Page 45 of An Archer's Reckoning

The room shimmers with faint light that radiates from the indignant girl, and the Mages exchange surprised expressions. Her mother gasps and covers her mouth with her unoccupied hand, eyes wide.

The tallest of the men speaks for the first and only time. “When you see us again, youwillchoose. Choose poorly, and you will learn the power of regret instead of magic.”

He whispers over his shoulder to her parents as the Mages file out of the house. “Think on this before it’s too late.”

Another shift.

A teenage girl, raven braids traveling down her back, now dons a crisp blue smock of her own. She walks out to greet a new patient. The old man is pale and unstable, his distended belly rumbling as her arm wraps around his waist. She braces him, squeezing herself under his arm, guiding him with her words as much as her limbs. As they hobble inside, the girl’s mother, hair showing its first streaks of age, races to assist. She gives the girl a knowing smile as the man stretches out on their exam table.

When her mother steps back and her father doesn’t move to assist, she looks questioningly to each of them. Her mother whispers, “Go on, dear. This man needs healing.”

Her father nods approvingly from a chair in the corner. His eyes are intent and glistening.

And another shift.

The girl now stands a head taller, her twenty-something body athletic and strong, forged through years of hauling patients, medicines, and supplies throughout the city. Her Healer’s Blues remain humble, marred by the inevitable stains of her profession. Aside from the grace of her bearing and warmth of her smile, her only elegance is the golden collar adorning her neck.

As she walks from shop to shop, men and women approach her, nodding or bowing in greeting and respect. She pauses to exchange words, and they beam at her acknowledgement. She never sought fame or glory, but she is now the most famous and respected Healer in the city, perhaps in all the Kingdom.

As she leaves the merchant district heading home, a tall man in long blue robes scowls from his seat near the window of a café.

The Mages fear little.

But her fame, the love of the people—that they fear.

The image transforms.

The Healer watches as three Mages glide up the path toward her modest home’s door. She stands on the porch, her aged father asleep in the rocking chair by her side. Her mother’s gentle humming can be heard from the kitchen as she kneads dough, and the delicious smell of baking mingles with crisp autumn air.

The tall Mage stops at the bottom step. Without preamble, he says, “It is time. Will you join us?”

The girl, now a young woman, crosses her arms and squares her shoulders. Her stance widens as if to block the entrance to her home. Her eyes show only the slightest hint of surprise at the man’s sudden appearance, but her jaw sets firmly in defiance. “I belong here, with these people, Healing their sick and lame. I don’t need your so-called Gifts.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” the Mage says. “But you need our instruction. Today, you will learn the price for refusing our aid. I hope this will be the only time you need this particular education.”

Before she can think or speak or move, the Mage raises a brow, and her father wails in sudden pain. Her head snaps around, and she watches in horror as he clutches his chest, his eyes wide. She throws herself at his feet, and a waterfall of Healingmagic explodes from both palms. Panic and terror rise in her throat as her magic hits an unseen barrier and evaporates into nothing. She tries again, and again, and again, desperately pouring her Light into her father’s failing heart, but it’s too late.

Her father’s heart is still.

She screams in agony, a harsh, primal sob, and grips her father’s lifeless hand. From inside the house, she hears sounds of a desperate struggle. The Mages are inside her house—with her mother!

She shoots to her feet and races inside, where one of the robed men blocks her path, careful to ensure she has a clear view of the unfolding horror within. Her eyes lock with her mother’s as a spear of ravenous liquid fire shoots from the tall Mage’s palm and engulfs his victim.

“Irina!” the mother calls before her voice is silenced by the flames. Her bloodcurdling cry that echoes through the home shatters what remains of Irina’s spirit.

My eyes became my own again.

My heart pounded and sweat soaked through my gown. No vision had ever felt so real. It had been as if I stood watching and feeling everything the girl felt in each dream. I was immersedin the girl’s agony and anger. My heart ached for the pain the Mages had inflicted, but horror filled my mind at what Irina became in the years that followed.

“Now, do you see?”Irina growled.

“Those Mages are long dead. Yourvengeanceis dead. They slew your parents, but killing everyone left alive will not bring them back. I will have no one left to rule if you walk this path!”

“The Mages are not all dead. Your pathetic people protect those who remain. I did not show you what the Mages did next. They did not stop with my parents. They killed everyone I ever cared for. They used magic of every form to block my Healing, to maim or kill those I restored. I could go nowhere without them following, undoing my every deed. The people I loved—who loved me—came to fear me. They were afraid of the terror that followed in my wake, no matter the good I might have done. The Mages tookeverythingfrom me, and now I will return the favor.

“I will see youallburn!”

I clutched the pendant that pressed against my chest. “You areinsane. I want to unite the continent, kill only those who oppose my reign. I do not apologize for ambition, but Iwill nothelp you kill innocents. I will find a way to lock you back in that Orb or one like it. You will never see the world of life again!”

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