sequel to The Use and Complexity of Sex Magic chapt 2

Chapter two

“Whatever is weighing on your soul seems lighter when dawn comes,” said the philosopher.

“Then dawn should come three times a day,” replied Norfarland, with a sigh, “and make life more bearable.”

The Adventures of Norfarland the Bastard. Book 22.

Senoia’s tears did not last long.  She was strong, Federan knew, stronger than anyone he had ever met. Himself, his soul was chilled at the very thought that the weather spells were gone.  Senoia must be wrong. The centuries old spells were reinforced daily all over the empire by the Water priesthood. It was their greatest responsibility and honor. They would not fail in so important a responsibility!

And yet, if they had. . .?

After all, it had happened before, once before and an entire town was drowned as a consequence. Now?

The possible repercussions, the damage, the loss of life . . .  his heart shuddered.  He could not bring his mind to encompass them.  By the time other civic leaders joined them in the center of the ritual field Senoia’s composure was restored and she faced them spine straight and face calm.  She did not mince words or evade the truth.

“For it to rain today, or any day, when it is not scheduled suggests the weather spells have failed,” she declared even as torrential rain splattered down.  “For it to rain so hard, so suddenly, implies the spells have completely shattered.”

“It cannot be,” cried the mayor. “The spells. . .”

“I swear to you, Lady Senoia,” said Granthan, “the Water priesthood have not neglected their responsibilities. The spells are recited as they should be.”

“I am not making accusations.” Senoia waved the priest to silence, ignoring the water pouring down her face, drenching her robes. “I am dealing with reality.  It is raining out of schedule, at this time and in this manner when it has not rained thus before. You cannot deny that it is raining today, therefore the spells have failed!  The reason, the cause, that we will investigate later. That, I swear to you.”

Since the clothing and hair of everyone gathered around her was plastered to their skin by the pounding river of rain no one questioned her assessment.  Horror chilled them as much as the cold water.

The weather spells were gone!

“The last time the spells failed there were many deaths because people did not respond to the reality until too late,” said Federan into the silence.  

“That was just one small area in the West,” said Granthan.

“I know,” said Federan, casting another glance toward the sky.  “I suspect this time we shall not be as lucky.  Look at the sky. Can you see an end to the clouds? No? They reach from horizon to horizon. We must act as if the worst has happened. That the spells have shattered over the entirety of the Empire!  There is no time to waste in debate. Those in low lying regions, in valleys or near rivers must leave at once for higher ground.   Here in Scented Breezes we are safe enough, although a watch should be set on the river in case it rises.  We should prepare to receive refugees from the low lying communities.”

“Messengers must be sent,” added Senoia, yielding to the pressure of Federan’s hand and beginning the slog across the now muddy field toward her carriage.  “The people of the Lowlands are stubborn.  It will take a firm voice to set them moving.”

“All the people of the South are stubborn,” said Federan, tugging her arm again. “You, grandmother, being the worst and best of us.  Don’t argue with me now.  The local leaders must head home as fast as they can to warn their people. You must go to our House, so as to be available to messengers, and prepare for whatever comes.  Take measure of what has already been brought into the warehouses. Not all the harvest has been brought in. We must assume that what we have now must last the winter and spring. Nothing remaining in the fields will survive this downpour!”

“And you. . .?” Fear rose in her eyes when Federan aided her into the carriage then stepped back.

“I am going to fulfill my responsibilities, High Lady. The people of the South must be tended.  I will go today, ride as far and as fast as I can to deliver the warning.”

“Others can take the message.”

“Of course they will. We must send as many messengers that we can.  Even so, there will be decisions that must be made, things that I must see with my own eyes. Actions that must authorized immediately. I must use my strong voice. You know that, Grandmother.  I am the Heir!  If you were a few months younger you would be arm wrestling with me for this responsibility.”

They both grinned as water poured down their faces.

“Take care of yourself, Federan,” she said, stroking the water from his forehead.  “You are my only grandchild.”

“And you are my only High Lady.”  He bowed. “I trust you will coordinate things hereabouts in my absence.”

“I have been coordinating things hereabouts long before you, or anyone here present, was born,” said his grandmother with some heat.

Federan only grinned.  “With luck the rain will last a day only and we shall be able to restore the spells soon.”

Senoia stared at the still torrential rain and the Ritual field, already inches deep in water and mud.

“Element’s willing,” she murmured.

It was a sincere prayer that he echoed.

*

It didn’t stop raining.  Instead water poured, teemed, flooded, gushed, streamed down and cascaded, sometimes with enough force that the water struck Federan’s skin hard enough to bruise and left him with a nagging headache. There was no peace, no respite from the water.  Each breath he took was filled with water until he thought he’d drown.

He’d gone home long enough to change into his most water resistant clothing, fetch his strongest horse and consult maps of True South in company with a few sensible fellows – Magician’s of one or another Element who had been in his employ for decades.  Trusted elves. Reliable magicians who informed him, in no uncertain terms, that in addition to the failure of the Water spells their own magic was gone.

Drowned.

Federan had acknowledged that information with a bare nod fearing that if he thought about that fact for too long his heart would fail.

Of course no magic would come. If something had happened powerful enough to shatter the long standing Weather spells why would lesser magic’s work?

While rain saturated the Air, Fire spells would not work. Air would not move at anyone’s command, so heavy as it was with Water.  And Earth, reduced to mud, would not rise to any magician’s command, no matter how powerful a magician he was.

And Water. . . water flooded down out of the sky no matter what spells, what prayers were offered.

Federan forced all thought of magic from his mind.

If he wanted messages sent he would have to send actual messengers. He would have to give them actual letters, written over the seal and sigil of the True South to prove they carried his authority.

And that would be a clever trick since he couldn’t summon enough magic to enchant the ink to prove that it came from his pen.

With a sigh Federan set his servants to copying letters and hoped, since that was all that was left to him, that no one would argue with the authority of his messengers.

He had to act as if the rains would not stop, that the lands would be flooded. If he were wrong he would bear the weight of that public mistake. Embarrassing though it might be to be caught crying, ‘danger’ when there was none, the alternative was letting his people drown and that failure he would not bear.

