Jordan pushed her hair away from her face, tugging at it in frustration. She rolled her eyes at Norae, who sat on a log nearby, observing. The Callkin gave no reaction, so Jordan turned back to Esadora.
“It’s no use, Grandma!” she pleaded. “I can’t do it! I can’t feel anything!”
“You’re trying too hard,” Esadora observed.
Jordan threw her head back, groaning in frustration as she stamped at the snow underfoot.
Esadora smiled patiently. “Remember when you were little, and you were learning to ride a bicycle?”
“What’s that got to do with magic?” Jordan snapped.
“Nothing,” Esadora mused, “And everything. Both are about balance – about feeling, rather than thinking. When you finally stayed upright and made your first trip down the driveway, were you thinking about keeping your balance? Of course not, you were only feeling the euphoria of accomplishment. This is exactly the same.”
Jordan frowned down at the little twig clasped in her gloved hand. It was dormant, grey, and lifeless, protecting itself against the harsh depths of winter in the mountains. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried again.
“Imagine the glow of energy surrounding each tiny shoot,” Esadora instructed, her voice soft and unintrusive. “Watch it budding – what colour do you see?”
“Green,” Jordan replied slowly. “I’m imagining a kind of green aura around it… But pink where the flower will grow from.”
Esadora nodded in satisfaction, watching the play of energy that Jordan was unwittingly enacting around the twig as she imagined it. Norae leaned forward in silence, intrigued.
“Watch the leaves unfurl,” Esadora continued in quiet monotone, “See the shoot that will become a flower bud… Pink, you said – imagine it glowing brighter, within and around the bud, strengthening it, changing form from energy to tangible mass. See the petals lengthening, unfurling… What kind of flower is it?”
“Umm…” Jordan’s frown deepened with concentration, “It’s a hibiscus.”
“One of my favourites.” Esadora’s whisper was approving. “Open your eyes, Jordan.”
Jordan obliged, and stared in wonder as the twig in her hand finished doing exactly what she’d seen in her mind’s eye. Tiny leaves sprang up and unfolded, darkening to a lustrous forest hue as they reached full size. A hibiscus bloom, larger than life and coloured a delicate pink, unfurled. The pale rosy petals darkened towards their centre, meeting in a vibrant swathe of ruby. Jordan whooped in delight as the transformation completed.
“I did it, Grandma!” she gushed, “Look! I really did it!”
She brandished the twig like a trophy, and Esadora let her have her moment, muttering complimentary things. Jordan grinned, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
She winked at her grandmother. “So… when can I turn into a dragon?”
Esadora laughed. “In about two hundred years or so, if you keep practising.”
“…What?”
“Of course,” Esadora mused, “Your Callkin friend would not have thought to mention it. She is a Common Witchkin-”
“Grandma, that’s so prejudiced!” Jordan interrupted, leaping to the defence of her friend. Norae opened her mouth to correct Jordan, but shut it again as Esadora snorted.
“You are now showing your ignorance, dearie. Common Witchkin is merely descriptive – like saying someone is an American. No need for overt sensitivity. Pay attention whilst I enlighten you.” She rapped Jordan on the top of her head – her personal symbol for engaging the brain. “I assume by now Norae would have at least mentioned to you the different types of Witchkin?”
Jordan nodded, Norae shadowing her action subconsciously.
“Good. Shorter lesson, then. As you know, there are different Orders of Witchkin, corresponding to the Elements they draw power from. These are called the High Orders. Those that fall outside of the High Orders are called Common Witchkin – an informal Order of its own. They are so named because, in short, they are more common than the true elemental Witchkin. There are, of course, many Witchkin from all orders on Andoherra, but the Common orders are far more numerous – everything from Callkin-" she nodded acknowledgement at Norae “-to Kitchkin, Creakin, Ferrakin etcetera.”
She paused, made sure Jordan was listening.
“The major difference between the High and Common Orders is that Common Witchkin have less derivative magic. They cannot port, and – the point, incidentally – they live roughly average human lifespans. Because of the potency of magic in the veins of High Order Witchkin, they live much longer.”
