22

Miraveh stared at the door. The dragon had proven helpful in some ways, woefully inadequate in others, which surprised her. She had thought the dragon, ancient, powerful, would have far greater knowledge of things, but it appeared power and age did not equate to all-knowing. In fact, the dragon, now called Jukunashar, acted more like a cat without a ball of yarn to play with. Disinterested and unresponsive.

The Phrenica, Sialira and Consturtu, the auburn haired Witch that Sialira had taken a shine to, had all advised her to enter the cell with nothing that could be taken from her and used against her. Daras had counselled that he trusted her judgement. The knife in her hand, the old one, the original, turned between her fingers, tips brushing against the scratched out symbol of the Velaurian Order.

Beyond the door, she could feel the Hunter's magic, and also the magic of the two Witches that guarded him. The Hunter himself did not have much magic to speak of and Miraveh knew that the two Witches eclipsed him in power. His true power resided within the necklace relic within her jacket. She had told no-one within the Coven about that necklace and even Sialira had kept her knowledge of it private.

Her sparring partner, the stocky, skilled guard, Turotara, stood beside the door, watching Miraveh prepare herself, in silence. The woman spoke little, but, when she did talk, she showed intelligence that matched her skill with weaponry. Miraveh felt comforted by her presence, even though she had only known her for a short time. With a nod, she told Turotara that she was ready to meet the Hunter within.

Upon entering the cell, she saw the two Witches, sitting in opposite corners of the cell. Strands of magical energy, pale blue as opposed to Sialira and Yusuvur's green, connected them both, creating a cell of magic within the thick walls that held the Hunter. As soon as she entered, the Hunter's head snapped up, his eyes flickering with desperation and, she noticed, a little greed.

"You! You have it! Give it to me, or I ..." The blue magic of the Witches flared as the Hunter attempted to stand and he almost howled as the magic pressed him back upon his cot. He licked his lips, staring at Miraveh's chest. "It is not yours!"

He was younger than she expected. Fair-haired, like a Northerner. Like Sialira. Slight of body, but with stringy muscles that Miraveh didn't doubt held more strength than at first appeared. And attractive. Deep, dark brown eyes that expressed every emotion he felt. A slim nose that sat above full, pleasingly shaped lips. A strong chin and high cheekbones. She thought him only a Summer or two older than her.

Turotara placed a chair in the room and stood behind Miraveh, arms crossed, but failing to appear relaxed, ready to explode into deadly action, should she need to. Miraveh wasn't certain that any of this were necessary. From Alran's teachings, she could tell the man was not a fighter from the way he carried himself. And his magic, without his necklace relic, felt pitiful. Less than that of Sialira, now that she stood in his presence.

"I'm going to ask you some questions and you need to answer them as plainly and truthfully as possible." She sat upon the chair, glancing at the two Witches and over her shoulder towards Turotara. She used her knife to point to them. "You see, I'm not like these people. I have lived and suffered. My morality is far more fluid than most people you will meet. I try to be good, I do, but, sometimes, I do what's necessary instead."

"I will answer nothing, Witch!" The Hunter spat out that last word. He truly despised her, even though they both had magic within them. "You should kill me and have done with it. My brothers and sisters will not avenge me, but they will soon reclaim this city and all your kind will be wiped out."

"I doubt the dragon will allow that and, believe me, you could have the greatest army, with the most powerful Karline, and you would be like gnats to it. You will never 'reclaim' this city." Miraveh tapped the tip of the knife against her fingers, taking her eyes from the Hunter for a second. "And I'm not a Witch. I'm nothing like anyone you've encountered before."

Without warning, Miraveh launched herself forward, pushing the Hunter down upon his cot and pressing her knee into his chest. The knife, she brought up to his face, holding the very end of the tip fractions of fractions of an inch before his eye. So close that, if the Hunter even breathed too hard, the knife would scratch that viscous ball within the socket.

She heard the startled gasps of both Witches and Turotara, the magical cage flickered as the Witches' concentration faltered. But Turotara did not try to drag Miraveh away from the Hunter. She had shifted, and Miraveh heard her loosen her sword within its sheath, but she allowed Miraveh to make her play. Gods forgive her, but Miraveh wasn't even certain she was making a play at all.

