For the next hour, Pirin and the librarian, Nalwen, gathered books. He tried to read them, but she kept bringing more and more, until he had a stack nearly as tall as he was. After an hour, she told him that there were few others he might find helpful.
He’d never be able to read through all the books unless he had a week straight. The words of the common tongue seemed more like runes to decipher, as if he’d just learned to read a few years ago, and part of him wondered if that was truly the case.
He scoffed. A king who could barely read.
“Well, no one ever said you were a good king,” he muttered to himself, then sat down against the wall and resorted to flipping through the books. Every so often, he looked up, only to find Nalwen staring at him from beneath her cowl.
The first book wrote about the Eane—the world’s life energy, an invisible field stirred up by the movement of natural Ichor beneath the world’s surface. It created fields of natural aura. Wizards could draw the Eane directly into their body and convert it to Essence through careful cycling techniques, and once Pirin got past the Kindling stage, he’d be able to do it too.
“But how does that help me?” Pirin asked.
Nalwen paced, stroking her owl Familiar. “Every part of the world’s magic is linked. Ichor creates all magic energy. People mine Ichor and feed it to potential wizards for exactly this purpose.” She held out her arm, and her owl leapt onto it. For a moment, the bird’s eyes flared gold. “If that potential wizard is indeed magical, then they will form a Reyad bond with a Familiar the moment they drink the Ichor. The lifeblood of our world binds to their blood, unwinding their Essence pathways and preparing them to continue on with their life.”
“But not for an Embercore…” Pirin whispered.
“Not for an Embercore. You are too unstable to form a Reyad naturally.”
Pirin picked up the next book and flipped through its five hundred pages in twenty or thirty minutes, reading various passages about Familiars and the changes most bodies (of the wizards and their animal companions) underwent when they formed a Reyad.
When he had made it about halfway through the book, there was a flutter of wings behind him, and he spotted a brown blur pass by the window. A small, messenger bird. Without a passenger, it might just have enough range to clear the Tallas-Brannul lake.
Pirin inhaled sharply and his heart began to beat faster. “They’re sending—”
“Yes, yes.” Nalwen laid a hand on his shoulder. “The other librarians would not dare lay a hand on anyone under my protection, but they will not hesitate to send word to the Aerdians.”
“We should have stopped them!” Pirin hissed.
“They would have found another way. They are devotees to the nation of Aerdia and the Governor-King.”
“And what about Gray? What about my gnatsnapper?”
Nalwen shook her head. “You are under my protection, and therefore, she is too.” She stretched out a long finger and tapped the book. “Keep…skimming, at least, and try to retain some knowledge.”
Pirin turned back to the book. He rifled through the pages until he reached the end, then he snapped it shut and looked up. “So…a Familiar forms its own core when it makes a Reyad with a wizard?”
“Indeed,” Nalwen answered. “Your Familiar attains an intelligence and a soul much like your own.”
“Gray—my gnatsnapper—she doesn’t have a core, though.”
“Correct. You have no Ichor bound to your blood and your bird has no core for you to pass Essence to; you have no Familiar. Your core will never burn properly, and you will never achieve true growth. You may gain more Essence and practice your techniques, and someday, your strength might equal that of a Catch-stage wizard. You might yet live a happy and fulfilled life, should your nation repel the constant advances of Aerdia and the Dominion.”
Pirin sighed. A Catch-stage wizard? They had a complete core, and that didn’t sound too terrible. He’d pass Kindling and Spark, and…he might have something to show for his life, if only he worked hard and—
But what would that matter when the Dominion sent their most powerful wizards across the sea? What would it matter when swarms of Aerdian elves marched north and broke through the mountain pass? What could a Catch-stage wizard do when the armies of Sirdia were slaughtered in fields or burned alive in their cities?
He opened his mouth to speak, but Nalwen was faster. She stated, “There have been greater feats of magic than you could ever imagine. The raising of the Stormwall, the great constructions of the Mainland, the elves' pilgrimage to this continent…your little disadvantage can be overcome yet.” She crossed her arms. “You could be more, Pirin. You could reunite our land and resist the Dominion.”
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Pirin grimaced. “And how would I do that?”
“You would need to become a powerful wizard yourself. You would need to fix your Embercore, and you would need a teacher.”
“You’re missing an important step,” he said softly. I’m still an Embercore. What teacher would take an Embercore? And Sirdia has no other wizards.”
“No, no. That, you must repair on your own. And that is why you are here, is it not?”
He nodded slowly. “So we’re getting ahead of ourselves?”
“Very much so.
He stood up and looked out the window. “How much time do we have?”