Jordan squinted. “How long?”
“Elemental and Obscure Witchkin can live as long as a thousand years,” Esadora said. “We age normally until we turn twenty-one, at which time our magic comes into its full potential. After that, our physicality evolves, and we age one year for every ten. These decade-long years are known as andoyears.”
Jordan hesitated, eying Esadora suspiciously. “How old does that make you?”
Esadora raised her eyebrows. “I am approaching my seventieth andoyear.”
Jordan ran a quick calculation. “You’re seven hundred?!”
“Approaching seven hundred,” Esadora corrected, folding her arms.
Jordan went weak at the knees, mouth agape. Absently, she fingered her blooming twig, a reflection of her whirling thoughts.
“Hold on…” she said, the barest tremor shadowing her voice, “I will also live forever…?”
Esadora rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “Not forever, Jordan.”
“You know what I mean – I will live for centuries, but…” She shot a nervous peek at her friend, “But… Norae… will not?”
Esadora’s face softened, and she passed her gaze between the two. Norae appeared unruffled, which was to be expected – she was Andoherran, and understood the way things worked. Jordan, however, wore the face of a lost, frightened child, and Esadora edged the bite out of her voice in sympathy.
“Callkin live approximately a hundred and twenty years, on average, child.”
Jordan flashed an anguished glance at Norae, turned her pleading gaze back to her grandmother. “Isn’t there a way…? I don’t want to live for hundreds of years when my friend has to die!”
“Everyone dies, dearie,” Esadora said kindly, “Who can say when? Do not despair – Worldkin have a notoriously bad habit of dying young. Your mother only counted six andoyears – that’s well within a Common lifespan.”
“Gee, thanks, Grandma. That makes everything better.”
Norae got up, laid a comforting hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “All have our time, Jordan. Many years as have, enough for me. Will be privilege to share as your friend.”
Jordan nodded at her words, blinked back the burn of tears, and straightened her shoulders. Esadora graced Norae with an approving glance, and Norae dipped her head with a small smile.
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“Life is hard, sometimes,” Esadora said to Jordan, “Best not to think too long on things you can’t control, dearie.” Quietly, she handed her granddaughter another lifeless twig. “Far better to work on what you can control. Here, try again.”
Norae stepped back and returned to her vantage as Jordan took the little branch. She stared down, flexing her fingers around it, trying to shake her morbid thought train. Despite her valiant efforts, her lip trembled. A heavy melancholy sank claws into her heart. She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate, but saw only the shadow of Norae’s face, a sad, resigned smile painted on her lips.
“Jordan…” Esadora’s tone was a warning, “Control yourself, girl.”
Jordan’s eyes flashed open at her tone, and she shook herself, sniffing in an attempt to stem her tears before they resurged. She took a deep breath, looked down at the twig to capture its image in her mind, and closed her eyes once more. Immediately, imaginings of a long, lonely life attacked. She saw herself, alone, weeping at the graves of everyone she had ever cared for. Slowly, despair burned to anger… She didn’t want to accept it – she wouldn’t!
“Jordan!” Esadora barked, surging forward to knock the twig from her hands.
Jordan jolted back to the present, staring down in horror at a spreading circle of inky blackness that rippled out from the fallen twig. The nefarious shadow shrivelled everything it touched – even the snow turned hard and crusty, like crumbled charcoal. The twig contorted in silent agony where it had fallen, disintegrating into nothing more than ash and dust. Esadora whipped out a hand at the seeping destruction, stopping it in its tracks. Norae sat on the edge of her seat, white-knuckled and staring.
“What happened?” Jordan whispered, tense with fright.
“There are two sides to a Worldkin’s magic,” Esadora explained, her tone grim, “Creation… and Chaos.” She gestured to the circle of charred snow and twisted brush. “This is what Chaos looks like. Your first twig is what Creation looks like. You must be completely focused with magic Jordan – horrible accidents can happen, otherwise.”
