Fate of the Mage (Skyelorn Chronicles #3)

Pathos Again

Marithyda dreamt, and in her dream she knew without explanation that she was somebody else. But the feelings and memories conjured by the hazy world around her felt as real and personal as if she'd lived them herself.

          She was sitting astride a dappled horse, its mane flowing in a mild sea breeze as it made its way through the city of Magira. The capitol of Magus Opté looked older and smaller than it had when Marithyda saw it last—the buildings only stretched two stories into the air, three at most—but its homely charm felt familiar. Marithyda's body was strong, her thighs well-muscled and painless as they straddled the horse's flanks. When she rubbed a hand over her mouth, she felt evidence of a well-manicured beard. A snow-white cloak billowed around her feet, made of a fabric finer than any she'd encountered before.

          Whoever she was, she was important.

          Marithyda wrestled against the dream, reminding herself that she was separate from this stranger, but as she traveled farther through the winding streets of Magira, the line between what was reality and what was not thinned like a dispersing fog.

          Instead of worrying about who she was, Marithyda let herself get swept away by the awe-inspiring landscape greeting her. Magus Opté was indeed a beautiful place, even if that beauty didn't extend to all of its people. As she passed out of the boundary of the city and entered a residential sector, the houses grew smaller and warmer. Though it was the height of day, candles flickered in windowpanes and decorative stones hung from the gables. Women conversed in the streets of the villages, babies settled against their hips as they hung their laundry out to dry, and men guffawed in pairs with pints of spirits clutched in their fists. These people cherished simplicity, and beauty.

          Simpletons. The thought crossed Marithyda's mind against her own volition, and there was a sting to it. She had more bitter thoughts that weren't her own, and she let them pass without judgement. So content to live lives of mediocrity.

          Marithyda—or, rather, whoever she was in the dream—raised her hand to wave at one of the more sober men, plastering a fake smile over her face. The man nearly lost the grip he had on his stein, eyes widening. "Emperor Volturnius, what an honor it is!"

          Marithyda felt warm pleasure bloom in her chest. Vanity. She found herself disappointed as she passed through the rest of the village and nobody else seemed to recognize her. The hills and valleys of the northern stretch of the empire loomed ahead, and Marithyda set her resolve. This tour of the empire had been a long time coming, she knew, and amongst her vanity she also felt curiosity about the people of this land.

          Her steed rounded the corner of a particularly treacherous road. On one side the grassy land dipped far below into a rolling meadow, and on the other there was another small house. It appeared simple enough at first glance, but then something caused Marithyda to pause in her tracks: or rather, someone.

          A young woman. She had long brown hair the color of rabbit fur, tied up into a messy knot, and the kindest face Marithyda had ever seen. The girl knelt beside a well and appeared to be trying to unstick a pulley that was caught. She laughed, and it was a sound to rival bird song. Marithyda felt it in her very bones. A small boy dashed across the grassy yard, squealing nonsensical advice.

          "Did you try tugging it, sissy?"

          "Yes, of course, you walnut!" The girl cried with an easy laugh, tousling her younger brother's hair. "I've been trying all morning. Don't tell mother what I did; she'll roast me alive."

Marithyda felt quite awkward, her horse stopped in the middle of the road as she watched the scene unfold. She cleared her throat and called, "Ma'am! Are you in need of assistance?" The voice that came from her throat was not her own, but instead a deep masculine tremor.