The Loremaster

Smoke rising from campfires. A dozen tents or more. A standard that Arn did not recognise, nor the surcoats worn by the Aquilans. Not that it mattered. He sensed no magic; no sign of mages or spellcasters among their number. Along with the darkness, that gave him the advantage. He looked over his shoulder at his oath-sworn brother, who gave him an encouraging nod.

*

Waking up granted Arn not only a reprieve from his dreams, but also a blissful realisation. The life force he had leeched yesterday from the slain gladiator had been fully absorbed. His sense of magic had returned, like the regeneration of a lost limb. While it would not avail him much yet, not until he strengthened the seiðr inside him further, it was proof that the process worked. He still lacked the spellpower that would fuel his abilities as a spellblade, but he was once more a man of magic; if he could have the minor runes on his skin restored, their power would be accessible to him.

And while his skill as a swordsman remained mundane for now, reawakening the seed inside him had yielded fruit in another manner. He walked outside and turned his gaze on the slender tower of a temple in the far distance, visible atop the wall that surrounded the training yard. Yesterday, it had been nothing more than a grey mass rising up against the horizon. But as the first drop of magic was returned to him, it had unlocked one of the blessings bestowed upon him by the crones that served as matriarchs of Tyria.

Arn remembered it well; it had been his first major trip on his own, still young and unproven. He had climbed the highest peak that graced the Pillars of the World and taken a feather from the nest of an eagle, bringing it back to the seiðr-wives as evidence of his ascent. They had enchanted it for him that it would not decay, allowing him to keep it as a memento and a reminder of his tribe; more importantly, they had bestowed the blessing of eagle eyes upon him. Looking at the tower in the distance, this boon returned to him, Arn could make out each individual stone hewn and placed together to build the structure.

Without thinking, Arn ran a hand through his short hair where the token of his journey had once rested, tied to a braid. A pity, but if he did not have the feather of an eagle, at least he had its eyes. While it might be of limited use in the trials ahead, compared to the wealth of other spells and abilities still denied to him, it made the skáld feel just a little bit more like himself.

*

After breakfast, Arn approached Mahan again with his written request to be given leave. The weapons master gave only a grunt in response before training commenced, though in the afternoon, he returned to the Tyrian.

"I spoke with the dominus. He accepted your request," Mahan declared.

Arn smiled and nodded.

"In fact, he said you were to be given leave anytime you asked. Strange. I've never known him to show such leniency to a newcomer." The weapons master gave Arn a scrutinising look as if expecting to read the answer to an unspoken question on his face.

Keeping his features blank while silently expressing his gratitude to the gods for their continued favour, the skáld simply repeated his gesture and resumed his training.

*

After exercises, bathing, and eating, Arn was led by a guard through the building to the courtyard with its gate that led outside. "First time out, yeah?"

Arn nodded with an absent mind.

"Alright, here's the rules. When last bell rings, you got two hours to be back before the gate is locked. You're not in your cell by headcount, we release the dogs. They'll have no trouble finding your scent, the way you lot sweat all day," he grinned.

Arn made an acknowledging grunt, hoping to speed up the process.

"Spend your coin how you want on drink, women, but stay out of trouble. No fighting, no stealing, nothing that'll get you picked up by the city guard. Expect the lash if you get arrested or don't make it back in time before curfew," he rambled on. "Oh, and don't think about buying weapons. It'll just be confiscated when you get back here."

Arn gave him an impatient look, wondering when the admonitions would be over.

"Alright, enjoy your freedom." The guard opened the gate for him, and Arn strode through.

*

Stepping onto the street, finding himself alone and outside four walls for the first time since his arrival, Arn felt the urge to run. But if the guard's warning had not sufficed, the strange armband he wore reminded him of the futility of flight. Another thing he needed to inquire about if he found a trustworthy loremaster. But in due time. His runes came first.

Knowing his own people, Arn set a course west towards the harbour. People gave him the occasional look, but nobody seemed particularly interested in him. Scarred men wearing leather tunics were plentiful in Aquila, and as that would often be the markings of a thug, Arn walked unharmed.

He made a detour to reach one of the markets that lay sprawling across the city, where he spent most of his coin buying a pouch to tie onto his belt, giving him a place for his wax tablet and other small items. He followed up with buying a needle and thread before continuing on his way.

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Approaching the docks, Arn moved slowly while examining the buildings around him. At length, he found what he searched for. To any Aquilan, it would look like random scratches, made by accident rather than design; to a Tyrian, they were runes used as letters, and while they lacked the magic that skálds could imbue them with, they still held the power of knowledge, as they told Arn where to find his people.

Following the directions etched into the walls, Arn proceeded away from the larger streets to enter smaller alleyways and closely built houses, old and wooden rather than the great insulae that dominated much of Aquila. Finally, he saw his destination; red leaves upon branches, rising like a crown to adorn the trunk of a great tree.

It lay inside a small yard, surrounded by grass and tall buildings. In Tyria, it would have been left to grow freely, far from any structures or fields that would choke its growth. Here, this small ring of land was all that could be afforded it.

