From a safe distance, Frances watched her two students practice. A mixture of thoughts and feelings flowing through her mind.
It’d been about a week since Morgan had been freed, and for the moment, the harpy-troll was listening to her.
But that was only mostly. Perhaps it was because of her being human, or maybe it was because she was dating Timur, but the girl clearly didn’t like Frances.
Except sometimes, Morgan would listen and do exactly as Frances would say. This tended to happen the most often when the harpy-troll was starting to lose her temper and control of her magic, which was fortunate. It did however, make Frances’s time teaching Timur’s niece quite tiring.
Take today’s spell. Morgan was now sending bolt after bolt of violet magic into the target. The harpy’s eyes were narrowed and she was wielding her borrowed wand with keen focus. In order to get to that point, though, Frances had had to raise her voice and use a very stern tone.
It was honestly exhausting and Frances wished that her newest student could perhaps act more like her first.
Then again, she also was concerned about her first student.
It was an utter joy to watch Hattie practice arcing lightning through the air. Frances found herself smiling as the half-troll, not aware that she was being watched, giggled and did a little fist pump. What was happening in front of her was proof that her year of tutoring Hattie had done wonders to foster the half-troll’s magical talent.
It just hadn’t done anything for her student’s social life or her image of herself. Moreover Hattie’s self-confidence was something Frances was becoming increasingly worried about.
To make matters worse, Frances wasn’t sure what she could do to help. Anything she did might just make it worse.
Frances had some hope, however, and as she watched Morgan approach Hattie to ask a question, she felt some of the tension and worry she felt for Hattie leave her.
Maybe the two could balance each other out.
----------------------------------------
Morgan wasn’t sure what she was seeing.
When her uncle had said they lived in Athelda-Aoun, she’d believed him, but she’d thought they were living in some ruin or that they’d restored the ancient city.
What she found as she and the Lightning Battalion rode into the city was something she didn’t know how to react or even process. It was enough that she nearly fell off the horse she’d re-learned to ride.
Lit by the long crevasse in the roof of the cavern, a ruined city of deserted buildings stretched out in front of her. These deserted dilapidated buildings made up most of the city.
But in the distance, across the crystal-blue lake spanned by an old stone bridge, there was life and bustle. Even from this distance, she could see the flapping flags and bustle that surrounded a large market square on the north side of the city.
“Uncle, can I—”
Timur grinned. “Sure, go for a flight. Just come back when you’re done.”
Morgan smiled and leapt into the air.
In the air, she could see far much more than she was on the ground, yet the view was in a sense, overwhelming. There was so much to take in. The south side of the city was as her first viewing had shown, deserted. As she flapped her wings, though, she could make out a number of Alavari and humans working on restoring some of the larger buildings.
Continuing to soar, Morgan crossed the lake, marvelling at the colour and also noticing a number of humans and Alavari fishing by its banks.
Humans and Alavari, working together, talking, and even laughing together. It was a strange. It felt wrong to Morgan. An impossible combination that she kept seeing more of as she flew over the northern bank of the city.
Much closer now, she could see that the flags and banners that flew from the city were not just any random flag or banner. Many were upturned Alavari flags emblazoned with her country’s classic four-fingered hand. They were captured standards, proudly displayed as prizes of war.
As Morgan alighted on the roof of a large three-story building overlooking the market square, she stared at what was below her.
Stretching out before her was a crowd of Alavari and humans, going about their day. Vendors sold their clothing or snacks, the orc blacksmith in the shop hammered away at an iron pan, people sat and chatted on stone and wooden benches placed around the square. Children around in a corner of the square cordoned off with a low stone wall, under the watchful eye of an adult.
Morgan stared at it all, not sure what she was seeing, utterly transfixed by what was happening.
They were human, and yet the Alavari trusted them. They were human, but they weren’t hitting the Alavari, or hurting them. They were human, and she could see some embracing, even kissing.
She took it all in, and finding it too much, she ripped her eyes away from the sight and leapt into the sky.
----------------------------------------
Frances found that Morgan was a bit too quiet as they arrived at their house, but she decided against pressing the harpy-troll.
Her and Timur’s home. Frances would never get tired of the idea.
Over the last year, she and Timur had worked on the three-story structure. The more they’d lived in it, the more things they’d liked about their home.