He chose the youngest, the strongest of his magicians, advised them to take horses that could endure depravation, long labor with poor fodder and sent them off along the main roads, down into the Lowlands, then across to the hill people. The plan was that each fellow was to deliver the warning to each village and community he came to, then send a selected few off along the lesser roads to warn the more secluded communities.  And so on and so on it would go until all in the South received the command to move to higher ground.  He knew it was not possible to get the warning to all those in danger before the water rose but the attempt had to be made.

He refused his grandmother’s offer of a carriage easily. Even during their brief trip back from the Ritual grounds the water caught at the wheels and the carriage had almost tipped over during a turn.  A horse was faster, more agile. Unfortunately it meant that Federan was spending hours in what felt like a bathtub of cold water while fully dressed.

He hadn’t gone five lei from Scented Breezes before he and his friends had to slog across a flooded section of road.  His heart chilled even as they emerged from the knee deep water and resumed their journey southwards.   

All his life three things were certain. Rock solid beliefs that framed his world.

That the crown of the High King was lost.

Weather spells did not fail.

And the empire would stand, safe, forever.

Only three months before Federan had stood as witness to the coronation of Eioth using the miraculously returned crown.

Now the weather spells had failed.

How? Why?

And what did that mean for the Empire?

He put aside all superstitious thoughts and concentrated on his duty.

*

For Silva the festival morning passed profitably. Her embroidered ribbons and scarves sold out before noon, to her immense satisfaction. The four blankets sold as well.  Not to some farming family to bring comfort over the winter months, but to a few optimistic young men hoping for the Third Harvest blessing.

Silva knew that for certain since one of the young men suggested she be the other person sharing the blanket.  He’d taken her refusal with good heart and gone off to try his luck elsewhere.

A half hour before noon Pela tor Morthet arrived with her coterie of friends.  Pela picked up one of the lacy shawls remaining and held it out to her dearest friend, Grenda tor Thrantin.

“Selection is narrow in these small towns,” said Pela lifting a shawl, then dropping it so that the fringe dragged on the ground, not seeming to acknowledge that she was a resident of this small town.  “While I was in Scented Breezes . . .”

“You probably saw my shawls as well,” said Silva in her mildest tones, “since the year you went to Scented Breezes was the year after I sold twenty-five such shawls to Trader Minictu. I thought I recognized the patterns when you returned.”

Pela scowled at Silva.

“He probably threw them in the river before he was two lei’s out of town,” she shot back.

“Oh, please, Pela. He is an successful trader. He would not waste of his time and money to do something like that,” said Silva with a gentle smile.

“He probably thought better of ruining his reputation by promoting inferior products and didn’t consider the money.”

“Enough,” Silva sighed.  “Really Pela, can’t you do better than that?  You’ve been to the city.  Surely they had a bookstore selling a collection of clever insults that you could memorize and use.”

Pela’s face flushed bright pink and her eyes flew wide.

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” said Silva, innocence incarnate. “Why, nothing at all.  Just, if you want to insult me, surely you can do better than that, considering it is my ribbon that trims your dress, my lace that trims your shawl and my mother has the commission from your mother for the tapestry covers for your dining room chairs.  At a very good price, I might add. Mother and I are planning a trip to Scented Breezes, once we’ve been paid. We must find out if it is as fine as you say.”

Pela shoved at the table, which trembled but didn’t fall over, before turning on her heel and striding away. Her confused friends trailed in her wake, glancing back once or twice toward Silva, the fringes of their head scarves fluttering in the rising breeze.   Silva’s smile was smug. Served them all right to try and insult the quality of her goods while wearing scarves she, herself, had woven and embroidered. On top of that, they deserved to have a little uncertainty added to their day.  Let them wonder how Silva knew about Pela’s secret stash of books. The book of insults was actually the mildest of her purchases.  As Silva – and the deeply trusted friends – knew, Pela had purchased some vulgar romances, and one truly scandalous book containing sketches that weren’t proper for an young unmarried lady’s viewing, during her stay in the city.  Silva even knew Pela’s chosen hiding place, information none of Pela’s friends were trusted with.  All of those friends knew Silva had never been included in the viewing of these treasures, an activity that would bring the wrath of parents down of them.

Let them worry, Silva decided with a grin as she tidied her remaining stock. Let them wonder. It would be good for their souls.

The color of the fabric before her seemed to change, to dim. Silva glanced toward the sky and frowned. This morning’s bright blue sky was fading toward an unhealthy green.  Her pavilion shook as the wind gusted and tried to pull itself free of its moorings.  Fearing it was about to take flight Silva grabbed the nearest upright holding it down with all her strength.  She did not let go even when the strong breeze lifted a few of her remaining ribbons off the table and sent them tumbling across the ground.  One of the other merchants fetched them back for her then added his weight to hers until the wind died. 

“Hard to decide which is better,” observed the chandler as Silva forced the tent pegs back into the ground with her foot.  “Sunburn or being hit in the head when the pavilion overturns.”

“There isn’t as much sun,” muttered Silva, staring up at the sky.

The next gust decided her.  It was so strong that Silva felt her feet leave the ground as the pavilion filled with air.  Windy weather made the pavilion dangerous.  She was much better off without it and she never took a sunburn.  All around her she could see that the other merchants come to the same conclusion. Soon the brightly colored shelters were disassembled and packed away and the more timid merchants began putting away their wares.   Silva glanced up again. On one hand, it was good that she was no longer in danger of being hit in the head by low flying sun shields, on the other hand she now had a clear view of the dark, portentous, cloudy sky.

“The wind’s coming in from the East,” said one of the merchants.  “Clouds from the East blow over quick.”

“Not these,” said Silva. “They don’t seem to have an end.”

With the wind freshening Silva was reluctant to leave her remaining light weight wares out on the table so she folded them quickly and tucked them away in her wheelbarrow strapping the linen cover tight.  If the weather improved after the ritual she’d take everything out again. For now, all was safer, tucked away.

As soon as that was done she joined the crowds heading toward the Ritual field.  Everyone she met was regarding the sky with deep suspicion.

“I can’t think why they’d arrange for rain today,” said one elder to another as she passed.  “Never rains on a holy day.”

“I didn’t hear anyone planned for rain,” observed a woman, tugging unwilling children toward the blessing basin.

