Needless to say, it was a good long while before Marek came to, and longer still until he was in any shape to have the talk he so desperately wanted. By the good graces of the Six that govern from above, his uncle was a patient and nurturing man.
Marek drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he awoke, some detail had changed. Warmth against his pallid cheek, the pop of oakwood in the hearth beside him. His damp clothes removed to dry and blankets wrapped snuggly about his frame. Pillows propping up his head and legs. Mirrin tottering about like a decrepit angel, muttering, “Should have told you years ago,” and “All for nothing,” and “Owed him the truth, I did; I just didn’t have the courage.” More than once, Marek questioned these unfinished statements. And every time he did so, Mirrin would wave him off, promising to explain it all as soon as he was stable.
Eventually the fire, the blankets, the cup of wine mulled with herbs, and strong tea did their work. Marek didn’t know what time it was, but his shivering ceased. The discomfort of his body persisted. Strength returned quicker than he’d hoped, however, and at last he remained awake long enough to persuade Mirrin to answer his burning questions: “What happened to me? Why did I become a Remnant Mage?”
Mirrin perched on a cushion of his own, face troubled. Mercifully, he began his explanation. “Much of the histories taught in Ardea aren’t accurate. The three kingdoms governed by men are particularly skewed in their… interpretations of our world,” Mirrin said, his smile rueful. “For instance, the Principalities aren’t gods! I know what you’re thinking. Judgment forbid a priest overhear me, but I promised you the truth and here it is. The Principalities, though nearly all-powerful and immortal, are more like aspects of the system that govern the Coherent Realm.”
Marek finished his drink and rolled to his side, observing as the old man narrated a version of history he’d never heard before.
“One cannot simply gain enough power to become a Principality. A great sacrifice, one that upholds the principle the man or woman lived by, must be made. Each of the Six are different in age and character. Logic came first, or so the historians of Casteras claim, and oddly enough, the Ardeans actually agree on that point. Indeed, it was more than ten thousand years ago. The others came after at various times.”
Mirrin paused and set his cup aside. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small object. Studying it in his palm for a time, Mirrin leaned closer and handed it to Marek.
“A sigil stamp?” Marek asked, recognizing the heavy lump of metal, one side flat and smooth, the other holding the familiar shape of a sigil. “Tenacity… I see where you’re going now, Uncle, but you sure have a way of taking your time getting there.”
Mirrin chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. It’s the best I can do, so settle down and ponder the stamp I’ve given you. Tenacity is the source of everything I’m about to tell you. The stubborn bastard was born over a thousand years ago, before the Rift was formed between the Coherent and Unbound Realms.”
Marek’s eyes widened. “Uncle! Retelling the histories and now blaspheming one of the Six? You’ll call down a curse on the both of us!”
“Pah! Tradition and culture are fine things. Superstition is a blindfold that leads nowhere. Now, listen. I need to tell you more about progression and how one reaches the higher tiers of power. It’s all connected like a net, boy. Be patient.”
Loosening his palate with another sip of wine, Mirrin continued, “As you know, an Apprentice ranges from Levels 1 to 9. Novice spans 10 to 19. A Journeyman in a given Class is anywhere between Levels 20 and 39, and of course Master is 40 to 79. Next comes Artisan, which is a massive leap in power; it stretches from Level 80 all the way up to 120!”
Marek’s heart practically skipped a beat. He tried to lift himself and instead triggered a fit of coughing. Only when he’d settled down again did Mirrin chastise the young man. “Apologies, but you’ll need to forgive me! I thought Master was the highest tier! There are so few in Misthearth, and even Rauld is only a Master.”
Mirrin chuckled softly. “Misthearth is small, Marek. And Rauld is more than he appears. No, don’t question me further. If the mage wishes you to know the extent of his power, he’ll tell you himself. Now, before your eyes fall out of your head, quiet down. I’m not done.
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“Level 120 acts as a natural cap of power that few can surpass. Few prove capable of reaching higher. To do so, one must understand their Class completely. Not only must they gain mastery over every aspect of the Class, but they must also gain a novel perspective. Every once in a great while, a prodigy comes along with sufficient insight to forge what is known as a Unique Class. Only a few dozen live in all of the Coherent Realms that can boast such an accomplishment.”
“So,” Marek said, his mind catching up at last, “if someone makes a Unique Class, they level even higher, and after a certain point become a Principality?”
