There was no trail leading Pirin back home, but he didn’t need one. He’d wandered the Frosthold Forest many times in the past few years, and he knew exactly what to look for. A spire of rock jutting out and reaching high above the treeline? Turn west, slightly. The exceptionally large, rotting tree stump? Turn east, and turn now.
He didn’t know how he navigated. He didn’t have any specific memories of the landmarks, he just knew. His memories were damaged, but that didn’t mean his instincts faded.
It had been two—or maybe three—days since he had defeated the karebain, and the details of the encounter were growing hazy in his mind. When he tried to recall anything specific, it slipped out of his grasp like dry sand through his fingers.
But there had been an Immortal, a predecessor of his, and he remembered that clear as day. It was the only thing that wasn’t fading.
He couldn’t waste this opportunity.
He marched along through the snow, clutching his arm and panting. His hood was up, shielding his head and ears, but his coat still had a tear in the chest and the sleeve, where the karebain had bashed his arm.
It probably wasn’t broken, just dislocated. He had set it back in place himself, then fashioned a bandage out of his bedroll to quell the bleeding. He stuffed it into his sleeve to keep it still. But there wasn’t much else he could do, and it still hurt like hell.
At noon on the second or third day, a voice called out to him. He couldn’t make out any words yet, so he stopped in his tracks. His good hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of his sword. While he didn’t have any cohesive memories of training, that wasn’t saying much. They could’ve been damaged or destroyed. Reaching for his sword must have been a habit.
He spun in a circle, scanning the woods around.
Nothing.
“You there!” the voice called again, much closer. A pair of shadows emerged from the woods. Both of them were elves in fur cloaks and tattered coats, and they both carried hunting bows.
Not good.
Pirin couldn’t’ve been the only one who had heard rumours about the karebain. With how valuable of a prize it was, there might be competition for it. Chances were, the hunters didn’t have enough spiritual potential to cultivate Essence, but they’d sell the manabulbs to someone who could.
Northern elves wouldn’t steal. At least, most of them wouldn’t. To steal from someone else was a great shame and dishonour. But Pirin would be surprised if a pair of hunters abided by strict codes of honour. They might find a way to claim the manabulbs were always theirs.
He kept trudging along through the snow, and his hand still hovered near his sword’s hilt. He’d be getting close to the Northvel Trail, now, which would take him directly to the capital city—he’d be home by evening.
“Woah, there, traveller!” one of the elves called. “There’s a wild spirit beast in these woods! You wouldn’t happen to have seen it, would you?”
Pirin walked faster. For all their niceties, he couldn’t trust them. He breathed quickly, cycling Essence around his body.
He only had a rudimentary pattern for passing Essence through the channels in his body, but it was all he knew.
He shut his eyes and let his mind fall blank, then forced his consciousness downward. It passed through the Essence channels in his body, and toward his stomach. A vast, empty space hung inside him. In the center of the darkness, he envisioned his core. Most wizards’ cores burned like a fire, but his was a fist-sized clump of ash etched with glowing orange lines—like a cracked marble.
At the moment, he only had a single arcane technique: the Whisper Hitch—what he’d used against the Karebain. It was an Assault technique, the general class of arcane techniques for long distance attacks. There were Manifestation techniques, for making solid objects out of Essence, and Fortification techniques, for temporarily strengthening the body with Essence, but he didn’t know any.
“Alright, enough!” the second hunter called. “Stop where you are! Open your sack, and show us the contents, or we’ll stick an arrow through your back! If you got anything from the karebain, it’s ours.”
Yep. Just like Pirin feared.
He opened his eyes and turned around, then held his one good hand up in mock surrender. No sense keeping them at a distance. “You can check my haversack. I’ve got nothing in it.” That, of course, was a lie, but it’d be better if they thought he had nothing. It’d make them less suspicious.
Both hunters stepped closer. One pulled his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow. The other reached for Pirin’s haversack. They were both looking down.
They didn’t notice him attempting a Whisper Hitch in his raised hand.
He locked eyes with the bow-wielding hunter and made an attempt.
