Chapter 23 - Source
Magrath, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein Year 995
“I didn’t think you were the type to do that,” Isolde remarked as the two stepped out the store. Amara’s new axe was carefully wrapped in cloth to obscure the blade, and she rested it over her shoulder as she strolled along the streets, eyes tracing the different buildings and residents. Her arms were covered in the brand new gloves. Amara still wasn’t used to seeing them, and the fabric was a little stiffer than she’d like, but she assumed they would soften with more wear. It did significantly reduce the number of people looking their way, which was also hard to get used to. Amara had never walked down a street and not gotten at least a few stares before.
She turned to Isolde, an eyebrow raised.
“Do what?”
Isolde didn’t answer immediately, instead studying Amara’s expression closely. She hummed, tilting her head. “You don’t know, do you.” She tapped under her own cheek.
“Nope,” Amara said cheerily. She shrugged, the movement causing the axe to nearly roll off her shoulder, but she kept a steady grip on the handle. “I know it’s probably important, but none of the specifics. I figured you’d tell me anyway.”
Isolde chuckled to herself and shook her head.
“Well, I certainly don’t advise doing that again in the future. It could get you in needless trouble.” She took a second to glance down at the directions she’d gotten from the store owner before they left, turning when they reached the next corner into a narrower street lined with shorter stone buildings. Though there were less people here, there was still a fair number of passersby strolling by. Isolde’s eyes casually followed their movements.
“I’ll explain when we get to the inn,” she said. “It shouldn’t be far now.”
Amara just nodded. She paused as Isolde continued ahead, her dark hair swaying behind her. She took a moment to glance around them. Evening was beginning to fall, and she could see a few lamplighters making rounds. The overcast sky obstructed much of the light, grey mixing with the warm hues of evening into a murky, sandy color. Amara’s eyes narrowed slightly as she looked around at the passersby, studying their movements.
Finally, with a final glance around the street, she strode forward and followed after Isolde.
—
The inn was much larger than the one in Penrith. Instead of a tavern on its first floor, this one had a restaurant occupying its lowest level that stood next to a lounge, where a few guests sat seated on soft, dark leather couches chatting around a crackling brick fireplace.
The woman standing behind the front desk was dressed in a crisp, neat uniform, and she smiled professionally at the two of them as they approached. Amara let Isolde do the talking, instead taking the time to study the hotel and the guests. From where they stood, she could just barely make out some of their murmured conversations.
“—appeared in the palace,” one woman was saying. Her companion shuddered.
“You don’t suppose it was after the God Stones?”
“What else?” piped up a third man, brows furrowed. “It’s good the Roses were there to take care of it. I can’t imagine what would happen if an Aberration got its hands on them.”
“You think they’d be able to use them?” the second person said uneasily. “Time and probability are defunct affinities, right? No one should be able to use them, even with the help of the God Stone ores.”
“Who knows,” the first woman muttered. “Aberrations aren’t human. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had the ability.”
A brief silence fell over the group. The fireplace crackled behind them. The third man cleared his throat.
“For Augustein’s sake,” he said slowly, “let’s hope that never happens.” His words were met with a wave of quiet agreements. Amara tore her eyes away as Isolde turned around, a metal key in hand now. She gave Amara a questioning look, and she just gave her a thumbs up, which Isolde raised an eyebrow at. She didn’t comment, however, and they left the lounge area.
The two strode up the stairs to their room. Amara’s free hand absentmindedly wandered over to the bag hanging on her belt, where she could still feel the weight of the key she’d gotten from Wallace. Penrith and the tavern would be completely gone by now.
Amara glanced up when she heard the lock click, and the dark wooden door swung open smoothly.
“Not too bad,” Isolde remarked when they stepped inside.
The interior of the room was much larger than expected, the entranceway opening into a lounge space with a circular table surrounded by a few chairs made of the same dark wood. An unlit fireplace stood just beside the table, a few decorative portraits hanging on the walls. On the other side of the table, two fairly large beds stood separated by a wide nightstand with gleaming metal handles. Atop the nightstand stood a large, smooth mirror that reflected the fireplace.
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Thick curtains with sprawling golden patterns embroidered into them hung slightly open, allowing for a glimpse at a large window covering the other wall. Amara ground her shoes slightly into the floor, admiring the plush carpet. She whistled as she strode further inside the room, noting the hanging chandelier.
“You’re kind of wealthy, huh?” She stopped by the furthest bed, the one closest to the window, and casually tossed the axe onto the folded blankets. The weapon bounced slightly, and Amara grinned and sat down as well, enjoying the springiness of the mattress.
She realized Isolde hadn’t answered yet, and she glanced over in the woman’s direction.
Isolde stood near the table, her own bag set down on one of the chairs. Her head, however, was turned towards the mirror, as though she’d glanced up at it while walking in and frozen in place. A strange look flashed in her eyes, the woman’s expression unreadable as she stared into the smooth surface of the glass. Amara raised an eyebrow and stared at the mirror in question, but she could find nothing wrong with either it or Isolde’s crisp reflection.
