A Power She Can't Remember

“She did what?” Lady Zovira’s voice thundered, her imposing height dwarfing the terrified Aelvin general before her. Shuddering from a combination of raw fear and the excruciating throb from her severed arm, Muscaria clutched the mangled stump.

“She summoned lightning, my lady,” Muscaria answered, her voice a faint, humbled whisper that was nearly lost against the cold marble floor. “The power that came from her… we could not have killed her.”

Zovira’s gaze was a shard of ice. “So you fled, not even deigning to deal with her companions, who were surely defenseless?”

“But, my lady,” the Aelvin stammered, “the Troggs had orders to—”

“To kill the Satyr, yes, I am aware. Did you at least confirm the kill?” The general’s anguished silence was all the answer she required. “You did not. Very well. He survived. That one is stubborn; he does not surrender to death easily.”

Turning her back on the wounded Aelvin bleeding on her floor, Zovira paced toward the scrying glass, a tempest of furious thoughts swirling in her mind. As she looked into its churning depths, she ignored the creature entirely. The group appeared to have halted for the time being. Concentrating her will, Zovira brought the image into focus, centering on the human girl. Jianna was the key. If she could eliminate the girl, her empire would be secure.

Her brow furrowed with intense focus. At the very least, she had to neutralize Jianna’s magic, which meant killing them all. But how?

A smooth, silken male voice cut through her deliberations. “My lady, I believe I may have an idea that will be of some service.”

Lady Zovira whirled to face one of the very few beings she permitted to speak unaddressed. He moved across the floor with the silent grace of a cat, seeming to coalesce from the shadows themselves. He raised a pale hand, and from its long, slender fingers, an offering was suspended.

Zovira extended her senses to ‘see’ what it was. As the impression registered in her mind, a slow, merciless smile spread across her features.

“Yes,” she purred. “That will do perfectly…”

To the surprise of everyone, Malakor had called a halt to their journey for a full day of rest, a decision made primarily on account of Blynn’s injuries.

Flitterwing had initially protested, arguing that their journey had only just begun, but Jianna was practically euphoric. A deep, persistent ache had settled into her legs from the near-constant walking, a pain so profound it felt as though it had sunk into her very bones. She had always considered herself reasonably fit, a notion this trek had utterly shattered.

Over their small campfire, Malakor had managed to trap a rabbit-like creature, which was now skewered on a spit. The aroma of roasting meat made Jianna’s mouth water, but for now, she had other plans.

She watched Flitterwing as he moved through his katas, a dance of combat against an unseen foe, sometimes with his twin blades and sometimes without. He moved with a fluid economy of motion, the gestures of someone who had practiced them countless times. A look of deep concentration was on his face, revealing the meditative calm he found in the familiar forms.

After a time, as if growing tired of her scrutiny, Flitterwing stopped and placed his hands on his hips.

“Can I help you with somethin’?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Jianna started, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush. “Um, I-uh… was… justwonderingif, ah… youwouldmind… teachingmetofight?”

Flitterwing blinked. “You want me to teach you how to fight?” he asked, enunciating with far more care than her initial outburst.

Jianna nodded quickly, launching into her explanation. “Yes. Blynn got hurt because I couldn't do anything to help him against those Troggs and Aelvin.” She still couldn't reconcile the creatures she’d seen with her preconceived notions. Elves in The Lord of the Rings or D&D were beautiful, wise beings, not the vicious killers that had set upon them. “I feel like dead weight to the group. If we get attacked again, I’m just going to be cowering in a corner shrieking, ‘Save me, save me!’ while you guys do all the fighting. I hate being useless. I hate being helpless. And I didn’t ask Malakor because he can be… well, mean. Besides, I’ve seen you fight more than him.” Realizing she was babbling, she trailed off.

Flitterwing studied her with an odd expression. Then, to her astonishment, he laughed. She was utterly unprepared for the clear, bright sound. He wasn't supposed to laugh!

Still chuckling, the Fey gestured for her to stand. She did so, watching him warily.

“Florian,” he said, using his own nickname for her as he approached. “If you don’t want to be useless, I’ll teach you to fight.” He stopped directly in front of her. “Now, punch me.”

“…What?” Jianna asked, certain she had misheard.

A flicker of impatience crossed Flitterwing’s face. “Hit me. I need to know what I’m working with, what needs to be changed, and so on. Now. Punch me.”

Raising her hands in a guard she’d seen on television countless times, Jianna threw a punch at Flitterwing’s chest. The Fey caught her fist with ease, shaking his head in mild contempt.

“Great,” he muttered under his breath. “Now I have to break a bad habit.” Louder, he added, “First off, you’re not a bird. Keep your elbows in.” He physically repositioned her arms, tucking her elbows tight against her body. “Second, if you’re going to use that stance, keep one hand up and one down, like this. The upper hand is for blocking, the lower is for striking. Third, don’t punch the chest unless you have the strength to knock the wind out of them. Aim for the face or the kidneys. The neck is the most guarded area on a trained fighter, so don’t even think about it unless your opponent gives you a clear opening. Understand?”

Jianna nodded, committing the details to memory.

Then the training began in earnest. Flitterwing patiently allowed Jianna to strike at him, constantly correcting her form, though his patience soon wore thin as she kept reverting to her ‘bird arms’ whenever her concentration slipped.

She was already beginning to regret asking him to teach her. That regret solidified into a painful, aching certainty when he decided to have her practice blocking. By the time the Fey finally called a halt to the session, Jianna was drenched in sweat, bruised, and utterly exhausted. She gratefully collapsed to the ground near the fire, where the rabbit-creature was beginning to brown, giving off a heavenly scent.

“Mmm…” she murmured, eyeing the succulent, sizzling meat, which was glistening with spices Malakor must have procured from somewhere. “That looks amazing. I didn’t know you could cook, Malakor.”

The demon puffed out his chest, his crimson gaze fixed on the turning spit. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. Besides, I’ve had plenty of time to learn.”

“That reminds me,” Jianna said, looking up at him. “I wanted to ask. How old are you, Malakor?”

Malakor grinned. “Older ‘n ye’ll ever get, tha’s fer sure.”

“Yeah,” Flitterwing chimed in, settling down next to Jianna. “Demons live long, but Fey have long lives too, right? Seriously, how old are you?”

This time, Malakor snorted. “Bah. Why do you care? Doesn’t change anything.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Jianna agreed. “But it would help us get to know you better. And since we’re all traveling together, it’s probably a good thing if we know a bit more about each other. Blynn’s curious too, right?” she asked, rounding on the Satyr.

Caught completely off guard, Blynn looked exactly like a deer in the headlights, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape. “Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess.”

Malakor gave them all, and the world at large, a rolling look. “Fine. I’ll give ye a hint. Fey, do you know how old Queen Dawnstrider is?”

“Queen Dawnstrider?” Flitterwing asked, confused. “Of course. She turns fourteen this winter. Why? Did you know her when she was a child or something?”

Malakor shook his head. “Nae.” His smirk deepened until it was almost a true smile. “I fought against ‘er great-granny in one o’ them lil’ skirmishes tha’ happen oncen a great while.”

Jianna did the math in her head with a jolt as Flitterwing gaped at him.

“But—but that was over three centuries ago!” the Fey stammered.

Malakor merely shrugged. “‘Round then.”

“Ordinary demons don’t live that long!” Flitterwing protested.

Malakor’s head dipped, his face shadowed by a strange, fleeting expression. The smirk was still there, but the humor had vanished from his eyes. There was a powerful undercurrent of something else in his gaze—regret? Sadness? Jianna couldn’t be sure.

“I ain’t an ordinary demon, Fey.”