The howl of wind ran down the forest road, picking up the pale-white top powder of the midnight snow. There lay a body in the drift, a man, still as ice. Blue nightwear graced his form, and his hands and feet were free to graze the chilled air. The young man was fast asleep, peaceful in his slumber, as his chest rose and fell. Other than the wind, all was quiet.
*Gong*
*Gong*
*Gong*
The tolls of a bell sounded from afar, a steadfast sound of culling. It went on, and with the last ring of its metal, the eyes of the sleeping man shot open. Ander had woken from his rest.
He stared into the night sky, still as the snow he sat in. The dance of the stars shone in his eyes, and the alabaster moonlight cloaked him like a thin quilt of the finest Lervergan silk. Foreign echoes came from the dark woods at his side, ringing in his ears with the whispers of a thousand souls. They were in tongues he did not know, a strange chorus of the night.
“Hæner ver morves.”
“Tener lur varthe.”
“Kle lur vecera.”
His hands clenched up, grabbing at the powdered snow. It was not cold, and there came no daggers of ice and pain into his skin. When his hands released the snow, he buried them back against the ground to right himself on his bottom. Curious eyes scanned his surroundings. Before him, for as far as he could see, there stretched the snow-paved road flanked by dark, lumbering trees. The rooted titans watched him through their many eyes, unblinking and always still.
Ander rose to stand, the grip of the snow coming undone from his blue clothes. The toes of his feet dug into the drift, and steaming breaths formed at his lips. The wind came again, blowing through his blonde hair. Once more, he felt none of the cold.
It was then he noticed a black mass in the snow. A few yards separated him from a headless bear, coated in crimson from neck stump to drawn claws. The top powder blew over the corpse in the breeze, and when it some would land on its dark pelt, the black consumed it with haste. The calls of the forest continued on as he began to tread forward.
“Hæner. Ver. Morves.”
“Tener. Lur. Varthe.”
“Kle. Lur. Vecera.”
He knew not what the words meant, but the affectation of The High Tongue was obvious. Cautious steps made their dents in the drift, marching closer to the dead bear. When the gleam of the moonlight was set free through the dormant canopy, it was caught on a metal blade buried in the black mass. White and red shined into Ander’s eyes. He was still far from the bear when he recognized the glint and shaped spine of Nina’s blade.
His heart quickened at the sight of the knife, and the voices of the forest became familiar to him. The calls of his family stretched out their icey hands, as did those of his friends, and all those who were lost to the cold. There came calls of pleading, beginning him not to forget. Not to forget his home. Not to forget his family. And in the cinders of his soul, there stirred a great beast that would never forget. The beast began to take hold of him, climbing up his back with wicked claws as the calls went on.
“You mustn't forget.”
“You mustn't forget.”
“You mustn't forget.”
The last step he took forward, the forest roared with a great gale of wind. It was a hot burst, and his grown-out hair was taken in it. His feet became rooted in the snow, even as the winds roared in a mighty voice. When he took another step, the winds picked up once more, and its heat began to stab at his skin. White clouds of powder struck at him, and his hands rose to shield his face. The voices were gone now, and in the distance, far away from the forest, a blare began to sound.
Even through the fury, he never lost sight of Nina's knife. It was glowing now - not caught in the moonlight - but glowing with its own power. It called to him like no voice ever could, and the embers of his soul began to catch flame. His teeth grit hard as his form fought harder against the wind. The heat had become suffocating, and the snow had become like ash, catching in his throat as he struggled to take a breath of air. The distant blare was growing closer now.
Sounds of struggle escaped his lips. He wasn’t a foot away from the headless bear. The sounds of distant memories met his ears, and visions passed before his eyes. He shut them out. With all the strength he could muster, he lowered himself to a knee and reached toward the knife buried in the bear. The blare was all he could hear now. Not even the rage of the wind or the voices of the past could compare. The closer his hand stretched, the more the knife shone, all the way until it was positively blinding. With a roar, he pushed himself forward and took hold of the knife.
The forest fell away as he was cast into a red void, burning with heat, not like anything he had felt before. Eyes of fire stared him down in the inferno. They circled Ander with furrowed brows and irises of scornful flame. Fear swallowed him under their gaze, but when his hands steadied, he sharpened his vision and stared back at the eyes of white and red. The fires took the aggression as a threat, moving closer to loom over him in all directions.
They were fools to do so. The beast had taken Ander.
With a soul fueled by firestorms, Ander levied his knife to stab into the flames. They reeled back with horrible growls, high-pitched and filled with agony. His mouth opened to call into the void as booming of a voice as he could muster. Fear was not known to him.
“YOU ARE MINE-” He shouted, “-TO MASTER.”
The eyes put on looks of terror as he roared. With his knife, they were no match.
“DO YOU HEAR ME!” Ander swung the blade around the void. The fires dared not sting him. “I SAID, YOU ARE MINE TO MASTER!”
“MINE!”
Ander jolted awake, spurred from his sleep as cold sweat fell from his brow. His linens, thick and heavy to match the chill of the oncoming winter, were strewn on the wooden floor at his side. He sat bare on his bed, dressed in a brown tunic and pants. Cheap, but comfortable. Slow breaths came in through his lips and left out his nose. The tempo of his heart sounded in his ears. His window was filled with starlight, and the moon on high was new and dark. The eyes of the fires were gone, but in his hand, there rested a cold piece of steel and leather. He was holding Nina’s knife, taken up from its place on his bedside table.
He gave it a curious look, and on its point, he pressed a finger into it. The tip swelled with a dot of crimson which he rubbed between his fingers, drying out the blood to whip on his tunic. It was sharp enough to cut air, and he always kept it so sharp. A great swordsman would be made a fool with a poor sword, and the same held with all other tools. His hand placed the blade back on the wooden table and then reached low beneath his cot. A piece of parchment brushed his skin, and when he retrieved it, he held it up to the pale starlight of the night sky.
As clear as the day she gave it to me, he ran a hand down the faces of his family. The small bumps of the portrait grazed his fingers. There was a tragedy in those bumps, but in his heart, he knew the tragedy wasn’t complete.
Aner looked into the stars above. The countless giants of flame and heat stared down on the earth, but they were nothing like the eyes of the inferno void. His right hand raised itself into the faint light, basking in it as he moved it back and forth. Winter was coming, but the stars would never smolder. They bore great power, and just when that thought crossed his mind, so too did the lesson of his night terror.
“The fire… Is mine… To master.”
He said that with a smile. Across the room, on his desk, there rested an old tome with the title ‘Noross ov Faerthor’. It was a book of the Ljósá, taken from Bella’s collection at his behest. She had told him the story of the Godslayer the night of the Freemans raid, and the moment he came home from The Summer Trance, he took up reading it. In his quest to slay Crassion, Faerthor learned from the Ljósálffa the ways of the magii. The notion was lost to him when he first read the book, but now as he stared into the stars, he saw in their light, a path.
“This is the way,” he said, turning onto his back. He placed the portrait on his nightstand. Visions of his ride with Raynar and his vow crossed his mind.
“How may a man master fire?... The way is clear to me now.”
He would become a magii. And with that strength, he would take Aranos’ head. The path of his vengeance was never more clear.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
Mid-day found Sylas in the shade of the forest, relaxed beneath the red and gold leaves of a great oak tree. At his feet, the young rapids of Komer Run dashed through the browning wood, and the rush of water against rock sang a soothing anthem in the changing air. In his right hand was a whetstone, and in his left, he held the head of an ax. His canteen sat by his side in the grass, believed by his kin to be filled with water, but in reality, it was topped off with wine.
