ARC I - THE HAND OF FATE

“Is it legitimate to think that certain things, certain processes, originated well before the Convention of Five, now two hundred and fifty-three years old? It is from this very question that the subject matter of this essay develops. About magic...

What is magic considered as the ability of some men and women to control the elements, to heal, to make the surrounding nature flourish? I mean, many talk about the so-called Magical Sparkle, but no one has any idea when it developed, how it developed, much less why. It is simple and simplistic to thank the Divines gifted it to humanity, but is it not the task of a minstrel, a poet, a storyteller, to investigate horizons unattainable by the common man who cannot look beyond his own garden? Questions that referring to abstract entities such as the Divines, however much they may exist, fail to find an answer. The task of investigating is therefore of the poet and not only.

The so-called Pharmacists tried to find an answer. ‘The Magical Sparkle is part of the fibres of man himself, it binds them. There must have been some event as old as the world that has changed the structure of human beings in depth down to the tiniest parts of the matter of which the body is composed’, they believe.

Despite this, about magic, the question that most plagues my mind as a poor squire and verse is: why are fewer and fewer the individuals capable of spell the magical words? Are we perhaps in the process of making a definitive cut with what by now I cannot define in any other way than the ‘Declining Era of Magic’?”

Bern Xern, About magic, Year 253 from the Convention of Five

“My gentlemen, I speak with my heart in my hands and with the crown placed on the ground, making certain claims that I myself consider ignominious beyond any measure, but I cannot see them except as the only way out that can be used to escape from such evil that afflicts us all and our beloved kingdom.

I would like to refer to the words of Bern Xern, especially his well-known essay on these evil that criminals call ‘magic’. The squire of the hero Sir Sigmund Dughall the White Guard, already two hundred and sixty-seven years ago, was clear in saying that fewer and fewer individuals endowed with the Magic Sparkle are born. How to interpret this phenomenon, then, if not as a clear message from the Divines Ten, my beloved compatriots?

Now that only one in five hundred children develops such evil abilities, the warning becomes evident: magic must die out. By our hand or by the natural flow of things, it must disappear.

At this point, my dear gentlemen and my dear ladies who are garrisoned here, I say: screw them.

Let’s use fire and iron, torches and picks, hangmen, and noose, before they go mad and slaughter us all for their research, to return to dominate us!

May the Divines guide us!”

King Nathan the Hero, Speech to the Capital, Year 520 from the Convention of Five

A FIST IN THE SKY

Long raven hair spread in the air sparkled because of the candles that poorly lit up the room. Her smooth olive skin smelled of jasmine, although it was brilliant with the sweat that ran down her face, her neck, between round and perfect breasts and then onto her lean abdomen. The most beautiful woman on the Continent looked at him with black eyes like a night sky without stars or moon. Eyes that at times became one with the shadows of the room. She towered above him and danced on him who, sitting up, could well perceive the accelerated heartbeat and the continuous panting. She twisted her arms as velvety as the finest of silk satins around his neck, her hands first grabbed his hair, then his broad shoulders and so did he with her black hair and her delicate, moist, and smooth back. He grabbed her fleshy thighs that put disruptive pressure on his hips, then her breasts. He held her as tight as he could, kissing her thin neck and inhaling jasmine.

“Maeve…” he called in silent words, but Maeve didn’t answer because Maeve disappeared. In her place a black and red void. An overwhelming abyss that tasted of iron and blood and he was sinking into its guts.

“Maeve is not in this world” came a metal voice in response. “There is no one else in this world of rain and despair and blood and loneliness, just me. Yes, just me. But you will come and keep me company soon, Ethan...”

-

Year 1324 from the Convention of the Five, maritime territories of Garatier

“Land! Land! Get ready to dock!” the voice of Kruch the Pockmarked loudly, coming from the deck, awakening him from the sweet dream of his beloved woman. It had been nothing more than a memory in his mind, a memory that repeated itself over and over with nostalgia and that had now vanished with the screams of the lookout. He had dreamed of Maeve and maybe something else too, but he couldn’t remember what.

A thick blade of light penetrated the cabin and that was enough for him to understand that he had slept most of the day. He sat up on the bed and punctually, accompanied by the swaying of the sailing ship on the thrust of the currents, came the usual worry that for years now had seasoned his awakenings.

I’m tired of the sea. I’m tired of this cabin. And I’m tired of this damned ship, he thought, rubbing his temples, briefly hit by a hell of pain from bad sleep and the rum drunk the night before. He was not, however, tired of the men who accompanied him across the seas, something that, despite everything, continued to keep him in a place that was now too narrow for him.

