After Quatimonian’s uprooting of the rebellion, the long wane of winter began. However, its fading was longer, as the weather and temperament were unpredictable, and it was not until a third through spring that it finally became strategic to move further eastward into Junumianis. Until that time most of us mages spent the hours strategizing our magicks carefully, for in uprooting the rebellion we found disturbing documents that suggested a spy within the Moringian army.
As we took heed of the rebellion’s possessions a great deal of notes were found which provided significant detail of Quatimonian, Carinon, Nestyne, and myself. Our magicks, our specialties, our knowledge, and even our function as a unit were all written as if this person was intimate not only with our actions in battle, but with our histories as well. Personal details of my life were all present: my betrothal, my heritage, my master’s teachings, my time spent as an apothecary, and my whereabouts. These were the same for each of the mages, although I did not think to pry and neither did they, for this was contrary to our mission.
This finding alerted us to weaknesses in our strategy, which were twofold. Firstly, for our domains were limited and Nestyne could not cast beyond summoning without posing great risk to himself and others, that made our army fragile. If one of us was felled or incapacitated it would pose a strategic hole by which Junumianis could defeat us. Secondly, we realized we understood nothing about the Junumianian mage who had eluded us in the previous year. So, in the weeks prior to our march Eastward we began to address these issues.
Profiling the Junumianian mage fell mostly to Quatimonian and myself, for Carinon was in low spirits. Nestyne had made it his priority to ensure Carinon was capable of protecting our men, and so bid our work be sensitive to her guilt. Although our information was limited on the mage, for we did not even possess the mage’s name, the Master of Flows’s expertise in the minutiae of magicks was able to provide valuable insight to potential weaknesses of the mage.
Concluding that the mage was most certainly an expert in flame and conflagration, and based on the quality of his summons and animations, Quatimonian came to a strange conclusion: the mage was not from Junumianis, but either Harinia or somewhere southerly. Based on the strength of the mage’s spells, the mage did not show the well-roundedness of a Moringian education, for Moringia has a strong emphasis on research and flexibility to a detriment of quickness and raw strength. The quality of the mage’s summons was fair, but the under-reliance upon the skill was not typical of Junumianian spellcraft, which led Quatimonian to his conclusions. Strategizing for such a mage, however, would not be simple as seemed.
Carinon was still utterly affected by the spell she had cost about the fifty men, and Quatimonian’s uprooting of the rebellion seemed to worsen her demeanor. She less-often joined Hark, Bur, and myself for games, she seemingly prepared whichever spells met her whim, although rarely did I see her practice magicks, and often she did not show for meetings of strategy. Working with Carinon was likely to be a liability, and so Nestyne went to the commander and asked for some sort of reinforcements.
The two argued long over the early spring weeks. The commander accused Nestyne of lacking the means of discipline among the mages in his charge. The summoner, however, rebutted that the commander’s strategies had been too costly and that regardless of Nestyne’s ability to enforce discipline, the reinforcements were necessary. Commander Partelin eventually relented and sent for these reinforcements, but gave Nestyne a demotion of pay (but not title) to make apparent his displeasure in having to send for additional help. I still hold in high regard that my commanding officer managed to forestall the march of the Moringian army for the sake of a mage under his charge. Although he never spoke explicitly of this matter, Nestyne seemed content with his resolve on the matter, and did not seem to care much of demotion in pay.
To send for the reinforcements, Nestyne was requested to prepare a spell. For his specialties were mud and wood, he constructed a larger golem with the sensitive correspondence bound deep within its chest. Much like the earlier golem from Mesayne, this one was untiring, unrelenting, and of singular focus. It valued not its own protection, its own safety, or its life, only to ensure the letter reached our command westward and in return we would receive partial reinforcements in order to ensure our safety against the Junumianian mages. It would be two months until the first wave of reinforcements arrived.
Due to the acquired intelligence, our living arrangements were altered to ensure our safety, especially Nestyne’s. The documents procured indicated that our enemy had knowledge of his mind for tactics, and with the danger of a spy within our midst nothing would be left to chance. A larger portion of my magicks were mandated for the safety of mages, and at no time was I to leave Nestyne’s charge.
