Charlon

Charlon had no strength. No ahvenrood. Magon had abandoned her. Everyone had. So she waited. Plotted her revenge. Let her body heal. But no amount of time could mend her wounded heart. So Charlon shut away the pain.

Months ago Mreegan had declared war. Murdered Torol and Charlon’s unborn child. The wait had been long and difficult, but Mreegan had given Shanek back. The child was too much of a burden for the spoiled and lazy Chieftess. Though she remained firm in her order. Her order that he take ahvenrood each day. The boy looked ten years old now. Sir Kalenek worried about Shanek’s mental development. The knighten had somehow managed to end the boy’s torment. From the voices he had been hearing. Sir Kalenek gave credit to a trick he had learned during the war. Some kind of meditation. This brought immense relief. When the boy had stopped screaming and muttering to himself.

The Chieftess had finally permitted Charlon to taste small rations of ahvenrood again. Put her in charge of planting a new crop. This gave Charlon a greater purpose and hope.

Hope that she might find the strength to take on Mreegan and win.

Ahvenrood did not grow overnight. Without magic it took months to ripen. So Charlon used the small amounts of root Mreegan permitted. To hurry along one of the crops. She dared not risk them all to experiments.

Now, a cool spring morning, on her knees in the field. Pulling up flowering ahvenrood plants. Removing scrawny tubers. Placing them in a basket. A basket Shanek held in his lap. From the opposite end of the field, Sir Kalenek worked twice as fast. Without magic. Charlon appreciated his speed. She planned to uproot this entire row. To test it. So far none of the new root she’d quickened in growth had been magical. Worried that she had harvested prematurely before, this time she had waited. Until the plants had flowered. Still, the roots were disappointingly small.

Had her magic interfered? Would she have to wait until fall to reap the naturally grown field? Or could the rat birds be the problem? Too often she sent Shanek to chase away the strange creatures. They liked to nibble at the ahvenrood greens. Eventually pulled the entire plant to gnaw at the roots. She had tried. Tried to place a protective spell over the crop. She no longer had the power. The slights Mreegan had permitted to serve her were not capable of such a complex spell. Charlon missed Magon’s power.

Shanek screamed, nearly stopping her heart. Surely it wasn’t the voices again. “Practice your quiet, Shan,” she said. Spun around on her knees in the dirt. Faced the boy. She found him looking up at a warrior surrounded by an army of shadir.

“What happened?” Sir Kalenek’s muted voice came from the end of the row. He started toward them. Walking. That he did not see the warrior told Charlon what it was.

The great shadir appeared as a demigod. Tall, barrel-chested, robust. Black tunic, breeches, boots, cape. Lined in pale gold silk. Gold thread embroidered a fang cat on his chest. Bronze longsword at his waist. Face and head were clean-shaven. Covered in black henna tracings resembling lace. Handsome, perfectly balanced face. Eyes, dark and probing. Mouth, thin and grim. He looked Rurekan.

“He king?” Shanek asked, gazing up at the great.

“No, Shan. He is a shadir.” Charlon stood, not liking the way the great towered above. “What do you want?” she asked.

The time has come for you to rule as Chieftess, he said, his voice low and rich, pleasant. Magon will never allow this, but I can help you.

“Magon promised me,” Charlon said.

She lied.

Charlon’s throat tightened to hear such words. She had wondered. Wondered if Magon had changed her mind about making her Chieftess. The goddess had refused all Charlon’s attempts to reconcile. And Mreegan had made her an outcast.

Sir Kalenek arrived then. Ruffled Shanek’s hair. “You all right, Shan?”

“A shadir king is here. He show Shanek how be king?”

“Not a king,” Charlon said. “A great and his swarm. Take Shanek for a walk, Sir Kalenek.”

The knighten quickly scooped up the boy and carried him off.

“No!” Shanek cried. “Me stay. Shanek stay with king.”

The shadir chuckled. Giving root to a child? I did not realize Magonians were so generous.

“Why would you help me?”

My human ran out of ahvenrood and has no access to more. She was unwilling to have a relationship apart from it.

Why would a human turn away a great? “Who was your human?”

Jazlyn, Queen of Tenma and Empress of Rurekau.

