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At Any Price

By Patrick M. Fitzgerald

Through closed eyelids, Magister Calysma watched the silvery-blue energy pulse around her as it filled the room with the sharp smell of raw magic. Perched on a pyramid of velvet cushions, she monitored activities across the kingdom. Set in the white marble walls were dozens of quartz crystals, each the size of her head, which told the tale of those she oversaw. A dark purple flash meant someone was in trouble. A surge of energy drawn up from the world’s Mana Pattern and channeled through her boosted their power enough to salvage their dilemma. After decades of practice, it had become reflexive.

A red pulse from the crystal above the door drew her attention. She opened her eyes and took a moment to adjust to using physical sight. With a snap of her fingers, the door opened. “Enter.”

The seer bowed as she stepped between the silver braziers flanking the door and through the cloud of frankincense. Her deep wrinkles and thin frame were almost lost in her bulky robes. “Magister. You sent for me.”

“I need your foresight, Halga.” Calysma sighed internally. So frustrating that I haven’t been able to pierce the veil of the future… yet. No matter. Others can.

Halga nodded and procured a mirror, nearly as big as she was, from an enchanted pocket of her robe. She stood it carefully on the ground between them. “What do you wish to see, milady?”

“When will I bear a child?”

The seer’s forehead crinkled slightly. “Give me a moment.” She knelt and proceeded with the incantation.

A seer’s frown is an ill omen. She already knows I won’t like the news. Calysma glanced at the cluster of siphoning crystals at her side and pulsed her nervousness into them. There was a slight darkening of the smoky quartz, and with a ping, another crack laced the once clear and flawless surface.

“Magister,” Halga whispered shakily. “Your body has channeled too much energy. You will not bear children.”

Calysma’s breath stopped. Her hand reached out to the siphon. A shadowy pulse of mana grounded her rage.

Miles away, someone sent a call for help that went unanswered.

“I did not ask if I would,” Calysma said slowly. “I asked when.”

“Milady…” The seer had doubtlessly practiced this tone over decades of delivering sad tidings. “I can not see what will not come to pass.”

No. Nothing is impossible. Not for me. “Look harder.” The Magister spread her fingers toward the mirror. Mana surged up from the Earth’s core and through her. The silver runes along the frame flickered with unaccustomed power.

Halga’s eyes widened as she gazed into the mirror again. “I…” Her eyes darted about, as though trying to catch fleeting glimpses. “I’ve never done this.” She blinked and turned to Calysma. “I can see… all the possibilities. Not just the most likely.”

Crimson mana dripped like blood from Calysma’s fingertips. “Then see the one where I bear a child.”

The seer nodded and poured over the images. Her eyes flitted faster and faster over the mirror’s surface as she muttered to herself. With a gasp, her gaze locked in place.

Smoke rose from the sizzling cushion as Calysma gripped it. “What do you see?”

Halga turned glistening eyes to the Magister. “You can’t…”

“I can. Tell me how.”

A tear ran down the seer’s wrinkled cheek. “Please, no.”

Calysma’s face grew hot. “If there is a way, I will not be denied it!”

The siphoning crystals grew dark as onyx. Pinging echoed through the chamber as they fractured from rage and frustration. Fragments of the dark crystal flew through the room, shattering the delicate mirror.

Calysma clutched her hand and the glass shards rose into a swirling cloud. “Show me what she sees!”

Halga covered her face with her hands. “There’s more! The world weeping in regret! Devastation on a scale you can’t…”

Oblivious to the woman’s ranting, Calysma wove her fingers in the air as the mirror’s shards hovered before her. The seer’s magic still lingered, and images flashed in each of the fragments. Each showed a glimpse of a possible future.

With a flick of her wrist, the shards showing childless futures crashed to dust on the floor. One after another, each bleak image shattered until only one remained.

She drew the tiny fragment of hope close and stared as the image sharpened.

A crystal staircase ascended beyond the firmament of the heavens, into the void beyond. There, she held aloft an azure orb, tethered to the universe itself with a helix of light. Glowing brightly within it was the shape of an unborn child. Calysma’s child.

“There is a way,” Calysma whispered.

“But at such risk!” The withered woman looked up with bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing is without cost.” The Magister glowered at her. “I’m willing to pay any price.”

The seer threw her hands to the sides. “Not just for you! You would be putting the world itself in jeopardy. Even…”

Calysma plucked the shard from the air, cradling it between her fingertips. “It would be fair. I’ve taken on the world’s burdens countless times before.” The image was fading, but she could never forget it. “You may go.”

“But I must warn you…” The seer’s voice quivered.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Calysma extended her palm and splayed her fingers.

A wave of force sent the seer sliding backwards. She stumbled and clutched the mirror’s frame as she tumbled out the door before it slammed shut.

It will be worth it. Calysma sighed and stared at the glass shard. At any price.

Somewhere far away, another plea for help went unanswered.

[ratings]

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patrick M. Fitzgerald writes speculative fiction and suspense from his home in Missouri. Inspired by the epic science fiction of Isaac Asimov and Frank Herbert, he creates thought-provoking tales of new worlds and their unique denizens. His work has been anthologized in Warriors Against the Storm as well as Havok’s Bingeworthy and Sensational.


More Stories | Author Website

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