Elemental Magic: All-New Tales of the Elemental Masters (26 page)

“Then it’s settled,” Lady Amara murmured, laughter returning to her voice as she mounted her horse.

*   *   *

The first sight of the active volcano and the blazing lava flow came as a revelation to Lasair. She had admired the steep mountains of the western United States, and had found the peaks of O’ahu attractive. But when she saw the flaming, molten earth jetting out of the blackness of the surrounding mountain, she was awestruck by its fierce beauty. She felt a pull deep within her, a desire to get nearer to the liquid fire. Glancing at Lady Amara, she saw the same fascinated yearning on the older woman’s face, mingled with something like anticipation.

“Will we get to the flow today?” Lady Amara asked their guide, who nodded.

“If the Lady wishes, our camp could be made near to it,” Hana’kahi said. “There would be safe places upon the rocky ridge, like the bank of a river.”

“That will be perfect,” Lady Amara said, and Lasair gave a tiny nod when the guide looked at her for approval. Only then did he turn and continue up the narrow, leaf-grown pathway.

*   *   *

As evening approached, they neared the edge of the lava flow. Hana’kahi had said the volcano had been more active of late, the river of fire flowing farther than usual down the mountain, and that even the Princesses had come to pray—Princess Ruth to Pele, Princess Liliuo’kalani to the Virgin Mary—that the lava would slow and the town of Hilo be spared.

It was in a sheltered clearing here, with the hissing and popping of the liquid earth in their ears, that the three of them made their tiny camp, with Hana’kahi sleeping on a mat outside Lady Amara and Lasair’s tent.

*   *   *

Lasair was wakened by a sense of pressure, a squeezing through her whole body. Moving numbly, obeying an unheard but felt command, she rose and left the tent. She was able to turn her head enough to look at Hana’kahi’s mat, and saw the lifeless body of the guide with his throat slit, his blood thick and black on his simple tunic. Unable to resist the summons, she continued walking forward, through the forest edge to the rim of rock that hedged the lava flow down the mountainside.

Lady Amara stood near the edge of the rocky outcropping, wearing an ornate robe Lasair could not recall ever seeing among her wardrobe, but yet it seemed familiar to her. Small candles were set in a circle on the stones, and by their flickering light and the glow of the volcanic flow, Lasair saw strange symbols and patterns chalked on the rock around Lady Amara. The older woman gestured, and Lasair’s feet propelled her toward a second circle of chalked symbols.

Once she reached its center, Lady Amara flicked her fingers, and another ring of small candles flared into life surrounding Lasair. The young woman felt herself at once frozen tightly into place, her body pinned motionless as Lady Amara began to chant, in the same strange language that Lasair recalled from the flash of memory in the hotel on O’ahu.

The lava advanced more rapidly now, bubbling with greater energy, its level rising higher against the edge of the rock they stood upon. Imprisoned by whatever Lady Amara had done, Lasair attempted to shuffle back from the edge, but the soles of her feet stood fast while the liquid earth flowed by, little more than an arm’s-length from her bare toes. Looking at the lava, Lasair realized that her fear was not of the molten river. It was of Lady Amara, who had stopped chanting and now reached her hands out along the flow toward the peak of the mountain, greedy anticipation lighting her face. Her expression was one of deep hunger, tinged with a hint of madness.

Suddenly, a tiny breeze like gentle fingers lifted Lasair’s hair, teasing it out of its nighttime braid, swirling the skirts of her sleeping chemise and night robe and dancing around to tug at Lady Amara’s heavy robe. She had a sense of laughter—where could that come from, for her ears were filled with the hissing of the flowing lava and the echo of Lady Amara’s chanting?—as a bit of fabric was pulled free from a hidden pocket in the embroidered robe the older woman wore, floating toward Lasair. As the smoke swirled around them, she saw flickers outlining a shape in the air, a feathery woman-figure holding the white square out to her.

