Disclaimer: Don't own it: remember if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. And I'd have a ton of money. Cheers and enjoy.

A/N: I re-edited the previous chapters. I hope the author's notes on those have cleared up any questions about Kris, Lira, Selenay and the time line which is right after Arrow's Fall. I am sorry it took so long for me to upload; I have a bit of writer's block on this. But here it is.

Thank you Master Solo, lorelei, Vi, and Djiril for the reviews.

Merry Hols, MB


The Magi

By mingingbent

30 Dec 2005


Chapter Four

Today I stumbled from my bed
With thunder crashing in my head
My pillow still wet
From last night tears
And as I think of giving up
A voice inside my coffee-cup
Kept crying
And ringing in my ears

- Don't Cry Daddy, Elvis Presley


Kris awoke with a start out of confusing, twisted, dark dreams. Two stygian, almond shaped eyes came into his focus. The rest of the figure followed: a small young woman with dusky suntanned skin and long chocolate curls flowed down her back. She was attired in loose fitting pants and a tunic with long sleeves (reminiscent of what most of the residents of the city wore) that undulated around her toned body. Both where white but around her waist, just under the hem of the tunic was a teal blue sash, the same color as the tent lining. He straightened himself on the cushions.

In a thick, broken accent (that reminded him painfully- a jagged sharp twist- of Alberich) she spoke in a deep, lyrical voice, "Amina I am. The Lady's Mana…erm not sure proper word…helper…think I – just learn Valdemar tongue. I to help you."

Kris piece by piece brought the mask of impassiveness back over his features.

"Long ride have you; up with you. Baka'en I think for you. Follow me."

Kris pulled himself to his feet. He followed the lithe figure through the back of the tent, waiting to find out what the Baka'en was.

The water sloshed around his body as he settled into the blazing hot water, that stung and pricked at every piece of him. He faintly heard Amina talking with someone else in that strange lilting language he knew nothing of. Well he could always fall asleep here.

But she was back before he could fully submerge himself in sleep. She stared at him for a minute before dropping the towels in her arms on the small bench beside the large tub.

"These for you, if need me you…call."

But then she shuffled off.

Completely put out that his naptime was interrupted Kris wallowed for a minute before cautiously getting out of the tub and wrapping himself with the soft towels. He rubbed the cloth curiously; the weave was much finer and softer than anything in Haven.

All in all, this place where he had ended up was rather - different.

Curious, he wandered back into the main room of the large tent. In a previously bare corner sheer curtains surrounded a bed, and on the large pillow like chair, clothes were laid out – the same loose fitting pants and tunic Amina donned. Except there was no sash and the ones for him were a blazing white. Slipping into them, he padded over to where someone had placed his belongings.


He was there again. The darkness pressed heavily on his limbs and choked his throat. Thus began the nightmare that was his life. The darkness that clamped down of every particle of his body became a succubus and tore and ripped him apart. Every time he closed his eyes the same vision washed over him. It was those last moments in Hardorn and everything that went wrong. He could hear the screams echo in his mind, Talia reaching out blindly for him, watching as they ripped her from his grasp. How he had watched as they tortured her, unable to much more than plead with unanswered cries. Death washed over him, it clung like a dirty oil cloth, threatening that every breath that he managed to squeeze out of his bruised, bloody lungs might well be his last. Then he had prayed with dying, silver tears for an end – a release. His throat that had seemed before to dry and hoarse to even gargle screamed with a litany of begging words – like please, and oh gods, just let me die, kill me – most of them running together and at such a height that that seemed just croaks and groan and moans, pains of the heart. Then in a flash of something akin to lightening barraged his senses, a voice was calling out then: Kris, Kris, Kris… A soft, beautiful voice not full of malice, or pity or hate but of love, compassion and light; with that last thought he drifted back into the darkness.


Lira braced herself against her wardrobe. He was screaming again: sharp sounds of agony that tore at the shimmering silence like a knife to fine cloth or more aptly a fine sword point etching initials in warm flesh. Her first urge was to run and comfort his as she would a child, but he was no child, the second was to douse him with the cold water she kept at her beside for prayer and reflection, to save him any more torments. She could always fetch another. But she did neither knowing that he had to face these demons on his own, she couldn't help by doing either of the things she wanted to. Knowing from experience, the demons in sleep-dreams as well as in the corporal world had to be face alone especially the ones of nightmares, that was the only way to conquer them and the fear. Lira shivered as she heard another choked sob and then a whimper from his corner of the Pilan (pavilion, tent).

