“Heels up, sprite!” Athuros roared. The slim karrow bush branch he held gave a sharp whistle as he flicked his wrist and it kissed the back of Theia’s calves. She clamped down on a whimper and increased her running pace, struggling to keep up with the other two students.
It was a hot, muggy day, perfect for tormenting future mages by forcing them to run the length of the trail to Clear Sky Lake and back. Only ten, Theia was shorter than the other two students by over a head, and her short legs made her lag behind, always the slowest of the trio.
She caught another whistle and leapt forward with a burst of adrenaline, the lash only just missing her.
“That’s it!” said Athuros. “Run like hungry demons are at your heels! They say elf maidens taste like honeydrops.”
Theia could only huff as she jogged over the packed earth, sweat burning her eyes. The sting of the karrow branch was bad, but her master’s ability to constantly yell and harass her as they ran was worse. The group rounded the bend and the shimmering white of the lake came into view. Theia felt a surge of relief—only a few minutes to go and all downhill.
Urvo and Caneris, the other two students, must have felt it too as they both sped up, seeing their goal at hand. Within minutes, the trio was at the water’s edge, gasping raggedly and sagging in exhaustion.
“Pathetic,” Athuros snapped. “Is this what the Exarch of Winds offers the Sun Lord? Are these mages she sends to defend the Realm? Get back on your feet, boy!”
Urvo had made the mistake of sitting down on the cool grass while the others leaned against trees. While only three years older than Theia, he was the tallest of the group. Last season, Theia had been able to look the miller’s son in the eye. Now he was an ungainly mess of limbs
“There’s a lake right here, cool yourself,” Athuros ordered.
The three obliged, splashing themselves with the cold water and drinking deeply. A voice inside Theia’s head told her one shouldn’t drink unboiled or unfiltered water. She ignored it, as she had to do often these days.
It was this human woman—this Amanda’s—fault Theia suffered.
When they finished, all three students got back to their feet and stood wearily as Athuros looked over them. He was an elf, like Theia and Caneris, but looked nothing like the respectable folk of Murkgwen. The sides of his head were shaved, swirling tribal markings were worked into his face and arms, and his skin was a dusky bronze instead of the pale blue and green of northern elves.
“Are you hot?” he asked. No one answered; they’d been through this enough to realize that they were here to listen. “This is nothing compared to the flames of Phyros.”
He curled his hand in the air and a coil of flame appeared, wrapping around his fingers and arm like an angry, living thing.
“Before you control the flames of Phyros, you will burn. You will feel the fat melt from your bone. You will feel your skin blister and crack. For flames are hungry and young mages are the finest fuel. Yet, if you endure, you will control the flames and wield a weapon that brings terror to men and beast alike!”
Athuros swung his hand and a whip of white-hot flame lashed out, burning the grass and earth. Then it was gone and all that was left was a perfect circle of black ash.
“I have seen fire burn through the stones of a city wall. Roast a host of soldiers alive until the bronze of their armor melted around their bones. Fill the night sky until it was as bright as noon. If you wish to master flame—or any of the ordinals—you must first master yourself. A spell is a ravenous beast. The more powerful it is, the more eager it is to destroy the one who brings it forth!”
Spittle flew from his lips onto Caneris’ cheek. The boy flinched but didn’t dare move. Their master burned with his own fire, Theia could see it behind his eyes. She wondered if you needed such madness and zealotry to burn stone.
There was a moment of silence as Athuros stared at the children before him.
“Caneris!” he said, the boy flinched. “What is your mana at?”
“Twenty-three out of twenty-six, master!”
Theia’s stomach dropped. Athuros had a glass orb that drained mana from a person. He’d used it before the run.
“Acceptable. Urvo!”
“Thirty out of thirty!” The older boy stood a little taller.
“Theia!”
She looked at her status screen, forcing herself to look at the numbers. Should she lie? Always, she had the urge to lie, but it couldn’t be that easy. He must already know the answer. Or he could read her face--
“Theia.” He stood before her now.
“Fifteen out of one hundred eighty, master,” she squeaked.
“What gift does the Exarch of Winds give her followers?” Athuros asked.
“That we may respire and unleash energies as swiftly as a breeze.” The words had been drilled into her.
“And have I not shown you how to pull mana into yourself? How a body in action may absorb the subtle essence faster than one at rest?”
“Yes, master.”
He leaned forward to force her gaze to meet his own. She could feel his breath against her damp face.