“Might be a forest fire to the north,” said another.  “Back in my grandsire’s time they changed the scheduled rain for a fire.”

Everyone turned and stared toward the north.

“Could be that’s why the sky’s so dark,” was a murmur from the crowd. “Smoke from a big fire.”

More voices repeated the rumor.

“I wonder how close it is?” inquired someone else a note of panic in their voice.

Silva listened and said nothing. Could be. Many things could be. For herself, she would wait until she knew for certain.  Around her others were not taking that attitude. The possibility of fire quickly became fear of fire and voices became shrill and urgent.  The mood of those gathered about the altar was tense and the celebrant himself kept opening his eyes to watch the sky.   As soon as the Ritual was complete several members of the village surrounded the priest to pepper him with questions.

Then, with a crash, the sky opened and it began to rain.

And just as suddenly the mood cleared.  Even though everyone abandoned the festival grounds to run home as if they’d never seen rain before, they did it with relaxed smiles on their faces, their fears gone.

Silva ran to where she’d left her barrow and instead of running for home tucked the whole thing under the overhang between the pub and its adjoining stable. She wasn’t there long before she was joined by several other festival attendees all watching the rain.

“Don’t look like it’ll be letting up any time soon,” observed one.

Silva nodded.

“Fire’ll be out soon,” said another.

“What fire?” demanded Silva.  “We don’t know anything about a fire. You shouldn’t be passing rumors.”

“Oh,” the elder had the grace to look a bit shamefaced but shrugged off his embarrassment easily. “Whatever reason they had for making it rain on Third Harvest day, sure to be important one. The rain will stop soon as it’s fixed. Isn’t that right, Brother?”

The Water priest, who was passing by, halted before them and didn’t answer for a few moments.  Eventually he focused on them, frowning.

“Is something wrong, Brother?” asked Silva.

“The rain will stop soon, right Brother?” said the elder. “Tonight or tomorrow?”

The Water priest shook his head.  “I cannot feel the end of this rain,” he said, his voice faint.

“Then the next day,” said the elder, confidently.

Silva, watching the Water priest intently, was not so certain.  She knew what fear looked like, felt like. All the years she’d spent hiding from her father’s heavy hand were seared into her memory.  The Water priest had that look. That hunted look.

Seizing her barrow handles she started through the rain in the priest’s wake.  He glanced back when he heard her splashing along behind him and quickened his pace, vanishing into the rain.  Silva slowed, panting. Obviously she was not going to be his chosen confidant. Turning, she set off downhill, ignoring the damage the rain was undoubtedly doing to her precious cargo.

*

It didn’t stop raining that day, nor the next.  By the third morning the cheerful, tolerant mood had vanished from the village to be replaced by dour frowns. Silva emerged from her mother’s house, dressed in heavy rain gear, to join a group of worried people walking down to the river.

Usually the water flowing past Twisted Stone barely qualified for the title ‘river’, being a polite, shallow tributary of a larger waterway that rose in the mountain range between True South and South West and descended to feed the Lowlands. But today the water rushed, deep and dirty over rocks and crashed against the legs of the curved bridge that arched from the village down to the road leading to lowland farms.

“Couple more hours the bridge will go under,” observed Pela’s father, Morthet, the village alderman to Harant, the chandler.

“Should we start getting sandbags for the riverbanks?” asked Silva. “I seem to remember something in school about sandbags to contain a river and protect houses.”

 “Seems to me I remember that as well but I haven’t the faintest idea where to get bags.”  Morthet rubbed his forehead and turned to look at Silva. “Bags are fabric. That’s a weaver thing.  Do you know where they’re kept?”

Silva shook her head. “Not seen anything like them. Don’t even know what fabric to use.  Wouldn’t that be in the alderman records?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.” Morthet returned his attention to the turgid water.  “Never needed them before. I’ve never seen the river so high.  And no sign of the rain stopping.”

“What does the priest say?”

“Haven’t been able to find him for three days. Could be he's already left,” replied Morthet, then he frowned and raised his hand to protect his eyes from the driving rain. “People coming.”

Everyone gathered turned to stare into the gloom.  In the distance they could see a small group making their way through ankle deep water walking along where the road should be.  It was difficult to make out the number, what with the lumps of their burdens blurring their outline and the presence of, possibly, two horses.

Morthet sniffed. “Well, I’ll have to let the wife know we’ll have more custom at the Inn tonight.  That might cheer her up.”

“I’d be careful how you assign the rooms,” said Silva, angling her chin toward the horizon. “There’s more behind them.”

It  took some concentration but after a moment the others could see that the distant wavering shadows in the inky darkness were small clots of people making their way toward them along the flooded road.  Many groups. A loose, lumpy chain of people.

Silva glanced toward Morthet. She could see avarice warring with practicality.  He could charge a higher than usual fee for a small room, given how many people were approaching and needing shelter, but when everyone went home they’d remember his greed and the election was at Year’s Turning.  It wouldn’t do to make himself unpopular.

Silva turned back to the churning river.  It seemed to have risen during the short time her attention was elsewhere.  

“How much higher will the water rise?” she asked no one in particular.

“It’s higher already than it’s been before,” came a voice from the darkness.

She turned to find the missing Water priest, Neohmin, at her elbow.

“Where have you been?” demanded Morthet.

“Praying,” was the reply.

“Well, that’s all very well in your own time,” said Morthet. “But we’ve been wanting to ask you about the rain. It’s gone on quite long enough to put out any fire I can imagine. . .”

“What fire?” demanded Neohmin, distracted from his preoccupation.

“Well. . .,” Morthet glanced about at his friends. “If there isn’t a fire, why is it raining? When will it stop?”

The priest stared at the sodden ground, his hands clenching and unclenching as his jaw worked.

“I do not know.  I fear the weather spells are. . . I can no longer sense them.”

“What does that mean?” demanded Morthet.

“They are gone,” cried the Priest, tears flowing to join the rain drops on his face. “We are subject to the whims of naked nature.”

*

Silva wasn’t certain what surprised her the most. The news about the spells or Morthet’s reaction.

“No one is to repeat this story, at all,” he shouted. “If I find out any of you lay-abouts have passed this on, I’ll . . .  strangle you with my own hands.”