On the first attempt, his Essence rebelled—a fault of his Embercore. He winced, but the hunters wouldn’t see anything. The first hunter pulled open his haversack.
“What have we here?” the hunter exclaimed with mock sarcasm. “I told you he was walking funny. He took our manabulbs!”
I earned those, Pirin wanted to say. They’re mine. I killed the beast.
It wasn’t fair, but nothing about this world was fair. He’d learned that long ago.
But he bit his tongue and kept concentrating on the Whisper Hitch. It failed again. Unlucky. A spasm of pain raced down his arm, but he kept cycling, holding the breathing pattern and Essence movements steady.
“We’ll be taking those back, now,” said the hunter. “If anything, you killed it in our territory, so they belong to us by default. Hand them over, boy, before you dishonour yourself.”
They didn’t know who he was. How could they? He wore a simple, tattered coat and had his hood up high over his head. He could flex his status on them, but that didn’t feel right, and it probably wouldn’t work.
Everyone knew he was the Embercore king. Some even thought he was weaker than a non-wizard.
Pirin pushed his Essence to the peak. He activated the Whisper Hitch one more time and thrust his Essence through his veins with as much power as he could muster. Blue sparks of unstable, pure-aspect Essence crackled on his fingertips. His heart pounded, and his blood thrummed in his ears.
He didn’t have a Path. He didn’t have an aspect-bend to his Essence; it was just pure.
The Whisper Hitch failed a third time, and it failed spectacularly. A flash of pale blue pure Essence flared out of his palm. It was harmless, but it felt like Pirin’s entire arm had exploded, one blood vessel at a time.
But he was used to pain. And he was used to turning bad luck in his favour.
The hunters let out an exclamation of shock and fright, and they both leapt back. Pirin rammed his shoulder into one hunter’s chest. It was his injured shoulder, and though he’d set his arm, it still screamed out in discomfort.
Then he drew his sword.
His memories were hazy, and he didn’t know how or why he knew how to use a sword. But his fingers fit neatly around the worn leather hilt, and he ripped the blade out of the sheath with his one good hand.
The simple silver blade flashed through the air. The bow-wielding hunter released his arrow, but he fired aimlessly, still reeling from the flash of Essence. Pirin slashed through the bow, then swung back the other direction, cutting the man across the chest. The man collapsed.
It wasn’t fancy, and it wasn’t perfect. It was scrappy, like Pirin had been scrounging the gutters of a massive city to stay alive, learning the tricks of the street. He couldn’t say for certain, but it wasn’t how a king should’ve fought.
Perhaps it was how an Embercore should fight, though.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The other hunter had his bow off his shoulder, and he was pulling back an arrow. Pirin didn’t let himself think. He advanced, holding his sword out to the side, then slashed through the hunter’s throat before he could loose the arrow.
Pirin fell to his knees, resting on the sword and panting. Two elven bodies lay on the ground in front of him, leaking crimson blood. He glanced at his sword, then wiped it off in the snow. “Just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Pirin muttered. He wracked his brain, hoping an explanation would surface. Why did he know how to use a sword?
Nothing did.
Panting, he pushed himself back to his feet, then wiped the sword off in the snow. He was almost back to the capital, and he couldn’t waste any more time. He trudged off through the forest.
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When Pirin made it back to the capital city, he could barely stand.
He dragged himself toward the city of Northvel along a trail of packed snow and ice, clutching his arm and panting.
Northvel, capital city of the nation of Sirdia, was just ahead. Pillars of warm smoke beckoned him.
The city perched on the brink of the Sheercliff, a wall of rock that ran from one side of the continent to the other. In the setting sun, the city’s circular sandstone walls seemed to glow, and the spires of its towers glimmered.
Pirin crossed an iced-over river, then followed the trail up to the base of a frozen waterfall. In the summer, the waterfall poured out of a culvert at the center of Northvel’s wall and fell all the way down to the base of the Sheercliff, and in the winter, it froze and sheltered the trail from the frigid winds. The trail wound back and forth up the Sheercliff, nestled neatly behind the waterfall.
