira.

"What's to master?" asked Siska. "It's a tool, as you say, and one simply uses a tool as it is intended." Her eyes were wide then, and had an unhealthy look to them. "Thus," she snapped, bringing the staff around and down.

Unseen by the trio until that moment, people had been moving toward them. Three men wearing dark cloaks and moving stealthily in shadows. Salira gasped as she caught sight of the trio and Thean tensed for a fight.

Before any of them could move, a bright lance of purest white shot from the staff's head and impaled the closest man. A sword clattered to the ground from his dying fingers. The talus orbs made a sound like arrows, rending the air with shrill whistles. The other two men were torn apart where they stood, the little wedges of silver ripping through their bodies to circle about and do so again and again, until they fell.

Other shapes, more distant, turned from the trio and began running. Siska barked out a laugh and waved the staff toward the running figures. Dozens of tiny filaments of white and gold and red stuttered forth from the staff each making an individual keening tone. They hit the forms unerringly in their backs as they fled. More steel clattered on the flagstones as the cloaked forms crumpled to the ground.

"Who were they?" asked Thean, blinking at the fallen in the dim light. Only one streetlamp in sight was burning, and it was not near to them.

"Traitors and saboteurs," growled Siska, turning her horse again. "Tressenites, from the look of them, but doing the bidding of their dark masters." Having said that, she urged her mount to a gallop and made for the inner city.

Maegan had been forgotten in the excitement, and so she watched as the girl was dragged into the Templar's quarters... The Templar eyed the brown-haired girl and looked to the soldier standing over her naked form. "You're certain?" he asked the soldier.

"Yes, sir," replied the marine, placing his gauntleted hand over his heart. "On my honor, the other captives called her milady and named her queen."

Keeley tried vainly to cover herself with her hands against the several eyes in the chamber. Lord Templar Kreghel smiled at her. "Do not worry, milady," he said. That last had much sound of humor in it to Maegan's ears. He rose and bent to lift her narrow chin. She could not help but to look into his blue eyes from such a distance. "You shall find your captivity - enlightening. I've never owned a queen before, this may prove quite the experience for the both of us."

"Please, milord, no," murmured Keeley, unable to speak well with his grip upon her chin. "Please."

He looked down at her well-shaped body. She was not a skinny girl, but one with nicely curved hips and a narrow, sleek waist. "Stand up and let me look at what I have gained this day," he commanded, lifting her chin with his gauntleted hand.

Hesitantly, Keeley stood, still using her hands to try to conceal what little they could. The marine chuckled even as he stepped back from her and the Templar.

"You've much to learn of being owned, milady," said the Templar, releasing her chin and grabbing one of her moving arms. He wrenched it painfully aside and Keeley let out an injured whimper. "Arms to your side, you are to display yourself to your master, not hide."

A moment later, Keeley was standing still, her arms to her side, one bearing a fresh bruise. The Templar walked about her and let an idle finger brush over the swells of her breasts. She stifled a whimper halfway through its creation and bit her lip.

"No, no," he said. "If you must cry out, then, by all means, do so." The Templar's features formed a mockery of a smile. "I command that you show your true feelings at all times, for then your eventual acceptance of your new role in life will be the sweeter. Such is the fate of heretics," he said.

Immediately after he had spoken those words, the two marines in the room echoed him. "Such is the fate of heretics."

"Maegan, please see what you can do to clean this waif up," said the Templar, smiling back toward where the red-haired woman stood in the corner. "I wish her ready for our victory celebration and my own personal celebrations along with them." His huge hand cupped Keeley's groin from the front, running cold steel over her entrance. "You're a virgin, no?" he asked.

"Y - Yes," stammered Keeley, though she had thought to say no.

"Very nice," he said. "Had you said no, I would have given you to the marines for their celebrations. I understand most women do not survive after a night of battle. The men get - overexcited."

Keeley shuddered as the two marines chuckled again. "Well done, men," said the Templar. "I shall see that you and your squadmates are rewarded with first pick of this ship's takings."

