From the day Wren had left Nathariel’s hovel, she lingered around the Narvelpeare facility. She wandered the lava flats around the facility, keeping a close eye on Myrrir and waiting for his prey to arrive.
For a few days, she’d made excuses to herself. Find the Mediator, sure. She could swoop in when all was done and grab the girl. But she was far more curious to see the fight between Myrrir and the chosen champion of nature. To watch Nathariel’s precious apprentice be defeated by a pirate? Oh, it would be glorious.
And Wren would win all her competitions. That would be glorious, too. Probably most glorious of all.
But then the prisoners had escaped from the facility. That wasn’t good. Not at all. Vayra would have no reason to face Myrrir, and everything would go wrong. Everything!
As soon as Wren realized, she raced back to her makeshift camp—a small tent in the woods north of the facility. Any moment, Vayra would arrive, and everything was going wrong!
First, Wren took out her frustration on the forest. She used sawdust to Brace her arm, then punched a tree, taking a chunk out of its trunk. It freed more splinters and sawdust, which she gathered up and stuffed into a pouch. The more wood she had to manipulate, the better.
But, once her frustration faded, she began to see a little more clearly.
As long as Vayra didn’t know the crew had already escaped, everything would work out. All Wren had to do was keep Vayra away from the escaped crew. For that, Wren needed to know where the crew was.
So, for the next few hours, Wren scouted the lava flats, hunting for any sign of the escapees. They were hiding and staying out of sight, and they would have been difficult to find had Wren not been searching from the sky, using short bursts of flight to flit around.
In a small valley, sheltered from most lines of sight, she found a line of ninety-or-so people, all marching towards the coast. It had to be the Harmony’s crew.
She retreated quickly, but stuck nearby, creeping along the lava flats near the edge of the valley. Her smirk returned.
The Mediator wouldn’t get close to the crew if Wren had anything to say about it.
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Vayra woke up early the next morning and set out before any halflings could stop her. She didn’t need to get caught up by any more meals or conversations or little adventures with their children.
She walked back towards the Lavapots, recalling the route as best as she could, and stopped in front of the largest lava pool, where the sky was open and clear. As soon as she oriented herself, she began to walk away, continuing northward.
At midday, she began to regret not asking the halflings how far it would be. She truly didn’t know how far it would be, and she wasn’t sure how much longer the lava channel would go for.
By evening, a trickle of lava began to flow down the channel’s center, and she figured that was the best warning sign she would get. She scampered up onto the high banks of the shore. A few minutes later, the trickle of lava surged and became a river.
‘Good call,’ Phasoné said. ‘Now, let’s keep to the trees. The closer we get, the more chance there is that someone spots us.’
Vayra veered towards the forest, which grew at a safe, non-flammable distance from the river of lava. They were tall, skinny trees, with red leaves like she’d find on an autumn aspen, and pitch black trunks. It wasn’t perfect cover—the trees let the setting sun filter through their stems—but it would have to do.
Another day of camping in the woods. Wonderful…
‘If you keep walking through the night, you’ll wear yourself out before you arrive,’ Phasoné said. ‘Please sleep, Vayra.’
“I do plan to,” Vayra said. “Just need a good place.” She searched through the edge of the woods, and finally, when the sun had dipped all the way behind the horizon, she found a small alcove tucked into the roots of the tree.
She slept the entire night without interruption, and as soon as the muddy rays of morning sunlight tried to pierce through ashy clouds, she set off.
By midday, she thought she could see something in the distance. A little structure, perhaps. But as she approached, it didn’t seem so little. It was a mound of stone, sharply formed with brutal edges. Spindly arms sprouted from high up on its sloped walls, and they hung out over the river. Workers stood on them, reaching down with nets and scooping through the lava.
This had to be it.
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Vayra was about to walk deeper into the woods, trying to stay further out of sight, when she heard a soft fluttering noise. Too soft and gentle to be a bird, too fast to be a bat.
She glanced around.
‘Up, Vayra! Look up!’ Phasoné yelped.
A shadow descended.
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“You’re certain she’ll still come?” Myrrir demanded of Tye as they walked across the main hall of the facility.
“Beyond a doubt,” the man replied. “But after that? I am not so certain.”
Myrrir snorted, then tightened his fist, feeling the new strength of his Commodore body flow through his bicep and shoulder. “I don’t imagine it will be a challenge. I don’t have Hammontor here to make a muck of things.”
He glanced around the Narvelpeare Facility’s main hall. A dingy chamber with a high ceiling and wide walls, it was exactly in the building’s center. Lanterns hung from the rafters, but most of the light poured in from one side, where a gate—which spanned nearly the entire four-story height of the hall—lay open, with a causeway beyond. Wagons rumbled up the causeway then paused halfway down the hall, where workers dumped ores and minerals into the backs of the wagons.