“I don’t understand,” Jordan said, still gawping at the destruction she had caused, “I wasn’t doing magic…”
“You don’t do magic, Jordan,” Esadora sighed, “You are magic. It is part of you, colouring everything you do. You can’t turn it off either, so be aware of its presence.”
Jordan wrung her guilty hands. “Creation and Chaos… what does that mean, Grandma?”
Esadora put an arm around her shoulders, and they stared at the disintegrating charcoal together.
“Think of it more simply as life and death,” Esadora said. “And no, before you ask, your power does not stretch to resurrection. Once something is dead, it’s dead – that’s why we are working with dormant branches, not dead ones.”
She lifted her free hand and painted a shimmering picture in the air. Norae craned her neck to see better, and Esadora, noticing, beckoned for her to join them. The young women watched, mesmerised, as she illustrated her explanation.
“Worldkin can Create, that is to say, we can give life to inanimate things, can conjure something from nothing. You could make a tree pick up its roots and walk, for example. Or form water into a solid creature that acts independently, though it has no mind of its own. You can alter one shape to another...”
A tiny Worldkin transformed herself into a dragon as Esadora spoke, breathing purple fire above an animated tree and a snake made of water. Then, the little apparition shifted back to her usual form, clawing her fingers on both hands. The tree jerked to a halt, blackened, and tumbled down to shatter into a thousand pieces; the snake exploded in a hiss of steam. Jordan and Norae flinched.
“Or…” Esadora continued, “A Worldkin can wield Chaos. You could tear the life right out of that tree, smite the water beast where it stands. Our magic works on energy, the giving, the taking, and enhancing of such. There is a lot more to it all, but it will take you a lifetime to learn.” She caught Jordan’s eye. “Even I am still learning.”
“Are there any limits?” Jordan asked, her voice hushed with wonder as she reached out to the fading picture in the air.
“Of course there are limits,” Esadora smiled, “I just haven’t discovered them yet.”
Jordan threw her a questioning glance, and she saw fit to elaborate.
“Look around you, dearie,” she gestured to the world at large, “The whole of Andoherra was created by a Worldkin’s magic, torn into existence from nothing. Incidentally, that’s why it’s unstable… but it serves the purpose of an example of the limitations of a Worldkin’s power.” She paused thoughtfully, and then added, “I believe your boundaries depend entirely on the strength of your will – and the level of confidence with which you wield your magic.”
Jordan wrapped her arms around herself, stifling a shiver. Somehow, she didn’t find the idea exciting – it terrified her.
“I hope I’m up to all that,” she said, bleak.
“Andoherra is an extreme example,” Esadora comforted, “There has never been another Worldkin quite like Malevelyn. She was incredibly attuned to her power, and she reached a level of skill unheard of before or since.”
Suddenly, Norae’s head jerked up, her eyes narrowed. Esadora switched her attention to the Callkin, guard raised.
“Something coming,” Norae growled, answering the Worldkin’s unspoken question.
Her dark gaze roved, keen as a falcon, seeking movement in the white and shadow of the surrounding forest. High above, Thallo screeled a warning cry, and then Norae pointed to a speck moving haltingly through the trees.
“There!”
Esadora followed her finger, face grim, and positioned herself half a step in front of the two younger women. They waited, silent as death, watching the figure come. Soon, they could see it was a man, or what remained of a man, shirtless despite the crackling cold. He moved in their direction without apparent intent. His steps were strange, jarring, his arms mechanical at his sides. At the edge of the treeline, he stumbled, falling hard to lie unmoving, face down in the snow. Jordan’s breath left her in a rush.
“He’s hurt!” she exclaimed, jumping forth to his aid.
Esadora barked a command and Norae dashed after her, pulling her up by the arm before she quite reached him. Incensed, Jordan struggled against the Callkin’s grip, but Norae held her fast until Esadora caught up to them.
“Enough, Jordan!”
The gravity of her tone surprised Jordan into obedience. Norae released her, and they stood quiet as Esadora approached the fallen man. She gasped Malevelyn’s name as she drew near, her face grey with trepidation. With an agitated finger, she summoned Jordan and Norae to bear witness. They tiptoed closer, standing behind Esadora as she stared down.