A copper beech, the Aquilans named such a tree, though in Tyrian, its name was blood beech. Holy to the northerners, it was nourished by the very liquid that coloured its leaves and provided its name. It did not matter if the blood came from enemies or the faithful spilling their own; the tree drank it all, its leaves growing darker the more satiated it became. Judging by the deep red colour upon this tree, it was well sated; Arn would add to that.

He took his newly purchased needle and pricked the tip of his finger, allowing three drops to fall. And as the blood sank into the soil, he repeated his vow; silently, yet loud enough for the gods to hear. He would have restoration. He would have freedom. He would have vengeance.

This complete, he wiped the needle clean between his lips and returned it to his pouch. After that, he waited.

*

It took a while before another Tyrian entered. An old woman with hard lines in her face, which suited Arn; she would not be troubled by his visage, and if she had lived a while in Aquila, she ought to know the answer to his question.

He approached her while holding up his tablet, now adorned with Tyrian rather than Aquilan letters. Loremaster?

The crone gave him a quick look. "Strange fellow. Not seen you before. I'd ask what you'd need a loremaster for, but I take it there's a reason you write your questions rather than say them."

Of course, some old women had a love for talking more than was needed. Arn tapped the word on his tablet impatiently.

"Alright, stow your sails. Aye, there's a loremaster in Aquila. Back on the street, you go left. Keep going and turn left again right before the pottery. Down that alley, you'll find his place. Just look on the doors."

Arn gave a bow in response and left the tiny grove.

*

Following the instructions given, Arn found the alley and went down, checking each door, until he saw one marked by mundane runes. As with other descriptions placed around the city, they held no power except declaring to keen eyes that a loremaster resided within. With a heavy fist, Arn knocked repeatedly.

Eventually, the door was pulled open. "What's with all this pounding? It won't wake the dead, nor can I do that, and I wonder if any lesser need could demand such haste!" The speaker was an old man; while his hair was brown and grey, his eyes had the blue colour of most Tyrians.

In response to the flow of words sent his way, Arn simply raised his tablet that still bore the same word. Loremaster?

"Aye, that's me. You're the silent type, then? That's fine. I can talk for two." He laughed at his own jest and beckoned for Arn to follow him inside the small house. It had only one floor, taken up by a single room. A fireplace in the middle allowed for cooking and heating up the space, though currently only occupied by ashes. A variety of jars stood on shelves, containing what Arn presumed to be different ingredients. All the furniture was simple and old, including the bed in one end, a worktable in the middle, and three stools. The loremaster took one and motioned for Arn to take another. "So, what brings you?"

The skáld rolled up his right sleeve to reveal the remnants of a rune, torn to shreds by his scars.

In response, the loremaster gave a whistle and bent forward to examine it. "Someone went to work on you! No magic left in that, I take it."

Arn shook his head.

"Well, if you're expecting me to repair it, I'm not sure what to say. Your skin is more scar than ink at this point."

The skáld frowned and scribbled furiously on his tablet. Remake it.

"Look, it's not that simple. Sure, I know the spell. But to recreate it with all this damage and expect the magic to hold? It would take hours and hours of enchantment, and I can't promise results."

That was not the wind Arn had hoped would fill his sail. When the seiðr-wife gave him this rune, the process had been quick if painful. He could not afford to spend hours down here; he would be expected back at the gladiator school soon. Another way?

The loremaster scratched the top of his head. "Not really."

Do it split up.

He frowned. "That wouldn't work either. You can't interrupt the enchanting process."

Arn clenched his jaw. He had no knowledge of this magical craft, but he refused to leave without a solution. How fast?

"Look, I don't even know if it would work. If the magic would stick." He nodded at Arn's scarred arm. "It would be a roll of the die."

That was immaterial to Arn; he had no other option, so he had to pursue this. He tapped on his tablet again. How fast?

"Well, the longer I take, the better, probably. Give the magic as much time as possible to sink in, settle in."

I don't have time.

The loremaster raised a curious look from the letters to Arn. "Why not?" With no answer forthcoming, he scratched his head again. "I suppose I could… well, maybe there's a way."

Arn moved his hand in a circular motion, beckoning for the man to continue.

"I could create it as a rune token. That would let me spend all the time needed. But that means you have to absorb the magic and get it to settle. That's not easy."

Arn had some newfound experience with leeching magic; he would not object to this. Do it.

"Alright, steady your boat. I'll need the right stone that can hold this kind of enchantment. Can't just pick up any old pebble from the street, now, can I?" The loremaster licked his lips. "Come back Manday evening, same bell as now. I'll know more. Including price."

Not as swift a solution as Arn had hoped, but better than none. Taking his leave, Arn got up and walked out.

*

Upon his return, the guard at the entrance patted him down and checked his pouch by his belt. Once satisfied, he waved Arn inside and closed the gate behind him, and the Tyrian hurried to his cell. Once alone with the door shut, Arn ran a finger inside his belt. He had sewn a thread to create little straps that held his remaining coins and the needle itself, the equipment responsible for the craftsmanship. An old trick for hiding valuables where pickpockets would not think to look; nor did guards at the door, thankfully, when checking for weapons.

No matter how small, a needle could still kill in the right hands, such as those of a skilled gladiator, and Arn felt better knowing he had it within close reach at all times. His hoard and forbidden tool safely hidden, Arn went to sleep.