It wasn’t perfect however, there were of course some things that had to be worked on. Being carved into rock and earth meant that the inside was a bit dusty.
It did mean however that when Frances unlocked and opened the door to the house, she was greeted with perfectly cool air and the foyer of her home. Smooth off-white plaster covered the walls to the foye, which also had a large leafy potted plant in a vase. Timur had chosen it and while Frances could never remember what the plant’s name was, she enjoyed its long leaves and dark green color.
“What is this place?” Morgan asked, her eyes taking in the building.
“It used to be the home of a goblin mage and his wife. We believe they helped King Alan, but we never did find his name,” said Frances. Hanging her cloak on some recently installed hooks by the doorway, she caught Timur’s cloak as he passed it to her.
“Thanks Frances,” said Timur, reaching down to take his shoes off.
“You’re welcome. Why don’t we show Morgan around first?” Frances asked.
“That’s a great idea. Let me just drop a few things off in your workshop,” said Timur.
“Workshop?” Morgan asked.
Frances exchanged a look with Timur, whose smile faded. “I don’t think that’s the best idea, Frances, but it’s your decision.”
Frances glanced at Morgan, took a breath, and sighed. “I think we should, but Morgan, you can’t touch anything on the shelves or desk.”
“That’s…a bit ridiculous. I mean, what if I scrape by something accidentally? It won’t kill me will it?” Morgan asked, looking up toward her uncle.
Only, he looked completely serious and so did Frances.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not entirely. It’s why I want to show you. I don’t want to tempt you to try looking into my workshop,” said Frances. She smiled as she slipped on a pair of slippers “If you did touch something, you won’t die. I keep things well covered and safe, but there are a number of very dangerous artefacts. Let me light the stove and fireplace first and I’ll show you.”
Morgan nodded, her eyes wide as Frances made her way through the dining room. She fired off a fire spell to light the fireplace, and with a whirl of her wand, the table set itself.
Frances’s favorite place in the house, aside from her workshop, had to be the kitchen. New maple-wood cabinets and shelves adorned the walls. The stone stove had been refurbished and now sported metal tops where one could set pans or even woks for cooking. The counter had been given a new polished granite surface, which Frances and Timur had carved themselves. A full set of drawers held their silverware, purchased with some of Frances’s savings.
After lighting the stove, Frances returned to Morgan and Timur. Timur had a pair of sandals on and had fetched Morgan a pair of slippers.
Frances then led them up the stairs. The more they’d studied their house, the pair had realized that the earthen floor and stairs weren’t simply one layer. There had been layers of clay with straw, and rock that controlled the moisture in the house. The pair had had to redo some of the flooring and apply a new protective layer of oil, but that had left the house with a strangely smooth and cool floor that was very easy to repair if damaged.
They passed the house’s study, or common room, which they quickly opened the shutters to, lighting their small library. Frances smiled to herself as Morgan stared at the rows of books in the carved stone shelves, as well as the reading desks, chairs, and a comfortable looking sofa.
Timur tapped the master bedroom. “This is our bedroom, Morgan and it’s strictly off limits,” he said in a joking tone.
Morgan grimaced, but nodded. “Fine.” She glanced at the other doorways on the floor. “What are those? I think that’s the bathroom, right?” she asked, pointing down the hall.
“Yes. It has running water,” said Frances.
Timur shook his head. “That was a real hassle to get up and I wasn’t even doing most of the work.”
“Um, Uncle, you’re saying you actually built some of this place?” Morgan asked in an incredulous tone.
“Nah, I just helped remodel, Morgan,” said Timur.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“But you’re a prince…where are your servants?” Morgan asked. “Your maid, Epomonia?”
“Haven’t had servants for some time. Epomonia does help out, but she’s living with Olgakaren now,” said Timur. “We should meet with them sometime.”
“Wait, Olgakaren and Epomonia are together?” Morgan stammered. “Did you like, suggest your ex’s get together or something?”
“What? No!” Timur spluttered. “I mean I’m happy they’re together, but it was just a coincidence.”
Stifling a giggle, Frances led the group to a door on the second floor. “This is going to be your room, Morgan. I’m sorry it’s a little bare.” She and Timur hadn’t quite decided how to outfit the L-shaped guest room so they’d only managed to plaster the walls, get in a bed and a single chest.
