Chapter 8 - Joan and Colm

Winrow, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein, Year 995

Joan’s home was located near the edge of Winrow. It was a squat, worn building comprised of various colors of wood from where leaks and holes had been patched and filled over the years. The few visible windows were small and didn’t let much light in, but the front steps were kept well swept and neat.

Amara had grabbed her bags when she’d left the fields and was currently attempting to carry them on her arms to avoid further aggravating the splinters in her hands. The bags swung wildly with her movements, slamming into her legs more often than not, but there wasn’t anything especially fragile inside them, so it didn’t really matter.

As she approached the home, it occurred to her that opening the door might pose a bit of a problem. Thankfully, a solution was soon apparent.

A young boy with deathly pale skin and hunched shoulders stood by the door, broom in hand, methodically sweeping the steps. He was scrawny for his age, which made him look even younger than he was. His messy hair stood up at every which angle, giving it a spiky appearance, but Amara knew from experience that it was much softer than it looked. As soft as a baby chick’s down, she’d once joked.

As Amara approached the building, Colm looked up, expression drawn into one of his usual perpetual frowns.

“Where’ve you been? You—” He cut himself off, eyes widening as he noticed her hands. “You’re hurt! What were you—”

“Don’t worry about it kid,” she interrupted. Amara stepped forward and nudged the boy with an elbow. Normally she’d ruffle his hair, but that didn’t seem like a very good idea right then. She smiled. “Get this, I killed an Aberration by myself.”

Amara’s statement seemed to be enough to temporarily draw the boy’s attention away. “What? No way.”

“Yes way. Go ask Leila.”

Colm furrowed his brow, shifting his weight to his other leg and adjusting his grip on the broom handle. “Was it scary?” he asked, a hint of trepidation in his voice.

Colm’s parents had been killed in the major Aberration attack two years ago. The boy himself had been drained of much of his magic, though Amara never knew exactly how much of his reserves were left. Colm refused to tell her, and he avoided using magic like the plague, so there was no chance of accidentally seeing the numbers show up on his hand, either. Joan had taken him in, and the boy had joined the little home’s strange, unconventional family. Amara enjoyed having someone younger around to tease. Colm in particular was very short tempered, which made him especially fun to rile up.

Amara studied his expression carefully, but found nothing beyond basic unease. The Aberration that had killed his parents had been rank C.

“It wasn’t really,” Amara said truthfully. She held out her arm, approximating the creature’s height, the bags swinging with the motion. “It was rank E, about this tall. Honestly it kind of looked like a weird, slimy dog.”

Colm snorted at that. “I doubt it.” He frowned again. “You should really get those looked at.” He nodded at her splinter-covered hands. Amara chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I will.” She stepped forward, then paused. “Oh, before I forget! Here, I got you something.” She reached into the bag on instinct, ignoring Colm’s protest as she rummaged around and probably got a few splinters on the contents. Finally, she pulled out the object she’d been searching for and tossed it at Colm, who caught it, dropping the broom in the process. It fell to the ground with a soft clatter.

Colm frowned, peering down at the object and turning it over in his hands.

“What is it?”

From the outside, it appeared to be little more than a smooth glass sphere filled with water and floating black specks that swirled around when the object was shaken. The only thing interrupting the smooth plane of the sphere was a small green stone embedded on the surface, which Colm squinted at.

“Touch it,” Amara said with a nod. Colm glanced at her, then at the sphere, and finally, he carefully tapped the stone.

The moment he did so, the specks began to glow. Their hue shifted, changing from plain monochrome to a soft, warm red and orange glow similar to that of torchlight. Colm’s eyes widened, and he turned the sphere around in his hands, staring at the soft glow in awe.

“It’s warm,” he said.

Amara grinned. “Cool, right? It’s called a heating sphere. Stoddard just got some shipped from Magrath. Apparently the craftsman stores some of their magic inside and uses delayed activation so you can turn it on and off when you need. Your hands’re always getting cold, right? That should help.” She didn’t mention that the reason he was cold all the time was because of how much of his energy magic had been drained by the Aberration.