Charlon shivered at the mention of that name. “We heard she lost her beauty.”

Some spells are permanent; others are temporary. Her beauty, alas, was maintained by me. It humiliated her to lose it, but I was able to maintain it long past the wedding, which secured her a future as Empress of Rurekau.

“Is it true she is with child?”

Yes, it is.

“She will die in childbirth,” Charlon said, remembering Shanek’s birth mother.

Possibly, he said. Jazlyn is old for childbearing, but I would not be surprised if she lives. She is the most tenacious woman I have ever known—throughout all time.

Such a comment prickled. “You have not yet known me,” Charlon said.

The great shadir chuckled. I would like to.

“Why?”

You are wasted here, he said. A great does not bond lightly. I need someone gifted, someone open and willing. I am a warrior general, and as you see, I come with my own army of shadir who would serve us faithfully. You will not become Chieftess by accident or chance, Charlon Sonber. You must fight for the position. You must reach out and take it. You must kill Chieftess Mreegan and her great shadir.

Charlon drew back in surprise. “That is possible? To kill a shadir?”

Oh yes. When a shadir manifests itself in the human realm, it can die like a human.

“I have never seen Magon appear in the human realm,” Charlon said.

She has never transported you? A shadir cannot carry a human through the Veil.

Charlon recalled her escape from the Armanian ship Seffynaw when Magon had carried her over the ocean. “She carried me once.”

Magon is no fool, he said. That is why we must trick her. I have been watching, waiting, planning. If you are willing to learn, I am willing to teach. Though you must take care that Magon does not hear my name, or she will grow suspicious.

“Must we kill Magon? Can’t we just kill Mreegan?”

If you killed only Mreegan, Magon would choose a new human, and it would not be you. No, we must kill Magon first. Once Mreegan has lost her shadir, she will die from old age, and you can easily take her place. Will you join me?

Charlon knew her answer. Magon had shunned her. Mreegan treated her like a slav. Bonding with this great warrior might be Charlon’s only chance. To become Chieftess. “I am willing,” she said.

Sir Kalenek approached. In the distance behind him, Shanek sat playing in the dirt. “What is happening?” he asked.

Charlon smiled at the great shadir. “The time has come for Mreegan to die.”

Rurek, god of war.

He knew pain.

He knew victory.

His words were a balm. His plans, genius.

Charlon had once sworn never to submit to any male. Human or god.

Now to make an exception. Only Rurek was strong enough. To stand against Mreegan. Only Rurek was wise enough. To defeat Magon.

He promised to make her Chieftess. Soon.

But first she must obey his every word. And so, starting that day, she had.

No one knew Charlon had a new shadir. At Rurek’s insistence she kept him—and his entire swarm—a secret.

Her last harvest of ahvenrood tubers again held no magic. Still too early? Rurek thought otherwise. Had lived many years in Tenma. There, he said, even the first root string held enough power for a day’s worth of spells.

Was it a problem with the soil? Too much rain? Too cool? Had the magic she used to quicken the growth counteracted the new magic? Or something else, entirely?

Rurek was not overly concerned. At his urging Charlon stole extra root from Mreegan’s stores. Only enough to help her remain in power. Once she had killed Magon and Mreegan. Rurek also suggested she process the non-magical ahvenrood. Mix it with Mreegan’s supply to weaken it.

Rurek was not only wise. He was devious. His ideas gave Charlon hope.

The next night Charlon, Sir Kalenek, and Shanek sat around the fire in her tent. Mashing failed root into pulp. A mountain of greens between Charlon and Shanek nearly hid the boy from view. In between herself and Sir Kalenek lay a wire screen. A screen covered in thick, starchy pulp.

“I don’t trust this new shadir,” Sir Kalenek said.

Charlon glanced at Rurek. He stood sentry at the entrance of her tent. Like a guard.

“Do not put your trust in such creatures,” Sir Kalenek continued. “Miss Onika warned about them. They are deceitful above all things.”

Fool humans, Rurek muttered.

“Fooolll!” Shanek echoed, then shoved a handful of mashed root into his mouth.

Sir Kalenek couldn’t hear Rurek like Charlon and Shanek could. He narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Don’t eat that, Shan. It might make you sick.”