Morgan examined it with a critical eye. It was very under-dressed, but there was one thing that she hadn’t expected.
“It’s…it’s quite big,” she said, frowning as she wandered in.
“Uh huh. They dug around the study on the second floor to make the room,” said Timur. He rapped on the shutters keeping the window shut. “It even has a window.”
Morgan pulled these shutters, noting the paint was still slightly sticky in her hands. The window overlooked the city and spanning before her, was Athelda-Aoun in all its half-rebuilt and yet incredibly lively glory.
It was a great view, and best of all, there were no bars.
“Thanks,” said Morgan, allowing herself to smile just a little.
----------------------------------------
Morgan could quite easily admit to herself that she liked this house that her uncle and his…floozy, had moved into. She particularly enjoyed the touched up painting of the previous owners, her uncle’s various knicknacks, history books and geography charts. Secretly Morgan was most intrigued by what looked like a variety of military memorabilia.
There were several captured suits of armour that decorated the corners of the house, along with a number of ornate swords mounted on conspicuous places on the walls. They were placed in the style she’d seen in many Alavari houses, in mannequins or hung from metal hooks fastened to walls.
“Uncle, did you capture these?” Morgan asked.
“Me? Oh Galena no. These are all Frances’s. And honestly I only started collecting for her fairly recently,” said Timur. The prince pursed his lips as Frances averted her gaze. “Of course, if you don’t like it—”
“Timur, I like it. I just feel a little embarrassed sometimes,” said Frances, smiling at her boyfriend.
Morgan stared at the swords again noting jewelled handles and fine engraving. All had to be from high ranking officers.
“I thought you weren’t fighting,” said Morgan, hoping she wasn’t sounding too in awe of the Stormcaller.
“I wasn’t out on campaign or missions, but Athelda-Aoun got attacked several times over the last year,” said Frances.
Continuing to proceed up the stairs, they passed several empty rooms before arriving at Frances’s workshop. Morgan noted that Frances cast several spells over the heavy wooden door before it swung open.
Dominating the centre of the room was a heavy brass cauldron. A wooden lid capped it off with a number of documents, potion bottles placed on top of it, and domed glass lid covering what seemed like an empty tray. Most of the workroom however was filled with notes and charts written in neat cursive, with one side dominated by a large desk and a set of shelves filled with more workbooks and notes. Frances was already taking a number of books and notes from her bag and adding it to the table.
There were a number of things that Morgan couldn’t quite make heads or tails of. First of all, nothing actually seemed dangerous. It was mostly just paper. Morgan followed her uncle in, eyes searching as to what exactly made this workshop so dangerous.
“This is where I am researching true song magic, Morgan, using some of the accounts written by King Alan and anything we can find on the Great Cataclysm,” said Frances gesturing to the notes.
“Ah. Did you find anything?” Morgan asked, arching an eyebrow.
“A lot! We found out that King Alan was surprisingly eloquent and far more—Ah, but no not much about song magic itself,” said Timur. He sighed and noting some of the loose papers on the workstation, helped straighten them.
Noting her uncle did not in fact spontaneously combust, or die, Morgan’s eyes wandered, trying to find what exactly was so worrisome about this workshop. There were some signs of damage in the corner of the room and on the floors, where something seemed to have exploded and left cracks on the ground, but nothing that would suggest any kind of danger.
“It’ll be a long and slow process, but there is hope. We know true song magic has been performed before and recently in fact. We just—” Frances froze. “Oh shit. Timur, do you remember where I put Lightbreaker?”
“Lightbreaker?” Morgan asked as her uncle whirled around, his eyes searching. “What’s a Lightbreaker?”
“A wand, a very important Named Wand,” said Timur. Dancing around Frances as he rummaged through the stacks of paper on the cauldron. “Where did you last see it?”
“I had it out just when you arrived to tell me where you found Morgan! I know I didn’t take it out of the room.” Frances stammered. Morgan had never seen the woman so panicked. “Mom gave it to me for safekeeping. I swear I put it in the workroom and put the security spells on it so nobody could take it out of the room!”
“You’re certain you didn’t take it with you by accident?” Timur asked.
Frances froze. “Um…maybe? I ran out of my workroom so quickly I don’t remember. I never took the security spells off though. So it’s probably still in the room.”