Save for the two swordsmen, the whole of the clan was present around him. Near the edge of the rocky shore, Nallia was busy working on a form, with Damien by her side. The contrast in their grace was stark, and every time the boy slipped on the chilled rocks, a grin would grow on her lips. He would rise with a blush, and never once would the boy catch the sparkle in the Nyx's eye, nor the hint of concern in her voice when they went on. In truth, he envied the young archer. In greater days - simpler days even - Sylas had found comfort in several women. The daughters of tavern keeps, milkmaids and seamstresses, and even a fair merchant wife when her husband had showed her no privy. There was no doubt he enjoyed their company, but love was never a question he concerned himself with. Passion did not mix well with his way of life. It was hard enough keeping his clan alive, and well. A woman’s love would only make him sloppy.
Sylas sighed and then drew some wine from his canteen. He looked down at his bearded blade. Sharp enough, he thought, setting the ax aside. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Thaddeus reclined against a nearby beech tree. Where he was honing his ax, Thaddeus was fletching arrows. They had tracked down turkey the day prior, and the older archer had called keeps on its feathers. It was a boring task, and when Sylas let his vision turn deeper into the forest, the image of Bella came into view. Out of them all, her occupation was the most bizarre..
The young woman had spent the last hour picking berries and fallen nuts and acorns. When she found her fill, she presented them to the woodland critters. The fur-things caught on quickly, and soon she had an audience of squirrels and groundhogs, all eager to feed from her hands. They did not fear her. In part because she had done the same thing the day before, and the day before that. Their autumn days were lax and lazy. Ander’s take from The Summer Trance had been so great, that there was no need to go out in search of more loot.
He's becoming rather useful, the boy, Sylas thought. He always had reservations when their clan took in a new member. Not that it happened often. He had doubts about Nallia, and doubts about Damien, and so far, his doubts were false. Ander was quick on his feet, and he followed orders. The boy listened and learned, a trait Sylas couldn’t say most folk had.
The crunching of leaves sounded in the air, and from behind his oak tree, the two blonde swordsmen appeared. They were tarnished with dirt and sweat from head to toe. Their swords were hung from their hips, and fatigue hung in their eyes. Leon stopped before the rocky shore to stand absently while his apprentice approached the stream, kneeling to steal handfuls of the chilled, clear flow. The older thief took in what the rest of his cohort was up to before his eyes landed on the reclined Sylas. The axeman raised a hand and beckoned his fellow Lone to come to him.
Lone was the surname they never yearned to use, but they bore it all the same. It was worn by the four eldest clansmen, and it sprung from the name of all orphans, abandons, and bastards. Nallia was a noble, Ander was an Idris, and Sylas didn’t mind much of what Damien was. He knew his Lone from the trueborne and would be lying to claim he favored both walks equally.
The closer Leon came, the more Sylas saw of his defeated look. When the man slid down the trunk of the tree to sit beside him, he let out a low sigh. The swordsman stared through the barren canopy into the overcast sky, shaking his head slightly as he lost himself in thought. Sylas leaned down to retrieve his canteen, thrusting it into the blonde man’s chest as he bellowed an order. “Here, drink.”
“Cheers, I’d kill for water,” Leon said, a rasp in his throat. The swordsman brought the drink to his lips, paused, sniffed, and then frowned as he shot a glare at Sylas.
“Wine?”
“And?”
“It’s not even noon,” Leon pointed a finger into the sky, aiming at the veiled sun.
“That sounds like the sun’s problem. Drink.” Sylas spoke with urgency as he pushed the canteen back into his brother. Leon stayed his hand, but only for a moment as he leaned his head back to gulp down the drink.
“Not all of it! You bleeding dunce,” Sylas snatched away the canteen before Leon could finish it. The defeated look fell from the blonde’s face, and a small smile was on his lips.
“He knocked you down again?” Sylas drank from the leather bladder. “Third time this week.”
“Aye. He’s cutting me down as much as I cut him.”
“And I can only imagine how your all-mighty pride is taking that.”
“Yeah, you can only imagine,” Leon weaved his hands together and placed them on the back of his skull. “Truth is, I’ve never been prouder. He’s green, but he’s tough.”
“A student is but a reflection of his teacher.”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” the two shared a smile. But they didn’t last long.
“He has gone quiet again. Have you noticed that?” Sylas drank from his flask. Ander was still knelt before the stream. “Ever since he got back from The Summer, ehh, summer whatsit.”
“Ander has?” Leon shot him a look.
“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. Out of the lot of us, you worry the most. You see the most. And I am quite certain Ander going back to his old ways has stirred you up a little.”
“...I wouldn’t say it’s as bad as it was before, but you are right. I do see it.”
“Do you think something happened that night?” Sylas spoke. The blonde swordsman paused to think.
“If that was the night it started again, then I would assume so.”
“You think he killed someone?” Sylas touted.
“Hah, no. We would know if he killed someone. He would be unable to shut up about it if he had split some poor sap’s skull.” Regardless of how much Leon loved his apprentice, he saw no ill in speaking truly. “We would also have a hundred Vaughstock men looking fit our heads on a couple of spikes.”
“Have you any other thoughts?”
Leon looked over to where Ander sat. The young man was still beside the creek, washing his hands and face in the rush of the water. “Maybe he saw something. You know what they say about nobles.”
“They say a million things about nobles,” Sylas snorted, “which of the million do you mean?”
Leon stared his brother down through the corners of his eyes. “Someone can only act so gallant if within they are equally ghastly. Nobles put up a faux elegance, only to be freakish and deranged beneath the surface”
“Oh, but aren’t we all?” Sylas leaned back with a slothful visage. The man’s black hair was draped over his face, under which red cheeks and lazy eyes festered.
“No. Perhaps you are, but I am not!” The swordsman looked between his brother and the wine. He snatched the bottle, “Give me that! You’ve had enough.”
“Hah, haha,” Sylas went limp against the tree. “You… You two are a lot alike, you know that? Blonde, brave. Numb-skulled”
“Pardon?”
“And good, you’re both good men. And strong, moreover. You’re strong, and he’s strong, and the both of you will only get stronger with time. And Ander is getting rather useful too. It is a rare thing in a world of cowards and cheats and liars and thieves… You were the right choice to be his master, Leon. I see that as clear as ever now.”
“I thank you for the chance to teach him,” Leon whispered. “He’s done me well just the same.”
A sly smile grew on Sylas’ red face. “He’s got your eye as well. Have you noticed that?”
“My eye? What, as in eye color?”
“No!” Sylas waved his hand in the air. “He has your eye for her. The red-headed woman feeding animals over yonder.”
The wind carried Sylas’ words downstream, passing through Leon to leave him with a stoic look. His gaze turned down as he thought it over. Before them, Ander had risen to his feet, staring off over the flowing stream and glistening rocks. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds.
“That was only ever a dream, long ago-”
“-Don’t lie to me!” Sylas threw a fist into Leon’s side. “You can’t lie to me. No one can lie to me, least of all you. You, Leon, are so easy to read, that even an imbecile could look you up and down and know your left from right… You still love her, do you not?”
“Of course I still love her,” Leon breathed.
“And you still wish for her to feel the same, do you not?”
“...Of course I wish she’d feel the same. But it was only ever a dream. I’m alone in how I feel…”
“And he has the same dream, I mean, look-look! Right there, the boy finishes washing up, he’s got all the mud off of him. Now look where he’s walking off to. Not us, not the Nyx, not his brothers. He’s all fresh, and now he’s walking over to the crazy woman speaking with squirrels.”