Just a few more steps, he told himself. Just a few more.
When he was halfway up the cliff, the city outskirts began. On the cliff-facing side of the walkway, storefronts and hovels clung to the rock wall. Orange candlelight seeped out of their windows, and shapes danced behind the glass. Tall, slender elves stepped out into their doorways or peered out of their windows.
He knew they were looking at him. It was impossible to hide who he was. Only the nobility of Sirdia had black hair, and in a crowd of otherwise light-haired elves, he stuck out like a rusty nail. Even worse, he had been missing for…who knew how long? His return was sure to draw attention.
The onlookers stared. Just stared. They were silent, and it wasn’t an awed silence. There was no fanfare or celebration, no parade or royal entourage. Just a scrawny, useless wizard-king.
They knew exactly what he was, too.
But at least he had something to show for his misadventure. The manabulbs, though small, weighed down his pack. Every step, they let off a glassy tinkle, like a quiet windchime.
He increased his pace until he was running along the pathway. As soon as he had passed, the crowd went back to their business, shaking their heads and sighing.
At the top of the cliff, he passed through a portcullis. He didn’t make it far before two of the city guards—elves in silver armour and tattered blue cloaks—ran towards him. One set a hand on his shoulder and exclaimed, “Your majesty!”
The other guard ran in front of Pirin, his shield and spear clanking. “Where were you?” It was hardly the greeting anyone should address a king with, but they were just words, and Pirin didn’t need to be treated like he was special. Least of all, fragile.
“I was busy,” Pirin grunted. “But I’m back now.”
“That’s sure enough,” said the first guard. He turned and pointed deeper into the city. Beyond the tightly-packed wooden structures and rising columns of smoke, the palace loomed over everything. It was a domed structure with blocky offshoots in every direction. Hundreds of frosty windows glowed orange.
“Let’s get you home,” the second guard said. “I’m sure the Chancellor will want a word with you…”
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Pirin marched down a hallway of the palace with attendants trailing behind him.
They’d done their best to clean, bandage, and sling his arm, but there was nothing more they could do except fuss, and they wouldn’t leave even when he told them to.
But the Chancellor wanted to talk with Pirin, and Pirin wouldn’t keep him waiting.
Pirin trekked through the tall, empty hallways. The sun had set completely, and the halls were dark. His boots thumped against the floor, and his coattails swished behind him. It was a new coat—pristine, deep blue wool with a fur trim.
He tried to tune out the attendants’ nattering and focus on his memories. His recollection of any past event was hazy. It wasn’t that it was gone, just that the finer details—emotions, subtle movements, specific colours—were impossible to push to the front of his mind, and when he tried, they slipped away before he could focus on them. The further back Pirin tried to look, the worse it got.
And…if he told anyone about it? Well, there was nothing to gain from telling anyone, that much was certain. They’d just use it against him in the council chambers.
Pirin rounded a corner and stopped. Another elf approached from the opposite. He wore a long white robe, and his graying hair shimmered in the candlelight. Elves’ immortality was exaggerated greatly—only those with the strongest magic stopped aging. There hadn’t been an immortal elf for…well, Pirin didn’t know how long. Most of them—like Hir Venias—ascended to the heavens when they grew too powerful.
“Good evening, your majesty,” said the white-robed elf. In his hand, he carried a slip of parchment. He motioned to the attendants, and without hesitation, they bowed and backed away, then walked back the direction they came.
“Chancellor Ivescent,” Pirin acknowledged, dipping his head. The guards seemed to throw Chancellor Ivescent’s name around like it was a threat, but Pirin didn’t mind the chancellor’s company. The chancellor was better than the other advisors or lords of the Sirdian Court. More pleasant, if only slightly.
“Where were you?” the chancellor demanded, setting a firm hand down on Pirin’s shoulder. The chancellor wasn’t a wizard—he didn’t have an enhanced body—but his grip was unusually tight. His eyes demanded the truth.