It was then that Morgan noticed a wand made out of white wood, sticking out from where it had rolled onto the floor and rested against the cauldron leg.
Morgan reached for it. “Found it.”
Frances spun around eyes wide. “Wait, Morgan!”
Morgan picked up the wand, her fingers curling around the smooth wood. The shade of white the wand was colored was so strange, she had thought it was painted until she’d picked it up.
Too late did Morgan remember Frances and Timur’s warning about not touching anything in the workroom.
Something pressed down on her head, the pressure heavier than any boulder she’d ever lifted. Hundreds of memories passed before her eyes. Of every horrible operation she’d ever suffered. Of the hundreds of punches and beatings she’d taken from the guards. Instinctively she tried to push back against the pressure, but it was no use.
As papers whirled around, her magic spiralling out in tendrils, Morgan caught a glimpse of Frances and Timur throwing up shields before she was blinded by her memories. There were the cold eyes of the mages. Sliding down the ice slide at Kwent. Her uncle telling her stories. Of him running after her as she flew into the sky. Screams filled her ears. Her own screams. Her birth mother, Neria, sang a song to her.
Suddenly that stopped.
You’ll do. You’ll do very well.
What— Morgan blinked. She was floating in the centre of the workshop. Her violet magic swirling around her, Frances’s singing filling her ears. The voice she heard however was not from them, no, it was…
Wait, you…You’re— Morgan suddenly froze. Her heart’s pounding sounded like war drums in her ears. You’re that Lighbreaker, wand of Archmage Star the Glimmering Light and the wand of Queen Yalisa of Alavaria.
Mm hmm. I am that wand.
Morgan struggled, trying to pull back her magic to no avail, it thrashed against the shield Frances was surrounding her with. It made her uncle step back.
Let me go! Stop doing this to me!
Lightbreaker’s voice was cool, if a little matter-of-fact. I’m not doing anything, Master. This is all you.
What…what do you mean?
You’ve lost control of your magic.
Because you did something!
I merely determined whether you were worthy to wield me. Your reaction is entirely your own fault and a result of your lack of control.
Bullshit! This isn’t my fault! And what the fuck do you mean by worthy to wield you?
I meant that I’ve deemed you an acceptable Master to use my powers and abilities. As to whether it is your fault, your reaction is understandable but is ultimately your responsibility.
Worthy to wield Lightbreaker? Wield the continent’s most powerful wand? The wand wielded by her distant ancestor’s wife? How could it be when she couldn’t control her own magic? When she was a monster?
Morgan threw Lighbreaker and watched it clatter against the floor. Yet, her magic didn’t stop pounding against Frances’s shield.
It was just as Lighbreaker said. This was her fault. She was a monster.
----------------------------------------
Frances saw Lightbreaker hit the floor and roll, and a moment after, saw Morgan curl up into a ball, sobbing. The torrent of magic, rolling out like waves from the ocean, only grew more violent, forcing her to raise her volume.
Timur grabbed the Named Wand, hissing at it, “What the hell did you do to her!”
I merely chose her to be my next wielder.
“What? Why on earth would you choose her?” Timur stammered.
I have my reasons, Prince Timur.
Frances heard Timur’s question and her eyes widened. “Timur, give me Lightbreaker!”
Timur thrust the wand into Frances’s free hand, watching as his love winced.
“Lightbreaker, you made her relive her memories didn’t you?” Frances asked.
Yes.
Ivy’s Sting’s indignant voice cut through Frances’s mind. You rotten piece of driftwood! You put Frances through that years ago and she collapsed! What were you thinking when you did that to a recently traumatised child with far too much magical power for her to control and then told her she deserved to be the wielder of one of the most powerful wands on the continent!
A degree of panic, something Frances suspected the wand hadn’t felt in years, shot up her left arm.
What must we do?
“Lend me your strength, Lightbreaker. Ivy, try to calm Morgan down. You know, how you have done with me,” said Frances. She took a deep breath and restarted her song.
Wrestling Morgan’s wild magic was like she was practising hand-to-hand combat with Martin. Frances had to deflect and contain ever blow, every flow and ebb of the sobbing child’s magic. Yet, slowly, she managed to advance. Her voice raw from singing, the wands in both of her arms wavering, she managed to get close enough to Morgan that she was a mere arm’s length to her.