Mirrin shook his head. “Not quite. If you’ll remember, I mentioned a great sacrifice is required. The sire of our shared lineage”—he touched his chest and extended his fingers toward Marek—“had his Unique Class transformed when he too sacrificed everything to uphold his principle: the ideal of Tenacity.”
The Sigilist held up his wrinkled hand and counted off his fingers. “One that rises to Level 120 and gains inspiration creates a Unique Class. After ascending to Level 150 in said Class, if a sacrifice upholding an ideal is made, that Unique Class will be passed down through the ages. Currently, only six are in existence, and you, my boy, have just inherited one of these.”
Understanding dawned on Marek. The jumbled bits he’d clung onto since and during the Crucible reordered themselves like puzzle pieces snapping together. “One Unique Class is passed down from each of the Principalities. Remnant Mage was created by the man known now as Tenacity. It makes perfect sense. This Class utilizes the remnant spirits of the fallen, a tenacious form of power.”
For the first time that night, Marek felt a bit of excitement stir in him. This was kept in check by his uncle’s solemn demeanor. “This is a good thing, then, Uncle… is it not? Why do you look like you’ve swallowed a fly?”
Mirrin didn’t immediately answer. Lips pursed, he frowned at Marek for a full minute in absolute silence. Then the old man stood on shaky legs. His formal robes were wrinkled and would soon need a wash. The state of array did much to convey the state of his health. Few in Misthearth were as formal, hygienic, and frankly overdressed as Mirrin.
The Sigilist turned away from his nephew, shoulders drooping. “Wither Marrow,” he said in a voice as grave as the dead. “An herb that acts to enhance one’s natural flow of mana. It’s used for many things but primarily to treat mana exhaustion. Such a condition is quite common, especially during battle, for few have the luxury of holding back when life is on the line. As such, it’s a reagent favored by many.”
Marek frowned as the old Sigilist clutched the sleeve of his robe and lifted it a little, almost like he was considering baring his upper arm. In Casteras, the merchant class observed propriety to the extreme. Covering the body with long, thick garments was one such practice. Though Uncle Mirrin was technically a crafter, he clung to the tradition religiously. Marek figured it was the man’s way of honoring the Kingdom and the life he’d left behind.
“Duskleaf,” Mirrin said, dropping the sleeve and resuming his explanation, “inhibits stagnation of mana. A skilled alchemist can craft Dispel and Cure-all potions using the herb, making Duskleaf invaluable in times of conflict. More fall on the battlefield to lingering magical effects than to the naked blade.” Mirrin sighed, the rattle of phlegm sounding too much like skeletal fingers tapping on stone. “I am a Sigilist, Marek. I’m capable of enchanting items in countless ways. They can be used for good or for ill. When fleeing Casteras long ago, with my brother’s child under my care, I took great measures to prevent you from inheriting his terrible legacy. Of all the fates, his was the worst. I… I loved you too much, Marek.” The hem of his robes betrayed the tremor that passed through his body. “You’re my nephew in blood, but in my heart, you’ve always been my son.”
Marek swallowed hard. “Mirrin, I don’t understand. Just tell me.”
When his uncle spoke again, the old man’s speech was thick with anguish. “Tilda is a skilled Healer, good enough to climb the ranks of the army should she wish. She tried to heal you, Marek.” Mirrin turned, cataract-stricken eyes keen with emotion. “She couldn’t succeed, though, you see? She could not heal a sickness that did not exist. Tilda is not to blame.”
Marek was on his feet before thinking to command them. He froze halfway to the man he’d loved since childhood, terrified of what his logical mind had already worked out. “The sickness does exist, though. Right, Mirrin? Surely, you’re making some other point that actually makes sense.”
Mirrin picked up his speech without regard to Marek’s question. “It wasn’t hard for me to use a simple inversion rod on the medicine she crafted for you. The opposite of Wither Marrow and Duskleaf, in combination, produces a feeble body, a clouded mind, and most importantly a shrunken and deformed mana pool. It was a miracle you were capable of unlocking any Class at all, really.” Tears spilled from Mirrin’s white eyes, and his breath caught in his chest, as if the truth he released was too painful to speak aloud. “Let the Rift take me, Marek, but I’m sorry. I only meant to subdue the Class I feared you would inherit. I only wanted to protect you.”
Fury overtook Marek’s senses. He rushed forward and gripped Mirrin by the shoulders, fingers biting deep and pressing into thin bones. “What are you telling me? Say it, damn you! Say what you mean!”
“You aren’t sickly at all, my boy,” Mirrin said mournfully. “I’ve been poisoning you since you were a child. Please forgive me.”