“There was a karebain,” Pirin said. “One of the guards said he’d spotted it wandering in the woods south of the city, so I went after it.” He rubbed his chin and scrunched his lips, hoping the chancellor wouldn’t press the minutiae. He couldn’t remember which guard had told him.
“And you killed it, I presume?” asked Ivescent.
“I killed it.” Pirin reached into his other pocket, producing a handful of glowing manabulbs. He showed them to the Chancellor.
“A lucky reward.”
Pirin scowled. It hadn’t been luck; it was perseverance. But he said, “I guess the karebain was just young.”
Ivescent scoffed. “And you presumed this would fix your”—he tapped Pirin’s chest with his finger—“inadequacies?”
After a short pause, Pirin said, “I thought the Essence would help.”
Ivescent opened his mouth, then shut it again. He shook his head. “Regardless, your disappearance was worrisome. We needed your seal to approve the Gatemaster's call. We need more soldiers on the southern border.” The chancellor held out the sheet of paper. In his other hand, he held a silver signet ring. Pirin had left the ring behind when he’d embarked on his hunt. “Your seal, Pirin.”
It wasn’t ‘We needed you.’ They needed his seal, and that was it.
Ivescent produced a small blue candle from the folds of his robe and lit it. He dripped a fingernail-sized glob of wax onto the bottom corner of the page.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a set of eyeglasses. He hadn’t brought them out to hunt, and rarely did they leave the palace anymore. He was farsighted, so in the wilderness, they had no purpose.
When he slipped them on, the sheet of parchment came into focus.
“Sirdia is at war, Pirin, whether you see it or not,” said Ivescent. “We need a king that we can rely on. None of the other advisors or lords believe that it’s you. They would rather have a normal, non-wizard politician than an Embercore. It’s shameful to the nation, they say.”
Reluctantly, Pirin picked up the signet ring and pressed it into the wax. The page shifted, and he lifted the signet too soon, but it didn’t really matter if the wax got smudged. The order had already been sent. The soldiers were marching as they spoke.
“Thank you,” said Ivescent. He shook the page to dry it, then snuffed his candle and took a step forward. “Walk with me, if you will.”
Pirin sighed. The chancellor began to walk without waiting for Pirin’s leave. Pirin jogged to Ivescent’s side, wincing as the sudden movement jostled his arm.
“They tended to you well, I hope?” Ivescent asked.
“Well enough.”
“I am sorry we don’t have any healers—those with healing magic—to send to your aid.”
Pirin stuffed his good hand into his pocket and began to fidget with the manabulbs. They were soft and delicate, and he didn’t want to risk them falling out.
Then, he glared at Ivescent and asked, “What is it? If this is just pleasantries, then I’ll head off to my room for the night.”
“So impatient,” Ivescent grumbled. “I know why you were out there, and…I admire your efforts, Pirin. But manabulbs won’t be enough to fix your Embercore. There has to be a better way of going about this.”
“You have a solution?”
“Call it a strategy.” Ivescent fell silent for a moment. They rounded a corner and passed a pair of guards. As soon as they were out of earshot, Ivescent continued, “Without a Familiar, your Essence channels will never sort themselves out. Your core will never burn properly, and your magic will never work like you want it to. You’ll never make it to the Spark stage, let alone Catch or Flare or Blaze—or beyond.”
Pirin grimaced. Everyone with magic formed an arcane bond with an animal, a Familiar, when they turned eighteen—everyone except Pirin. Even now, in his twentieth year, he hadn’t managed to form a bond with a Familiar.
That too was because of his Embercore, but it wasn’t the root cause. He had been an Embercore from birth. Most wizards’ cores burned properly even before they bonded with a Familiar.
“You think that…if I manage to form a bond with a Familiar, my magic will sort itself out?”
“I think it would be a step on the right path,” said the Chancellor. “Tomorrow evening, find me after the council meeting. I have something in mind.” The Chancellor paused and shifted his foot, as if he was about to walk away. But he stayed a moment longer. “Pirin, you wield the power of a great Bloodline. Your strength is not to twist minds, but to control memory itself. We cannot let that power be wasted.”