Leon had no response. True to what Sylas said, Ander was making his way slowly along the bank, off toward where Bella was sat, communing with the creatures of the underbrush.
“You’re a lot alike,” Sylas said again. The axeman raised a hand and swiped his canteen back, drawing from it a few long gulps. “Maybe too much for his own good. I oughta split the two of you up before it gets any worse.”
With a sullen look, Leon let out a sigh and shifted to stare Sylas straight in the eyes. Smugness exuded from them.
“It’s funny, really,” Leon began. “You have Sylas’ horrid mug, but when you talk, Thaddeus’ voice comes clawing out.”
Sylas smiled, throwing his hands lazily in the air. “I suppose I’m a magii all the same! Is that what you find so nice about Bella? Are you going to try and lay with me too?”
The sounds of hearty laughter and marching feet sounded close by as Ander treaded through the woods. The calls of birds from above became ever clearer, and the gentle squeaks and sounds of smaller creatures scurrying about met the boy’s ears. The crunch of fallen leaves, dry from days without rain, came to a halt as he stopped behind Bella, looking down at the woman with curious eyes. When his footsteps ceased, the woman sat up and turned to face her visitor.
“Good afternoon, Ander,” she said with a smile. A small groundhog was feeding out of her hand. “Enjoy your time with Leon?”
“You can speak to animals?”
“Speak? No, no, I can’t speak with them, as lonely as that is,” she turned back to the small clumps of fur organized before her. “I’m just giving them a small treat, that’s all. Although, there are some magii who can actually speak to animals. I believe they are called - what is it? - Sal Thruei. Yes, that’s it. Sal Thruei, which is light alff for druid.”
“Druids are magii?”
“Indeed they are. Two sides of a very odd coin. They're a very peculiar lot. They find little company in men and mortals, so they seek out the companionship of the forest beasts.” When a greedy squirrel stole the last bite of feed from Bella’s hand, she rose to her feet and turned to face Ander. “As queer as it is, I’ve heard some seek out more than just companionship if you know what I mean. When I say very peculiar, I mean it.”
Ander grimaced. “I thank you for putting that image in my head.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” she wiped her hands on her blue sash. The taught fabric matched well with the color of her eyes. “Did you want me to leave the little beasts a message? If that is why you have come, I am afraid you may leave disappointed.”
“No, not quite. I'm here for… another reason. A more serious reason,” he shook his head. Thoughts of his dream earlier that morning flashed in his eyes. He didn’t come to speak to squirrels. He came to master fire, and magic itself.
“It has come to my attention that I am not as capable as I can be, as I should be. There are wishes I have ungranted, and aspirations home to my whims alone. Being a swordsman is a fine skill, and it encompasses, but beyond a blade, I am just a man. I may be able to brawl, and bite, but there are those alive who far outpace me in such combat. I trust and honor my master, but I know now that it is not enough… I have come here to ask you to teach me the arts of the magii.”
The smile on Bella's face fell away in a heartbeat. The air became heavy, and Ander watched as the corners of her pale lips curled into a frown. It seemed as though his request was received with grimace. Nevertheless, he stood his ground and spoke again.
“I want you to teach me magic-”
“-Absolutely not. Not now, not ever,” she crossed her arms. “Such a pointless thing is out of the question, Ander.”
“Why so?”
“Why so? You ask me that? You ask me why I think it foolish to teach you a skill man was never made to master?” Her brow furrowed as she went on. Her tongue ran with buried wrath. “We already have a magii, we have me, and that is more than enough. What little our race is capable in the realm of magic of serves scant use in our line of work.”
“How so? I have seen you… mend bone and sinew with the clasp of your hands! I have seen you save lives. You have saved my life, twice! And that count will only grow large. I have seen fire bend at your will, and water rush at your behest. In what world are these ‘scant uses’?”
She opened her mouth, but her words lingered on her tongue. When she spoke again, she did so in a collected voice. The topic had struck a nerve, but her composure was well-disciplined.
“Ander, listen,” she approached him to place a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, I can mend wounds. Yes, I can light and put out fires, and I can toast bread with the snap of my fingers, or clean a bowl with a wave of my hand, or do a thousand other tricks and jaunts. But in essence, that's all I can do. When men were made, we were made plain. Our blood does not run strong with magic potential, we are weak. The arts of the magii were crafted by the light Alffs, and they were made for the light Alffs. Not for us. Not for man.”
“And yet you stand here, a magii all the same,” Ander crossed his arms the same. He wouldn’t back down.
“Do you remember the story I told you of how I became a magii, Ander? The night of the Dry-Sea Raiders? I found two books that night. One, a cookbook, and the other, a Ljosana text on the practices of the magii. That was four years ago, and from that day on, I have spent countless hours studying magic. And all for what? So I can make my hands glow and right wounds any good barber could sew up or cleave off? Four years of practice, and I am the weakest of the clan.”
“Tell me, Ander. When you came up with this… concept of being a magii, did you envision amazing power?” She stared into his eyes, past the gates of his soul. Bella failed to see the fires burning there, fueled by vitriol. “Because that promise of power is a lie… Your time is much, much better spent with Leon. Your life is better spent being a swordsman, not a magii.”
“And I cannot be both? Is that it? Am I too simple to have two walks in life?”
His own temper was begging to rear its nasty maw. Temperance was a weak point for the boy, but his will was in no short supply. He came upon Bella to become a magii, and he would not yield until he got what he sought.
“A man can only do so much, Ander,” she turned her back to him, gazing up at the vibrant canopy above. The leaves had been falling for three weeks now, turned red by time and temperature. It was a pretty sight, but soon enough, the forest would fall dormant, and ugly with death. “Perhaps our minds are free to dream, but they often dream what can never be. If you were to pursue this goal of being a magii, you would split yourself between two ways of life. Being a swordsman demands the utmost devotion, but being a magii? It demands more than anything else. Your eyes might be hungry for power - false power, may I remind you - and your gut may convince you this path is walkable. But our eyes can be deceiving, and our guts can be imbeciles. One man cannot live two lives.”
“Then I shall live one life, disciplined in both walks… and if you wish not to teach me, I will find another who can.”
“No, you shan’t,” she spoke to him in a mocking tone. Her patience was slipping again. “The only magii you'll find in a hundred leagues from here, other than I, are the royal charities, and perhaps, perhaps, you may find a ranger who knows both the sword and the soul. But you would have a better chance warming up in the sea of Tundron than finding such a man who would teach you. Do you wish to know why?”
“...”
“It's because being a magii is a walk of life belonging to the Ljosana, and in full, none other. There are scholars who can craft better instruments than magii. There are doctors and barbers who can treat wounds better than magii. There are warriors fiercer than us, and stonemasons and dragonborne who bend the elements greater than we ever shall. The only reason I hold that title is because I refused to give up on my studies. I have no master, no mentor. Only a book written in a tongue I barely speak. Ander, have I made my point yet? Do you understand how foolish of an endeavor this is?”
“...No.”
“No? Fine, sure. You are as stubborn as the rest of them, do you know that?” She turned on her heels to spit fire at him. She wore a fatigued smile and a look that screamed indifference.
“Let me prove that I can handle both. Please, Bella, I beg this of you.” He was close to dropping to his knees, ready to beg for her tutelage. Having to beg something of a woman was no proud feat, but he cared little for pride. He needed magic, fate told him so the night before.
“Why, Ander… why do you want this?” She put on a pitiful gaze, her head cocked to the side. Ander looked away, knowing how dangerous of a trap her eyes were. “Why do you wish to learn magic, what do you seek to do?”
