Majutsu-shi no Chikara loosely translates to "Sorcerer's Power"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Millstone Butchers
Sunlight reflected dazzlingly from the pale red sandstone and straw-yellow dunes, running up against the western slopes called Mal'pur's Teeth. In Renks Cairn, it was commonly called the East Wall or Cairn Wall range, but mighty Mal'pur did not bow to the crown of Tsuro or the true powers of Renks Cairn. Buffered by the inland range and a vast expanse of dune-riddled wasteland, Mal'pur enjoyed its crucible of civilization along the wide river that descended from the northernmost elbow of the Teeth, where the great jaws climbed high into the vast, frozen nowhere of the far North. So sheltered by the double curtains guarding Renks Cairn, Mal'pur suffered little rain to fall except in rare, horrific torrents when the winds blew in from the south and brought warmer air from the far side of the world. Flash floods, quicksand, and eruptions of sand vipers or desert toads were not uncommon during the rains. Oases likewise dotted the crumbling West Road that dragged itself more than one hundred miles through harsh desert and over the ragged peaks of the Teeth. Things too heavy or too delicate to travel by the rolling, jostling gait of a sea-faring vessel would be collected in great caravans that traversed the desert and braved its dangers.
Far from the green shores of Ni'dun, the great river giving life to Mal'pur's capital, unable to even see the last vestiges of road or caravan on any horizon, a solitary bronze figure contemplated the sparse greenery huddled close about the delicate, fading oasis that had once been an enormous lake fed by water from deep below the earth. In summers and winters gone, the lake had spawned a faint tributary to mighty Ni'dun, and its winding path would guide caravans toward the Teeth. Once, when Matta had been young and his mind was his own, he and Lada spent many days and nights enjoying each other in these waters. Sanctifying the spring and blessing the caravans before they made the daunting passage West. Else, dipping canteens and quenching the parched lips of 'vanners scurrying furtively between oases.
Now, Prende stared into the murky water with eyes seeing only a time before. She wore a simple shawl and thawb, coarse garments worn thin over time yet still rough to the touch. Her cupric skin darkened with so much sun kissing her, and the fiery locks of early autumn tufted behind her and over her shoulders as though she, too, were a fading shrub scrabbling closer to the dwindling oasis.
"I cannot see your mind, sweet Matta." He smiled up at her from the middle of the lake-that-was, forever young and vigorous in her eyes. "You have gone where I cannot go."
Lizards darted from shadow to shadow, dancing across the scorching sand or waiting in deep burrows as the ambush vipers had taught them. Carrion buzzards circled lazily, watching the slim figure of the fae with mortal hunger and curiosity. The sun crossed the sky, its light washing Renks Cairn as it turned its shoulder from the Mal'pur wastes, sinking below the Teeth and letting moonlight and shadows reign the desert. Jackals, a lean and desperate trio migrating south from watering hole to watering hole, passed the fae's spectral form as she wallowed in memory. She was a passing curiosity and no more, giving no scent and answering no growl of warning with any movement. The jackals drank, rested in the scrubby brush of the oasis, and pounced on a half-dozen lizards venturing forth for their own needs.
Sunrise came, the jackals gone before the setting of the moon, and the nymph's ghost hovered at the banks of the lake-that-was.
...
"I know you, hunter." The ghost needn't turn to face the white-swathed traveler, for the faceless ghost looked all directions at once. The sun beat down from high overhead, wavering mirages of heat danced over the blasted desert and blistering sand. An hour or a day, the great shadow of the hunter's dragon wing had passed back and forth overhead not less than four times before dropping low at the furthest edge of the oasis. Kicking-up dust and tugging against the hot air rising from the sand, the hunter dropped the glider and approached to within a stone-throw before the spectral form called out into the mind of flesh and blood.
Cloaked in desert white and brown, with many a satchel and waterskin bouncing against a slender frame, the hunter stopped. Eyes like fresh-knapped flint narrowed to dangerous slits, intensely watching the ghostly silhouette above the sand. No movement. No change. The sun crawled from its zenith toward the horizon, thirsty to drink the waters of the distant Narrow Sea.