The other watchers nodded glumly even as they stared fearfully at the sky. 

“Don’t be utterly ridiculous,” said Silva. 

Morthet bridled. “You’ll do what I say if you know what’s good for you.”

“Oh, please, Morthet, don’t be more foolish than is necessary.” Silva settled her fists on her hips. “You can’t force an elf, a Water priest, to keep this a secret. You haven’t the authority.  And besides, if it continues to rain sooner or later the people you’re trying to hide this from will figure it out for themselves. Around about the time the water reaches their chins!”

“Better they don’t know for a while. They’ll feel better. . .”

“Feel better? You fool. They’ll feel cold and wet just before they drown,” cried Neohmin.

“Drown,” they echoed.

Neohmin shut his eyes and tears leaked down as he spoke.  “I cannot see the end of the rain.  The weather spells cannot be repaired until the rain stops and I cannot see its end.”

Silva gasped and glanced toward the water, crashing against the uprights of the bridge. How soon before the water flowed over it?

“How much higher will the river rise?” she demanded again.

“I cannot tell. There is so much.” The priest shuddered.  “We should leave and head for higher ground,” he said.

“What about sandbags?” asked Silva.

“Nothing we can do can hold back this much water,” the priest assured her.

“Where shall we go?” asked Silva at the same time Morthet cried. “Higher ground? Why, Twisted Stone is quite the highest point for lei’s around. We’ll be fine here.”

Silva grunted and turned away as the priest and Morthet fell to quarrelling.  If Morthet couldn’t see how high the water was already, how close it was to overflowing the lower reaches of Twisted Stone, then he was more of a fool than she’d suspected.  Water rushed over her feet as she struggled uphill to her mother’s house.   There was light visible around the shutters in the loom room which meant her mother had set everyone to work despite the weather.   That was good. It meant Silva wouldn’t have to go running over town with messages for all their employees. 

“Take your boots off,” cried Elanis, as Silva pushed the door open.  “I won’t have you tracking mud over my clean floor.”

Silva obeyed and carried the soaked boots over to the fireplace before going to her mother’s side.  Elanis sat at her loom contentedly passing the shuttle back and forth across the threads.  The familiar rattle and thud of weaving filled the room and made speech difficult.  Even so Silva crouched down beside the loom and spoke softly to her mother.

“I have just spoken to Neohmin.”

Elanis smiled at her. “Oh? Did he say when the rain would end?”

“He doesn’t know. He says the weather spells are broken. That we have to leave.”

Elanis stared blankly at her even as her hands automatically flicked the shuttle back and forth. “Don’t be ridiculous.  The weather spells are reinforced daily. They cannot fail.”

“Neohmin says they have.”

“Nonsense. He was playing a joke on you.”

“I doubt that very much since he’s been praying and crying for three days, since the Harvest ritual and I heard him telling Morthet that everyone had to leave. Go to higher ground.”

“Then he’s been drinking. I remember your father was always one for crying and praying when he’d been drinking too much. . .”

Silva choked back her disgust. “Really mother, what a thing to say?  When has the priest done anything to cause you to insult his integrity in that manner?”

Elanis’s mouth tightened and still her hands did not pause on the loom.  “Today, if he’s passing unfounded rumors about the weather spells.”

“Mother, this is serious!  Who else would know the spells better than a Water priest? If he says the spells are gone, we must believe him. We have to send everyone home to pack then we have to pick where we will go.”

“Anyone who leaves won’t get paid,” said Elanis, raising her voice.

The rattle of looms stuttered and slowed. That, at least, the other weavers heard.  Silva glanced toward the others and rose to her feet. Elanis tucked her shuttle into the warp and gripped her daughter’s arm.

“You’re the one who said you didn’t listen to rumors. You would have it that there was no fire to the north.  Now you’ll keep your mouth shut about other rumors you’ve heard or I’ll lock you in your room for a week.”

Silva drew herself up to her full height.  It was rarely necessary for her to go against her mother’s will.  The two of them were friends as well as family, but when she considered it important enough Silva could be stubborn.

“There is a difference between silly old men gossiping and having the Water Priest make a declaration to the alderman!  Neohmin has declared that the weather spells are gone therefore we must leave! That is not idle gossip. That is fact!”

The other weavers stared at her open mouthed even as Elanis threw up her hands in disgust.

“Well, what if they have? The priesthood are, no doubt, already working on repairing them.”

“Neohmin says, they cannot repair the spells until the rain stops and he doesn’t see it stopping for days.”

Elanis resumed her seat at the loom. “Fine. You see, it’s already under control.”

And she set the shuttle into motion again.

Silva raised her eyes to the sky to gain strength then slapped her hands down on the loom blocking the path of the shuttle.

“Mother, have you looked out the window this morning?  Have you seen the river? How high the water?  There's ankle deep water on the road to the south of us already.  People in the valley have already left their homes to come here.”

“Oh, really, Silva. Must you be so excitable!  Don’t you remember how broad our valley is? Have you any idea how many hundreds of thousands of gallons of rain must fall for it to be even knee deep? There isn’t enough water in the world.”

“Have you never heard of oceans? Where do you think they come from? Have you seen the sky?” shouted Silva. “The rain is not stopping!”

“We are safe here!” cried Elanis.  “I am not leaving my nice warm house, with its good strong roof on the highest ground for lei’s around, to go traipsing about in the mud and wet.  And you, if you’re sensible, will get out of those wet clothes and come back here and set to work. Obviously both you and the Water priest are wrong about this being a mild winter. We need to weave more blankets, not to waste time gossiping and listening to rumors.”

Silva glared at her mother, and glanced about the room at the other weavers. All of them dropped their eyes and set their looms into motion.  With a growl Silva charged across the room to shove her cold, wet boots back on her feet before clumping upstairs to her room.

Silva discarded her embroidered scarf in favor of a wool cap, flung two tight woven capes over her shoulders and pushed her way out into the rain again.  Her mother was right in one regard. The land was flat for lei in all directions except for the one lump of rock that was Twisted Stone.   Once the water flooded their farms everyone for lei’s around would be heading for Twisted Stone, and, to be frank, it was a small hill.  Even standing shoulder to shoulder there wouldn’t be enough room for everyone in the Lowlands. 