“What do I seek?... I wish to see my family safe. I wish to do what must be done for the good of those I love.”
“I don't follow.”
“And you don't have to,” he stepped forward, resolute. “All you have to do is teach me. You may teach me much, or not much at all. Either way, I must learn magic. That is what I know now, and I shall ”
Silence followed his demands. He was playing it by ear, but never once did his confidence fade. His dream was no mistake. A far-off power had told him to seek this path, and so he would seek it. He also knew that if prompted by the thought of love and family, Bella would melt like an ice block in Arkkon.
When she finally spoke, she delivered her words slowly and carefully.
“If I hear… even a word from Leon-”
“- I will yield myself, you have my word.” He stared her down, strength glowing in his eyes. He didn't fret over this promise; in no world would he fail.
Bella sighed, then looked left, then right, then back at the blonde boy.
“*Sigh*, so be it.“
“I wonder what kind of fool put together that naive head of yours,” she scoffed, turning her back to him, again. She shooed away the balls of fur at her feet and knelt to the ground. When she rose again, she turned to face him. In each of her hands, she held a small rock. Then she spoke.
“Learning magic is as different from learning sword fighting as different gets. With a sword, you have something tangible. Magic is all about the intangible, it is all about a world that does not exist in our eyes… Are you ready for your first lesson?”
He nodded silently. Out of all the ways this could have gone, he was happy to have made it this far. He looked her in the eyes, but his stare didn’t last long. As he had before, he saw in her eyes the memory of a long-lost friend, taken by the cold of winter.
Ander left the thoughts of Nina to smolder as he focused on the woman before him.
“So, to start with, magic is the art of changing the world by pulling on strings. That is the simple, often misconstrued definition of my craft. There are two planes, the material and the ethereal. You know what these are, I assume?”
“I do,” he said curtly.
“Fantastic. Saves me the time of explaining them,” she said, still holding the rocks. “The ethereal plane is what binds together all the parts of the material. Look around. Everything you see: the trees, the ground, the animals, the air. They are all strung together in a web of strings.”
She raised the rocks, motioning for him to look at them. “Imagine these two rocks are connected by a line of twine, alright? When the line is taught, the rocks cannot move away from one another, and without any force on my end, they will not come together. Now, If I were to remove some length from the twine, it would pull the rocks together. The same is true if I add length to the string, then they will move apart.”
“This concept is a very simple way of understanding the world. Every small speck has a string binding it to all the world. From the smallest bit of dust to the largest ocean, they are all connected. And so,” she dropped one of the rocks on the ground. She raised her empty hand in the air and stuck out her index finger. “Have you ever seen someone play a lute?”
He thought for a moment. “Yes,” he replied.
“Good. In essence, a magii plays the strings of the ethereal just like how an artist plays the lute. We connect our arcana to the ethereal plane, and when we reach out with our soul, we can grasp at the strings, and…”
Her extended index finger hooked the air and pulled it down, closing her hand into a loose fist. As she did, the rock upon her other palm lifted off her skin and floated into the air as if it were hung by a string. Her face narrowed in focus as she guided the rock through the air. It began to spin on a slanted axis, and with a small sound of exertion, she clapped her hands together around the rock. When she pried her palms apart, a handful of fine gravel fell onto the ground. The rock was all but gone.
“...Change the world around us.”
“So then,” he looked between her empty palm and her pale blue eyes. “Where do I begin? How do I get to the point you’re at?”
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“Before you can play the strings, you first must learn how to find the strings. To do that, you have to learn how to feel with your soul. You have to have your mind in parallel with your consious, so you can reach out and interact with the other plane.”
“And how do I do that?” Ander asked. When his words met her ears, a sly grin stole her face. She padded close to him and patted her hand on his shoulder.
“Do you know any Ljosana, Ander?”
“No,” he stammered with a gulp.
“Perfect. Not only will you learn magic, but you’ll also learn the light Alff tongue,” she grinned from ear-to-ear as she walked off past him. From behind his back, she paused, before turning her head to yield him his first lesson.
“I have a nice, grand old book that will tell you all you need to know. I also have a Ljosana to common tongue translator, so needless to say-”
“-Enjoy your studies.”
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
Behind the grips of chilled stone walls and lines of mortar and pads of dust, the moon stood absolute in the sky. Ander was held up in his chambers, bent low over a borrowed wooden desk strewn with papers and parchments, scrolls, and crumpled-up longfern leaves inscribed with poorly made notes. To his right, a candle was lit, yielding him just enough light to read the foreign tongue of Bella’s magii tome. To say it was a dull read did not lend it the credit it deserved. In the past two weeks, there would often come mornings when he would wake in the book, his face buried in its ancient pages as the morning sun roused him from his slumber. And every time it did, he would rub the weariness from his eyes, and go on reading just as he had the night prior. That’s all he ever did now. Eat, sleep, fight, and read the mythical words of the damned book.
And thus far, he had come no closer to learning how to ‘feel with his soul’. All he had been given so far was a detailed history of the Ljósá imperium and vague instructions on how to feel the strings. They made no sense to the weary boy. With every sentence read, he would glance between the book and his dictionary, translating the elvish speak into Elyonian. Alff or elf, he would ask himself with every glance at the second book. It was titled ‘The Translation of the Light-Elf Vernacular Written in The Common Tongue’. It seemed to him that the two titles, Alff and Elf, were interchangeable.
When his eyes grew sore, he looked up from the books. The cracks of the stone walls of the stronghold took his attention as he trailed their length, coursing from his window, down to the floor, and up to hide behind the ceiling. The secrets held in the walls must have rivaled any bard's tale or epic. It was a military encampment, after all. Built to house those who fought the Union of Astari. Ander may not hold hate for the men of the Union, but loathing raged in him for their god of flame.
Ander looked out the window into the dark of night. The light of his low-burning candle danced in the murky glass of the panes. It sang a withering song, and with every breath he let out, the flame flickered and went low against the Vare wax. His dream was always close to him. But he knew not how to reach it.
Ander knew the book was his best option. It made him cringe. Bella had told him that feeling with the soul was a skill that could not be taught. It was as natural as flexing a muscle or holding in a breath. One could not instruct you how to raise your hand or blink your eyes. Nor could they tell you how to reach out with the hands of your soul to graze the fabric of reality. It was all so conceptual. Holding a sword was the first step to being a swordsman, and so long as you had a hand, anyone can do it. But for magic, it seemed near impossible.
Midnight had passed over the valley hours ago, and soon enough the sun would rise. Ander was heavy with fatigue. His head felt like it was cast of iron, and his hands did not wish to rise to turn the pages of Bella's tome. Every few seconds, his eyelids would droop down to cloak his vision. It was a hard battle keeping them open. His candle wick was reaching its end. It would falter and die before the sun rose. As he stared out the window, a small gleam of light caught his eye. It floated down from the top of the sill before passing out of view. Then there came another and another. And soon enough, Ander noticed it was snowing. It was the first flurry of Autumn.
Snowww, the word slurred in his thought. He raised his right hand to stretch out to the window. The last time it snowed was on the same day Ander joined the thieves. Now, he had come full circle. Winter would fall in a few moons, and then summer would come and slay it. Only for the cycle to start again. He had made a vow the night of The Summer Trance to kill a god. That vow was forged by the grief he had for all those he lost. What would happen if he forgot them? He had the portrait, but besides that, all he owned were memories.