Colm tapped the stone again, and sure enough, the moment he did so the glow died down and the glass sphere was once again filled with simple black specks.

“How expensive was this?”

Amara snorted. “Don’t worry kid, it was cheap for this stuff’s standards. The ones Stoddard got were all made with, like, minimal magic. It probably won’t last that long though, so try and preserve it.” She didn’t mention that it had still cost more than everything else in her bags combined, but Colm seemed to understand, judging by the way he was looking at her with a combination of bewilderment and slight suspicion.

“...Why’re you being so nice today?”

Amara threw her head back and laughed, the sound loud and ringing. Instead of answering, she just nudged the boy again as she walked past him. Colm hurried to open the door for her as soon as he saw her reaching for the handle.

“Are you trying to make your hands worse?” he huffed, shaking his head. “Hurry and get those checked out already.” He didn’t look up as he spoke, and Amara smiled down at him.

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“Don’t worry, I will.”

With a final fond chuckle, she turned and entered the building.

—

The door creaked as Amara stepped inside, its hinges straining as it slowly came to a close behind her. The inside of the building was just as worn as its exterior, though Amara had always thought its narrow hallways gave it a homely feel. She especially loved the way the pale floorboards glowed under the sunlight. The light, soft colors were a constant comfort.

She made her way over to her room without pausing, dropping off the bags beside the other ones lying on her bed and stepping back into the hallway once she was done.

“Getting into trouble again, I see.”

Amara smiled as a familiar figure stepped out into the hallway, the woman’s cane thumping slightly against the floorboards as she moved.

Years of magic use had weathered away at Joan’s health, and she now looked quite a bit older than she was. From her cracking and crumbling arms—a consequence of excessive form magic—to her entirely blind left eye that came as the price of perception magic, time hadn’t proven kind to her. Joan liked to claim that she was one of the lucky ones. Most perception magic users weren’t fortunate enough to have a majority of their magic repercussions concentrated on a single eye. She could still make her way about, a fact that couldn’t be said for many in a similar position.

Amara still remembered when she’d first met Joan. Many parts of that day were a blur of sensations and sharp details. The thick, burning air. The jagged pieces of the facility flying into an inky sky. Limp figures, twitching silhouettes, a constant stinging. Amidst the chaos, Joan alone stood out as a constant, solid piece, unchanging in a backdrop of destruction. She’d looked nearly a decade younger back then, even though it had only been half that many years ago. The costs of magic hadn’t caught up to her at that point.

Even though Joan never admitted it, Amara knew she’d used a significant portion of her remaining magic reserves to heal her back to health. I’m just a doctor doing my job, she’d say, but even as isolated from regular society as Amara was, she knew very few people who would go so far to save a stranger.

“It wasn’t really trouble,” Amara said, shrugging. She walked closer to the woman and held out an arm to help her balance. Joan’s eyes flickered over to her splinters. She frowned, the expression just a bit crooked. She didn’t use motion magic nearly as often as form and perception, but she still dealt with some paralysis on one side of her face.

“Leila told me you fought an Aberration on your own,” she said as the two made their way down the hallway and into the room Joan had designated as her office. Amara helped the woman over to a chair, though Joan grumbled under her breath about not needing assistance. Amara elected to remain standing, and she obediently held her arms out for Joan to inspect once the woman had gotten settled.

“Leila told you?”

“Mind magic,” Joan said by way of explanation. Her eyes were focused on inspecting the splinters and the other little cuts from the broken axe handle. Amara hummed in acknowledgement. She was pretty sure Leila only had a basic affinity in mind magic the last time she’d checked, but then again that was probably enough for simple telepathic messages at a close range like this.

Joan pulled open her desk drawer and began rummaging inside. She clicked her tongue. “You really ought to be more careful. That pain tolerance of yours will get you in trouble one of these days. You’re lucky you didn’t walk away with more serious injuries, with a stunt like that.”