“Then why are you so low?”
“I… forgot.”
Athuros straightened, then raised his hand and pressed two fingers to the center of her forehead.
“You let me distract you,” he explained. “Had then been a life-or-death situation, you would have arrived unprepared.”
He pressed harder and Theia hardened her body, forcing it to remain immobile.
“Focus. You are too easily distracted. Your mind roams when it should not. It is undisciplined and you let it lead you as it wishes. Now—refill your mana.”
The fingers on her forehead began to burn. Theia squeezed her eyes shut and looked inward toward the core of her self. She took a deep breath and sucked the energy of the woods and lake within herself. It was only a trickle at first, but breath after measured breath, it increased, filling her a cool, calm feeling.
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And then the fingers on her forehead heated, like a lump of burning coal pressed to her skin.
For the next half-hour, she struggled, the brand on her head burning hotter and hotter as she forced her reserves full. Then it was time to run back to the city.
By the time Valimar came to pick up his daughter, Theia was bone-weary and half-conscious. She stumbled home, unwilling to accept his help, and then muttered something about having to study before collapsing into bed.
It was dinner time when she woke again.
She shoveled the mixture of rice, sheep, and root vegetables into her mouth silently, ignoring her parent’s looks of concern.
“How did today go?” her mother finally asked.
“Wonderfully,” Theia replied with a yawn. She wanted to sleep for a season.
What her parents had feared hadn’t come to pass. No men in dark cloaks had come to snatch up their four-year-old daughter. Theia had been evaluated and a steward had explained that once she was older, they would provide a master for her, and once she was ready, she would go to an arcane academy.
High magical potential or not, the armies of the Sun had no use for mages who were untrained and the academies had no desire to play at being babysitters.
“Will you be able to help me work tomorrow?” her mother asked.
Theia pushed her food around her plate with her spoon. “I have reading to do and need to work on my respiration. Maybe in the afternoon.”
Later, Theia sat on the floor, a heavy leather tome on her legs and her feet pressed against the warm stones of the kiln. Within the lands of the Exarch of Winds, one learned the Qualnis, the northern elven tongue, but arcane and scholarly works used Argos, the script of the Sun, and so Theia must read through the books and missives her master gave her and translate them.
The voice at the back of her head told Theia that she was getting an education. The dusty books of history and natural philosophy her master forced her to translate held a great deal of knowledge about the world. Theia pushed the thought away—it was that of a stupid human woman who’d ruined her life because she wanted to do magic.
The bricks her feet touched were warm but never uncomfortably so. This was because the mason who worked it was exceptional at their craft. At the highest form of an art—its mysteries—the effects were mystical. Theia’s mother did the same with the pottery she crafted and her father with his woodworking.
Yes, a lesser woodworker could never craft wood so strong it could resist an iron blade. That’s why they were lesser. Only a human would mistake exceptional work for magic. The woman had thought Murkgwen a city of magical crafters, had picked this as her home, and given herself ridiculous talents for spellcraft.
Ruining Theia’s life. On purpose.
Stuffing her head with memories that weren’t her own and ideas that made no sense. Until sometimes Theia didn’t know if she were an elven girl who’d lived her past life as a human or a human woman who’d ended up in the body of a ten-year-old and was struggling to remember herself. Which was a freakish notion.
“What’s wrong, Theia?” her mother asked. She’d been silently reading and Theia had forgotten she was there.
Theia sighed and let the first thing she could think of pop out of her mouth.
“My corpus callosum is half its adult size and its myelination process hasn’t finished.”
“What?” her mother looked up in alarm. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t fucking know.” There was a flash behind Theia’s eyes and she remembered using a strange, short-bladed knife, to cut open the head of a dead white rat and peel back its skull to show the pebbly pink mass within.
Theia’s stomach rolled. What an awful woman. To butcher an animal for food was right, but why did she have these memories of cutting them apart simply to look at their insides? And the smell!
“Theiabrial, I do not want to hear that language in my house,” her mother said, her tone frosty.
“Sorry,” Theia replied. “I didn’t mean it. I’m tired; I’m going to my room.”
She scooped up the book and her loose leaves of translations and headed upwards. There, she dumped them on her small bed and clamored out the window. A thin wooden and rope bridge stretched from her roof to that of her neighbors, and Theia sat on it, rocking back and forth slowly, her leg dangling over the edge.