She stumped down to the bridge again.  The river was lapping at the underside of the bridge now.   Silva scanned the horizon, the sky and stared at the distant mountains, doing her own calculations. Yes, it would take a very great deal of water to flood the whole valley. Perhaps she was over reacting.

She shielded her face with her hand as she scanned the sky. 

And, again, perhaps she was not.

She made her way as quickly as she could to the center of the village, certain that by now the Neohmin’s declaration would have spread.  Once she crested the hill she could see the street beside a the public house was crowded with people.  People wearing rain clothes, people with bundles of belongings and tired muddy children, people trying to get inside out of the rain, all milling about.  Exhausted people.  Angry people.

More people than had been present for the Third Harvest celebration.

More people than she’d seen in one place before.

All of them talking.

All of them looking for answers.

Silva pushed her way through, glancing under rain hoods seeking the familiar face of the priest when a voice caught her attention.

“People of. . .  where are we? What? People of Twisted Rock.  Stone? Twisted Stone.   Attend me!”

In the center of the crowd were five elves on horseback. The one in the forefront shifted his horse until he was visible to most of the crowd, then flipped back the folds of his sodden cloak displaying his sigil on his over shirt.

“Silence. I will have silence,” he shouted.

Silva halted.  She’d heard Morthet use the same words but never with the power that this man. . . this elf commanded.

“Federan,” cried a voice in the crowd. 

Silva gasped then moved to get a better look at the sigil. It was! It was the sigil for the House of the True South! This was Federan? The newly declared Heir to South?  In their village in the middle of a rainstorm?  He threw back his hood displaying long, bedraggled hair made almost colorless by the rain plastered to face, neck and shirt. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue and he looked as soaked and mud splattered as any on the ground.

She was not the only person to grasp the reality of the situation.  All around her people either fell silent or fell to whispering and speculating with their friends.

What would bring the Heir out in such unprecedented weather?

Only ill news.

The worst of news!

“Silence!” came the call again.

This time the command worked.

“I bring orders from High Lady Senoia,” shouted Federan. “The weather spells have broken and we suspect the next few weeks to bring the worst rains of our Empire’s history.  You are all ordered to leave here.  At once. We fear that the entire Lowlands will be flooded within days. You must gain high ground before then.”

Unintelligible cries were his answers. After the babble had risen then faded away the tired young elf continued.

“Those of you who have already travelled lei’s to get here, I’m sorry. You cannot stay. You must travel onwards to the North. Do not pause to rest. Go at once.” He paused while whining voices raised in protest then he raised his voice to be heard over them. “Delay is dangerous and there are more people yet on the road both before you and behind you.  I cannot have people camping here, blocking the road onwards, just as I cannot have you staying behind to drown. Do not underestimate the danger.  While you might think your home is on high ground in truth this is one of the lowest points of the Lowlands. You will be amongst the first to flood.”

A few in the crowd glanced about, obviously comparing the Heir’s words to the rock they stood on.  Neighbor nudged neighbor and a murmur of voices joined with the rattle of the rain.  Their actions were not missed by Federan.

“I tell you, your Twisted Stone is actually located in a depression, a valley. It is one of the lowest points of the Lowlands and five rivers drain into this area before they join and descend to the ocean.”

Derisive mutterings continued, this time lead by the familiar voice of the alderman. Morthet, pushed his way through the crowd.

“Twisted Stone village holds its charter from before the formation of the empire,” he declared proudly.

“Then the empire will grieve when it is washed away,” shot back Lord Federan in tones as chill as the endless rain. 

Morthet was not impressed. He folded his thick arms across his chest and tucked in his chin. “I’m staying. I’m not running off and leaving what’s mine to be destroyed and the bones picked over by wandering packs of cowards too foolish to stay in their own homes.”

Federan’s face hardened and he leaned forward in his saddle.

“You are the alderman, hereabouts,” he said, reading the sigils on Morthet’s cloak.  “Or, you were. I remove you from your authority.”

“What?” gasped Morthet.

“For refusing a direct order from your Lady Senoia as carried by me, Federan.  I also lay claim to your property, whatever that might be.”

“You can’t. . . “ Morthet struggled to breath. He was proud of being the wealthiest man in town.

“I can. I do. I must.” Federan’s expression softened a little, but Morthet was too distracted to take notice. “I must because I cannot have anyone be so foolish as to imitate you in your defiance. I am ordering all of you, pack what you can carry and leave immediately. Head north until you reach the Great Arch road then go to the High North road and go as far up to the highlands as you can. The Lowlands are no longer safe!”

Morthet sputtered and stammered for a moment, his eyes flashing from side to side as he sought for supporters. No one would meet his eyes.  Finally he glared up at the figure on the horse.

“How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be some troublemaker, some thief sent from over the border to the East to rob us blind when we leave our houses, or kill us on the road.”

Federan drew himself up and his face became as still as stone.

“Do you really think someone would dare counterfeit my semblance, even in this situation?   No. No one would dare!  I am Federan of the True South.”

Silva turned, intending to run home and get her mother. Stubborn as Morthet was, her mother was worse. If she didn’t see Federan herself she would not believe he was here.

“Have you forgotten why this area is called the Lowlands?” Federan continued reasoning with the stupid and stubborn.  “The superstitious claim the reason why the land sank in a circle was the touch of a forgotten God’s finger, but the truth of it is these lands you are so fond of are three hundred feet lower than the lands that surround it because of an earthquake in a time before the formation of the Empire.  Your valley is fertile, but that is due to the many, many, many rivers that pour down into this area and the run off each year from the mountains to the East and West. . .”

“The Lowlands are wide. . .” began the alderman. “It would take water beyond imagining to flood us.”

“Did you not hear me say the many rivers that pour down on you?  The Lowlands are a bucket waiting to be filled with cliffs like arms surrounding you. Already I have seen the Great Blue Falls, that is usually only one hundred and fifty feet wide has doubled its width. Do you really wish to wait to see how high the water will rise?  It will be above your head. Above your houses. You must leave.”

“I am content to wait until I see the water rising,” said Morthet, crossing his arms.