As always, his cabin in the quarters of the forecastle was a veritable mess of large history tomes scattered everywhere, accompanied here and there by crumpled parchments in which, as if they were a logbook, he used to write down many of the adventures he lived on sea and land, as well as what had happened before joining the crew of the merchants.

He already had the intention of bringing those parchments all together in a single autobiographical volume, but that day had not yet arrived. Both will and patience were lacking. Leaning in a corner of the cabin, two blades with black leather handles and sheaths, without pommel or guard, that had been forged five years earlier by the master blacksmith of Mitoros, were camouflaged in the shadows.

Getting up he nearly tumbled to the ground stumbling upon The Trust Walker, one of the writings of the legendary knight and historian Sir Sigmund Dughall. In a very precarious manner, he managed to reach the desk where a small bottle of rum was waiting for him. He poured the contents into an old metal mug and took a sip. His eyes, like every morning, fell on the brilliant golden crescent-shaped brooch that rested proudly and glistening on the table and that awakened in him sweet thoughts and desires, memories of a time that seemed so far away as if it never existed.

In two steps, being careful to dodge the brick-sized tomes, he reached the sink and poured water into it. He rinsed his face and stopped for a moment to observe himself after hitting his cheeks - which now had a five-day beard growing - with two slaps.

“Beautiful like the sun!” he said to himself almost screaming, smiling, and sipping from the cup. He gathered his hair, which had grown too long by now, behind the head and, without bothering to get fully dressed, started up the stairs to the deck, the cup in one hand, the bottle in the other.

“And even today you take it easy, huh, Scrawny?” he heard behind him. It was Deniz, captain of the Tiburon.

He stood high on the quarterdeck, clinging firmly to the helm wheel. He was a man of sixty, aged in the waves of the Four Great Seas. A giant just under seven feet tall. No hair on his head, but a thick, long white beard framed his chubby face and reached the middle of his chest. The salt had eroded part of his nose and cheekbones which were red and pockmarked. A white shirt, now yellowed with sweat, unbuttoned starting from the navel, revealed a physique that was once statuesque but now hiding shyly under a blanket of snow-white hairs. His eyes sparkled with anthracite glow, as did the golden handle of the sabre at his hip.

“Old man, you know I am not a sailor. For the Plagues, you have been taking me with you for fifteen years, you should know me” the young man began, smiling and drinking.

“Ah, Scrawny, how I wish I had your carefree” he said with a stone face as Ethan, nicknamed Scrawny – a way he didn’t like to repeat even in his own mind -, joined him near the helm. “Pretend to be the merchant of this beauty of a ship and live at our expense, because that’s what you do and what you’ve always done!”

A moment later they both burst into uncontrollable laughter. Ethan handed him the bottle and they toasted with rum.

“I thought you would miss this magnificent sight and the docking itself” the captain resumed. “You shouldn’t spend all that time reading those old, dusty tomes, or writing those little stories, much less beating up those poor logs you keep in the hold. You must enjoy these wonders, boy, otherwise by continuing like this you will become blind, hunchbacked, and grumpy. I warn you!”

“Uh, old man, how many times have I saved you thanks to those stupid logs I hit, huh? How many times?” Ethan asked first seriously, then smiling. “And then I have already explained you that refining knowledge, strengthening the mind together with the body, is important. It helps you think fast and saves your life when you have two giant fish-men in front of you whose only thought is to open your belly. Those parchments that I write will serve to make us immortal, do you understand it or not? Don’t laugh, old idiot! When we’ll be nothing but dust and no one will remember the faces of Ethan of Morven and Deniz of Al-Fedar, then and only then, those stories will give us new life because they will talk about our adventures for centuries, they will write many ballads and… Ah! But what does an old decrepit like you want to understand? You only know the currents and winds of the world. Forget it.”

He drank from the cup until it was empty. He filled it again and ignored the laughter the captain was making at his expense: “So that’s Garatier. Here they use sequins like in Dyvislande, right? Do you think we’ll be able to make a lot of money in Waterby?” Ethan conspicuously pointed with one arm to the city whose multicoloured buildings could be seen in the distance.

“Yes, that’s Garatier, boy. Look how beautiful it is! It really deserves the title of Maritime Capital of Waterby. To make gold or not… Well, that will depend on your skills and the merchants’ pockets.”

“Leave them to me, Deniz.”