Myrrir waited until he spotted a team of workers loading a sturdy wagon with of the most rare bits of cargo: a shimmering steel barrel sealed with an Arcara-lock. The barrel was Myrrir’s height, and it was perfectly polished. The entire object, including the lock, was crafted by the finest God-heir smiths the galaxy had to offer. Inside it, Myrrir could hear (and sense) the still-molten river feed scooped up by the workers. But more than just shielding the barrel’s interior from heat, the lock shielded it from internal and external arcane tampering.
“I hope you still have one of those set aside,” Myrrir said. He glanced over his shoulder. where one of the facility managers walked—a dwarf with shimmering copper pauldrons and a shako cap.
“Right this way, Commodore,” said the dwarf. They marched to the edge of the hall, then took a rickety wooden staircase up to a long hallway. At the end, they reached a smaller, round room, where aqueducts of enchanted plates funneled magma into a barrel in the center. That was the only light. The entire room was shrouded in a smokey haze, and the low ceiling didn’t help keep the air clear.
The central barrel waited in two halves—one half, in an indent in the floor, and the other half suspended by a crane, ready to drop when it was full.
At least ten more unfilled barrels lined the walls, guarded by facility workers with muskets. The barrels would’ve been worth a fortune. Two of them could probably buy Myrrir a new ship.
If the dwarven manager wanted to keep his life, though, Myrrir would need a barrel free of charge.
“Fill this one,” Myrrir said, “then shut off the channels. Prepare another barrel for me, then evacuate the facility. The Mediator will be here soon enough.”
The dwarf dipped his head. “Yes, Commodore.”
“And hurry!” Myrrir snapped. “Unless you want to get caught in the crossfire.”
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Nathariel and Glade sat atop the oldest, strongest horse. It trotted along through a low valley in the mountain, its hooves scritching the gravel or clomping on larger stones.
They rode through a pass, according to Nathariel, but it wasn’t nearly as well-defined as other mountain trails Glade had spotted. Moreover, Glade had to trust the old God-heir not to ride into a lava flow, and to find shelter when a volcanic eruption threatened to incinerate them. So far, Nathariel’s senses—which supposedly stretched for miles—hadn’t led them wrong, but that didn’t make it any less disconcerting when he abruptly pulled the horse under a ledge and held his hands out, sparks crackling at his fingertips as if somehow he could use his magic to repel magma itself.
Maybe he could, but Glade hadn’t seen it in this trip over the mountains or the last.
Glade wouldn’t have made it over the mountains on his own, but putting so much faith in a teacher he barely knew also felt wrong.
He wanted Elder Eman-Fa back. But that was never happening.
Presently, they sheltered under a ledge. Drops of molten stone pattered down like rain, but they had been spewed from a distant eruption, and were mostly cool.
While they waited, Glade practiced his basic cycling technique. Nathariel’s first assignment for him was to achieve a full cycle of Arcara, pushing it to every tip and every distant point of his body. Then, he needed to maintain it for an entire day.
By Glade’s reckoning, somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-three hours had passed, and he hadn’t broken off the technique. Nathariel provided him with a small flask of Stream water so he could maintain his mana.
That also meant that he was purifying mana.
When the lava stopped raining down on the other side of the ledge, Nathariel stepped out from their shelter and looked up at the sky. “Good enough. We’ll call that a day. Get back on the horse and we’ll keep moving.”
Glade cut off his breathing pattern. He had made Arcara, and he had a cycling technique, but now he needed an actual use for the miniscule amounts of energy floating around his body. A combat technique would be nice.
But Nathariel hadn’t taught him any yet, and Glade figured it would be disrespectful to ask—and Nathariel had been disrespected enough lately. Silently, Glade climbed up behind Nathariel. Then, the God-heir spurred his horse, and they took off down the pass.
The mountains had gotten shorter, and ahead, Glade could see mostly foothills. He asked, “Do you know where we are heading?”
“I have an idea,” Nathariel responded. “Just need to find that north-leading lava channel, and we’ll have our course set for us.” He glanced over his shoulder, and (probably after seeing Glade’s glum expression) said, “You want an actual use for your Arcara, yeah?”
“I would appreciate it, sir.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You aren’t a God-heir. You just have a Fair Spirit, and it isn’t aligned with an element or domain of control. Until you’ve established your domain, I can’t teach you a combat technique.”
“Excuse me for asking, please, but how do I establish a domain?”
“Magic comes with an understanding of the universe. Not a scientific understanding, but intuitive understanding, an acceptance in your heart. When you align with your domain, you will know.” Nathariel reached back and tapped the pommel of Glade’s sword. “You’re good with that sword, boy, and I’d recommend you start there. The sword is a domain for many, many people.”
Nathariel turned forwards again, then snapped the horse’s reins. It began to trot faster. “We’ll find Vayra soon. For now, I’d suggest you rest and prepare yourself for battle.”