“You’re an idiot,” cried Silva, surprising even herself.  “Look around you now! There are people standing here who’ve just crossed our South bridge whose trousers are soaked to the knees. The bridge itself is almost underwater.  Water is fast pouring into the Lowlands from all over the Empire but you know how it leaves, through one small exit, down to the ocean to the West.”

“The sea can take it,” growled Morthet.

“But the Bay of Churning Waters can’t,” said one anonymous, damp figure in the dim light. “I’ve been down that way druing the rainy season. The bay area floods regular, every year, with the ordinary run off we get from snowmelt.  Won’t take that much to get Lifeblood River to break its banks further up, and then where will we be?”

“Where indeed,” echoed Federan. “I shall tell you. You will be dead! Now, if you wish to live, pack what is necessary, what is needed to survive and head out to the north road as fast as possible.”  His eyes narrowed and his voice dropped to a low growl. “NOW!”

In the end it only took one farmer to break the impasse.  An old man in the middle of the crowd turned to his equally old wife and his middle-aged son and, without a word, they picked up their grandchildren, their goods and donkey, and forced their way through the crowd heading north.

There was some muttering then those already packed turned and followed.  Silva was playing close enough attention to see the elf sigh and his shoulders sag a little.

Morthet snorted and turned his back on them before storming into his inn.  At a nod from Federan three of the mounted elves dismounted with a splash of mud and water and followed him in.

Silva assumed that Morthet had forgotten the removal of rank, the confiscation of goods and property. She was certain that he was about to discover that Federan was serious.

To her own surprise she found herself forcing her way through the crowd to Federan’s side.

“My lord Federan. Please.”

His horse shifted forward and for a moment it seemed that he might ignore her but, with a sigh he inclined his head toward her.

“tor? I assure you, you must leave,” he said in soft tones.

“I do not doubt you at all, Lord.” Silva nodded then looked about. The ground, where it was not covered in water was fully inches deep mud. “Bother, it is impossible to be formal today.”

First Lord Federan’s expression was tired, then started, then he laughed.

“Oh, bless you for lightening my heart.” He focused fully on her where previously his gaze had been distracted and distant. “Shall we say, the two of us, that today we shall take the thought for the deed and dispense with formality.”

Silva nodded. “Although I cannot see that I would be wetter or muddier if I were to offer proper respect I appreciate being granted the exception..”

“You will not quarrel with me, I hope,” said Federan. “You must leave your home.”

“If things are as bad as you say, my lord, yes. Willingly. I shall go as soon as I can pack. But before that . . .  I’m trying to help. Trying to be useful.  Practical.”

The elf paused and looked down at her.  “If you say something both useful and practical I shall bless you as the first to speak to me thus in three days.”

Silva blushed at the wry twist in his words. 

“I’d rather you saved your blessing for more important tasks,” said Silva.  “I only wanted to say, it looks as if some of the families left their homes inadequately prepared for the weather, or for a long journey. They probably expected to stay here at the inn and left most of their goods behind. That being so - my mother is the weaver here. We have a storeroom full of winter weight blankets and fabrics, more than we can carry away. Expecting them to be purchased by traders we had them blessed by the Water Priest with repel and preserve spells. Rather than let them be drowned by flood water, it would be better they be shared out. Shall you take charge of them?”

The elf stared at her for a full minute before swinging his leg over his saddle and dropping with a splash to the ground.

“Bless you, child. That is,” he said, pushing his hood fully off his head to splat against the back of his neck, “without a doubt, the single most sensible and practical thing I have heard since the rain started.  On behalf of those who will benefit from your generosity, thank you. Sincerely.”

“I am glad to help,” said Silva.  “I can see that the preserved blankets will be needed soon enough. The way the spells were cast I think they will still be dry despite the rain. Something warm to wrap in at the end of the day will be welcome.”

He shook out his own clothing. “Believe me, I know that quite intimately.  Now, of your kindness, escort me to your mother.  I am in need of a dry blanket myself.”

Silva led the way downhill again.  Two of the elvan riders trailed along behind them leading Federan’s horse.  The others disappeared into the dim dark – heading south down into the valley.

*

“You will understand, under the circumstances, I do not carry money with me,” said Federan as they walked, “but I shall give you a claim certificate, for the value of your goods. I have no wish for you to suffer a loss where you serving your fellow countrymen. When the flood waters retreat you may redeem it from the tax collector and use the money to rebuild.”

“Forgive me, Lord, I had thought of that myself.”

He gave her a gentle grin. “I don’t mind people being clever as long as they are intelligent enough to recognized danger when it approaches.”

“Oh,” Silva glanced down at her feet. The water on the road currently was only to the rim of the thick soles but it rushed downhill, splashing over pebbles and cascading down to join the swelling river. “Right now danger is. . . more rain than any living person can remember and a ruined harvest.”

“If you would be so kind,” said Federan, sternly, “as to not speak too much of the harvest. It is a problem, I admit the danger but for now I wish people to go north carrying some hope.  If they worry too much about harvest and food, well, they may stay thinking . . .”

“They may try to stay to horde their limited supplies or sell very little at a great price,” finished Silva. “Or stay to try and salvage some part of what has already been harvested. That would be useless.”

“At last, a sensible person. Two intelligent observations in the space of a quarter hour. I am awestruck.”

Silva blushed so hot that she was surprised that the rain on her face didn’t turn to steam. Federan appeared not to notice instead he halted, ignoring the rain.

“I hope you have a strong heart, . . . what is your name?”

Silva reached automatically toward her personal papers, tucked safe and dry in the sash under her rain coat.

“No. No. Leave them. Say your name.”

“I am Silva tor Rekar. Journeywoman weaver.”

Federan gave her a slight bow. “My honor, tor Silva. I must tell you, there are few enough sensible people about that I must rely heavily on those few I encounter particularly in this time of trouble. I cannot give you any proof of authority, nor any specific rewards in return for hard labor. In all this water the most important thing you may do in your life is chivy your own neighbors into movement.  All I can ask is that if you hear debate, hear descent and hear those you meet in confusion and doubt that you tell them that you, personally, spoke to me and heard my commands. All the villages of the Lowlands are to evacuate. Gather all you can carry in your own hands and go north until you reach the Great Arch road then go East to the High North road and go as far up to the highlands as you can. Can you do that for me?”