His vision began to spin as his head fell against the table. The moonlight from on high mixed with the candle's glow, and in the window there appeared a dance of light and dark. They circled each other, prodding and stabbing as they fought for dominance. When the shades meshed, there formed a face in the shine. Locks of silver hair and eyes of bright white stared at him, and supple, pale lips smiled down on him. In the dance of snowflakes, Nina's face appeared.
“Nin…A?” He raised his head an inch of the table. Her visage flickered in the murky glass, but her smile never lost his sight. His hand reached further as a numb sensation went down his arm.
“Nina?...”
At the tip of his index finger, he felt a soft ping of cold. It melted at his touch, and through the light, he saw a water droplet fall down the glass of the window. It settled on the cobblestone sill and then ran out of sight. Only… his hand wasn't raised. It was beside his head on the desk, right next to the low candle. But still, he felt the cold ping of the falling snow.
He had felt without his hand. He had felt with his soul.
Ander lingered in place, keeping the feel of the cold snow on his ethereal hand. Nina’s face had vanished in the window. When he looked through the clouded glass, he saw that the snow had stopped falling. And that many drops of water were falling down the window.
*Vrrrrbbbn*
He looked down as his desk began to vibrate. It shook as scrolls and notes fell upon the floor. When he looked around, he noticed that the whole of his chamber was alive. His bed was creaking as it shook, and the glass of his window shuddered. The tremors grew, and when they reached their peak, even the air was shaking. It stirred him to alertness, and all of a sudden the light of his candle was snuffed out. Darkness befell his room, lit only by the pale moonlight streaming through his window.
The vibrations stopped, and it was silent. Ander let out a held breath, before losing his vision to fall flat against the open pages of his book, eyes shut in a deep sleep.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
“That’s all you remember?” Bella knelt by his side, placing more berries and nuts in his outstretched hands. The squirrels before him yelped with pleasure.
“Everything started shaking, then… the candle died, and I passed out.”
“Hmm, hmm,” she thought aloud. “How long has it been again?”
“We started two weeks ago. Or more appropriately, I started two weeks ago,” he replied. From afar, a skeptical groundhog was creeping near. It was eyeing up the small pile of Camerberry nuts in his hand. With the first snow having fallen, hibernation would soon be upon the small beasts. “I've read that damn book cover-to-cover.”
“And it paid off, didn't it?” She reclined back on her hands. “You felt with your soul. Congrats.”
“And I blacked out a moment later,” he sighed. One of the squirrels rose on its hind legs to gaze up at him. Bella had insisted he feed the critters.
“You have to start somewhere.” The autumn sun shined in her auburn hair. “Now you understand how challenging this is going to be.”
“I was always aware of the challenge, and my drive is no weaker now than when I started.” He turned to face her with a steadfast gaze.
“And what is your drive, exactly,” she prodded his side with a pointed digit. “I am not a fan of quiet Ander.”
“Then you have my sympathies.”
“*Sigh*,I know when to push and when not to. If you don’t wish to speak, I won’t force you to.”
“Thank you,” he mouthed, turning back to the bundles of fur before him. It wasn’t his first time feeding the wild things, and he was starting to see the enjoyment of it. “So. What now?”
“Now, you have to learn about arcana,” Bella pushed herself onto her knees. “Do you know what arcana is?”
“Yes. I read about it in that cursed book,” he replied. “It’s soul energy, right.”
“It’s a lot more than soul energy, but you’re not wrong,” her bangs swayed as she shook her head. “To play the strings, you have to have energy to change their lengths. That’s what arcana is. In every part of your body, even to the smallest speck, you have reservoirs of arcana. Your body produces it naturally, but you can also get it through the foods you eat, the things you drink, the air you breathe.”
“Even the air?” Ander asked. The groundhog sat patiently before him, waiting for its turn to feed.
“Absolutley. But the quickest way to get it into your blood is by lancing yourself. The Nuremai of Highmir mine crystals beneath Mount Faeragon that are rich in crystalline arcana. They call it Lokenasgar. When the crystal is placed in a solute like blood, it melts away and saturates the liquid with very high amounts of arcana. So what they do is, they shave a point into the crystal, and lance their skin with the point whenever they’re in arcana fatigue. That is how the Nuremai, who are men, live in contest with full-blooded Light Alffs in the Far East. Neat, right?”
“Arcana fatigue?” He asked. The term feigned familiarity. Perhaps he had read it in the tome, but was just too tired to remember it right.
“That’s what happened to you last night. You reached out with your soul, and when you touched the snow, your arcana gates opened. The only problem is, you can’t yet control your arcana. So when you connected with the strings, you let it all out, making the room very excited with energy. And then you blacked out from arcana exhaustion. It’s called ‘slippage’, it’s common with beginners.”
“So you’re telling me the next step is… learning to control my arcana, right?” When his hands were licked clean by the animals, they scurried off back into the underbrush, leaving the teacher and student alone in the wood. In the near distance, the rest of the clan found work in preparing for further snows. Every once in a while, Ander would hear the smack of a snowball against the back of Damien’s head, eliciting rage from the young archer at his Nyx companion. There was little snow that stuck to the ground, but just enough to turn the noble woman into a wintery menace.
“Indeed,” Bella rose to her feet. “But you haven’t mastered feeling yet, so we’re in a bit of a gray area. The general idea is that - and this is how I learned - you have to know the sensation of feeling without arcana, and feeling with arcana. That way, you’ll be able to shift between the two at will.”
“And the only way for me to learn what those two, uhh, situations feel like is by feeling with my soul. But when I do that…”
“You pass out, yes. Arcana exhaustion.”
“So it’s just a cycle of me blacking out.”
“I told you: gray area.”
“So what may the fix be, master,” he spoke the last word with passive poison, making Bella giggle as she paced before him.
“You need to be able to feel at will, not just on occasion,” she planted her feet before him. “Get up, come over here.”
He did as she bid, and when he rose to his feet, the woman turned him to face a small shrub at his side. It was brown in dormancy but still spiked with many small thorns. “All you’re going to do is reach out and touch the plant, and if you lose control, I’ll bring you right back.”
“You will bring me back?”
“That I will.”
“How?”
“You will see soon enough.”
“When you say touch-”
“Yes, I mean feel with your soul, now touch the damn plant!”
She screamed at him with a smile, making him chuckle before setting his focus on the bush. Without the ping of cold, it would be harder to know if he was in contact with it. Or so he thought. He was still as clueless as ever. With a bated breath, he brought his hand up and relaxed his fingers, and… he felt nothing. Nothing other than the cool brush of wind.
“It’s not just about relaxing, you need to think about reaching out and touching it,” Bella whispered in his ear. She brought a hand up to steady his arm. “Imagine yourself bending over and brushing a hand against it. Imagine what its thorns feel like, imagine how cold it is, how easy you could snap its twigs in between your fingers… Imagine the shrub.”
“Imagine the shrub-”
“Talking to yourself won’t help, stay quiet. Stay focused.”
He resisted the urge to bite back, but he followed the woman’s instructions. He cleared his mind of all other sensations and imagined the small, brown plant. He saw himself reaching down to brush its side and the scrape of its thorns against his calaced skin. He imagined… and he felt it.
“I got it,” he announced. He saw as the shrub moved, not by the wind, but by the brush of his soul. “I can feel it.”
*Vrrrrbbbn*
The air began to shake as the plant vibrated, shuddering with the rustling of its mesh of twigs. He could feel the rush of arcana, something he had not picked up on the night prior. It was an impulse he couldn’t temper, and when his control slipped, Bella brought him right back-
*Slap!*
-With a prudent strike on the cheek.
The boy reeled back in pain. “Aaghh! What the hell, woman?”