Shanek spat out the root. It slid down his chin and plopped into his lap. Sir Kalenek removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the boy’s face clean.

“Miss Onika tires me,” Charlon snapped. “She is all you talk about. Her beauty, her skin, her wisdom, her purity. No woman is so perfect. Especially a blind one.”

“Her blindness makes her see people more deeply,” Sir Kalenek said. “She is goodness and light and joy and absolute perfection.”

“Then I hate her,” Charlon said. “I forbid you to speak of her.”

Sir Kalenek’s smooth face, which had once been a tapestry of scars, crumpled at her words. The compulsion Mreegan had set upon him forced obedience. Sorrow and fury poured from his eyes. “You can order my silence, but you cannot control my thoughts.”

“Care to tempt me?” she asked. “I compelled my own thoughts. I assure you, I can do the same to you.”

That silenced him. He took to beating his pot of root as if it had been the one to punish him.

Regret surged through Charlon. Besides Shanek, and now Rurek, Sir Kalenek was her only friend. His kindness had saved her life more than once. She should not treat him cruelly. She owed him much. He had raised Shanek. Taught the boy when Charlon had been unwilling. But to rescind a command would make her look weak. She would not do it. Surely he would stop pining over the blind woman someday. Charlon had gotten over Torol.

Nearly so, anyway.

“Bird.” Shanek’s voice pulled her gaze up. One of the rat birds had gotten inside. It hopped up the pile of ahvenrood tubers. Bit into one.

“Shoo!” Charlon waved her arm at the creature. It flew to her bed, carrying its snack with it. “Are you unable to kill these pests, Sir Kalenek?”

As that hadn’t been a command, he did not jump to obey. “Birds must eat too.”

It’s looking at me, Rurek said.

“Looking, looking,” Shanek crooned.

The great shadir walked to the bed. Reached for the bird. It hopped back a few steps.

“How can it see you?” Charlon asked.

“See who?” Sir Kalenek asked.

Charlon shushed the knighten.

I know not, Rurek said, but I sense power in it.

How could a bird have magic? “Because it ate the ahvenrood?”

Rurek met her gaze. His dark eyes held her question between them. Give it an order. Use the old language. I will try to harness the power.

Charlon didn’t move for fear she might scare the bird away. “Rurek âthâh. Tsamad ani. Ten shel—”

I am already here, woman! Rurek yelled. Cast the spell. The spell!

Flustered, Charlon blurted out the first thought that came to mind. “Bara bird tselem ba Onika.”

She felt Sir Kalenek’s gaze burn into her. She winced inside, wishing she had not cast that particular spell.

Nothing happened.

Rurek hummed. I have an idea. He disintegrated into shimmering yellow light. Poured himself into the bird. It screeched and flapped its wings as if pained. Did not fly away.

The temperature dropped. The bird’s red eyes brightened. Gold, like the sun. It squawked. A layer of white frost coated its feathers. Then it grew. Swelled. Silky feathers melted into watery black mud. Mud that stretched into the shape of a leg. A hand. The substance shifted. Slowly solidified into the shape of a woman. A woman lying curled on the bed. Sculpted from a glob of black clay.

The woman took color. Skin pale. Hair like wheat. Eyes glassy. She sat up on the bed and blinked.

“It works!” Charlon cried out, triumphant.

Shanek squealed in delight and clapped his hands. “Pretty lady.”

“Ahhh . . .” Sir Kalenek stared. Charlon’s compulsion forbade him to speak Onika’s name.

The manifestation of Onika opened her mouth and emitted a long squawk.

Shanek began to cry. He pushed to his feet and ran to Kal, who picked him up.

“What is the matter with you?” Kal snapped at Charlon, and he carried Shanek out of the tent.

“Âtsar,” Charlon said.

The creature squawked, as if someone had severed its foot. The form of Onika collapsed into a pool of black mud on the bed. Something rose from the goo. A rat’s face, then a trembling black wing.

A blur of yellow light and Rurek appeared beside her. Do you know what this means?

“There is magic in this land,” Charlon said. “Different. But magic just the same.”