“I’ll be more careful when I leave,” Amara joked. Joan paused, eyeing her, and shook her head.

“You’ll break a woman’s heart talking like that.” Joan raised a hand, and from the center of her palm, a soft mauve light glowed as familiar markings climbed up her arms. Joan never bothered wearing gloves or hiding her magic stats when she was treating Amara. She still did with Colm, mainly to keep the boy from worrying, but both of them knew it was futile to try and hide things from her.

Amara had always liked the way Joan’s markings looked. They looped and swirled up her arms in delicate patterns that reminded her of flowers, a comparison further bolstered by the woman’s aura color. The light of the markings had grown increasingly dulled over time, and they were much less bright than they had been back when Joan had saved her.

Amara’s gaze shifted over to the back of Joan’s hand.

MOTION | MINOR

Magic Reserves: 17,587 → 17,579 / 118,604

Maximum Output: 12

Variability: 9

The splinters were outlined in that mauve glow, and with careful precision, they slowly rose up, pulled away from the skin without damaging any of the surrounding tissue. Amara frowned. Normally something like that wouldn’t require much magic, but the amount needed was doubled as a result of Joan’s minor affinity. The glow shifted slightly as Joan prepared to seal up the wounds, likely with form magic, but Amara held up a hand to stop her.

“Wrapping it is fine,” she said. Joan, however, didn’t listen.

FORM | MAJOR

Magic Reserves: 17,579 → 17,575 / 118,604

The mauve glow wrapped around the various shallow cuts littering Amara’s arm, cloaking them with magic. The skin around the wounds quivered slightly before stretching and enveloping the open cuts. Amara had heard other patients remark on how strange the sensation was, but to her, it was no more than a slight tingling. She always watched with fascination as her own skin warped and turned malleable before the glow disappeared and left behind closed wounds.

Joan sighed and leaned back in her chair, grabbing the bandages she’d pulled out earlier and beginning to wrap them around Amara’s arms.

“Remember, the skin over the wounds is thin, so be careful. Keep these bandages on for at least another few days, just in case.”

“You didn’t have to use magic for this, you know.”

“What I choose to use magic on is my own business.” Joan finished tying off the bandages and double checked that they were secure. She shook her head. “Besides, if you’re leaving tomorrow, I’d like you to be in good condition.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t believe me?”

Joan rolled her eyes and placed the bandages back in the drawer. “I know you well enough to know you always do what you say you will. And I saw your packed bags.”

Amara scratched her head. “I guess I’ve been pretty obvious about it.”

“I’ll say.” Joan huffed. “Colm won’t be happy when he finds out.”

“I’ll leave that to you to deal with, then.”

Joan smacked Amara’s arm good naturedly, and she laughed and pulled it back. “You had better watch yourself,” the older woman said. “I’d hate to tell him you were killed by an Aberration.”

“I took care of that Aberration today, didn’t I?” Amara said simply. After hearing about it from one of the nearby watchmen warning her not to approach the area, she’d gone there on purpose just to check if she could actually handle a low level Aberration by herself. She wasn’t stupid enough to travel alone without being sure she could defend herself from at least a rank E.

Amara could tell from the disapproving look on Joan’s face that the woman knew exactly what she’d been thinking. She just shook her head, muttered something about “impulsive young people,” and made a shooing motion with her hand.

“Go finish packing,” she said. “I won’t bury you if you die of dehydration.”

Amara gave the woman a salute and exited the room.

Usually she didn’t remember her dreams, but that night, Amara dreamed of crackling flames and crumbling rocks, the feeling of an overwhelming weight pressing down against her chest. She dreamed of her heavy limbs, trapped under rubble and unable to move, of her stinging skin and her heavy breaths as she waited for the end.

She dreamed of a woman, backlit against the dying sunlight, reaching down for her. Of a warm mauve glow that had been so bright that it hurt to look at.