Something must have calmed him or the visions must have fled because in the next moment, it was back to a peaceful silence.

Lira soaking up all the left over tension in the air quietly padded back into bed.


Kris woke from seemingly dreamless sleep feeling more rested than he had ever had. Which he reasoned probably had as much to do with the bed as anything else. It wasn't really a bed – bed like he was used to. (Everything in this place seem bizarre and different) It didn't have a traditional frame that held the mattress and it was like a thin bedroll either. It was a large mat, like a pillow that sat on thin, wood boards; it was very comfortable and soft to the touch. On it had been place two large, circular pillows as well as smaller rectangular ones. This bed didn't have sheets but a large, soft blanket. And hung all around was this fine muslin material, like the gauze you wrapped wounds in, veneer curtains soft as silk to the touch. Kris turned abruptly hearing a knock on the entrance to his room in the large tent.

The Herald was leaning comfortably against one of the inner pillars, her face unreadable, but looking friendly enough. Kris crossed his arms in defiance, a week ago he would have let her intrusion brush off, but he was a fish out of water, a bird out of his tree here in this foreign desert, and that had thrown him for a loop. The indifference was harder to keep up here, than in Haven.

"Amina told me that she met you. If you are up to a stroll, I'll show you around. Plus we have to get you to Talseig to have you fitted."

Fitted for what?, Kris could hardly guess at that.

Lira content that Kris was following her, threaded her way through the mass of inhabitants going about their daily work; hanging clothes on the line, mending gear for the horses, pushing their young children off to play. Hopefully if she opened herself to him, showed him up to The Rock of Bhat, he would not shy from her anymore, and begin the process of living again. She knew that a wound would not heal until it was drained of all its poison.

Kris tried to stay on her heels, but she moved fast and expertly through the moving throng of the morning hours. But she was enough of a contrast to these outlanders with there dark skin and features, that he had no trouble finding her again. If she was a contrast to this people, with her sun-streaked chestnut hair passed her shoulders, and freckled but tanned skin, he was an aberration his skin the color of milk, hair as dark as ink. Everything seemed brighter here; the fulgent sun illuminated everything in its sphere with a golden hue. Not to mention the climate change. Haven had been in the first tiny tendrils of spring, cold, brisk, overcast, not the ever-present oncoming heat that pressured on his body now. The herald led him away from the congregation of tents, pavilions and small thatched buildings, into the clay hills that lined this side of Ahkdar Noor. As they reached the top of the embankment, she quickly scampered down, following the valley between the embankment and the start of the much higher hills. Kris silently followed.

Reaching the end of the trench, Lira pulled herself into the hills, on the top of another she continued out on to a large flat shelf of earth. Kris emerged after her, and made a motion to sit with her on the edge.

The vision was nothing short of spectacular. The stark beauty of nature displayed all around. From the red earth clay of the hill, stretched a dry desert till the horizon, but at the edge, standing proud, craggily with age were gigantic desert trees, wide at the base, with graying trunks, their fronds spread at its top like points of a star. There was the glimpse of sparkling blue there, a well or oasis. Nothing but desert between the outpost tower of Ahkdar Noor, and the sun fell ethereal on the cliffs and the desert like a pressuring good hearted mother.

Kris took a seat next to Lira, and for the first time since the tent, spoke.

"This is what the tribes call The Rock of Bhat," she gestured all around them, "The tribes have a legend that goes back dynasties about a peasant boy and a talking horse." Her eyes danced mischievously at him and there she begun to weave the tale.

"Bhat was a simple boy, son of a goat-herder and a local weave-woman, his great accomplishments were being able to spell his name in the dirt, and run to the top of citadel with his pails of water, without spilling so much as a drop; for he was a water boy, for one a Lusdaan or tribal prince, a man who liked his horses watered promptly and fully. Since Bhat got paid by the bucket he was very careful with his cargo. Bhat knew nothing of the outside world, only that of Ahkdar Noor, which was Behausi-run at that time and called Fot Pael, which in their dialect means King's Chair. He knew nothing of other lands, or other people. He believed in the God of the Sun and Moon, Amphet, and the Goddess of Earth, Taer, and everything else that spilled from High Priest's lips. Magic which was somewhat of a local lore, was discouraged and taught, believed my most to be that of stories and folksongs sung by the ancients. One day, while back was making his run for the Lusdaanhe noticed that there was one more horse than usual at the trough. At first Bhat reckoned that the prince had acquired a new horse, as Bhat knew the man was searching for a suitable mount for his daughter, but then as he turned to empty his pails, the horse swiveled its great head. Bhat was mesmerized by the great, white horse. Never before had he seen such a beauty. After the momentary shock wore off, he carefully set down his pale, and approached the animal. Knowing that horses in unfamiliar territory often spooked, Bhat was quiet in his advances and made shushing noises to it. But he should have had no fear, for the horse was quite at ease and nibble at the end of Bhat's outstretched hands. That was when Bhat noticed that the horse had the most brilliant, blue eyes, so deep you could drown in them. That was when the world changed, for the beast spoke, in a lilting, sing-song female voice.