“I brought you back, just like I said I would.”
“By slapping me?!”
“If I had told you I would strike you to bring you back, you would have been unable to focus on feeling.”
He eyed her with a venomous stare.
“Look, would you rather have a small mark on your cheek, or be passed out face-first in the snow?” The question was quick to silence him. Ander stared down at the ground, bested both physically and by wit.
“Exactly,” she went on. “Now, did you get a good understanding of what it felt like? The flow of arcana?”
Humbled and tempered, Ander looked back at the woman and addressed her with a collected voice. “Yes… I did.”
“Good, that is good,” she stepped closer. “Once you have a firm grip on both sensations, you woll find yourself able to switch between them at will. It will take time, and plenty of saves on my part, but eventually you will find your way to being able to control your arcana.”
“How did you figure all of this out? None of this was in the book.”
She smirked. “Ander, I’ have had four years to figure this out. I had no one to slap me out of slippage, so every time I practiced, it would end with me out cold. It took me two months just to learn how to feel, and another year on top of that to gain control… Let us just hope it does not take you as long.”
“It will not,” he said, certain of his words. “I do not have a year to waste on it.”
“It is easy to claim something-”
“-But it is much harder to do it, I know,” Ander didn’t let her finish. “And I will do it.”
“And I will watch you all the while,” she placed a hand on her hip. The sunlight caught her eyes, making them sparkle in the stead of the snow-white landscape. When he looked into them, he was brought back to the night prior, and the image of Nina through his window was as clear as the freckles on the magii’s cheeks. He felt a blush creep up his neck.
But a moment later, it left him. It left when the beast of his heart rose to his ear, and whispered its vengeful vow.
“Aranos.” The name made the ashes of his soul rage in defiance. He was here to gain the strength he needed to slay an immortal. And that strength was still far, far away.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
“So, this Bella woman, she is teaching you magic, is she?”
The lord scholar shuffled across his study with a cup of tea in hand, his cane leaning against the desk at the far end of the room. Ander rose from before the hearth, a mighty fire now roaring in its blackened stone keep. He stashed his shard of flint in a back belt pocket as he made for the nearby seat. It was his fourth time visiting the old Vaughstock lord. And with every night of talk and insight, he grew to like the man evermore.
“That she is,” he collapsed into the seat. The ride to The Summer Trance had taken up the remaining energy he had that day. With Leon’s newfound intensity in sparring, and the labor demanded by winter preparations, there was little left at dusk. Thankfully for him, Raynar was a merciful mount. The horse flew through the dark woods with grace, and he caused no trouble for his master along the way. By some impossible chance, his excursions had so far gone unnoticed.
“And, pardon me, you did mention that she was self-taught, yes?” The lord sat before him with a soft smile. Patient eyes awaited Ander’s response.
“Yes, *sip*, she is,” he drank from his cup.
“Ahh, in all my years, I can’t say I’ve ever come across a self-taught magii who isn’t a light Alff. And a thief moreover. I would be hesitant to believe you, but I have no reason not to. Gods, what a world we live in…”
“Gods?” Ander’s tone turned sharp. “You speak of gods-”
“Pardon me, Ander, pardon me,” the lord sat up. “I meant not to speak of them, I am well aware of your destination with the Luminaar. I may assure you, I will not speak that word again unless it is at your behest.”
“Hmm,” he grunted in reply. “No, I am at fault. And it is not the gods I loathe, only one of them. Only one of them must die.”
“I wonder if telling you what happened to your home was a wise decision, Ander.” The lord scholar’s cup clinked against its saucer on the small table. The flames behind them roared through the hanging metal chain mesh. “Your trouble with the lord of flames is understandable, expected, even. But I want to be absolutely certain that you know what you are up against. You have told me that you seek a path like Faerthor the Godslayer, yes?”
“That I do.”
“Well, then you must also know that Crassion and Ara- pardon, the lord of flames are two very different beasts. Both are wicked, yes, but the lord of flames is a high god, while the title of lord of strength can be held by any level of Luminaar. When it will come to pass, and when you find yourself able enough to march on Astari, you will find a much greater challenge than Faerthor did. A much greater challenge, I’m afraid.”
“A challenge only exists to be bested,” The young man spoke. “All that needs to be known is that the gods can die as mortals do. How hard it may be to do so is a question for the future.”
“And how long in the future may that be?”
“...” Ander paused, then drank from his tea. The lord made an excellent brew. He could feel the warmth slip through his body, stirring up his weary bones. “That is yet another question for the future.”
The lord smiled. He held the grace of an elderly man, and in his eyes there sang the love Ander could only imagine a grandparent could bear. The lord relaxed in his seat, his hands folded together.
“Oh, I would be remiss not to offer my resources in your journey. I believe somewhere in this hall, I have a few books on magic if you’re interested. One I’m sure is about history… yes, history, and then another is on arcana longevity. I may - and I could be wrong here - I may have a book on Seiðr magic. Now that’s interesting stuff.”
Ander shut his eyes. “That’s leech magic, yes?”
“Such a nasty name for such an interesting form,” the man spoke. “But, yes. Many call it the ‘Leech magic’. Although, it’s the same sect of magic used in forging runes, mind you.”
“Mhh,” Ander scanned the ranks of books and scrolls around him. The scholar was right. Some of them, out of the thousands, must be of use.
“Regardless, as it was my hand that set you on this path, I find it obligatory to aid you in any way I am able. You have my resources. Well, all of those available to me at present.”
“And I thank you for that,” Ander nodded.
“If you don’t mind me digging, I would love to hear more about this Bella woman.”
“Bella,” Ander looked away, lost in thought. The air was starting to grow warm from the hearth. Almost to the point where he would have to shed his coat. With so much of his head stirred up by the man’s inquiry, Ander spoke his mind freely. “To start, I owe my life to her. The night I showed up at their door, hours after they left me for dead, she made sure I survived until sunrise. Her, and Leon.”
“He is your master, yes?”
“Correct,” Ander nodded. “It’s such a strange thing. The same people who tried to kill me, I… I’ve come to love them like I loved my family. They are my family now. They’re all I have left.”
“And Bella has become like a second mentor to you. I believe you said something of the like, do you have any special connection with her?”
Special connection, Ander cringed. He had his fill of love long ago. There wasn’t a place in his heart for it any longer. “She is my teacher. She is my friend, and a prized one at that. But she is also eight years my senior…”
“Love has triumphed over greater odds.”
“I do not love her, nor do I wish to,” Ander’s body tensed up as he spoke. “Where I may go, I wish them not to follow.”
“Have you told them about your new ambitions?”
“No,” the boy said, his voice flat and hard as lionswood. “They will not shoulder my burden. The path I walk may lead to my death, but I will not let them die with me.”
“You are afraid they would follow you in your vengeance?”
“I am,” he replied. “Perhaps not all of them, but I would prefer it to be none of them. The day I find myself ready to leave Vimbaultir, to start off on this path, is the same day I must bid them farewell.”
Ander took a long sip from his tea. “On that day, they will know.”
“When will you know you are ready? Is this yet another question for tomorrow to tell?”
“I will be ready when I can survive on my own,” Ander sent the lord a sharp look. “When I don’t have to be saved, or healed, or coddled back to health. There will always be a man stronger than me, or an archer swifter than me, or an army too great to run from. But I’m not looking to run away. Aranos will always be greater than me, but he will fall much the same. It is only… a matter of time.”
“Then may all of Essa’s blessings be upon you,” The lord took the kettle beside him and refilled his small teacup. “Have you thought about seeking divine auration before you set off on this journey? Perhaps the great lady Asanashai herself may lend you some grace.”