“The hell…?” Jordan exclaimed, and Norae tapped her eyelids against evil.
“Keep well back,” Esadora warned, “But I wanted you to see.”
With a strand of magic, she turned the man onto his back and gusted the snow from his body. His breath rose and fell shallow, his skin taut and cracking across his chest. A strange, orange-brown mould covered every inch of him, and his joints were swollen into unnatural shapes. In several places, the blight appeared to have eaten clean through his skin, leaving wounds that seeped black, viscous blood. His eyes, nose and ears wept the same tar-like substance, thick rivulets staining his cheeks.
“What happened to him?” Jordan whispered, horrified.
“Rust,” Esadora muttered, her face contorted with a mixture of disgust and worry. “Whatever you do, do not touch him – Rust is viciously contagious, and there is no cure.”
“Never seen like it,” Norae murmured, crouching down to inspect, but keeping her limbs well clear.
“It’s a disease caused by magic, or, more specifically, the breakdown of magic,” Esadora explained. “It has only happened once before in all of Andoherra’s history – it comes with the Dark of the Sun. He is a Witchkin – what kind, now, is impossible to tell. You see how the magic in his blood has turned black with sickness?”
The young women nodded, morbidly fascinated. Esadora lifted her chin, gazing into the distance.
“He must have come from Avacor Reach – there is a pass through the mountains not far from here.” She turned her gaze back to her companions. “He will not be the only one suffering from this. I must go and see if there is anything I can do for the people there, even if mercy is all I can offer.”
“We’ll go with you!” Jordan exclaimed, but Esadora shook her head.
“It is too dangerous.” Her tone brooked no argument. “I will not be gone long. You two stay here, stay close to the bastion, and keep far away from anyone else who might wander through. Exception of Calyx, of course. She should be here any time now – frankly, I’m surprised she hasn’t arrived already.”
She swept her gaze from one to the other to ensure they had marked her words, and the set of her granddaughter’s jaw made her frown.
“I mean it, Jordan,” she warned, “If I return to find you lost to the talons of Rust, or anything else for that matter, you will discover new meaning to the word wrath.”
Jordan sighed. “What about him?”
Esadora glanced down, saw that the man’s eyes had opened, crusted, and bleary. Rigid, he tried to rise, but she swept out her hand and pinned him to the ground. With an air of grim finality, she carved her magic down his chest, splicing it to reveal his soul. She crooked a finger and pulled it free. It left him, a faint, translucent shadow.
The barest tint of yellow coloured it, and Esadora nodded to herself. “Airkin, as I expected – a band of them live at Avacor Reach.”
“What did you do?” Jordan whispered, horrified by the display.
“Another example of the power of Chaos,” Esadora replied, unruffled. “Though we may not wield magic in the same tangible proportions as Elemental Witchkin – no throwing fireballs or rock spears, in other words – we can touch the very essence of life itself. Either to harm, or to heal – that’s up to the individual… and the circumstances.”
Jordan shook her head. “That kind of power… It shouldn’t be allowed…”
“Can’t be helped, dearie, it runs in our veins. Learn to control yours, before you do things like that-” she waved down at the human shell “-by accident.”
Jordan gulped, turned wide eyes on Norae.
The Callkin shrugged. “People die in magic accidents.”
“Precisely,” Esadora agreed. She readied herself to leave, fixing Jordan with a pertinent stare. “You two keep out of trouble, you hear?”
“Yes, Grandma,” Jordan said, and meant it.
Esadora noted no further shadow of rebelliousness and, with a satisfied nod, pulled a shawl of magic about her shoulders. She shimmered in a smoky haze, porting away. In the notable emptiness left in her wake, Norae and Jordan exchanged glances, sobered by the discarded man sprawled at their feet.
“Uh, shall we go inside?” Jordan asked.
“Good idea,” Norae nodded.
She whistled for Thallo, and, together, the trio retreated to the depths of Queenhaven.