I am Efer, Bhat, and I am your destiny.

Startled by the voice, Bhat spun to see who had come up behind him. But he was alone, no one was in the vicinity, thus he turned back to the horse. Looking deep within those eyes again, he knew he wasn't hearing voices, that this horse, this spirit had spoken to him, and that he would never be alone again. Looping the bridle in his hand, he filled the water basin, and then carried off to finish other chores; the large, white mare following him all the way.

But Bhat was a naïve boy, thinking that this gift of the white spirit-horse was the most wonderful thing in the world, so he told his friend Mani, as soon as they met in the street. He hadn't expected what happened next. Fot Pael was reasonably small, and the gossip of Bhat and his talking horse spread like desert winds on the plateau. Bhat should have known that this would be an unwanted obstacle, especially for the High Priest.

Before the day had finished the guard had been called, separating Bhat from his precious Efer and bringing them to face the high council, which was located her on this part of the hills. There Bhat was made to recount the whole morning; over and over he cried, tears biting at his cheeks, and pooling on the ground. She's mine. She talked to me. Let her go! She's my friend. But the council, with the High Priest had already come to his conclusions about the white horse and the boy. Surely it must be demons work, this enchantment of the boy. And thus it was decreed that the offending animal be done away with, that the spirit within be dispelled. Bhat's father not standing a coin flip away from his grieving son, reached out to bring him to his feet.

"You cannot save her now, but you can ease the pain." He said before pushing a dark, curved blade into the boy's hands.

Bhat, trying to blink the tears from his eyes looked onto Efer, who had been pushed to the ground by the tribesmen. She raised her now bloodied head, and fixed a soft blue eye of Bhat. In that instant he new all was forgiven. With slow movements he approached her, and struck true, embedding the blade deep with her chest. Her eyes fluttered and then closed for one last time, before the great white horse shuddered and died.

Bhat was inconsolable, he cried out to the Gods, asking them, why, why and was only met with a soft lilting, female voice – Bhat I am your destiny.

They say the great animal, who was left dead in this very place, bled for weeks, rivers of crimson washed over these hills and into Fot Pael below. Though being the rainy season, the rain did not come no matter how hard the people prayed and soon they were flung into a drought. The season of bad luck reigned supreme, and the villagers begun to believe that the murder of the horse, was the reason. They pleaded for Bhat, to go back to the flat. So he did. Alone, the now jaded boy reached the carcass of his one dear Efer. The pain at not having her in his heart, and almost driven him to suicide, the breach was that deep. Reaching her, he went to touch the cold flesh of her once regal nose. But before him the vision shifted, and no more was the bloodied, white Efer, but a fair, young woman, her eyes closed and skin white as death. When he touched her, he could hear the ringing in his ears, Bhat I am your destiny, Bhat I am your destiny…

Picking up the traitorous he knew what had to be done. Plunging it into his own heart, he knew no regrets; he would join his Efer soon. And so the story goes, that with his sacrifice, the drought ended but not before it took the High Priest and some of the Lusdaan with it into death."

Lira had finished with the tale, and turned to look at Kris, "They say in these parts that if you go to The Rock of Bhat you will find all your questions answered, andknowledge that you are never alone."

When Kris failed to reply, Lira pushed father, "Listen I know you've blocked your companion out, and gods know they can be pushy and irritating, but…"

Kris looked confused at her, at first, and then his mouth bent into a scowl, and he looked away.

"It's none of my business, is that what you're thinking? Well it is, because I promised Selenay I'd get you back in one piece. If you are going to digger yourself a deeper whole in denial, then fine. Just don't get yourself killed in the process."


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MB