The Hunter knew. She could see it within those expressive eyes and he could see everything he needed to know about her within hers. He blinked, his long lashes brushing against the tip of the knife and Miraveh knew they had come to an understanding. She moved the knife a little further back, still pressing her knee, hard, into his chest.

"Ask your questions, Wi ... woman." Sweat beaded upon his temples, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips. "Though you may not like the answers."

"You will do everything I tell you to do and you will tell me what I need to know, whether I like the answers or not." An involuntary thrill passed through Miraveh. The thrill of magic, though she didn't know what magic she had performed. She presumed it only a natural reaction to the tense atmosphere. A protective instinct. "We'll start with your name. Who are you? Mine is Miraveh."

As Miraveh pulled back, removing her knee from his chest, the Hunter glanced at the others in the room and then back to Miraveh. He looked towards where she had his necklace, hidden within her jacket, and then at the knife. He recognised it, she could tell. His throat tightened, as though he tensed, trying to stop himself from speaking.

"Brothimir. Brothimir Laid-In-Silence." A name, like Daras, from the Southern Lands, though he had neither the complexion, nor the hair for a Southerner. "Karline of the Hunters O' The Dark, scourge of the evil that has blanketed this world due to Witches and their schemes."

That sounded more than Miraveh had expected. It didn't surprise her that the Hunters considered Witches evil. Experience had shown that people, bad people, often considered themselves the good ones. The ones fighting against evil, or tyranny, or the cruel, little realising that they were the true evil, the tyrants, or the cruel. Or they did realise it and only used that rhetoric to bow people to their wills.

Brothimir appeared to believe it. The way that he looked towards the Witches within the room showed hatred, plain and simple, but he did not look to Turotara in the same fashion. Even Miraveh, after she had said she wasn't a Witch. His attitude to her had shifted. Only a little, but Miraveh felt certain it had more to do with what she said than to do with the knife she threatened him with.

"Good. Now, I want to ask you about these knives." Sat back on the chair, she held up the knife by the blade, showing Brothimir the pommel. "I've seen several of your people carrying these. This symbol, I'm told, indicates the Order of the Velaurian Warriors and I want to know more about them. What do you know about the Order?"

"Much. Little." Brothimir shrugged his shoulders and winced, reminding Miraveh of the injuries he had sustained from the harpy attack. She almost reached to touch her own injury, on her shoulder. "I thought you would ask about the relic. I can feel it. Sat there beside your heart. It calls to me."

Her hand gripped the knife blade, forcing herself not to reach for the packaged necklace within her jacket. Blood began to drip from her hand as the blade bit into her skin and it did not go unnoticed by Brothimir. He glanced down at the spots of blood on the floor of the cell and back to Miraveh. He knew that the relic did not only call to him. It called to Miraveh even though it was bound to Brothimir. He was right, it was his, but the relic seemed flexible upon who wielded it. If the dragon were to be believed, the relic would take control of Miraveh if she let it. She wondered whether it controlled Brothimir even now.

"The symbol. It's crossed out on every knife we've found. Why?" She didn't care if the Hunter could see the blood. She didn't care that she bled. She only wanted answers. "Tell me what you know of the Order of Velaurian Warriors! Do you know anything about them? Where their castle was? Whether any survived? Tell me what you know!"

"We scratch out the symbol to pay homage to a great injustice. For a force betrayed by Witches!" The venom as he said the last word caused the two Witches within the cell to exchange glances. Brothimir looked only at Miraveh. "Yes, some survived. The Order itself survived, though diminished and changed. We are the Velaurian Order. The Order became the Hunters O' The Dark and it is our duty to rid the world of traitorous Witches and scrub every last scrap of magic from the face of Dred-al!"

Brothimir did not lie. Or, at least, he did not believe that he lied. To him, the Witches, the Covens and anything that held magic had all contributed to a betrayal. A betrayal that had seen a force for good turn into an army of cruelty and evil. And Alran may once have been a part of them.

