If men who have words, fight,
And men who give theirs, lie,
Why then, do you trust this man,
Who can read and write?
~A warning from one Manarji elder to another.
----------------------------------------
“... what happened back there?”
Callam shrugged, pulling tight the strap on his book bag. He kept his eyes on the winding path ahead. A league or more still separated them from the first floor’s central lake and the nearby grassland where Rote had suggested they complete Lenora’s quest. The meadow grew sparser this far down the hill, with faint game trails shooting off to closer watering holes.
He wasn’t ignoring Lenora’s question because he was shy.
It was more that he disliked sharing secrets. He’d already divulged one today, and this one… well, what did his spell say about him? His stomach twisted. What kind of man was he to enjoy this type of rush? This sense of power. Of control. His fingers itched at the thought. Would she think him a monster if he spoke up? Was he?
“So?” Stopping in her tracks, Lenora gave him a long look.
“”It's… hard to explain.”
“Try me, chapelward.”
His throat went dry. “You’ve said we all have secrets.”
“That was before your spell nearly pulled me from the tree.” She glared at him. Then the wind tossed her brown hair and rustled the edges of her red sleeves. It softened the heat in her eyes. Softened them until he could see his reflection there. He looked shaken. More quietly, she said, “It was fun, in a strange sort of way. I mean, after I realized I wasn’t going to die.”
It was his turn to stare at her. Was she spellsick? She yelled for me to stop. Screamed and I, I…
“Not fun, I guess. Novel. Like the wishtale magic my dad shared stories of back when he…” Her face fell and her fingers began fidgeting with the soft fabric of her tunic. “He never mentioned starlevels. Or classes, or quests. Wasn’t educated. It was always just a girl, her book, and her friends, an… and the promise that if she pushed hard enough, the world would bend.”
A longing had filled Lenora’s voice as she spoke; when it caught, it became clear she hadn’t always had Moose’s company to call on.
Callam thought of holding her. Of brushing her hand with his and telling her he understood. Of—
“Your magic felt like that to me,” she admitted, turning away so her hair draped over her face. “Storybook.” She started back down the hill.
He followed her, past a shaded grove, and through a cluster of floating wildflowers. He was touched—it was as if she’d known exactly what he needed to hear. Yet every reply he mouthed sounded stupid.
A thank you? Banal. A compliment? Kind words were not his strength. An admission of his growing feelings? That almost drew a chuckle from his lips.
What, would I babble on about her looks? How I think her smart and find her smile pretty?
He shook his head. Siela had always said real bonds touched deeper than surface attraction—that there were two times a man grew: when he first cared for a girl, and when he first held his child. And she’d made clear to him that the surest sign a man was a lackwit was when he rushed the first in hopes of practicing for the second.
Best I focus on our climb.
Three grassy rises and one muddy slope later, and the two arrived at the clearing. Milkweed fluff stuck to their clothes. Gouges in the trunks of a nearby corpse of Wishtender Willows hinted that something large and clawed had passed through recently, though a quick jog around the better lit areas of the glade confirmed they were alone.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“What if we both sit in the trees, this time?” Lenora asked. Before he’d left, Rote had indicated the prairieplights here were too spread out to swarm—perfect for them to practice on without taxing their magic.
And an easy way to master their approach before rushing for the Tower staircase in an hour.
“Worth a try.” Rote's earlier warning about drawing all the local wildlife hung in the air like. “More time to finish casting this way.”
“The chestnut, then?” Lenora pointed to a lone tree in the heart of the clearing, then pulled herself into the boughs of a much closer Wishtender without waiting for a response.
That stung.
“Took you long enough,” she called out once he was settled. A few paperfowl chirped; where his climb had scared off the constructs, her voice roused curiosity.
“On my count,” he shouted, trying not to think about what was to come. His feet dangled on each side of a thick branch. He’d chosen to straddle the limb this way, back to the trunk, for precisely one reason: it wasn’t comfortable.
“Three!”
“Two!” The knot in his stomach tightened.
“One!”
Callam shut his mind off to the world. In and out, in and out. He timed each exhale with the lull of the breeze, each inhale with the surge of the wind. The gusts tickled his arms. They brought the sounds of the underbush: splashes from something vaguely amphibian, thumping from a small mammal hidden in the grass, and buzzing from the upper reaches of the chestnut’s branches. There was a warmth to the noise, a safety found in numbers. He grinned. If he focused, he could make out little yellow blots weaving through the flowers—bees collecting nectar for their hive. Their heartbeats were faint as embers. All the creatures' heartbeats were. They were smoldering. Starved of air.
To snuff them out he had but to pull free their pigmen—
Not happening.
In a brutal motion he threw his weight backwards into the trunk. Bark scoured his skin, but the pain helped clear his mind, so he did it again. “P-Poet’s hand,” he gasped once his heart stopped hammering in his ears. He’d been so close to… to…
Breathe. I can do this.
With a groan, he repositioned on the branch, then pulled a splinter from his arm. As glad as he was that his foresight had kept him sane, he’d have to actually learn to resist this sense of euphoria and greed, if he was to “stand tall where others falter.”
Not run away from it.
Mustering up courage wasn’t the issue; everyone in the Tower had it in spades. No, it was that what he faced here was more akin to a recovered addict braving a drink than to any other test of will. His mind would play the enemy, and the adrenaline it served would only make his cravings worse.
“Callam!” Lenora shouted from across the way, and he looked up to see her reeling in the first prairieplight. Fifty or more roots erupted from the ground as it emerged—they whipped through the air, cracking like bones as the beast made a mad charge for her tree. Animals screamed and burst from the underbush.
“Stand tall where others falter,” he repeated, readying himself against the trunk. It wasn’t lost on him that he’d cast instinctively on Merra’s boat. If he wished to stave off the quellers and protect the orphans, he would have to do so again.
Or he’d never avenge Orian.
His nails bit into his palms as he did some quick math; since each instance of her spell could only burn a half-dozen tendrils at once, he’d have to break nearly twenty of them to topple it over and give her a chance to kill it.
Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus, he shouted, the world changing color as his mind reached out to the creatures around him.
This time, he didn’t shut his eyes.
***
Ten. Ten broken roots was all it took to take down the first beast.
It was a baby, compared to the second. And that one a child, to the fourth. Callam reached for the ink in each of the creature’s nearest roots—the blots the only color in the landscape not black or gray—as he tried to pin the thing down. Its fibers creaked and dug into the ground, resisting his efforts. Then earth ruptured as it shifted its torso and raced for his tree.
He didn’t care. This felt good.
Sharp bursts of white indicated wherever Lenora’s magic burned a ligament. She was incredible at that, it turned out: repeated casting. Her magic was not as widespread as his, but her control? Immeasurably better. He half expected she had a talent for it—even with Rote’s potion coursing through his body, he’d expend all his mana hours before she did.
“Enfir maliv sonju fi naa loem” she incanted, the sound carrying easily in the discolored terrain. She’d have a sore throat soon, he guessed. It was an acceptable trade for so much power. Anything was. How he dreamed of casting constantly. Of collecting all the ink aroun—
He jammed his elbow into the tree.
Pain shot up his arm as leaves fluttered down onto his clothes. Color flashed before him. Muted greens, and browns first, then the stark yellow of dried grass, and the clear blue of the sky, they all clicked into place as his body released the spell and fatigue set in.
It was a simple strategy—one that had worked so far, and had worked again. It had even gotten easier. Too bad the prairieplight didn’t slow its momentum.