Finally, Isolde strode forward, removing the thin sheet lying atop the blanket on the other bed. Without a second’s pause, she tossed it over the mirror, obscuring it, before turning to Amara with her usual calm smile, answering the question as though there had been no pause at all.
“Not especially so,” Isolde said, sitting down on her own bed far more gracefully than Amara had. “But I do have some savings.”
Amara watched the woman’s movements with sharp eyes. She brought her legs up, sitting criss-crossed on the blankets.
“Well, I guess if you steal ore, might as well also steal money too, right?” She hummed. “Though I guess if you’ve got enough money, you could just buy the ore.”
“Unfortunately I do not have a license,” Isolde said simply. She moved calmly, giving no acknowledgement of Amara’s obvious scrutiny. She tapped the back of her gloves. “I did pass the test for a standard license, but after they saw my maximum reserves, they revoked it.” She hummed. “Well, either way, a standard license only allows for Class 1 ore purchases, so it wouldn’t have been particularly helpful for me to begin with.”
Amara hummed to show she was listening. She set down her own bags, tossing them against the wall haphazardly.
Isolde smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ah yes, I believe I promised to explain about the tattoo, did I not?”
Amara raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly at the obvious change in subject. She didn’t point it out though, content to continue observing the woman. There was something satisfying about slowly learning more about her, about watching the layers peel back. There was a certain power to it. She wondered if that made her a terrible person. She found she didn’t really care.
Amara waved for her to continue, settling deeper into the bed, and Isolde nodded.
“Hm, where should I begin? Well, I suppose to start with, you’re aware of why ore is so valued, correct?”
Amara nodded. Winrow may not have had a lot of ore, but everyone knew its importance. When magic reserves were limited and continued use literally broke down the body, senses, and mind, anything that could help preserve reserves was highly valued. In the case of ore, it was essentially magic mined from the earth that someone could use to power their magic. According to what Leila had said once, it didn’t completely erase the cost since some magic still had to be used to convert the environmental magic contained within the ore into something usable by humans, and the lower class the ore the higher the conversion cost was. Still, it was an effective means at prolonging life for magic users, and there was a reason the nobility tended to hoard it, if not explicitly, then through purchasing license requirements and the exorbitant prices.
“Good.” One of Isolde’s hands moved to her earring, which hung alone now that its companion had broken. In the warm glow of the light, the ore gleamed slightly.
“To put it simply, there’s another method of prolonging one’s magic reserves similar to using ore, though it may even be more effective.” She tapped her arms, where the markings would appear when magic was activated. “The environmental magic of ore must be converted, but drawing magic from other humans requires no such cost.”
Amara leaned a little closer, sensing where this was going. She fingered the cloth of her gloves idly, mind wandering to the experiments. Those had been different though, she was certain. They weren’t drawing magic, they were trying to add to it.
“Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
Isolde smiled slightly. “Well, thankfully you can’t forcibly draw magic from people. We’re not Aberrations, after all,” she added with a slight chuckle. “There’s also compatibility issues to worry about. Some people simply can’t transfer much magic between them, and it’s difficult to predict whose magic will or will not match.”
Isolde stood from the bed in a smooth motion, stepping forward to the fireplace. Some matches had been placed on the table, and she took one and crouched down to light it, continuing to speak as she did so.
“To put it simply, some people sign contracts to essentially work as living ore. It’s more common in more populated areas, but they’ll often accompany workers and provide magic, or in some cases, some choose to sign individual contracts with specific people who they’ll provide magic for at the expense of their own reserves.”
A small flame ignited in the fireplace, quickly spreading and engulfing the logs. Isolde watched them for a moment before standing and returning to the bed.
“The tattoo that man had is a signifier of this. Officially they’re known as sources, but, well, you’re more likely to hear them called batteries,” she finished. Amara noted the sharpness in the woman’s smile. She cocked her head to the side.
“I’m guessing you don’t have a very high opinion of these sources or whatever,” she remarked.
Isolde paused. “Ah. Well, I suppose you could say that.” She chuckled, the sound smooth and rich. “As the saying goes, the only people who would sign up to work as batteries are either incredibly desperate or have no other viable skills. Or both.” She shook her head. “I will admit I’m surprised to see one here; the last ones I saw were in Arcvale. Well, regardless of location, it’s considered a rather a rather shameful position.”
Amara thought of the quiet that had fallen over the room when the man had walked in, the unease in the store owner’s movements, the way the family had taken a step back. She hummed in thought, remembering the flare of anger when she’d pointed out the tattoo.
Those eyes that had at first reminded her of James’ staring at the wall had momentarily taken on an entirely different appearance, one that brought up just as many memories. Memories of Edith, spitting curses at the magicians and guards. Indignance, defiance, and a buried but unmistakable pride.