The marines murmured their thanks for the largesse and bowed their way from the chamber, leaving the mercurial temper of a Templar before it could change on them. Being rewarded with the first choice in slaves was preferable to finding themselves being flogged.

The templar released Keeley's pelvis and waved toward the door to the inner chambers of the apartment. "Go with Maegan and learn from her your duties to come," said Kreghel, I have a battle to finish and no time now for diversions, no matter how pleasant."

Maegan tried to smile reassuringly at Keeley, though the younger woman would not meet her eyes. "Please, come with me, milady," said the Morrovalan.

"Stop calling me that, please," said Keeley. "I was never pronounced a queen, or even a lady."

"Yet you were to be the queen?" asked Maegan, guiding the taller girl through the door and into the bedchamber. Another door from there led to a small bathing room, where a massive bronze washtub gleamed.

"So they said," said Keeley bitterly, still looking at the floor and not meeting the red-haired woman's eyes. She followed automatically and sat in the tub when guided to do so.

"Don't worry," said Maegan. "I'm leaving before this battle ends and you can come with me."

In an instant, Keeley's features brightened. "What? Truly?" she asked. Her eyes blinked constantly with the surprise she felt.

Pouring warm water into the tub, Maegan began to tell Keeley a tale of spies, leaving names out, of course.

Thus far, the hasty defenses of the palace had held. Phillip and Tarmal rode with the defenders and the remaining three guardsmen past the outer perimeter and into the relative calm of a secured area.

Hundreds of men milled about the grounds, many of them injured. Ranks were being formed of militiamen and even peasants armed with a mixture of weapons that looked to be museum pieces.

Even as they dismounted, they were surrounded by more men and Defenders, as well as two other blue-robed wizards, each blurting out questions. There were questions of the outside situation, of individuals that neither Phillip nor Tarmal even knew, and reports of how horrific the enemy was.

After a round of hastily trying to answer those questions only to find more came no matter the answer, Phillip raised his voice. "Who commands here?"

The tall, lean form of the Commandant of the Defenders emerged from the crowd, shooing the others away and ordering them off to perform productive tasks. "I suppose that would be me," he announced as the crowd began to disperse at his glares.

Mannis and Varan, along with the other surviving defenders, saluted and the Commandant looked them over quickly. "So many," he murmured. "Still, you've fared better than others." He shook his head sadly over the thought.

Lord Tornadin rode up, heading a small cluster of other nobles. "We've set the defenses about the plaza, as you ordered," he said to the Commandant.

The Commandant nodded and smiled. "Well done," he said, turning to face Phillip, who bore a somewhat surprised look on his face. "Lord Tornadin arrived less than an hour ago, Mentor. We were preparing a sortie to seek for you and the lady Keeley."

At mention of Keeley, Varan coughed, glaring over his hand at Phillip.

"The lady was made captive by the Theocracy," said Phillip, giving Varan a sidelong glance. "Along with several others of our party."

The expression on the Commandant's face became stony. "You know she has been a rallying point for all the factions in Tressen?" he asked.

"I'm quite aware of that," said Phillip, allowing his own voice to take on a coolness to match the old soldier's.

"Without her, the factions may split, when such will mean instant defeat." The Commandant closed his eyes and the stiffness left his face, replaced by fatigue and age. "You did what you could, of that I am sure," he said, finally turning his lips up in a weak imitation of a smile.

"We did," said Phillip, once again giving Varan a warning glance.

Varan bristled, but kept his peace.

Tornadin had been watching the exchange with worried eyes. "Tatyana?" he asked.

"She is well," said Phillip, pointing to the wagons. "We moved her to the lead wagon so that a soldier could be horsed."

The nobleman immediately made for where the wagons were pulled into a cluster and people were milling about the high wooden wheels and horses were being soothed and led off.