“Ya never tire of tormenting Scrawny, huh, captain?” said a low, hoarse voice a few feet away from them. It was the voice of Ilker II. Son of the boatswain Ilker, he was called just Son to try to distinguish him from his father, who had many qualities, but certainly the imagination in choosing names was not among these.

It was not uncommon for Son to be mistaken for a Deniz’s peer, although he was only just over thirty. The appearance certainly did not help: the few hair that remained attached to the nape of his neck and temples were almost completely whitened by thirty years of sun and sea water. A fat belly, caused by the litres of beer he drank daily, came out of his unbuttoned red shirt.

“Why don’tcha think about holding the rudder and not letting us run aground on the shore instead, huh? What do ya say, old captain?” the sailor went on, giggling with those four teeth he had left, two of them silver. On tiptoe he was gradually picking up the sails as the ship approached the coast.

There was a loud crack of a slap on Son’s neck covered with black hair.

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“Shaddup, you idiot. Is this how I educated you? Respect the captain! Ahrr, he may be a stupid old man, but he is still the one who leads this stinking ship!” boatswain Ilker yelled.

He was the same age as Deniz, although he looked like his son’s twin at times. The absence of hair was counterbalanced by two long mustaches that used to be dyed black with a mixture of seawater and coal. He was betrayed by the white regrowth that began to veil his attachment. His fat, collapsed lobes had now been reduced to two long, thin slits with thick, heavy gold rings he had worn for years. Around his neck a long necklace of woven leather tied in a triple loop, in which the keys of the castles and of the lodgings in them, of the lower deck and of the different compartments that were in the hold were inserted.

“Think about doing your job well, donkey, or it will be your fault that we will crash!” His voice was a rumble of thunder.

“Come on, come on.” Deniz broke in. “Don’t worry. Won’t you want to argue right now that we’ve arrived? Ilker, go to Borda’s desk and inform him that we will need as much silver as possible for the mainland, possibly in florin of Waterby or Vinnica. I don’t have to talk about sequins, since I already know they are missing. Oh, one more thing. If he were to start making his usual wailing, warm up his neck too.”

“Ahrr!” proclaimed the boatswain, after which he disappeared through the stairs leading below deck.

As usual, the ship was subjected to a pleasant chaos like that which take place after the sharing of the sales earnings, although often the new quartermaster Egill Olcsson, called Borda, was reluctant to freely grant salaries because he knew the crew, once landed, would squander everything on women and alcohol.

The Tiburon was a merchant ship with ten oars on each side that moved from coast to coast in search of new customers to sell goods and fabrics from every corner of the Six Kingdoms of the Continent and beyond. Or, at least, that was what they wanted their customers to believe. In fact, much of the merchant’s products were designed in its hold, but by skilled hands that made it difficult to distinguish the counterfeit pieces from the originals in beauty. Below deck, however, there was no shortage of valuable pieces obtained in the most singular and surprising ways during the thousand and more adventures that were lived at sea and in ports.

The old captain had welcomed any kind of character on the ship. Originally, forty years earlier, the first little Tiburon - known at the time as Aida - had sailed from the Ish-Telir Empire with only Deniz, Ilker, the cook Benson and the carpenter Zuganio on board. The last two known in the prison of the Imperial Capital of Al-Fedar, during an imprisonment that the old man had obtained by hitting a guard of the then Emperor Kalef VI.

Deniz told Ethan over and over how that mangy dog had pulled a hook on a certain Mornadie because she didn’t want to give him her nature treasury. She managed to escape, but Deniz had to spend seven nights in jail before being able to escape with his cellmates: Benson, a repeat thief almost ready for the gallows; and Zuganio, who had killed his father in a fit of rage, after yet another whiplash received, and whose fate would certainly have been worse than that of the bag cutter.

At the port they found a moustachioed guard who, instead of stopping them, decided to steal a ship with them and set off on an adventure. The then young Ilker was tired of spending his life burning his back in the sun to guard the ships of the imperial nobles.

After a few years, no one would remember the names or faces of the men who had committed crimes, but not as striking as one might think. They could have safely returned to the Empire once the waters calmed down.

From that distant moment, both the ship and the crew had grown considerably and now numbered thirty loyal men in its ranks. Ethan was one of the newcomers, although there was talk of fifteen years ago.

The massive green ship, twenty-six feet wide and three times that long, proudly bore its name painted in gold on its side. On the front of each of the sails the winged wand symbol of the Merchants’ Guild had been carefully sewn in red cloth. In this way, anyone who had sighted the Tiburon would have known that it arrived in peace. Of course, it was also a lure for the few remaining pirates, but often these did not risk attacking the traders as they were well defended by the laws of the Six Kingdoms and the superpower of the Guild based in Tuccarlar, in the sultry Ish-Telir Empire.