-+-

Miraveh couldn't believe it. She knew little of the Velaurian Order, but what she did know spoke of valorous individuals. People that cared for travellers upon the Spice Road, protecting them from bandits along the way. To think they could put aside such a worthy cause to become murderers, bent upon the destruction of Witches and all things magical, beggared belief.

The Hunter held a sly smile as he perused the expressions upon the faces of everyone in the room and Miraveh wanted to slit his throat for the implication. Alran could never have allied with such a group of people. If he had once called himself a Velaurian Warrior, then he must have left the Order before they became the twisted, foul Hunters O' The Dark. Miraveh would not, could not, countenance any other explanation.

"It's a lie, obviously." Turotara, stirred into speaking for the first time, drew her sword, advancing upon Brothimir. "My grandfather was a member of the Order! You sully their names!"

"I do not lie! I cannot!" Brothimir gave out a strangled response as Turotara grabbed his throat, pushing him down upon his cot. "She knows I cannot lie."

Turotara turned to look where Brothimir's eyes had flashed. Towards Miraveh, but she had no idea what he meant. Unless the Hunters had some kind of ideal that, despite their evil intentions and deeds, could not speak falsehoods, then she couldn't understand why he would say he could not lie. Or it was all yet another part of the game.

She leaned forward, tugging at Turotara's sleeve and trying to pull her back. In truth, she didn't care whether Brothimir lived or died. He deserved worse. She still had questions that needed answering. To her surprise, Turotara released the Hunter, stepping back, though her features still held a look of murderous anger. The Witches in the corners still said nothing, though it seemed as though they communicated by looks alone.

"What caused this transformation? From protectors of the weak to ... this?" She continued to pull Turotara back with one hand and waved her other, indicating Brothimir. "I heard the Order were wiped out by bandits."

"We still protect the weak. From them." Brothimir jerked a chin towards one Witch, his lip curling in hatred. "The Order begged for their help against a powerful enemy, a bandit leader that had great magical power. He hunted the Order to their stronghold and slaughtered them with magic and the Witches, the Covens, ignored the Order's pleas."

"Now I know you're lying. I was there when magic returned to the world. I felt it return." She remembered Kayrian and the bright, blinding light and the Shade of Xirasir turning to dust. She had not realised it at the time, but the rush of magic returning had overwhelmed her. "There was no magic in this world for hundreds of years, so don't lie to me or I will leave you to Turotara!"

Brothimir laughed, rubbing his throat where Turotara had gripped him. The guard's powerful muscles could have killed him with the merest pinch of her fingers and he thought it funny. The very sight of him had begun to sicken Miraveh. Him and his lies and his association with the Hunters. It seemed clear she would not gain any useful information from this man.

She began to stand, ready to leave. Not even certain she wanted to learn more about the Order of Velaurian Warriors, or whether Alran had any part of it. There were other things she could do. She still had that itch playing in the back of her mind. To go south and find ... something. She did not know what tantalised her, but the longer she stayed in one place, the stronger the urge became.

Yet, now Brothimir pointed toward her chest once again. He raised his eyebrows, as though that simple action explained everything. Miraveh had no time for such foolish games. Brothimir had had his chance. Now it was time to leave him to the judgement and justice of the Coven. She turned towards the door and Turotara began to open it for her.

"There are ways. You have one. Items, relics with an unbreakable connection to magic. The bandit leader had one, that was why he defeated the Order with magic. He had a relic like that one." He smiled as Miraveh turned back to him. "The survivors of the massacre sought out people with magical potential, Karline, and also searched throughout the Southern Lands for relics that held that magical connection. And, when they found them, they rebuilt the Order. They grew. They emerged stronger and with a greater mission than before. The bandit leader was only the first to fall to the Hunters O' The Dark, as all with magic will fall and, when we Karline have performed our duties, we will accept our fate. A final end to magical tyranny."