Tatyana was among the wagons, alongside the healer, Sherlynn. They tended to some of the wounded among the wagons' occupants and two of the defenders who bore grievous injuries. She looked up at him, blood streaking her face, though she had not visible injuries.

His heart swelled at the smile she graced him with in that brief moment before she looked to what her hands were tasked with doing. Mannis approached the wagons, too, looking almost as concerned as Tornadin.

Siskana was hustling back and forth between the wagons and a well, carrying a bucket. Again, she seemed larger, the height of a young woman in her thirteenth year. She moved with a purposeful step and none looked twice toward her, with her hem flapping nearly at her knees.

None looked twice, save Mannis, who stared at her for a long moment, then looked toward where Geana was helping to unload another wagon. Siskana saw the direction of his gaze and her expression darkened. Her beeline path to the well was forgotten and she approached the tall, slender Defender.

He smiled as she approached, though the expression of sadness on her face gave him pause. He had never seen Siskana actually sad. Mad, certainly. Confused, several times. But never sad.

"I - I am sorry," she said as soon as she stood before him, looking down at the ground.

Mannis' eyes grew wide at hearing her speak. He had heard her yammer, growl, and mumble to herself. What had just transpired was none of those, she had spoken clearly and directly to him. She looked up again, her big blue eyes flashing in the torchlight of the courtyard. "I do not know why Siska has done what she has done, but it is not right."

It took Mannis a few moments to gather his wits about him. He had heard tell that homunculi could speak, if they grew old enough. Still, Siskana's speaking came as a shock on several accounts. Firstmost, she should have taken several years to begin doing so, much like normal children, they should take time to learn the ways of speech. Secondly, and more shockingly, she sounded identical to Siska, the same soprano and the same odd pronounciation of her 'd's, almost as 'r's.

She gave him a weak smile, still peering up. "It is not in her heart. I can promise that," she said. "I know her heart." She took another step toward him and looked directly up at him. She was still a foot shorter than Siska, easily, yet she could have been Siska to anyone but one who knew the apprentice very well.

Siskana glared toward Geana and then said, "She does not truly love that woman. Though I cannot explain it. Trust in me, please."

Mannis finally spoke. "I don't know what to believe," he said. "I don't think I can abide not knowing."

The homunculus dropped the bucket and with startling speed, grabbed Mannis' head. She pulled him down and kissed him fiercely, twining her fingers into his hair and pressing her mouth to his so harshly it would surely leave a bruise.

When she released him, both gasped for air, and there were appreciative murmurs from nearby people, and a few rather bawdy remarks, in addition, most of those from among soldiers.

Mannis stared at her for a moment, shock marking him deeply.

"Sorry again," said Siskana through a deepening crimson blush and she brushed disheveled golden strands from her cheek. "I probably should not have done that."

"No complaint from me," said Mannis, speaking rather breathily. Yet another thing that Siskana did identically to Siska was added to the list.

She giggled and grinned at him. "Please, believe and abide, just a while?"

"I will," he said, nodding and watching as Siskana picked up her bucket and turned, keeping her eyes locked onto his. "I will," he repeated, and she seemed to accept the second statement, nodding and finally turning to march over to the well again.

Phillip stood back from the exchange, a look of concentration furrowing his brow and turning his lips down enough that those passing near walked wide, thinking him angry. Siskana would pass near to him and he called out as she drew near.

"Yes, mentor?" she said, bowing slightly at the neck.

The imitation of Siska was uncanny and he had to think a heartbeat to remember what he wanted to ask the not-so-miniature double of his apprentice.

"Does the art lie within you?" he asked.

Siskana nodded. "I know what she knows," she said. "Up until last we touched." She lifted her hand and her mouth moved slightly, subvocalizing an incantation.

A blue flame leaped from her palm, flickering slightly, then stabilizing to a steady bright point of heat and light.

"Are you as powerful?" he asked, eyeing her aura.

"You can see I am not," she said. "I possess less than a tithe of her gift."

"And still more than most of the order's members," he said, shaking his head.