Whatever force held her captive had eased a tiny bit. Although it was still an effort to move, Lasair could reach forward to grasp the piece of fabric—a handkerchief, she now saw, stained with three dark patches—from the wispy fingers of the transparent woman-figure. As she touched it, her fingertips closed over those rust-brown spots, and more memories and sensation stunned her.

—Herself, as a child, held down by Mr. Rusbourne as he pierced her finger, dripping three drops of blood onto the handkerchief, and watching as he chanted, unable to move, feeling a tug from somewhere deep inside her as he conjured . . . something. Then, exhaustion and blackness . . .

Flashes of similar events filled her mind, along with a deep, instinctive understanding. Corven Rusbourne had shaped the magic, and Lady Amara had taken it over, and they had both drained her, used her. A part of her, the part of her that had been “awake” for the last twelve years, struggled to align this revelation with what she thought she knew. The rest of her, newly roused by the return to her hand of those stolen drops of blood, burned with unfettered fury.

They had stolen her Mastery. It was she, not they, who should hold the Power of Fire. Their power was little more than common magicians. Barely aware of what she did, she reached with her mind into the crimson lava, felt its roiling heat deep within her soul. The handkerchief in her fingertips flared into flame and vanished in a wisp of smoke, and Lasair opened her eyes. The candles around her blazed high, their wax melting into rivulets which obliterated the chalk symbols that penned her.

Lady Amara looked at her, only now aware that something was deeply wrong, as the spell bond Corven Rusbourne had formed and given to her was burned out by the heat of Lasair’s wakened power. She raised her hands to start a new conjuring, summoning her bound Elementals to the edge of the volcanic flow, turning them toward Lasair.

Anger, rage, burning resentment rippled through the young woman. “You should not have brought me here, Amara Feuerberg,” Lasair said, her voice crackling with heat. “You reach too far, and now you shall learn your limits.” Again, that small part of her trying to make sense of this was astonished—
where is this dry voice coming from?

Not knowing what she was doing, acting out of instinct, Lasair “reached” for the fires of the volcano again, seeking power, and was met by a flood of fiery strength that vibrated through her entire body. Lizards of flame—salamanders—separated themselves from the lava, swarming up to battle with Lady Amara’s own.

Power filled her, flame and fury pulsing through her veins, lava instead of blood, as she advanced toward Lady Amara, her salamanders shredding the older woman’s until they fled. Without Lasair’s Mastery strengthening her, Lady Amara was unable to control the Elementals, to force their obedience, and soon she stood alone, ringed by Lasair’s salamanders.

Lasair stopped, drawing herself up to her full height, taller than she had ever stood. Flickers of fear filled Lady Amara’s eyes, as a grim smile spread over her former companion’s face.

“You should not have come here. You should not have disturbed me.” That strange, hot, crackling voice rang out as she
reached
one more time into the depths of the volcano for the source of her power, to send a flood of lava cascading over this one who thought to bind and control her.

“Lasair, stop!” A man’s voice, barely heard over the roar of the fire in her blood.

She tilted her head to the side—who was Lasair? Who was this mere man who dared interrupt her?

A drift of smoke floated in front of her, shaping itself again into a translucent female figure—a sylph, she now recognized. And she also saw that the sylph was frightened—of her? But Fire and Air were natural allies. How could a creature of Air be afraid of one of Fire? The question caught her attention, distracting her briefly from her fury, and then again that voice broke into her thoughts.

“Lasair, look at me!”

With effort, she dragged her eyes from the sylph, from the fear-frozen figure of Lady Amara surrounded by salamanders, from the lava lapping at the edge of the rocky outcropping, and turned her head.

Conrad Ayresbury stood at the edge of the forest, sylphs dancing in a shield around him.
Air Master
, some part of her noted. With measured steps, he walked forward until he stood in front of her, his hazel eyes never leaving her green ones, his sylphs weaving between them.

“Lasair,” he said, “remember yourself.”