We can use it, he said. We’ll tell Mreegan that magic can only be done when a shadir takes Dominion over one of the birds. If we can convince her to try it and Magon is with her, Magon might wish to enter one of the creatures . . .

Charlon understood. “And I can kill it while she is inside.”

Perfecting the plan took hours of practice. When they were ready, Charlon told Sir Kalenek to build a cage. Capture two rat birds. Gowzals, she had named them. The ancient name for bird. Charlon took the likeness of Roya, and when Mreegan had gone to the altar to worship, Charlon entered the red tent. Tampered with Mreegan’s ahvenrood. Mixed in new powder to dilute it.

When the time came to lure Mreegan into the trap, Charlon sent Sir Kalenek and Shanek away from her own tent. Fed each bird a tuber. Rurek entered one of the gowzals. Then Charlon compelled the birds to speak.

Roya was the first to complain of the noise. Kateen next. Then Astaa. Charlon mustered as much rudeness as possible, knowing the maidens would lose their tempers. Ask Mreegan to intervene. They finally left to do just that. By the time Mreegan arrived, the noise had given Charlon a headache.

The Chieftess barged into the tent. “What are you doing?”

“I have made a discovery,” Charlon said. “These birds are the key to doing magic in this land.”

“A bird?”

“They are similar to malleants,” Charlon said. “When a bird is fed ahvenrood, a shadir can claim Dominion over it. Then the mantic can speak a spell to power the magic.”

“Show me.”

Charlon tried not to smile. She removed the gowzal from the cage. The one Rurek had entered. “I have sent a shadir into this one already,” she said, then cast her spell. “Bara gowzal tselem ba Shanek.”

A chill fell upon the tent. The gowzal screeched. And just like before, its feathers grew frosty. Then it changed. Bubbled and morphed into the form of little Shanek.

“Fascinating,” Mreegan said, walking toward the fake boy. “Did it eat the new root? That you planted here?”

“Yes,” Charlon said. “The birds have been eating the crops. I grew frustrated. Sent a shadir into one of the birds by mistake. The shadir felt magic in the creature. I tried a mask spell and it worked.”

Magon appeared in the Veil beside Mreegan. The two looked identical. Is there any pain, slight? Magon asked the impostor.

The boy’s mouth opened and he crowed. Blinked, then shook his head.

“I haven’t yet discovered. The voice.” Charlon sighed, pretending to be a failure. A novice with no hope. “I still have much to learn. I had wanted to perfect this. Before showing you. I’m sure you will have many ideas. How to improve the process.”

“No doubt,” Mreegan said.

I will try this, Magon said.

Charlon kept her expression plain. She opened the cage. Removed the second gowzal. “I fed it root already. Let me give it a bit more so it will hold still.” She picked a tiny tuber from the bucket beside the cage. Set it on the ground. Released the bird. The creature wasted no time. Snapped up the tuber in its beak.

Magon floated toward it, shrinking as she did into a wisp of white smoke. Smoke that absorbed into the gowzal. Red eyes turned glassy gray.

Charlon fought to contain her excitement. This was going to work!

“What kind of spell should I cast?” Mreegan asked.

“Illusions seem to work best,” Charlon said. “I’ve been casting masks.” She made a show of backing out of the way. Of giving Mreegan room to work. Stopped beside the wooden cage. The cage where she had hidden a shard club.

“Bara bird tselem ba Torol,” Mreegan said.

Charlon cringed. Mreegan had done the same to her that Charlon had accidentally done to Sir Kalenek. But Mreegan meant to hurt Charlon. Wanted Torol’s likeness to bring Charlon pain.

Cruel woman, your end is near.

The gowzal melted into black mud. Began to change. Formed the shape of a human male. A man curled on his side.

Rurek, still in the form of Shanek, watched, eyes golden and bright.

Charlon must act now. Before the gowzal made the transition. She would not otherwise be able to cut it down. Not if it looked like Torol.

She drew the shard club out from hiding. Chopped over the muddy neck. Winced as obsidian shards sliced easily through moist clay. The featureless head jumped apart from the body. A body that sank into a muddy puddle.

A blast forced Charlon off her feet. She crashed backward. Shook the tent. Landed on her side.