“Perhaps I will. When I leave, I will follow the path the world wishes me to take. Aranos is wicked. I will be delivering the will of all good things of this world and the ones beyond it.”
“Your tenacity deserves praise,” the lord refilled Ander’s porcelain as well. “Have you any mind of what may come after you finish your work?”
“If I live to see that day,” Ander began. His eyes narrowed, and the room seemed to grow a little darker. The fire crept back into its mantle. “Then I will have no further reason to live. I do not seek a crown. I do not wish for power beyond what I need. All I want… is my vengeance.”
“If your family were alive today, would they be pleased with that response?” The lord scholar sent him a curious gaze. The old man wasn’t content with such a grim reply. “What would your mother say to such a statement? For the sake of your family, do you not wish to go on after the dust has settled?”
“All that I plan to do is for the sake of my family.” Where the scholar expected rage, Ander replied with a calm, collected voice. “And the sooner I get it done, the sooner I may join them in whatever heaven or hell I am exiled to after I draw my last breath.”
“Your heart is your greatest weapon, Ander.” The lord leaned close, staring straight into the depths of the boy’s soul. “Don’t let it become corrupted. You were made with will unlike any other, don’t let it be consumed, or you may find yourself the very same anathema you seek to destroy.”
Ander moved his mouth to reply, but no words came off his tongue. When he found himself mute, he rested against the back of his chair and left the moment in thought. Althi harv ni klee lurr ess; urv paa ce syon. Those were the words his father spoke to him many months ago in the void of a dream. They were as clear to him as the burns on his arm, and in the months since that day, he had sourced a translation.
‘Let hate not take your heart, but open it to love.’
And when the phrase echoed again in the young Idris’ mind, he began to form a new question. One he was afraid that tomorrow couldn’t answer. ‘Open it to love… After all I have suffered. I love my friends but beyond that… Is that even… an option anymore?’
It was a query that tortured him to no end. And as he searched his mind for comfort, he returned to the one thing that was forever certain to him. Even if his heart grew distant and cold, and love no longer had sensation to him, one thing would always be true.
Aranos would die.
That was a fact.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
The day of the first snow passed, and soon enough there came the morning light of the winter solstice. It rose in the sky above snow drifts a foot thick, layered on by a midnight blizzard. The top powder was loose and heavy, and it clung to fabrics like mud clung to boots. And upon every evergreen growth, whitecaps sat and sang their silent songs with the whistling birds. The spotted fawns of lost spring days were molting for their winter coats, and great stags and moose wandered the wood, aggressive in search of company. Rutting season was coming to a close, and their great antlers were never more pointed. It took great courage, or foolishness, to cross the paths of such beasts. And so the flow of fresh meat became lacking.
The town of Vimbaultir greeted the solstice with grimace. The poorhouses shut their doors for the final time until spring came, and the misfortunate were lost to the alleyways. Some would not rise to see tomorrow, and most would not live to see the withered flowers bloom. Such was the fate of the poor. Winter was a culling. The merchants, strung to their gold like leeches to the flesh, began their exodus a few weeks prior, taking the upper Brux south to the Gulf of the Center. Where the air was warm and wet, and the trade was plentiful, and the women were soft and the winter was non-existent. But not everyone was a merchant. Sylvee-Major and Fimbull were of the north, and when winter blows, the north becomes a frozen hellscape.
But in this hellscape, those who knew how to survive, thrived.
“Are they still at it?”
Nalia levied her spoon to aim at the two magii standing on the white bank of Komer Run. She couldn’t make out what they were doing, but going off Ander’s scowl, it looked challenging. Damien’s voice rose in response.
“They’re at it every day,” he spoke, seated beside the Nyx on one of the logs.
“If they don’t finish up, their soup will go cold.”
“Then let it,” Sylas grunted from the other side of the fire. “If they wish to play with water all day, then they will do so hungry.”
The whole clan, having finished their work clearing the snow around the stronghold, were now nestled beneath the wood near Komer Run. To many, it would seem a fool’s choice to have a meal in a snow drift a foot thick. As it did to Damien. But his contest was killed in its crib by Sylas, who thought the added discomfort would keep them disciplined. All it seemed to be doing was keeping them cold, and shivering. The lot found themselves perched up on a few felled logs, while their two magii clansmen practiced their arts in the nearby stream.
“What is it they’re doing, exactly?”
“Who the hell knows, who the hell cares,” it was Thaddeus who spoke. “The sooner we eat, the sooner we can leave.”
“Not a fan of the cold, master?”
“Be silent, boy,” the elder archer replied. Even through his layers, Thaddeus’ shivering was obvious. “It was a dumb move to drag us out here.”
“No, it was a stroke of genius, and you’re certainly not one to question that,” Sylas flicked his eyes up to gaze at his brother. Nalia knew that, out of them all, Sylas felt himself closest to Thaddeus, and so rude remarks were nothing to gawk at. “And keep your shivering to a minimum, it’s distracting. We have a fire, for heaven’s sake, how are you cold?”
“My shivering distracts you? My apologies, great leader, I shall right it at once.”
“Yeah, you do that.”
“So no one is interested in what they are doing over there?” Damien’s voice rose up, before being pushed down with a uniform chant from the two.
“No!” “No!”
“Have you nothing to say, Leon?” The Nyx leaned forward to stare at the sullen swordsman. Throughout the meal, she had caught the man taking glances at their departed kin, his eyes distant and plain. Having his apprentice stolen from him had shook him deeply. “You’ve been awfully quiet, are you ill?”
“No, he is not,” Sylas replied in Leon’s stead. “Leon is perfectly content.”
“He doesn’t look perfectly content.” Damien made the mistake of speaking.
“And you don’t look a man grown, and yet you are. Looks can be deceiving.”
“I’m not a what?”
“I’m fine,” Leon mouthed, turning to look at the group. His mouth said one thing, but his eyes spoke another. “There’s no need for concern.”
“Exactly, listen to what the man says,” Sylas stirred up his bowl of soup. “While I admit that, at first, I was opposed to Ander learning magic. But based on how additionally useful he has become, we should all be in support of his studies. Both under Leon, and Bella… We shall speak no more of this.”
“So we shan’t,” Nalia shook her head. It was an unspoken thing, really. Everyone was quite aware of Leon’s feelings toward Ander’s lessons under Bella. The young Idris was such a treasure to the elder swordsman, and having him torn away was devastating. But Leon knew his duty, and it was not to be a burden, and so his lips stayed sealed. But his eyes refused to lie. as did his voice, which lost its characteristic boom. “So we shan’t…”
“I just, agh, I don’t see how you get it to spin!” Ander called in vexation. The water sprout he had conjured was weak and short, just barely taller than a rapid. It would only last for a moment, before falling back into the stream to be washed away. All the while, his mentor’s sprout stood tall and proud. Bella’s formation had a slight spin to it, and was nearly to her waist height.
“You’re still too tense,” she replied in a collected voice. “Your soul is separate from your body, the more you tense your muscles, the less focus you have on moving the water. It’s all about seeing it in your mind, and making it into reality.”
“I’ve been trying to relax for three months, and still nothing’s changed!” Ander let his hands drop, and so did his water sprout dive back into the water. He was in the midst of the third months of his training, and while his progress was supposedly great, he felt nothing of the sort. He felt slow, and weak, unable even to make a water sprout.
“Ander, I’ve been doing this for fo-”
“-Four years, and you still haven’t learned to relax fully, yes, I know,” he cut her off. “I don’t have four years, Bella. A lot can happen in four years, and I’m only growing older.”