As dusk settled in, the wispflies blinked in green and yellow, their wings chirping when they darted through the air. Below her, a peddler walked, pushing his cart across the cobblestones. Being up high like this relaxed her—gave her the feeling of being above the world.
And scared that other part of her.
Theia swung back and forth extra hard. Served Amanda right for showing her icky rat brains.
A shabby-looking fellow wandered down the lane. He looked back and forth at the houses as though lost. Theia peered at him with interest. He had a big, shaggy beard and his cloth jacket was stained and ripped in places. She thought he might be human.
Abruptly, he stopped right under her and looked at Theia. For a moment, he squinted.
“Hello, little girl,” he called. She looked at him silently. He rubbed his chest, glanced around, and then tried again. “Hello?”
“I heard you.”
“Are you… um… are you the person I’m looking for?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Theia replied, pointedly. It was obvious the man didn’t belong here.
This seemed to throw him. “I’m looking for an elf girl, about your age, who lives in this city. She knows a spirit named Rugavarah.”
It was Theia’s turn to be thrown. How did he know that name? Her parents knew, her master and the steward knew, and the priestesses at the hot spring. But most people didn’t. It was one matter in which everyone was agreement; the fewer people realized she’d been given any sort of blessing, the better.
Theia knew Rugavarah was a good spirit, but other people might not. They might think he was a demon. Or she was some sort of apostate.
“Who are you?”
“I’m—” he began. “Can you come down here so I don’t have to yell?”
“If I must. But you should know we’re being watched. If you’re a kidnapper, you’re just going to end up being cut up into little pieces.”
Theia clamored down the side of the house while he looked around in alarm. Naturally, he saw no one.
Up close, he looked even worse. He obviously slept outside in his clothing. The jacket was so stained, it had hardened in places. His skin hung on his bones and his teeth were yellowed.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“My name is Bengermin. I have a message for you.” He dug through his pockets and pulled out a crumpled-up piece of paper.
Theia took it with interest. Someone had scrawled a map on it; she recognized Clear Sky Lake.
“I don’t get it.”
Germin took a deep breath and rubbed his temple furiously. He was twitchy—weird twitchy. Theia wondered what was wrong with him.
“It was because of the Shard,” he said. “Since the Shard came, things have been waking up. There’s something there you might want. In the ruins. ‘The key is in the colors’ he said.” Germin looked her over. “When you’re older, I assume. Please don’t go to any ruins right now.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” The route the map laid out was up the mountainside, near the holy springs. There weren’t ‘ruins,’ not really. There were bits of buildings and stuff from people who’d died a long time ago, but that was true of all the valley. “Something woke up? Not a monster?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think it was an artifact.”
“Are you a friend of theirs?”
A short, sharp laugh. “No, spirits from beyond speak to me. It's hard for them to contact most people so they send me messages. I’d never even heard of this one before.”
“Weird.” Theia rapped her knuckles on the wood of her front door and waited for her mother to open the door. “Hey look, I brought a beggar home. Let’s give him some food.”
Her mother stood there, mouth agape for a second, and then shut it neatly.
“Please come in, good sir,” she said with a bow of her head. “I’ll fetch you a basin to wash your face and hands.”
He looked surprised and then grinned. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
Whatever he was from must not have rules of hospitality. The south, Theia assumed. Magical schools or not, southerners were barbarians.
Germin was soon stuffing his face with the remains of their dinner. Her father sat at the table, regarding the man with polite interest as her mother prepared the guest bedroom. And new clothing. And a hot bath.
“What do you know of this spirit? This Rugavarah?” her father asked, as he poured a small glass of brandy.
Germin shrugged. “Not a thing.” He pulled a stone amulet out from under his shirt. There was the crude carving of a bull head on it. “My family served Lorosh, one of the old gods—the real gods. Not the Exarchs. They burned down our shrine before I was born. I’ve never had training for my gift. I close my eyes and words or images appear in my dreams.”
Theia gave him a sympathetic look. She knew what that was like. Her father looked less than amused that he had a heretic as a guest.
“How do we know that this creature isn’t a demon?” he asked.
“He’s not a demon,” Theia said with a sigh. Why couldn’t they just believe her? She looked at Germin for affirmation.
“He could be.” The man shrugged again.
Her father reached for the crude map, palming it carefully. “I think it best if I keep this. I am sure whatever ‘gift’ this spirit offers will can wait.”
That was fine by Theia. She’d already memorized it.