“Lord, I heard the instructions you gave earlier.”

“I know, but you must remember and repeat them. When you see a cluster of. ..” he glanced back over his shoulder at the still muttering crowd and sighed. . . “people of the South caught by indecision and quarreling you must repeat my orders and, what is hardest, you must do it without any proof that you heard me speak.”

“Ah.” Silva nodded slowly. “I do see the problem. My Lord Federan, all I can say is that I shall do my utmost to keep the crowd moving north.”

“No more can be expected.”

“This is my house,” Silva waved toward a solid, two story building painted a cheerful bronze and green with its attached storehouse and broad, healthy kitchen garden and her heart clenched. Tears joined the water already rolling down her face before she realized she weeping. She had to leave her home. Her beloved home. She’d never left the village before and now she had to leave not knowing if she would return. Leave knowing that, if Federan was correct, the whole building would be under water.

Would it survive?

Did a house survive a drowning?

What happened to a house when it was under water? Did the chairs float away? The floor?

She had no way of knowing. No time to check the records or ask the Water priest, wherever he was hiding, for a blessing.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She was unaware that her thoughts played transparently over her pale face. Federan, who had been watching those self same thoughts over and over since the rains began found he had not completely exhausted his store of sympathy.

“You know why people will resist doing what is needful,” he said softly, taking her by the arm and pulling her into motion again. Step by step he led her down the flooded path. “Home is an anchor, holding people in place until it is too late. All those memories tied to one’s home will cause more deaths than hunger or illness, or even the water.”

She turned tear filled eyes to his seeking strength. Seeking comfort. Seeking so much more.

“And because you understand this,” he continued, “you will set you feet upon the more difficult road and, so doing, survive.”

She drew a shuddering breath and straightened her spine.

“I will obey, Lord Federan. Now, if you will, please accept the hospitality of my house.”

*

Elanis was still seated at her loom, an expression of intense concentration on her tanned face. Silva hesitated on the stoop. She had a good idea what Elanis was concentrating on – the lecture Silva was destined to receive on the subject to respect due to a mother and a Master in the craft.

It wasn’t necessary for Elanis to give that lecture often but she had it well rehearsed anyway.

Today, however, Silva was adding to the weight of her offenses.

She had just given away the contents of Elanis’s warehouses – without asking permission. Elanis was a generous person, willing to give to the disadvantaged and the Water Temple but the entire contents of her warehouse. . . that was unprecedented and a problem given that Elanis did not yet acknowledge the coming flood.

She thought about asking Lord Federan to wait in the shop just a moment too late. She stepped through into the sanctuary of light and warmth – and hard work – with the elf on her heels just as her mother glanced up. All the other workers kept their eyes and hands on their looms but that didn’t stop them from listening with all their strength.

There was no alternative but to be brave.

Stepping out boldly Silva walked, in her sodden, mud covered boots, to her mother’s side. It didn’t matter, the mess she was tramping into this militantly clean room, for tomorrow or the next day the whole building was like to be under water.

“Elanis?”

Elanis turned as if surprised to hear her voice as if she hadn’t been listening to the splat of her boots on stone. She glanced coldly toward Silva and then gapped when three soaked to the skin elvan magicians arranged themselves behind Silva.

“Master Weaver Elanis, may I bring to your knowledge. . . Lord Federan, Heir to True South!”

All movement in the chamber halted. One weaver leapt to her feet with a strangled cry and promptly tripped over her own chair which thudded to the floor.  Federan stepped into a clearing between looms, piles of fabric and empty and loaded shuttles and inclined his head.

“Ladies, my honor. Please, rest and be bless. . . ah.” He stopped and frowned, realizing the traditional greeting was not appropriate today. “I am sorry to have to tell you there is significant danger facing all the people of True South.”

“My Lord,” cried Elanis, leaping with more grace to her feet. “You do my house great honor. May I offer you rest and refreshment after your journey?”

Before Federan could reply Silva took her mother by the arm. “Please, Elanis. This is not the time.”

“But . . . we. . . he.”

“Elanis,” Silva tightened her grip. “This is not the time for formality and ritual.”

“We shall take intention for the action,” said Federan before any other could protest. “Today we do not have the luxury of formality. The river waters are rising all across the Lowlands. It is necessary that you ladies gather your families and your goods and leave, heading north, within the hour!”

All the stunned weavers stared at him open mouthed.

“Today, ladies,” repeated Federan. “Not tomorrow or when you see the water reach a certain point. Today. Now! Leave, now.”

Silva released her mother and clapped her hands to chivy the weavers along. “Now. Now. Go home and pack, quickly. Elanis and I shall meet you on the north road.”

The women staggered to their feet. One or two prepared to secure their looms.

“No, leave that,” cried Silva. “It is pointless. Go to your families.”

There was a note in her voice that would not be denied. The women cast worried looks toward Elanis then, gathered up their rain capes and vanished out into the storm.

As soon as they were gone Silva worried that she should have offered them first pick of the blankets but as weavers they had their own stores.

Turning to speak to her mother she found that Elanis had vanished into the kitchen and was stirring up the fire.

“Do sit down, High Lord,” said Elanis when her daughter and the elves followed her into the kitchen. “We have stew, bread and cheese if you would consent to share a simple meal?”

There were sighs from Federan's two attendants. Federan cast an amused look over his shoulder then nodded. “I would welcome a few moments out of the rain, and shall take the time to write the tax exemption for you.”

“Tax exemption?” repeated Elanis.

“I have offered High Lord Federan the contents of our winter storage bins,” said Silva. “It makes no sense to leave so many warm blankets to drown and we cannot carry them all with us. Those displaced by the water will need them.”

Elanis's mouth worked as many protests lined up to be voiced, yet none could emerge. Finally, she turned to Federan and in a strangled voice whispered, “It is true then?”

“I am sorry to say so, Master Weaver,” said Federan. “The weather spells are shattered.”

“Oh. Oh.” Elanis clutched at the luck charms hanging from her neck.

“Elanis,” began Silva but her mother waved her away.

“No. this is not possible. I  . . .”