She blinked at him a moment. "What do you mean, mentor?" she asked.

"Even being a fraction of Siska's power marks you among the most powerful of wizards, Siskana. You must use that power cautiously." Phillip looked to where Mannis was regrouping with his fellow Defenders and their Commandant.

Siskana laughed, a bright, cheerful sound in the war-illuminated courtyard. "I do not know that caution was something Siska gave me," she said. "But I shall try."

"If you got but a fraction of the rather meager supply Siska possesses, that is why I spoke of it," said Phillip. "Try to heed that tiny portion, you may prove too valuable to lose."

"A cold study you make, mentor," said Siskana, her expression sobering. "I will heed you, though, for both the wisdom I know you have and the esteem Siska holds for you."

"Just barely speaking at all and already a diplomatic tongue," said Phillip, softening his features to give Siskana a smile. "I think, maybe, you are better spoken than Siska, even."

That seemed to please Siskana inordinately, and her cheeks colored slightly even as she smiled. "You are too kind to me, mentor. I know what I am and I know my limits." Her feet shuffled uncomfortably and she shook her head.

Phillip nodded at her statement, but then said, "But does Siska know hers?" He turned away at that point and walked toward where Tarmal stood, speaking with two other wizards of the order. Siskana tilted her head slightly and watched him walk, a look of consideration dominating her face.

Salira gasped at the sight that came to her as they rounded another bend in the long spoke street. Half a hundred of the black-armored marines of the Theocracy were pressing a small knot of city militiamen. These men were shopkeepers and apprentices, thrust into leather jerkins and given spears, along with a stern talking to about which direction to point it.

The militiamen's collective backs were pressed into a corner formed by two stone buildings and they were being cut down with ease, three dropped, gurgling their final breaths even as the three women took in the sight and made sense of what they saw.

Siska screamed something incoherent and her spheres lanced forth, tearing into the armored men. Steel protested as it was punctured, then riven by the wedge-shaped silver projectiles. Men howled and the marines parted to reveal three men in long flowing robes of dun brown with bright red hems. Those men all raised their hands in unison, almost as if part of a synchronized dance step and a lense of air shot forth from them.

Salira had only time to erect a hasty defensive spell that covered herself and Thean, who was behind her. Siska did not know that spell, or at the least, did not think of it as malicious as quickly as Salira, so she hesitated, watching the foreshortened view of what lay beyond the lense of air shift in her viewpoint.

Siska's darts responded instantly and the magi were forced to scurry for cover as the silver shapes lanced toward them.

The pulse of energy had caught Siska full on in the chest and she had been lifted bodily from the back of her mount. Only a wall stopped her from flying ten or more paces and her head had rapped the stonework resoundingly before she slumped to the ground.

Her spheres wavered for a moment before spiraling back toward her and taking up a protective orbit about where she sprawled.

She was yet conscious, though, or partially so. She saw Thean's features loom large over her, grimacing and grunting as she seemed to move in jerky steps. Were they moving her? Where to? Voices and the sounds of fighting came to her hearing as if through thick wool stuffing. Swords were clanging and spells discharging. A distant buzzing sound came to her ears and things wavered before her eyes before going black.

Thean grunted again, pulling on Siska's arm and dragging her into the shadowed alley. A long column of some nobleman's personal guard had joined with the militiamen and drove the marines and their wizards back from the intersection and she was sure they were safe for a moment. Siska's head flopped loosely and blood matted her golden hair.

Salira knelt over Siska and pried one eyelid open. "She is badly hurt," she said. "I tried to warn her that even being powerful does not protect against everything."

Thean stood and moved to the alley mouth to watch the fight move down the street, a look of longing, as if she wished to join the scrap, showed in her features. She shook her head and looked back at Salira and the dazed and nearly unconscious Siska.

"Can you help her?" asked the petite soldier.

"Not like she helped me, no," said the wizard. She was already drained again, having spent herself countering the wizards of the Theocracy that had accompanied the marines in that company. It had turned the tide of the fight, but that was little comfort.

