Traitor's Moon

of a glassy black pool. The crescent moon’s reflection floated motionless on its still surface, undisturbed by any ripple.
    The light grew brighter as he stood there. Looking around, he could find no sign of his guide, but the pool was now surrounded by a great throng. Those he could make out wore the robes and hats of the rhui’auros. He knew by the lifting of the hair on his arms that at least some of them were spirits, though one looked as solid as another, even the ones with the curling black hair and dark skin of Bash’wai. Beyond them, in the thick, night-black forest, something moved—many creatures, and large ones.
    â€œWelcome, Thero son of Nysander, wizard of the Third Orëska,” a deep voice rumbled from the darkness. “Do you know where you are?”
    Caught off guard by the misnomer, it took Thero a moment to grasp the question. As soon as he did, however, he knew the answer.
    â€œThe Vhadäsoori pool, Honored One,” he replied in an awed whisper. How he knew it was a mystery—there was no sign of the statues, much less the city itself, but the magic that radiated from the black water was unmistakable.
    â€œYou see with the eyes of a rhui’auros, Nysander’s son.”
    The girl who had been his guide stepped from the crowd and offered him a cup fashioned from a hollow tusk. It was as long as his forearm and wrapped in an intricate binding of leather thongs that formed handles on either side. Grasping these, Thero closed his eyes and drank deeply. Beneath his fingers, the cup vibrated with the touch of a thousand hands.
    When he looked up again, he and the girl were alone in the clearing. Her face no longer looked so young, and her eyes were flat disks of gold.
    â€œWe are the First Orëska,” she told him. “We are your forebears, your history, Wizard. In you we see our future, as you perceive your past in us. The dance goes on, and your kind will be made whole.”
    â€œI don’t understand,” he said.
    â€œIt is the will of Aura, Thero son of Nysander son of Arkoniel son of Iya daughter of Agazhar, of the line of Aura.”
    Gentle, unseen hands loosened the fastenings of Thero’s garments and they fell away, shoes and all. A will other than his own guided him to the water’s edge, and on, until he was up to his neck in the pool. The water was winter cold, so cold it robbed the breath from his lungs and burned his skin like fire. Turning back towardshore, he was surprised to see himself still standing there beside the woman. Then he was dragged under.
    The water closed over him, filling his eyes and nose and mouth, and then his lungs, yet he felt no discomfort, no panic. Lost in the formless dark, he floated, waiting. And remembering. The night they’d slept by the dragon pool in Akhendi he’d dreamed of this place and of drowning. The dream itself had raveled to mere fragments since then, yet it resonated with the same surety he’d felt when he’d named this place as the Vhadäsoori.
    â€œWhat is the purpose of magic, Thero son of Nysander?” the deep voice asked.
    â€œTo serve, to know—” Thero was unsure whether he spoke aloud or only thought the words; it made no difference, for the other heard him.
    â€œNo, little brother, you are wrong. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?”
    â€œTo create?”
    â€œNo, little brother. What is the purpose of magic, son of Nysander?”
    The darkness pushed in on him. He felt the pressure of it in his lungs, smothering him. The first cold stab of fear hit him then, but he forced himself to remain still. “I don’t know,” he replied, humbled.
    â€œYou do, son of Nysander.”
    Son of Nysander
. Sparks danced in front of his sightless eyes, but Thero held on to the image of his first mentor, the plain, good-humored man he’d too often underestimated. He recalled with shame his own arrogance and how it had blinded him to Nysander’s wisdom until it was too late to honor it. He recalled the bitterness he’d felt when Nysander kept him from spells his skill could master but his empty heart could not wisely employ. For an instant he heard his old teacher’s voice, patiently explaining, “The purpose of magic is not to replace human endeavor but to aid it.” How many times had he said that over the years? How many times had Thero ignored the importance of the words?
    The crescent moon