"You're not easy to follow,
Prende
." The hunter, long frozen still beneath the weltering sun, turned to descend into the heart of the muddy oasis. "I have not been in Mal'pur since the Ten Kings War. It hasn't changed."
The specter took the form of a faded fae woman -- a nymph of blazing red hair and skin burnt coppery as autumn itself. Faint, dangerous flickering light escaped the hollows of her eyes and fought against the blinding sunlight.
"You know me?" Prende felt herself dragged away from distant memory, away from Matta and back to the world of mortals. Forgotten names skipped as dry leaves, stray curtains of sand and glittering quartz caught in the searing zephyrs of the desert. Each touched her and drew her closer, demanding remembrance.
"The murder of a wizard of the Guild is a high crime in Renks Cairn." The hunter knelt to fill a cylinder of wood, sieving sand from the water before pouring it into empty jugs, bladders, and skins. "And while I cannot kill you -- I have
found
you."
"What of Matta's grave?" Prende had shape enough to turn, the ghost lights fading to brilliant emerald discs, trading half-hidden answers for tilted questions.
"South-wold is safe." The hunter rinsed dust and grit from their teeth, spitting the name of the human settlement out through taut lips, continuing to filter water and refill depleted stores. "For the moment."
"You're not one of Geddall's." Prende frowned, her body now casting the barest shadow. "Why are you here?"
"I need a favor." The elf pulled the wrap from her head, baring her face to the nymph before pouring water through her scarf and carefully re-wrapping it to cool herself from the heat. "And rumor has it you've thrown your lot in with a mortal."
"Matta is dead." Prende moved closer to the elf, her shadow solid as it slid across the sand and light shining against the nymph's skin once more. "But he is not gone, yet."
In spite of the heat, the elf felt a surge of cold dread at that. An arrow, once in flight, would not be called back.
"I hate his kind, I won't lie." The elf shivered at the shoulders, hands busy with salvaging as much life-bringing elixir from the muddy puddle as possible. "But my services were hired directly from the Twilight Council, and I want to be re-assigned."
"How do I help you do that?" Prende's confusion was flat, the weight of her presence a fraction of what it had been. "What happened to the Moon Court?"
"The Moon Court?" The elf sat back on her heels, sighing explosively as she sifted her memories. "After Ten Kings, the chancellor of Ell killed his cousins -- the queen-regent and the royal heir -- and declared the dynasty ended. The Council was formed a few years later. That's been... huuuuf... nigh-on two centuries, now? I was still young, I didn't know all the names."
The elf patted each of the skins and bladders, checking for leaks.
"I don't remember the war." Prende admitted with a shrug, her body nearly solid as the present moment latched onto her. "I may have been away."
"How you help me get reassigned is easy." The elf grinned up at Prende, and the nymph's skin crawled with unease. "You convince those filth-swilling, muck-dwelling vermin to quit digging beneath the Tower."
"I can't go to Renks Cairn." Prende shook her head, grasping for clarity that dripped between her fingers and vanished in the shimmering sand. "I could be trapped... I could be
killed
."
"South-wold is blameless for your crimes... it needn't be." The elf's grin vanished into a sneer full of resentment. "Should the humans and the orks hunting them be prey for your actions?"
"What's your name?" Prende fought with the hazy memories, fingers caressing her furrowed brow. Promises made -- sworn in blood beneath the ever-full moon of the fae Court.
"Therese Apep of Twin-Rivers." The elf said gravely, her posture revealing years as a soldier. "Third captain of the Dragon-sworn ...
last
of the Dragon-sworn."
"Did you know him? Matta, I mean." Prende wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.
"No." the elf frowned with disgust. "I can say I never crossed swords with him -- and I don't care what he's done for you. Will you honor your oath, or no?"
"I will honor my oath." Prende nodded, her eyes catching the elf in a hard glare. "But let me make something