Mreegan lowered her hand, glaring down, eyes fierce. Betrayed. “What have you done?”

Charlon glanced past the Chieftess to the puddle. Beneath it a hole had opened up in the Veil. Wide at the top, it grew narrow the deeper it went. Like the inside of Rone’s lure. A creature struggled inside. Hands clutching the outer rim. Fighting to hold on as an unseen force pulled. It was the color of a newborn pig. Had spindly arms, black eyes and lips. Three stubby black horns protruded from its forehead like a crown. A gash in its waist bled black liquid into the deep.

Could it be? “Magon?” Charlon whispered.

Chieftess Mreegan gasped at the creature. “No! I don’t belieeeee . . .”

She trailed off in a gargling croak. Hair turned white. Skin slowly shriveled. Eyes burrowed deep into sockets. Hands reached toward her face. Fingertips touched cheeks while disintegrating into bones. Flesh, hair, and bone crumbled. Dry dirt in a giant fist. The vortex swallowed everything. What had once been Mreegan flew past where the pig-like shadir held tightly.

Rurek left the gowzal and materialized in his warrior form. Stepped toward the vortex. He smiled down on what once had been Magon. I told you I was stronger, he said.

The creature snarled. Spoke in a language Charlon had never heard.

Rurek chuckled, then uttered a single word in that same, guttural tongue. Nadach.

Magon’s hands lost purchase. She fell.

The hole closed up. Lifeless on the ground, the gowzal’s head and body looked small. No sign of Mreegan or Magon. Both were gone.

Rurek’s gaze rested on Charlon. You did it. He sounded surprised, if not slightly mortified.

“We did it.” Charlon turned to leave and found Roya, Astaa, and Vald standing in the doorway, eyes gleaming in horror.

“Come, Rurek,” Charlon said as she marched past them and out of the tent. “Send one of your swarm. Fetch Sir Kalenek and Shanek to the red tent.” She walked the path between the two rows of white tents. Head held high. A victor. In the distance the red tent gleamed in the morning sun.

She had done it! The rule of Magonia. The title of Chieftess. Both were hers. Won fairly. Taken because she was superior to Mreegan and even Magon.

She approached the red tent. Rone stood sentry outside, lure around his neck. He stepped in front of the entrance. “You may not enter, Mother. The Chieftess is not here.”

“She is Chieftess now.” A woman’s voice. From behind. A glance over Charlon’s shoulder revealed Roya. Behind her Astaa, Nuel, Vald, and Kateen.

“Mreegan is dead,” Charlon said, “as is Magon. I killed them.”

Rone’s eyes swelled slightly, and he knelt at her feet.

Charlon fought back a smile, wanting to look strong and regal.

Shanek ran forward. Reached for her and jumped as if she might lift him. “Shadir said come. We mash root?”

“No, my son,” Charlon said, taking hold of his hand. “The red tent is my home now. I am Chieftess of Magonia.”

Are you certain you want your realm to be called Magonia? Rurek asked.

Charlon had not considered that. No reason to honor Magon the betrayer. “You are wise to suggest a new name, Rurek. I owe much of my accession to you. There is, unfortunately, a realm that already bears your name.”

How about Magos, Chieftess? Rurek suggested. For it was by magic that you claimed rule over this people.

“Magos,” she said, liking the sound of it. “So be it. Send your swarm to call everyone here. It is time they bow before their new Chieftess.”

Rurek mumbled something to a fat shadir, who flitted away.

“Rone, pass the lure to Sir Kalenek,” Charlon said. “He will serve as my One.”

Rone stood and looped the cord that held the lure over Sir Kalenek’s head.

“Kneel before me, Sir Kalenek,” Charlon said.

Because of the compulsion upon him, Charlon had no idea if the knighten would have knelt of his own volition. But kneel he did.

Gullik and Eedee approached then, the young Zweena close behind.

Charlon paused, waited for them reach her. “Sir Kalenek Veroth, do you accept your position to serve me and my son Shanek as One?”

Though he did not look pleased, he answered, “I live to serve, Chieftess.”

Yes, he did. And she would see to it that he would serve her well. They all would. She was Chieftess Charlon of Magos. There was no one higher in all the land.