“A day for the messenger to cross the lake, and however long it spends flying to your pursuers. If you left here in two days’ time, you would be safe.”
“Then I’d better get reading.”
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A rider met the Red Hand at a crossroads in the empty, open expanse of the Aerdian Fieldband. He intercepted the Hand’s carriage and begged them to stop. He was an Aerdian elf soldier, clad in light ambersteel armour and an orange cloak.
“Tallas-Brannul!” the elf yelled, his voice barely seeping through the carriage’s window. “The black-haired elf is at the Library of Tallas-Brannul!”
With a tap against the carriage’s wall, the Hand signalled for the coachman to halt. After a few yards, the horses stopped trotting and the carriage’s wheels stopped rumbling. Both of the Hand’s disciples sat upright and glanced around. It was Nael, the satyr, who asked, “What’s happening? Is there something interesting going on? Sir?”
“Calm yourself. It seems that someone has brought us news,” the Hand answered. He stood up and pushed the carriage’s door open, then stepped out onto the snowy path.
The rider, panting and huffing, trotted his horse in a circle, then dismounted and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord.”
The Red Hand was no lord, not anymore, but he doubted the rider understood any other terms of respect, and so he tolerated it. “What news?”
“The librarians at Tallas-Brannul report that the heir, the black-haired elf, has arrived. He’s seeking information, and will be there for a short while. If you hurry, you might catch him. Messenger pigeon arrived only a half-hour ago.”
The Hand nodded. He had suspected the heir would continue on to the southeast, but he wasn’t sure what precise location. The library, though? The Hand said, “He’s trying to fix his Embercore.” It was the only logical explanation.
And what then? What happened if the heir repaired his core and forged a bond with a Familiar, and made himself powerful enough to alter any mind on a whim, however he saw fit?
Battle meditation for entire armies. Changing the mind of Governor-Kings overnight, spurring rebellions with just a thought. Most of all, access to the Memory Chain.
If he was a just king, there would be no future for the Dominion. If he became a dark lord, there would be no future for the Dominion.
Either way, the Hand had been ordered to kill the heir, and so that was what he would do. The boy wasn’t a wizard yet. Even if he was, the Hand would deal with him.
“Thank you,” the Hand said to the rider. “You may return to your post.”
“Understood, sir.” The rider bowed one more time, then climbed back onto his horse and rode it away.
As soon as the rider disappeared over the nearest hillock, the Hand spun around and looked to his two disciples. “Come outside.”
Obediently, they clambered out of the carriage and lined up in front of him. They both wore their disciple’s uniforms: dark, layered robes of tightweave fabric and white cloaks. Immediately, they began shivering.
“You know better than to shiver,” the Hand asserted. “Cycle your Essence with an outward technique and push the energy out into your muscles. You should never feel the cold.”
Khara, the seafolk girl, began, “But—”
“I’ll hear none of it. We have more important duties than standing around, shivering.” The Hand walked to the nearest of the carriage’s escorts and stated, “I need three horses.”
“Yes, sir.” The elf dismounted, then signalled to the others, beckoning them to dismount as well.
“Thank you.” The Hand took the first horse, then looked down at his two disciples. “Gather your Familiars and join me.”
“Yes, sir,” they both said. They ran to the back of the carriage and unlatched the cages with firm, unwavering grips. They had both just broken through into the Flare stage, and they had begun enhancing their bodies through a meticulous and rigorous process. For their ages, they were progressing well. Most twenty-one year old wizards were still trapped at the Catch stage, and most only ever made it to Flare.
Once they had their Familiars free, they commanded the creatures in their native languages—for Khara, she spoke a dialect of the Half-Crossing Islanders, and Nael spoke an ancient tongue of his distant homeland.
Their Familiars’ bodies had improved too, such that Khara’s boar could jump up onto the back of the horse she chose with just a single command. Nael’s griffin, a dog-sized creature the shape of a lion, with feathery wings and an eagle’s beak, flapped up and perched on its master’s back.
“We ride to Tallas-Brannul,” the Hand commanded. “The heir will be there, and we will intercept him.”
As soon as he tightened his knees against his horse’s sides, it took off at a sprinting pace along the path, racing faster than their carriage ever could. His two disciples kept up, riding single file. Their destination was a half-day away, and they’d arrive at night. He concentrated his mind, forcing himself to stay perfectly aware.
The heir had tried to reach into his mind before. He had felt it, and he had felt the boy come up against an impenetrable keep. But it wouldn’t stay that way forever. The Hand needed to match his prey’s growth with equal mental fortitude and strength.
As their horses charged across the Fieldband, he began to meditate. This heir might run, might escape, but he would never defeat the Red Hand of the Emperor.