Another flood of rage, but this time Lasair realized that it was not her anger. Something within her tried to raise her arms, to conjure and command the salamanders, but Lasair held herself still, her eyes locked with Conrad Ayresbury’s.

“I do not know how to get out,” she said, this time in her own voice, but even as she spoke the words she knew the answer. As Corven Rusbourne and Amara Feuerberg had taken her power for their own by controlling those few drops of her blood, now she needed to master her blood for herself. Her eyes unfocused a little, and she felt the blood roaring in her ears, her pulse a drumbeat, the fire deep within. But now she could see that there were two fires—her own and also another one, that one full of chaos and power. Drop by drop, heartbeat by heartbeat, breath by breath, she separated the two, each exhalation pushing the foreign fire out of her blood until Lasair stood exhausted, but completely herself once more.

Her eyes refocused, and she saw the figure of a woman of pure flame standing, almost floating, on the surface of the lava in front of her.

“Pele-honua-mea,” she murmured, bowing her head as she spoke the ancient spirit’s most sacred name.

“You have managed to push me back, yet
now
you bow? You have greater power than you think, little one—although even so, you could not stop me from taking anything I truly wanted.”
Now filled with laughter, all traces of fury vanished, that dry, crackling voice rang in Lasair’s head. From the startled expression on Conrad’s face, he heard the words too. As did Lady Amara, who shrank within herself, her elaborate robe suddenly too large for her body.

The glowing figure of Pele turned to face Lady Amara.
“You have disturbed me, roused me for nothing more than your own greedy pleasure,”
she said, her voice filling once again with anger.
“You have sought to control me, to use me as you used the little one. I. Will. Not. Be. Used.”
With each of her last words, the river of lava moved closer to the cowering figure of Lady Amara. Even the salamanders Lasair had called moved away from the fury of the goddess. Several of them slipped to her side, weaving around her in much the same way the sylphs still danced around Conrad.

“It is past time for me to draw back to the depths of my home, but I shall not go alone.”
The liquid flame welled up as Pele spoke, flooding over the rock ledge where Lady Amara stood and sweeping her under in a swirl of molten earth.

Pele turned her attention back to Lasair, and Conrad Ayresbury reached out, grasping her hand. Her fingers tightened around his as the goddess moved over the lava toward them.

“Fear not, Air Master. The little one is done with being controlled.”
Again, dry laughter replaced fury, and the figure turned to cast a glance down the mountain.
“Do not fear for the people. I will take the heat of the lava with me, and they shall be spared.”

With that, the red-gold form of the goddess melted like wax, rippling down until she too disappeared into the river of lava, which lessened almost at once, its rapid flow slowing back to its usual rate, darkening at the edges as it cooled to solidity.

Lasair looked down at her hand, still clasped in Conrad’s. Sylphs and salamanders twined about them both as she turned her eyes to meet his.

“Well, Air Master, no wonder you found the idea of being becalmed at sea so amusing.”

Conrad stared at her a moment, then laughed before bringing her hand to his lips.

“Indeed, Fire Master.”

“How did you know I was . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized that she didn’t know precisely what she was asking.

“The sylphs, actually,” he replied. “They were drawn to you—surely you noticed how they teased your hair?—and then I realized that your name meant ‘flame.’ I had earlier received a message from another Air Master that there were questions being asked in London about Lady Amara’s power, and it seemed that there must be more beneath the surface of what I could observe. So I followed the two of you.”

Lasair was silent, considering everything that had happened, and all that she now remembered.

“But it is late,” he continued, “and long past time we were headed home.”

Lasair nodded, knowing that he did not mean the cottages where they were staying, but
home
. The flickering light of Pele’s fires revealed that his eyes still held questions for her, but now she felt only a heady anticipation of the answers . . .

. . . And of entire new worlds now opening before her.