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These precautions meant that I spent less time among Carinon, Burr and Hark, and I feared long that Carinon’s condition would continue to worsen, for her appearance was dreadful. Her hair was unkempt, her complexion pale and sickly, her robes were wrinkled and muddy for she did not change them for days upon end. The only moments of joy I saw in her were the times in which she could heal the wounded and remove infection. A lightness would come upon her face, and for a moment it might seem that darkness had fled her thoughts and she would remain cheerful. With each passing day I could tell, however, that she had given up practice and study, as her form was imprecise and she stumbled upon her words. I decided, then, to redouble my efforts.
“Carinon,” I asked, “what troubles you? You are not yourself. You rarely jest, you do not study, and it has been a while since I have seen you get rest at the proper hour.”
I knew what troubled her, however, but was wise enough to commit a white lie lest she descend further into gloom. She answered truthfully, but did not fully reveal her affliction, perhaps out of shame.
“I am dreadfully tired, Nayinian. These fights weigh heavy on me, and I am not of good conscience. Why do men have to die? Why do we choose to kill our own and show no remorse? In the sermons to the saints and the patrons it is said that Decay and Yuorininis are to be scorned, for they dislike our kind, humanity, and the other twelve each are to be embraced, for they are what give our lives value. Yet, each day among supposedly honorable men I find, time and time again, that I do not embrace Paronian or virtue, but only disgust and hatred of life itself. What point is my magic if it does not embrace life, even if that life is not good or virtuous? Did not Paronian teach that all men are capable of goodness, however fallen?”
So Carinon spoke at length, not once alluding to the sacrifice her magicks had endorsed. It seemed her decision had afflicted her so deep that it had harmed the spirit, and lest she suffer a greater pain she chose ignorance to her actions at the battle of Huroncenth. Treading carefully at the edge of her sensitivities, I tried my best to assure her of the goodness of her actions and her person, for I was not then aware of the influence of Extirpation upon the hearts of good men and our armies, nor did I realize that it was not an honorable war, but one of greed and power.
“I value our companionship deeply, and I know you are not well. You have done a good thing. A difficult thing, but for a larger good. Now, will you please do a small goodness for yourself lest I grow frustrated with you and ensure your health by force?”
Carinon’s was deeply tired, her eyes were gray as if they were the mists of Mesayne, yet deep down I could still see her selfless spark move her to action, if only to do the motions of care for my sake and not her own. I would not be the one, however, to raise her from the depths of despair, but I did keep her within arm’s reach, lest she fall high from the cliffs of Huroncenth to the brumal plains. It would be a long voyage of recovery for her, and one that put our forces at significant risk; moreso had Nestyne not acquired reinforcements.
As the Kailpaonin regiment prepared for the second year of our campaign, Carinon’s changed demeanor brought to light something I had not yet considered: how changed all men among us had become. Those soldiers on the thundered plains were scarcely boys, not men and certainly not veterans; clumsy, green, and careless. They scarcely spoke at dinner, and had yet formed comradery. Yet, after the long winter in Huroncenth and the battles beforehand, our men had changed. It was, as if, they were of two sides: serious in matters of warfare, and jovial in matters of camp and entertainment. Perhaps, in this reflection, I wondered similarly to Carinon.
How could these happy men suddenly change their attitude and minds to kill guiltlessly, when months prior they were different men; scared men fighting a war they had only ever heard of for three long years? Yet, in camp, they showed no signs of their scars, their grief, and their worries. I learned, firsthand, a lesson in grief before our departure.
Days prior to the march eastward, a golem similar to Nestyne’s arrived, dissipating into heap of dirt and debris as it threw a crate of precious correspondence at the wall of the city. Letters for soldiers to be read by criars, love letters to veterans, family news, and tactical information were all contained within. We rejoiced that in a few months time the first wave of reinforcements would arrive, and rejoiced at Moringia's seemingly-unstoppable easterly advance. This good news, however, turned to matters of Decay and death for myself, as I found myself in the misfortune of receiving a letter from Yularelian, who is a scoundrel and a cur informing me that Corindrian had passed of fatal illness during the winter.
I grieved long from the guilt. I would grieve a second time in autumn, but for sake of hatred instead.