“Morgan! Reach out to her!” Timur cried out desperately.
His niece looked up from the ball she’d curled up, her eyes wide. She hesitated for a moment, and then, reached out for Frances, who guided Ivy’s Sting to her grasp.
Morgan touched the purple wand in Frances’s grasp. All of a sudden, a stream of warmth, a sensation of comfort washed over her. It was like she was being wrapped in a blanket. A kind woman’s voice sang into her ear.
I got you. I got you, Morgan. You’re safe. You’re loved. We’re here for you.
She couldn’t remember ever feeling so at peace in her life and as she sank into the sensation enveloping her mind, Morgan felt her magic dissipate and she fell.
Her uncle caught her, quickly setting her on her feet and wrapping her in a tight hug.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I forgot. I just forgot!” Morgan cried.
“It’s alright, I messed up. I’m sorry, Morgan,” Frances stammered. She looked at Lightbreaker with narrowed eyes. “Lightbreaker is a problematic wand.”
“What…why did it choose me?” Morgan stammered.
Frances glared again at Lightbreaker, but the wand was not answering her.
“I don’t know.” She pursed her lips and met Morgan’s eyes. “Morgan, if you’d like, I can lock this wand up and you can never see it again.”
Wait, no, you wouldn’t do that, would you, Frances?
“I can and I will if Morgan wants to,” Frances hissed.
Morgan blinked. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling when Frances used that tone with the wand, but…she felt a little better.
“You…you will?” Morgan asked.
Frances nodded, still glaring at the wand.
Morgan took a deep breath. The wand, her ancestor’s wand, had recognized her. It was a powerful, incredibly valuable object.
But did she trust it? What did becoming the owner of a Named Wand even mean?
“What if I do accept it?” Morgan asked.
Frances and Timur exchanged another glance and perhaps unsurprisingly, the prince inclined his head to the mage.
Frances, however, hesitated.
“I’m not sure, Morgan. Lightbreaker would want to protect you. Named Wands are usually quite protective of their wielders. As you just saw, though, Lightbreaker is a very old wand and so it has a mind of its own. It’s not going to be like other wands,” said Frances.
“Like yours?” Morgan asked, noting the wand Frances held.
Frances shook her head. “No. Though, Ivy’s Sting is unique in her own right.”
Timur spoke up. “What Frances is saying, Morgan, is that each Named Wand has its own character. That’s why they are picky with their wielders. That Lightbreaker of all wands decided to pick you is quite surprising as it hasn’t chosen a wielder in decades. That’s why we’re not sure what will happen.”
“But when you do decide, Ivy’s Sting and I will help you,” said Frances.
I don’t need help—
Ivy’s Sting hissed, You set off your wielder’s emotions on first meeting her. Shut up!
Morgan stared at the white wand and reached out her hand. Frances slowly gave it to Morgan, keeping a finger on the wand’s tip.
Lightbreaker was silent and Morgan couldn’t get an idea of what the wand was feeling. Its presence was faint, not even a whisper.
Lightbreaker, perhaps you should start with an apology? Ivy’s Sting said.
Morgan blinked as she could suddenly feel abashed, emotions flowing up her arm from the ancient object.
I…I am sorry, Morgan. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a worthy wielder.
Morgan nodded, but she didn’t quite grip the wand in her hand. “Why did you choose me?”
I have my reasons. I think the best way to say it is that I think you’re the best wielder for me.
Morgan frowned, looking up at Frances, who sighed.
“Lightbreaker, it would be a good idea for you to tell Morgan those reasons one day, but for now, since she wishes, I will let Morgan keep you.” Frances took her hand off of the wand, amber eyes watching the harpy-troll carefully.
But Morgan didn’t feel the panic, or the hurt that she’d felt when she first touched the wand. Only a small presence sitting at the back of her mind.
“I’m okay. I’m okay I think,” said Morgan. She pocketed the wand. “Huh. Was…was getting your Named Wand—Ivy’s Sting, like this?”
“Oh no.” Frances pursed her lips, musing back to Vertingen, and how she’d held her mourning wand. “It was…dramatic, but not like this. Maybe I’ll tell you that story one day. But I think we’ve had enough excitement for the day.”
Morgan, too exhausted and drained to do anything but agree, nodded.