Silva reached to embrace her mother but Elanis pulled away, tightening her grip on the nearest loom.

“No. It cannot be,” moaned Elanis.

Silva sighed and tried to catch her mother's restless hand only to be slapped away.

“You know so much,” cried Elanis. “You always think the worst. Shame on you, frightening your mother. How can you doubt the weather spells? They have protected us for centuries.”

Silva blushed, and lowered her eyes trying to gather her courage. Only moments ago Federal, the Heir himself, had encouraged her to chivy those of the Lowlands into movement and she was failing him with her own mother. So be it. She would spend the next hours convincing her mother but she would not delay the Heir.

“Please help yourself to the stew hanging on the hearth, and tea.” Silva took down the heavy key for the warehouse. “I shall fetch in the blankets for your counting.”

“I shall trust the number you give me,” said Federan, reaching under his coat for his pen. “And thank you for the offer of warm food. Adanta and Lorind will accompany you to see what you have in store. Don’t worry, my friends. I shall leave food for you.”

Silva turned her back on her mother and, with the two elves on her heels left the room.

The storeroom was connected to the workroom by a narrow corridor. Neither Silva nor her mother wished to carry their newly woven goods outside in bad weather so the corridor had been built some years ago. Silva took a small oil lantern of its shelf inside the door and lit it with the firesparker kept there for that purpose. One of the elves, a thin faced individual with a smile made crooked by an old saber scar across his upper lip took it from her hand.

“Oh, this is clever,” he said, turning it over and over in his hand. “Where ever did you get this little thing?”

“Mortals cannot summon Fire,” said Silva. “We use flint and steel instead.”

“I would recommend you take this with you, tor,” he said, holding the lantern high. “Fire spells also do not come at our command.”

Silva smiled at him. “Mortals have always done without.”

He blinked at her then shook his head. “Forgive me, tor, this is a hard time for me. Never have the elements refused to rise at my command. Our camps these last few days have been wet, cold and dark.”

“I thought it was only the weather spells that were broken,” said Silva, a note of panic edging her voice.

“Please, we have no wish to frighten you but you are sensible and will keep this to yourself. While it rains like this Fire will not answer my call. My friend, Lorind, here, is Master of Earth but with the ground burdened by so much Water, Earth will not answer him.”

Silva's hand shook. “So, it is not just the weather spells that are gone, but all magic?” Oh, Element's Bless.  All magic?”

“My child,” said Adanta, taking hold of her shoulder. “Do not dwell on it, it will give you no comfort to worry about something you cannot change. Concentrate on what is within your power. Pack. Take what you need, your mother, and go north as Lord Federan commands.”

Silva nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes.”

“I would recommend you take this with you, tor,” said Lorind, holding the lantern high. “This is clever and will give you comfort.”

Silva smiled at him. “Good advice but candles weigh less than the oil and are less likely to spill so I will take the candle-lanterns.”

“There are different types?” He blinked at her then shook his head. “Forgive me, tor, this is a hard time for me. Never have the elements refused to rise at my command. I am unused to coping without magic.”

“Well,” Silva cast him a smug smile. “It seems mortals can teach you something. I can recommend tents, blankets and candle lanterns, rather than oil.” She moved further into the storeroom. “Now I think on it, I have several old candle lanterns in the house. I will not be able to carry all. Perhaps if you have need you should take them as well? Do you at least have a good tent?”

“A tent, yes, but the rest? tor, you have no idea how much we would appreciate the kindness. We left Scented Breezes at speed expecting, I do not know, that our magic would fulfill our needs or we could stay at local inns, and did not realize the extent of the damage to . . .” He flushed then continued. “You are a sensible girl. The damage to all magic took us by surprise.”

“Then, please, I invite you to refresh your stores. Take what you need, only leave enough for my mother and I.”

“Of your kindness, tor,” said the second elf. “Do you have dry clothing of man height?”

“We have field workers jackets of heavy weavings,” said Silva doubtfully, then her expression brightened. “The preserve spells on the jackets will repel the water. The only shirts we have a festival wear, light and decorated to mortal designs. Well, they'd be better than nothing. Let me look and see what else we might have.”

“Do the preserve spells still work?” asked Lorind.

“I. . . I have not tested them,” Silva admitted.

“Adanta,” said the first elf. “How do we test preserve spells when we have no magic?”

Adanta frowned, rubbing at his chin. “I know not.”

Lorind crossed to the nearest shelf. Here the stored fabric was fine, light linen suitable to bed coverings and underpinnings. He checked an exposed corner for the presence of the spell, then drew out a length of the cloth and opened the oil lantern door. He held the fabric against the flame for several seconds. There was no sign of singeing. No flame. No damage at all.

“Oh, Elements bless,” said Adanta, huffing out a breath. “The smaller magics still survive.”

“That will serve us well,” agreed Lorind.  Then regarded Silva thoughtfully. “You could try and sell these things.”

“How would I carry them?” asked Silva. “How would I set the price? Should I stand at the road encouraging everyone else to journey north but first set high a price for my goods and leave them penniless? And waste the time where I could be travelling north myself? I cannot do that. It is better that I outfit you and . . . and the Heir in the hope that you will stay well in service of the True South, then abandon the rest.”

“Thank you,” said Lorind. “It was my thought also. Merely I did not wish for you to regret your generosity.”

“No. I shall not.” She waved her hand across the chamber. “Take what you will, then come to the house. I shall have the spare candle lanterns and a firesparker waiting for you.”

“The oil lanterns as well. We can carry the oil, being on horseback.”

Lorind turned, examining in the ranked piles of fabric. He found a pile of heavy canvas and weighed it in his hands.

“Take these, tor Silva. You will need them. As for the rest, we shall return later for the blankets and any clothing we might find. Leave the key with me. We shall have to make arrangements for the transport of so much.”

Silva nodded. There didn't seem to be anything for her to say. Thank you seemed wrong when she was giving away a year's profit.

They were paying her. Yes. She was being practical. Yes.

But it was hard, so hard to leave behind the product of so many of her hours.

The elves could transport all this, many would benefit and, when the rains were over, she would have a document entitling her and her mother to enough money to survive until they could rebuild.

All very practical, but it still hurt.