The woman moved to speak, but held her tongue. She knew better than to ask for his reason. He knew it was unfair to keep such secrets from his master, but if she were to know his true goals, she would promptly end his tutelage. To any other person, the goal of slaying a god was impossible. But they hadn’t suffered like Ander suffered. They hadn’t lost what he had. And there would be retribution.
“Have you been reading?” She said in a low tone. It was truly impressive how much control she had over her emotions. Control that Ander simply lacked.
“I-Yes, I have been reading. Constantly, all I’ve been doing is reading.”
“Then stop reading.”
He cocked his head as he looked across and down at her. When they first met, they were about the same height, but in the ten months that had passed, he had grown near half a foot. He was almost as tall as Leon now. But that was none the matter, his focus wasn’t on height, it was on growing stronger.
“You wish for me to stop my studies?”
“Yes, I do. You’ve read plenty, there’s only so much you can take in at such an early state,” she paced away from the water, her sprout still standing as tall as ever. “You know the basic material, and looking any deeper will only cloud your mind. So stop, and simply relax. Focus on doing, not learning. Process what you know, and put it into practice. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you, Ander?”
“...”
“Tell me, how do you learn to make clay pots? By making one perfect pot, or a hundred mediocre ones?”
“...” To be frank, he was lost.
“If you focus on learning the perfect way to do everything, you will never have the chance to do it. Perfection comes from perfect practice, and perfect practice comes from plain practice. You’re tense because you are only thinking of the technique, and not the flow. This isn’t sword fighting, magic is not mechanical. It isn’t about who has bigger muscles, or who knows the texts better. Where a sword is always the same, magic is different for everyone. There’s no one way to go about it. You’re stuck thinking like a swordsman, so what you have to do is stop, breathe, and relax so you can think like a magii… Once you do that, you can read and study all you like.”
“What does that have to do with clay pots?”
“It’s a metaphor, Ander. Met-a-phor!” She drew out the syllables with a smile. “You need to stop the theoretical work, and focus on practice. Stop thinking, and start doing, and to do that, you have to relax. Here.”
She walked up before him, and gripped his wrists. Her hands rose, and his arms were extended above the water.
“I want you to try again, and this time, don’t think about any techniques, or methods, or anything of the like. Just think about the water. Look at it, not with your eyes, but with your mind’s eye. You have to see the sprout, and mold it into the water. I’ll be able to feel if you tense up.” Her words brushed against his ear, the frost in her breath rising into the green canopy. He levied a deep breath, and let his eyes unfocus.
The rush of water and crunching of snow became lost to him as he imagined the sprout. All the world fell away, and all he saw was the spinning bulge of water. When the muscles of his arms tried to flare, Bella tightened her grip on him, and they died back down. The seconds went by like minutes, and with every passing moment, the image of the sprout became ever more clear.
“Are your eyes closed?”
“...Yes,” he hadn’t noticed they were. He was seeing through his mind’s eye now.
“Go ahead and open them.” Her voice rang with suppressed joy, and when Ander opened his eyes, he saw a tall water spout, proud and mighty. He felt the cold water on his hands, and the ache of the chill spiked down his forearms. It was a good ache, a proud ache. All of his muscles were loose, and Bella had taken a step back from him.
“See? Don’t worry about the manuals and the techniques. Throw all of that garbage away. Magic is about the connection between your mind and your soul. Once you learn that your body doesn’t have a say in it, you’ll lose your chains.”
Ander looked away from the sprout, searching for Bella’s eyes. He found them at his side, shining with a blue light unmatched by any other hue.
But while his eyes told him it was Bella at his side, a voice in his heart begged to differ. With a second look into her blue grace, he saw locks of silver, and skin as pale as pearls. He saw none of Bella there, only the mistress of the snow.
O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O
On a white winter eve, buried under the snow-topped trees of Vern's Forest, there burned a mighty forge. The light of its hearth was cast through the window slits to fall upon the stronghold courtyard, and its heat had burned away the snow piled on its roof. Inside its walls, there bellowed the clanging of steel against steel, of iron striking iron. Mighty cries of exertion and grunts of hard work sounded, as did the boiling of water and cracking of charcoal.
Ander sat beside the raging forge, working his blade down a grindstone, sharpening its edge to a point, craving for blood and flesh to marr. Sweat fell from his brow, and when it splashed upon the stones of the forge, it sizzled into the air. The room buzzed with heat, and the young man paid it no mind.
He held up his blade and looked down at its true edge. It was sharp enough to split steel, and one day, it would make a stump of a god's neck. Aranos’ foul visage would mount a spike, and all the world would see how far a wicked god could fall. The thought of it made Ander’s hand tighten up. He yearned for the fight, and with every passing day, he grew more ready for it. Aranos may not know who Ander was, but one day, he would.
He placed his falchion on a wooden station at his side and approached the forge. It roared with heat, and the metal doors sealing its front were steaming in the air. He held out an unpadded hand to grasp their handles, and pulled them open. A torrent of flames were borne, but they died down quickly in his presence.
“Heel!” He called to the flames. They fell back in response, his soul pushing them down to smolder against the coals. Through the burning fever and whips of red and white flame, he pushed a hand into the forge, and drew out the steel of a knife, bright red from heat . It was small -no longer than his forearm - forged with a wide tang and thick spine. Though it was blared with heat, it dared not burn him. The hotness knew better than to hurt its master.
Ander gripped the red hot blade and made for a nearby anvil. He placed it down on the battered metal with a small *clang*, and then lowered to a knee. The pliable metal called to be molded, and so he hovered a hand over the steel, and spoke The High-Tongue. His soul reached down to graze the blade, and he began his work.
“Solas Ne Morve.”
Red lines of fire burned on the steel, leaving small valleys that formed letters of flaming ink. They bit into the steel, and when the runes were engraved, Ander took up the knife, and dipped it slowly into a small bucket of water. The liquid bubbled and boiled, but it took no great amount of time to finish cooling the steel. When the water became tame, he raised the knife up to flames of the forge and gazed upon his work.
“Solas ne Morve,” he said again, his voice a crackling whisper. The words meant ‘quick to life’. Ander sat down at the forge’s workstation. There, he found the two cuts of wood that built the handle, and the black bear leather used to forge the grip. The wood was fashioned to the tang using three metal rivets, and they fit snugly. As he rebuilt the blade, he spoke to himself.
“One year ago,” he gazed through the blade down at the floor, black with fire stain. “I met you, one year ago… And I lost you, one year ago.”
That night, not a minute sooner, nor second later, marked the death date of Nina, his first and only love.
“When they threw me out, they called those words to me. They told me to be quick with my life,” he began wrapping the boiled leather around the tang of the knife. Every now and then, he would pause to apply pitch to the grip, binding the wrappings of leather to the knife. “But I didn’t… I lived on, until the day I met you.”
“And then you left me… You were quick with your life. Solas. Ne. Morve.”
The pitch dried hastily, and the final wrapping was tied down to the butt of the blade. Somewhere, in some noble home in some far off land, a timekeeper had struck midnight. As Ander Idris looked up through the windows into the silver stars on high, he spoke into the night.
“You may have been quick then, but I will never let you go. You will live on, from this day, until the end of days, no matter how many times… they burn us.”
The boy pressed the knife to his heart, cradling it like a mother would her newborn son. The winter winds sang a foreign song, and when the moon passed behind the mask of a dormant oak tree, dried of leaves and light, the final cinders of the mighty forge smoldered out.
But the embers of the flame would never die.