I Have Heard the Mermaids Singing

Mercedes Lackey

“Miriam,” said the tall, dark man in the plain, dark suit as he touched his hat to the prim young lady in an equally plain traveling dress without a hint of crinoline or bustle. They stood in front of the Gray Gull tea room in the small fishing town of Solace, Maine, positioning themselves just past the door. It seemed they must have come here for the express purpose of meeting.

“Jacob,” the young lady acknowledged. Her bonnet and dress were nearly the same pale gray as the wisps of fog that drifted just above the cobblestones of the street, and it was almost impossible to tell the color of her hair beneath the veil wrapped around her head under the hat. It might have been dark brown. “Well, you called, and now I’m here. Your call was not very illuminating, however. I believe I am due an explanation. And a cup of tea, at the very least. And repayment for my travels.”

To say that Jacob Harsetter’s “call” had not been very illuminating was a drastic understatement. In fact, the only thing that the little brownie had been able to tell Miriam Tayler was
Jacob needs you. Gray Gull tearoom, three in the afternoon, September twelfth.

She had received the message on September the tenth. The journey from Boston by rail and then coach had been moderately uncomfortable, but at least Jacob had left a more mundane letter for her at the coaching inn. It stated that the meeting was still to take place, but that he had arranged for her lodging and meals at the inn. She was somewhat mollified to find the room to be of the first quality
and
that she would not be required to share it with any other gentlewomen.

But only somewhat mollified. Jacob Harsetter might be a man of means, but she was a lady of a certain age with a slender purse and no prospects of marrying a larger one. She eked out her income making quite exquisite hats and gloves, and an absence of any length from her shop would have a deleterious effect, and the drain of an unexpected trip was most unwelcome. Had the summons come from anyone else, she likely would have ignored it, or sent the brownie back with a sharp rebuke.

But Jacob Harsetter was an Earth Master, and her father’s old friend, and she would—this once—give him the benefit of the doubt.

“You are indeed owed an explanation, Miriam,” he said. “And more than a cup of tea. Here.” He pressed a small leather purse into her hand. “This will reimburse you for the cost of your journey. I chose this meeting place rather than the coaching inn because the dear lady who is the proprietress is as deaf as a post, and her clients are so remarkably self-centered that nothing registers with them unless it pertains to their wants and needs. We shall be virtually invisible.”

Miriam gave a graceful little nod of her head and permitted Jacob to hold the door open for her. Once inside, they were ushered to the most inferior table in the very small room, one in the far rear corner, which was dark, a little cramped, and offered neither a good view of the street outside nor a good view of the other tables. These were mostly already occupied by ladies of the sort who bought Miriam’s hats and gloves—ladies who were gowned in what passed in so small and remote a town as the height of fashion, but which was a good two years behind Boston, three behind the nation’s capital, and four behind London. But, since every
other
lady here was gowned in the same way, they likely were as contented as their kind could ever be. They gave her the briefest of glances, dismissing her as someone absolutely beneath them because of her gown, never knowing that the cage-crinolines they sported were already considered laughable in London, and—well, who knew what they thought she was? Probably not as lowly as a mill girl, since what mill girl would have the wherewithal to spend on a tearoom meal, and what respectable man would
take
a mill girl to a tearoom? But, well, some sort of highly unfashionable bluestocking, surely. She smiled a little to herself.

The rest of the ladies stirred their cream into their tea, poured for each other, and feasted on little, sugary cakes while whispering among themselves, pretending to ignore what was going on at the other tables while at the same time stretching an ear to try to catch it.

Miriam ordered cucumber sandwiches and green tea. She would rather have had the hearty ham-and-cheese that Jacob got, but a lady wasn’t permitted anything so . . . satisfying. Jacob, however, surreptitiously and gallantly divided the ham and cucumber between them, averring that he
liked
cucumber, but a man couldn’t be seen ordering it. This might have been a lie, or it might not. Since he was the one inconveniencing
her,
Miriam was inclined to allow him to suffer.

“I’ll not beat about the bush, Jacob. Why so infernally vague?” she asked, before devouring one of the cucumber triangles in a few neat bites.