"It's a mission for fools. Fools and bloodthirsty remnants of a proud Order. You seek petty revenge and for what?" Miraveh tossed the knife in her hand, blood drying now, and caught it by the handle, pointing it at Brothimir. "You cannot rid the world of magic. Whether its useable or not, it is still there. People will continue to be born with magical potential. Magical creatures will breed. Dragons! How do you ever expect to beat dragons?"

"We will find a way." His eyes narrowed and the words sounded like a promise, or a threat.

"You're deluded." Shaking her head, Miraveh once again turned toward the door and, once again stopped. "Can you even feel the dragon's power? Can you? Or is your own magic so pitiful you can only feel magic within a short distance? Let me show you something. Think of this when you imagine you have a chance against a dragon and know that my potential is like a candle beside the Sun in comparison."

She didn't know why she did it. Perhaps the influence of the relic took a hold of her. Perhaps her own arrogance required her to prove a point. Either way, she almost watched herself reach into her jacket to retrieve the little package, as though detached from herself. Like a dream. She unwrapped the necklace and held it within the palm of the hand that she had cut with the Hunters' blade.

As soon as her skin touched the necklace, the relic, she felt it. A surge of power unlike anything she had felt in her entire life. She had touched the magic that had sat beyond the reach of the world for centuries, but had never embraced it. Now she allowed those energies to flow. She allowed the necklace's connection to open and the magic flowed through that, also. Mixing and combining.

Her arms raised and she found herself gripped by tendrils deep, bright purple energies. Like the green energies of Sialira and Yusuvur, and like the blue energies of the Witches within the cell, but far, far more powerful. Miraveh couldn't understand why she had pushed such feelings aside. The power intoxicated her, filled her and fed her. With this power, her power and that of the relic, she could do anything.

Winds whipped her hair against her cheeks, though she could not say where the winds came from. Ice began to form upon the walls of the cell, upon the clothing of the Witches and Brothimir and Turotara. The magical cell of the Witches broke, falling as shards of nothing towards the floor, but Brothimir did not even attempt to escape.

Instead, he fell to his knees, his entire body trembling and shaking as he stared up towards Miraveh, open-mouthed, eyes as wide as they could stretch. Ice covered him, now, fingers curled as Brothimir tried to tuck them beneath his armpits to stave off the cold. His mouth twitched as he tried to speak, but Miraveh sent out a tendril, clamping his mouth closed. More tendrils of purple, magical energy lifted Brothimir from the floor, stretching out his arms and legs.

A hand upon her shoulder disappeared as she shoved whosoever dared to touch her with a thick branch of wriggling, twisting magical energy. The Witches had come together, clinging to each other in terror, in a corner of the cell and Miraveh pitied their tiny magical talents. In fact, with her own potential and the relic within her hand, she could do more.

She had told Brothimir that her magic could not compare to the dragon's, but, feeling this power now, she began to doubt her own words. She could defeat a dragon. With ease! She could defeat anyone and anything. Kayrian had struggled against the Shade of Xirasir. Miraveh could defeat the avatar of a god with a click of her fingers. She could make this world or break it at her whim.

"No!" It wasn't a sound. Not a real one. It came from nowhere and everywhere, swallowing up Miraveh and smothering her.

She felt wings encircle her. The wings of the dragon, but far, far larger. Great, golden, leathery wings that held her tight and close, dampening the magic she had within her grasp. She tried to fight, but felt like a baby fighting against its mother. She pushed outwards with her magic, but the wings became tighter and tighter, to the point where Miraveh could not breathe.

And then the wings were gone. She fell to the floor, gasping and fighting for breath. Brothimir lay upon his cot and looked either unconscious or dead, she could not tell which, and Turotara shielded the Witches crouched in the corner of the cell, all staring at Miraveh.

"What have you done?" Sialira's voice. Miraveh turned to see her and Daras staring through a doorway that no longer held a door, shards of wood littering the floor outside. "What have you done?"

Miraveh couldn't answer. She had almost lost herself, tempted by the power that the necklace relic offered her. She looked down at her hand and saw the necklace in the palm. The cut made by gripping the knife had gone and the necklace lay broken upon her skin. Whatever had happened, the relic no longer held any magic and she wondered whether it was her power that had broken it, or the dragon's.