“I have a good feeling, old man, to tell you the truth” Ethan said, sipping the last remnants of dark rum.

“You say?” the captain asked in a snort. “I tolerate the Waterby little and nothing.”

“Why?” Ethan asked curiously. Besides, he knew very little about where they were going.

“For its inhabitants” Deniz replied, contending the sentence with a long sip of rum. “They give me the chills. They are too devoted.”

“And isn’t that good?” Ethan asked smiling and sipping from his mug.

“Of course. The persecution of magicians began here eight hundred years ago. These dear Waterbeans, led by King Nathan the Hero, firmly believed that the Divines Ten demanded the blood of anyone who ventured into the field of magic as sacrifice. Think how good it was for the magicians of that time to have such devoted neighbours. Nathan the Hero, for Ayae’s Love! The Fool or the Sadist would have been more appropriate epithets. Isn’t that written in your books?”

You talk like you really care, old man, Ethan thought, but he didn't say it. “Well, magicians haven’t existed for a long time now. It’s none of our business what happened so many centuries ago.”

“You’re also right,” the old man added, smiling too.

Ethan patted him on the shoulder and returned to the cabin to prepare for docking.

-

Deniz, in the company of part of the crew, began to make his way to the inn Drunk Tuna of Garatier. Ethan didn’t know it. They only explained that it was not very far from the dock.

“We haven’t touched the ground for five days, boy. We have to let the men have fun, right?” barked the captain visibly moving an arm which then went to clasp Ilker’s shoulder and, in so doing, walked away.

“Old man, will you leave me behind with the hubs to fix the moorings?” Ethan yelled, hearing him laugh out loud in the distance. I know him too well. He’s ready to party. I just hope I don’t find him sprawled on the counter with froth at his mouth…

On the quay, the first person the merchant’s eyes landed on was a girl. Her hair was long up to the loins, blond and gathered in two braids that, starting from the temples, joined at the nape to then form a larger one that accompanied the hair not tied in the intertwining. Her eyes, the clearest shiny blue he had ever seen, seemed to be made of stacked sheets of ice. Her facial features were thin, delicate, well rounded, and then ended in red and plump lips. Five and a half feet tall to the eye, her figure stood slender, though she seemed fearful of the people around her, in the din of the quay trading, typical of any of the Maritime Capitals. The girl wore a white apron over a clear sky-coloured robe, knee-length and showing slender, smooth pink calves.

Ethan started to approach. He was anticipated.

“You’re not from around here, sailor. Am I right?” she asked smiling and with a voice so sweet that it left him totally blown away. However, she did not deign to look at him as she was intent on evaluating the quality of certain salmon with a particularly silver livery.

“No,” he replied a few moments of silence later, overcoming the bewilderment and doubts about how the girl had understood that he was about to speak to her. “I come from Morven, in the Southern Trust, although I consider the Four Great Seas my home for several years. And no: I’m not a sailor. Take my word for it when I tell you that I am one of the most skilled traders in the entire Six Kingdoms.”

It took a little while for Ethan to notice that the girl was barely, but very skilfully, holding back the laughter. Surely, she must have sensed the sharp contrast between Ethan’s initial displacement and his subsequent boasting of the title of merchant, among the most skilled, in such a high-sounding way. He was certain that the girl had thought that someone particularly capable in this profession should not have been caught unprepared in oratory, as had just happened.

“Please forgive me, merchant” she said into the grimace of her curved lips. “I threw myself into the most probable of professions for a man of your physicality who disembarks from a ship and is left behind to work with the hubs, as you yourself have screamed” she concluded with half-closed eyes and smiling in order to show her teeth as white as chalk.

The merchant made a solemn bow worthy of the court of Kalef VII, Emperor of Ish-Telir. “My name is Ethan.”

She couldn't hold back any longer and laughed. She did it in such a sweet and delicate way that to the merchant the gesture seemed devoid of malice and indeed worthy of the best qualities that accompanied the figure of the Divine of Love Ayae in the poems and ballads. “Ethan, huh? It’s pretty clear you come from the Southern Trust. It’s said that everyone’s life there is a direct reflection of the lively personality of the young queen Ancilla Ilia and that therefore one lives only on art, letting one’s existence pass between a banquet, a toast, a bow, and a kiss on the hand. Here, however, dear Ethan, we’re in Garatier. We’re in Waterby. Not in Morven, in the Trust. One does not bow except in front of the sanctuaries of the Divines Gwenaelle and Aedan. Who bows down, give himself to whoever is in front of him. It’s not something to do so lightly, especially in front of an unfamiliar person” she said, contrasting the subtle harshness of the words with a thick, sunny smile.

