Chapter 2 -- Daughter In Pain

The solid layer of clouds simmering in the darkening sky reflected the glow striking up from the hilltop. Flames caused the main brightening of the night sky, but another glow shone bluish, forming a column that pierced the packed cumulus clouds. A cloaked woman, with her legs spaced widely apart and willowy arms arced up to the sky, was at the source of the unnatural core of light. The visible light force swarming about her standing form made it unclear if she was able to steel her stance simply through will of thought. The blue-white light enveloping her caused her already white skin to blanch eerily and the red flush to her face and around the rims of her eyes became garishly highlighted.

Danerah's hands burned as if she held some portion of the flaming light before her. Her vision was a distorted, but more brilliant picture of the forces impacting her at this moment. Cupped in her outstretched hands, red licks of flame appeared to turn her palms to white ash. She found herself screaming out loud. The breadth and pitch of her outcry was muffled by the power actively cocooning her while she remained in a trance. What sound did escape, mingled easily with a moan of anguish from among other cloaked figures, who had gathered apart from where Danerah stood. They stood scattered about the funeral blaze on the knoll, buzzing a continuous mantra.

Suddenly, Danerah recognized a pleasure from the innate release her screaming caused. The answer she sought was here, yet the familiar presence she also was stretching out for was not here. She struggled to not call out the name. A flood of newly released questions crowding her mind broke her trance. The vision ended. She clenched her fists tighter a moment, and her lips tightened in defeat. She drew her arms down slowly to her chest and brought her chin to rest over her still clenched hands. With her eyes still forced closed in pain, she dropped eagerly to the ground. Fatigue was inherent in this magic, but she knew she would have no rest.

As she gingerly opened her eyes, she had hoped to find herself transported away from this knoll. But the immense heat and distinctive crackling noise of the fire were not part of her trance; she still faced the funeral pyre of her beloved, Rengren.

The burning sensation did not subside from her hands. She brushed, first lightly, then kneaded her palms against each other, as if she could swipe the pain aside. The trance had allowed her only to understand the form of her enchantment, she could not rid herself of the discomfort.

She closed her eyes wearily, the nerves in her eyelids jumping with awkward anticipation. Her inner and outer eyelids closed together, as was normal, but the black opaqueness of the inner lid was revealed intermittently, until she calmed the twitching with slow breathing. Danerah licked her lips, dry from the heat in the night air. Then the soft flaps of dermis covering her eyes creased tight momentarily as visions from her trance returned to the forefront of her mind. What played out before her was unusual and disturbing as she seemed a watcher only, not a participant.

Powerful and clear was how the vision came and was nearly as quickly snatched away from her mind. What she did catch was from a viewpoint as one hidden in the shadows could pick out. Rengren's black hair strayed uncharacteristically down past bold, muscular shoulders. He stood, a naked form in total, yet modesty did not forestall the work his eyes of blue had in scrutinizing a heavy, iron banded double door before him. Just before he could position himself to throw his unarmored weight against it, the doors yielded inward, as if to a thought. From the doorway, laughter rang out through the red glowing chamber beyond. As if the mocking laughter were a direct and deprecating statement against his own manhood, Rengren strode forward to take up an unknown challenge. He passed through quickly, and despite the appearance of flickering flamelight ahead, melted into darkness.

Gone. Still Danerah struggled with this concept. Something within her insisted it was an impossible fate for a man so close to godhood. It seemed he was the only champion nearly able to prevail against the surprising threat of a War Mage evolved from their own peaceful Magick-users. Surely, after being the one man to continue, in full, the practices of the Magick during the Condemning Years, he should have gained favor with some dimensional guide to have access to the life powers. Why would his own life have been so easily forfeit, without the slightest intervening moment for a spell of life renewal?

Danerah would not believe he was dead. Had her father misjudged his power level, or simply, his ability to ward off the resounding power of the evil user now magically enshrouding the land? She herself had sensed, upon first meeting the warrior lord, Rengren, the eternal flaming of his soul. Only once did she sense a duality entrenched upon his soul as well. But she never was able to overcome his objections to revealing that dark inner circle of himself that he closed off from her.

That first encounter, strangely, was her most powerful memory now. She had thought, upon waking, that she'd been wounded by an unseen enemy's barbed spear, however, in regaining her full sight, remembered that he was the enemy she'd been battling. That hand-to-hand encounter was pure dramatics she realized as his mind suddenly was battling against her, and his full power was made known to her. He simply laid his hands upon her wounded shoulder--cleansing flame seemed to numb her. A blurring mixture of ripping pain and heat was the remainder of her memory on the curing. But, since then, Danerah felt as if branded.

She did not know if her love for this man grew from this exchange. The initial flaming of her heart and the intimacy that followed, in places of hiding, never carried with it the force or reality of her painful burning now. Her body felt engulfed in flame like the body stolidly before her in death. The shame she felt for her father's being carried off to the wastelands beyond Carionfell and her still lingering passion for Master Kin Rengren rose in her face. Their missions apart had failed, she must insure that their shared goal was attained--the return of a talisman that brought balance to the Magick Powers— the sword, Fledgrade. That symbol which meant Justice among the common folk. Some only knew it as the symbol of the reigning lord and so accepted its loss as a treasure lost to a conqueror. But the Assembly, hidden these many years knew the true secret now.

Since her own abilities had not allowed her to bring the object she sought, to her here, Danerah concluded that she would have to seek it out. And she was most disturbed at this moment by her own uncertainty of whether anyone would accompany her into the Unclaimed Lands.

For the flaming of her body, now, was not an illusion of her mind, but the tangible effects of the calling. Rengren's symbol of power – a command sword, would curse her with this calling until she could recover it. Dane's understanding and use of The Magicks failed her with this interference, and the blade, spoken of in the land's legends, should have already heeded her command to return, if she truly was, as she thought, chosen by its lord.

Perhaps she would wield it. And this seemed a logical reason for her to be tormented. But, perhaps, even with its retrieval, Danerah would always feel the burning, forever pay penance, for the loss of the land of Methandar's lord.

As the gathered Assembly members drew their ceremonial blades, Danerah let herself face fully for a time, the burning body before her. She felt unable to regain her strength with the simple drawing of her rooting dagger, but it was the only blade she had placed upon herself before journeying up Kiendral Mound in search of release. She thought now, that her original impulse to not carry a sword with her until Fledgrade was recovered, was foolish. The trip she needed to undertake would take her through at least three barrier lands that had not been visited by her people for two centuries. She was going to need help--both in physical reinforcement and magical defense.

It was then that Danerah spied her confidant, Guillian Martaq, through the wisps of her dark brown hair being blown across her face in the strengthening wind. His appearance startled her. He was right next to her, kneeling a short distance away, and she could have sworn he'd not been there just a moment before. Although her own control failed her due to the command call enchantment, Gui's magic-plying was clearly tightly woven tonight. His small face was serene and his light brown curls of hair tapered about his cheeks and ears and held their place despite the wind. He kneeled there motionless and not wearing his heavy cloak. It was what she saw he kneeled upon for comfort. The air before his face and about his shoulders glowed and a shimmering mist rose as luminous stalks of fairy wings emerged at his back. Danerah smiled, despite her state, taking in the beauty of his preferred form.

"Your time in the priesthood among the primitive ones has rubbed off on you! You look absolutely angelic, dear Gui."

He made one slow nod in response before breaking his trance. "I expect to go along with you my friend," Gui looked up and winked. "And I would think 'Guardian Angel' is the appropriate term.