“Because I have little or nothing to tell you,” Jacob admitted ruefully. In deference to his masculinity, he had been permitted coffee, and he stared down into the cup a moment. “We are experiencing . . . troubles. Of an aquatic nature, so far as I can tell.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Troubles?”

“A fisherman’s net was put into the water, and taken up a half hour later cut to ribbons. Another has had his lobster pots smashed—but only his, and not the ones of his brother, who fishes the same ground. A well went dry. A cellar flooded.” Jacob shrugged. “It could be a Water Mage. It could be bad luck. It could be both, or neither. I just have a feeling. . . .”

Miriam’s eyebrow remained in the elevated state. “Feeling?”

He clasped the coffee cup as if he was deriving steadiness from it. “I’m an Earth Master. You know we are the most stolid of the Elemental Masters. We mostly hear from nothing but our own Elementals. But . . . in the distance, and in the night, I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing for me. But you—yes. That is your gift, and your nature.”

Miriam nodded. Although she was only an Air Mage, and not a Master, her peculiar gift was that she could see and hear all of the Elementals of all four Elements. And she was particularly adept at getting them to confide in her. Perhaps because they knew she did not have the power to coerce them.

If the Elementals could be gotten to talk of what was at the bottom of these troubles, they would, indeed, speak to her.

“Why did the song of the mermaids trouble you, Jacob?” she asked, quietly.

He looked up from his coffee, and his eyes were grieving. “Because,” he said, “Their song was pain.”

*   *   *

Miriam had let the landlord of the George’s Head know that she would be remaining for an indefinite time. He indicated that Jacob had been prepared for this, and that he himself was not averse to having his best chamber occupied . . . so long as . . .

The discreet cough was her cue to smile. “Mister Harsetter was my father’s dear friend and schoolmate,” she said truthfully. “And my godfather. I have not seen him since my father’s death, and being concerned that I was prospering, he asked if I would come for a visit. Unfortunately, with all his children, and now his wife’s mother come to live with them . . .” she spread her hands wide, showing her own elegant gloves to advantage. The innkeeper, sensitive to such nuances as expensive gloves, which generally indicated money coming in his direction, nodded. And at the word “godfather,” his face had cleared.

“Ah, I see. No room at the inn, so to speak.” He chuckled at his own wit, and she dutifully did the same. “Will you be dining in your room, or in the common room, Miss?”

“I shall be breakfasting and dining in my room, if it is no trouble, and taking luncheon with Jacob and his wife,” she replied. “Should they choose to also invite me for dinner, I shall have word sent to you.”

“Very good, miss,” the innkeeper said happily, secure in the knowledge that she was a
proper
lady who was not intending to expose her charms to the men drinking in the bar and the common room. When he took his leave of her, promising a fine roast chicken for dinner, she gladly closed the door of the sitting room behind him, took off her bonnet and gloves, and opened the window. Being only a mage and not a Master, she did not expend her meager store of energies in calling sylphs. But the sylphs were curious little creatures . . . and without a doubt, a few of her own particular favorites had followed her. They would be making friends among the locals, and should be coming to her at any moment.

And so they did.

The poor innkeeper would likely have turned purple and perished on the spot if he had been able to see them. They were mostly clad, if one could call it that, in ribbons and transparent scarves and their own hair. Some had feathered wings, some the wings of moths and butterflies. All were female. Nowhere had Miriam ever seen an explanation of why sylphs and naiads and dryads and nereids and so many of the other Elementals were exclusively female—nor had she ever heard an explanation given of how they reproduced themselves. She recognized three of them as her own particular friends, insofar as a human could ever be friends with an Elemental, particularly Air Elementals, which were not only butterfly-pretty, but had far more hair than wit. The flock of them flitted around the room, plucking at the drapes of the bed, peering into the fire, examining themselves raptly in the mirror.

It was a little like having an invasion of winged monkeys, though prettier, quieter, and less destructive by far.

