Soul of the Fire

She sat for a time, staring off at the floor. At last she took one of his hands and pressed the four gold coins into it. She stood to look him in the eye.

"I will tell you, but I won't take money for it. This is the kind of thing I won't take money for. I will only tell you because I… because you are a friend."

Dalton thought she looked as if he had just sentenced her to death. He motioned to the chair and she sank back into it.

"I appreciate it, Franca. I really do."

She nodded without looking up.

"There's something wrong with magic. Since you don't know about magic, I'll not confuse you with the details. The important thing for you to know is that magic is dying. Just as my magic is gone, so is all magic. Dead and gone."

"But why? Is there nothing that can be done?"

She thought it over awhile. "No. I don't think so. I can't be sure, but I can tell you that I'm pretty sure the First Wizard himself died trying to fix the problem."

Dalton was stunned by such a thing. It was unthinkable. Though it was true he didn't know anything about magic, he knew of many of its benefits to people, such as Franca's healing — not only the body, but the comfort she brought to troubled souls.

He found this more momentous than the mere death of a man who was Sovereign. This was the death of much more.

"But will it come back? Will something happen to, to, I don't know… heal the problem?"

"I don't know. Like I said, a man far more knowledgeable about it than I wasn't able to reverse the difficulty, so I tend to think it irreversible. It's possible it could come back, but I fear it is already too late for that to happen."

"And what do you believe the consequences of an event of this nature will be?"

Franca, losing her color, said only, "I can't even guess."

"Have you looked into this? I mean, really looked into it?"

"I've been secluded, studying everything I could, trying everything I could. Last night was the first night I've even been out in public for weeks." She looked up with a frown. "When the Minister announced the death of the Sovereign, he said something about the Lord Rahl. What was that about?"

Dalton realized the woman was so out of touch with the day-to-day business of life in Anderith that she didn't even know about Lord Rahl and the vote. With this news, he now had urgent matters he had to attend to.

"Oh, you know, there are always parties contending for the goods Anderith produces." He took her hand and helped her up. "Franca, thank you for coming and for confiding in me with this news. You have been more help than you could know."

She seemed flustered to find herself being rushed out, but he couldn't help it. He had to get to work.

She paused, her face inches from his, and looked him in the eye. It was an arresting gaze-power or no power. "Promise me, Dalton, that I won't come to regret telling you the truth."

"Franca, you can count-"

Dalton spun at a sudden racket behind him. Startled, he drew Franca back. A huge black bird had come in the open window. A raven, he believed it to be, although he had never seen one this close.

The thing sprawled across his desk, its wing tips nearly reaching each end of it. It used its wide-spread wings and its beak to try to help get its footing on the flat, smooth leather covering. It let out a squawk of angry frustration or perhaps surprise at its smooth and awkward roost.

Dalton rushed around the side of the desk, to the silver scroll stand, and drew his sword.

Franca tried to stay his arm. "Dalton, don't! It's bad luck to kill a raven!"

Her intervention, and the bird unexpectedly ducking, caused him to miss an easy kill.

The raven let out a racket of squawking and screeching as it scrambled to the side of his desk. Dalton gently, but forcefully, pushed Franca aside and drew back his sword.

The raven, seeing with its big eye what was coming, snatched up the little book in its beak. Holding tight the book once belonging to Joseph Ander, it sprang to wing inside the room.

Dalton slammed shut the window behind his desk, the one the bird had come in through. The bird came for him. Claws raked his scalp as he slammed shut the second window, and then the third.

Dalton took a swing at the fury of flapping feathers, just barely contacting something with his sword. The bird, cawing loud enough to hurt his ears, shot toward the window.

Dalton and Franca both covered their faces with an arm as the window shattered, sending shards of glass and bits of window mullion everywhere.

When he looked, he saw the bird glide to the branch of a nearby tree. It grasped the branch, stumbled, and grasped again, finally getting its footing. It looked to be injured.

Dalton tossed his sword on the desk and seized a lance from the display with the Ander battle flags. With a grunt of effort, he launched the lance through the broken window at the bird.

The raven, seeing what he was about, took to wing with the book. The lance just missed it. The bird vanished into the early-morning sky.