"We have to get her to a healer," announced Thean. "I'll find a cart or litter, or something." She darted out of the narrow alley, dodging beneath one of the silver orbs as it moved to take up a tailing position behind her. She glanced back at it and shrugged. It did not surprise her that Siska had instructed one to follow her, too. One was also dedicated to Salira. It buzzed and darted about whenever she stopped, as if it sought for something. She supposed it did - something to attack.

Salira lifted Siska's head and slipped a loose stone beneath it, to simply lift the head if not give comfort. "Stay with me," she said into Siska's fading eyes, then they closed.

Siska looked about the palatial chambers and then spotted Tarviel. As always, he sat and looked at a book. "I think I'm dying," she said when he looked up at her.

"Oh?" asked her great grandfather, setting down a smoking pipe into a little rack. Blue smoke wafted up from the bowl and smelled of vanilla. He looked closely at her, then nodded. "Yes, you may well be," he announced, almost casually.

Siska sighed. "Such is a fitting end after my foolishness," she said and shook her head.

"No, not a fitting end, but the one that shall surely come to pass, unless you heed the staff," said Tarviel. "You've been fighting it since you picked it up."

"It speaks darkly to me," she said defensively. "It tells me to do things I know are wrong."

"It's telling you what you must do to attain victory," said Tarviel, seeming to grow impatient with her protests. "It tells you even now how to do so, instead of your own death, if you would but listen to it."

"If I heed it, I may not be able to stop," said Siska, glancing toward where a copy of the staff sat on a pedestal.

"And why would you wish to?" asked Tarviel. "Believe me, the staff served me with only absolute faithfulness in my years holding it."

Siska let out a long exhalation and walked to the stone column where the staff lay. She reached out a hand toward it and stopped upon hearing a sharp intake of breath from Tarviel. The dream chambers flickered in her vision and she saw parts of the room vanish and they did not return, leaving large black pits in her vision.

"You're dying Siska," he said, "Save yourself, please, Granddaughter." His voice finally took on an earnestness that marked some emotion other than casual interest in him.

She picked up the staff.

Salira patted Siska's cheek. "Wake up, Siska, please wake up," she said.

Siska's eyes fluttered a moment, then one opened partially. She looked blearily at Salira a moment, her lips moving in a mumble.

Salira sat back as a tiny fragment of a spell formed before Siska's eyes. It was minuscule, only the barest hint of a magical construct, far too simple to be even a manaflow.

The apprentice's eyes closed again and she slumped in that way only people who truly have gone under can. Salira winced at that and a tear trailed down her cheek. Soon, Siska would stop breathing.

However, the tiny spell changed shape before her eyes. It had grown, and taken on complexity. Salira's eyes widened as it did so again, nearly doubling in size. Filaments of mana flowed between several nodes of binding energies. Another pulse and it had again doubled, the complexity growing to nearly as much as Salira could distinguish unaided.

It shaped itself to Siska's head as it grew. The next expansion saw filaments of mana thrust themselves into the young woman's skull and her body twitched violently, though her head remained rock steady.

"What have you crafted, apprentice?" asked Salira, casting a small spell of analysis.

The complex formations grew in Salira's vision as she focused upon portions of Siska's spell. They doubled again and she was forced to step back as the spells expanded and more connections formed. It was well past her ability to craft already, and seemed yet incomplete. Energy flowed through the conduits of thought and the girl's body twitched again, even more violently.

Thean came stumbling into the alleyway, dragging a pair of long poles and a blanket, along with two young men with her. Brader and Tannis exclaimed at the sight of Siska, both beginning to talk over one another at the same time. They knew a healer and they would carry Siska to her right off.

Salira shook her head. "No, Siska has done something," she said. "I don't think you could move her if you tried."

The nodes of magic then penetrated her skull in a hundred locations, and mana was flowing through those piercing conduits. An amazingly complex formation of other nodes and lattices were around Siska's head and portions of even her body.