When they finally exhausted the novelty of having free reign in a human’s rooms, they settled about her—and by “settled,” only two of them actually dropped to the floor. Several perched on the beams overhead, and the rest hovered. This, evidently, was not tiring for them, as she had seen sylphs hover for hours at a time.

She pitched her voice low, to prevent anyone who might be passing from hearing her “talking to herself.” She was not yet old enough to be considered pleasantly eccentric for such foibles. “My friend the Earth Master asked me here because there are troubles,” she said, coming straight to the point. “What is whispered on the wind?”

The sylphs looked at one another, and finally the one she called Luna spoke up.

“There is nothing on the wind, and nothing troubles the Air, Lady,” the little thing with the great green wings of the Luna Moth said.

One of the strangers up on the beams fluttered her wings impatiently. “There are troubles out to sea, to sea, but they do not come to shore,” she said, with a shrug that said without words that nothing that happened on the sea was of any importance to
her.

“But do you know what the troubles are?” Miriam persisted.

Again, the impatient shrug. “We do not fly so far. Ask the mermaids who sing of pain, or the zephyr or even the boreals of the North Wind. Maybe they know. We only hear the echo of the song, deep in the night, and it is no trouble of ours.”

The sylphs could be remarkably selfish—and short-sighted. Well, Miriam had expected this. As much as she enjoyed the sight, the company, and the antics of these creatures of her Element, they were not very reliable.

Nevertheless, they deserved their reward. She went to the wardrobe in which she had hung up her gowns and stowed her belongings, and got out a small carpetbag, much worn, its pattern so faded as to be nearly invisible. She set a small brazier on the table, fetched a single coal from the hearth with tongs, and sprinkled powdered incense on it. The delicious fumes of sandalwood wafted to the ceiling and the sylphs were near-drunk on them, circling the slender stalk of smoke, twirling and twining with it, until the last lingering memory of incense was gone. Then, with a flutter of wings for thanks, they flitted out the window again. Miriam closed it against the chill and the fog that was already coming in.

She lit candles, for it was already darker here than it would be at the same hour at home, took a cloth-bound book and pen from the bag, and sat down at the little secretary to write. As she had anticipated, since this was a first-class guest room, there was fresh ink in the inkwell and sand in the jar waiting for her use. There was also an uncut goose quill, but she far preferred her delicate glass pen.

She noted everything that Jacob had told her, and the little she had learned from the sylphs. Then she tapped the cool end of the pen against her lips and thought.

Jacob was not inclined to overreact. And he was a
Master.
So why bring her here on what almost seemed like pretense?

Because the mermaids were singing pain.

Now, mermaids were not like naiads and nereids, essentially harmless creatures who could be readily coerced, and easily coaxed, into doing what a Master wanted. Or at least, not all of them were. When one was, like Miriam, a magician and not a Master, knowledge could be as much or more use than sheer strength of power. Miriam had put in a great deal of study, not only of the creatures of her own Element, but, since she could speak with all of them, of the other three as well. It seemed there were many tribes of merfolk out there, and they varied as widely as human tribes. Some were sweet-natured creatures of the warm and calmer waters, easily frightened, and entranced by human men; men only came to harm at their hands because they didn’t know that mere mortals couldn’t breathe the water that they could; they lured beautiful young men to them with their songs, drew them under to take them home, and drowned them. And being Elementals, mourned them a few days or a week until they forgot them.

Some, however, knew exactly what they were doing.

And some, particularly the mermaids of the North Atlantic, were the cruelest of all. They not only lured men to drown, they shared their natures with the sharks whose tails they wore. They
hunted
men.

Or had. Not so much, anymore. Their ploys only worked when there were no other sounds on the water to drown their songs, and they shared the antipathy to iron and steel that a few other supernatural entities did. Now that men made their boats with iron nails and fittings, had iron gaffes and spears, and often had iron motors in the larger vessels, the mermaids were forced to leave their favorite prey alone.