Although Ethan had initially felt a feeling somewhere between embarrassment and bile for the unexpected reaction, the ardour died away when, looking into her face, her expression seemed to him that of a genuinely amused girl. He followed her, without even being able to realize it, with a smile.

“What brings you to our modest city, Ethan?” asked the girl with golden hair, breaking the long moment of silence.

“Modest? It looks much more than modest” Ethan replied, gesticulating and looking at the various multicoloured buildings that rose the ridge upon which the city rested gracefully.

“Modest compared to Morven” she said wisely with a grin.

“Whatever it is,” Ethan went on, returning to his previous speech, “we docked here because we’re looking for customers to sell our wares to. You know, the mighty Tiburon has been plowing the Four Great Seas for forty years, constantly looking for every type of product that can be appreciated especially here, in the westernmost part of the Continent. We take a lot of risks to get them. Even if we are merchants, ours is not an easy job, you know? It’s not uncommon to encounter pirates sailing the seas. Drunks, criminals or even shapeshifters walking through the ports.”

“Oh, really?” she asked again without looking at him, as if she knew that Ethan was trying to impress her. “You don’t look like a man who has been sailing the seas for forty years. Or have the Divines been so generous with you that they let you show a few decades less?”

“Of course not! I was welcomed aboard Tiburon, as Captain Deniz’s direct protégé, fifteen years ago. I was a kid with just eight summers on my back then.”

“Were you tired of banquets and reverences?” she asked as the corners of her mouth once again made their way through her smooth pink cheeks, which found perfect support on her small cheekbones.

“If only it had been for that, maybe I could have chosen…”

It almost seemed as if the girl had noticed the discomfort the merchant was feeling in talking about that subject. “I understand” was all she could say.

Do you understand? And how could you? Ethan thought. He thought but did not speak.

“Is there a specific reason why you decided to dock in Garatier? Forgive me for curiosity. Sure, it’s one of the Three Maritime Capitals of Waterby, but would it not have been better to start trading in the two large cities of Gwenaelleville and Reniven? There, the chances of finding merchants interested in rare goods are much higher than in our community” she continued in conjunction with a showy nod. A clear sign that she had decided which of the still struggling fishes she would bring to the table for dinner.

“Actually, I know little of the whole Kingdom of Waterby, what I’ve been able to learn from the history books and geopolitical atlases. I just followed my captain to this new adventure.”

“So, besides being the most skilled trader in the Continent’s Six Kingdoms, you are also a particularly daring scholar?” asked the golden-haired girl who was yielding, smiling, two silver Waterby’s florins to the fisherman. Ethan was able to see engraved on the coins, the royal profile of Theophane II, son of Theophane the White Stag, the famous King-warlord of Waterby.

“You can say it well. I grew up by my own will among the narratives of the classic heroes and intellectuals of the past. Entrusting my mind to those compositions allowed me, little by little, to… Well, detach myself from reality just the smallest part that was enough to allow me to forget.”

The girl remained silent. She seemed not to be paying too much attention to what she was being told.

Ethan therefore decided to attract his attention again by picking up the thread of the conversation. “By the way, could you tell me where the Garatier market for clothes, fabrics and junk gathers?”

This time she seemed to come back to reality and to listen to him. Placing the large fish in the basket at her feet, she dusted her apron twice and with an outstretched arm pointed to a cluster of buildings of the most varied and gaudy colours arranged in a semicircle on a small hill. “Do you see? That’s the Merchants’ District. Every day there are dozens of itinerant merchants, traveling merchants like you, and Garatier merchants who have their stalls fixed in those streets.”

“Thank you.”

“I heard that old colossus yelling at you to join him at the Drunk Tuna. Do you know? You will find yourself passing through the Mercantile District heading there. Now, unfortunately, I have to take my leave. It was a pleasure to have made your acquaintance and conversed with you, Ethan of Morven” she concluded, smiling, and bowing his head slightly. She didn’t even wait for an answer. Disappeared.

The merchant felt the need for a generous dose of rum before he could get to work on the sales strategies of Tiburon’s products. He froze when he realized he had been too focused on saying her some nonsense to the point that he forgot to ask her name. Well, it was too late to fix it now and it wasn’t something that important to ask for the name of someone he would never see again.

However, he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her.