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Each step up the hill is a struggle and Draken’s progress is slow. Loose rocks and pebbles slip and slide beneath his feet, causing him to lose his balance more than once. Even through thick gloves he manages to skin his palm on the rough ground as he catches himself.

Each slip on the windy goat trail sparks a flare of panic in the back of his mind. A narrow pass and a misplaced foot could easily send him plummeting into the jagged boulders and thorny bushes below. Thinking about such a fall he knows that if it doesn’t kill him he’ll probably end up wishing that he’s dead.

So, a part of his mind remains focussed on his feet, watching every step and keeping track of the terrain. This is likely the reason that when he pulls the map from his pocket to check his progress he fails to grip it tight enough against the wind which snatches it from his hands like a naughty child. Stunned, he watches the parchment slip past his fingers and fly away like a frightened bird. How far it flies in that instant he can hardly tell but it recedes to the point where he can barely see it. Before it is lost completely his mind snaps into focus and makes one desperate grab for it.

It’s so far away, slipping in and out of his mental grasp like a fish in his hands. He reels it in slowly. It crinkles as he snatches it from the air and almost loses his balance. Teetering, he manages to plant his feet firmly, his muscles tense as he spots the poisonthorn bush he would have fallen into. He shivers reflexively, recoiling at the sight of the red, three-inch-long poison barbs tangling into a twisted mass all the way down the hill. He doesn’t want to think about what too much of that poison could do to him. Just one barb can cause paralysis, he makes a mental note to come back and collect a few for later.

As he marches into the wildly rustling woods the ground levels out a bit. Fewer ledges and pitfalls to worry about, which is good since the branches overhead are groaning, snapping, falling and flying every which way. With a thunderous crack and a flurry of splinters a hunk of wood big enough to smash his head like an overripe plumb explodes from the force of Draken’s mind. As the deadly branch shatters a piece slams his arm with numbing force.

Draken groans from the sudden pain. He recognizes the agony of a dislocated shoulder. This has happened to him once before, that time as the result of a fairly vicious fight. He doesn’t relish the thought of what he has to do next but he swallows his pain and prepares to do it.

He leans against a tree, finding it hard to get into a good position with it’s constant, almost sexual gyrations from the wind.

Bracing himself between the swaying trees, he grits his teeth in a dread anticipation before snapping his arm back into the joint. The stars twinkling in his eyes eventually fade and his protracted anguished cry dies to a melodic repitittion of the word ‘fuck’.

Legs shaking and feeling like he might puke he stands to his feet just in time to dodge another falling branch. He checks the map again, trying to orient himself. These blasted woods go on for a mile.

***

The young girl nervously shifts under the old man’s gaze. Something about her uncle’s mismatched eyes deeply bothers Leela.

“Let me take a good, long look at you youngins.” He says, his breath smelling of cabbage and rum. The girl and her siblings stand perfectly still.

“This one,” he points to Leela’s oldest sister. “She has a touch of witchcraft in her.”

As her uncle smiles his face becomes like crumpled parchment and Leela can’t help but feel a stab of jealousy as her sister stifles an excited giggle. The old man grunts his disapproval and Margie falls silent.

“Get your giggles out now, girl. It’s a long hard journey to old Gretta's cottage and she’s got no patience for silliness.” It’s a sobering thought, Margie going away to apprentice with Gretta the witch. Perhaps the only fully fledged witch within a fortnight’s ride on a good horse.

With Margie gone, Leela would have a room to herself. No more bickering over little things, no more slap fights and vicious pranks. But also no more girlish advice and no more help with the cooking. She’ll be stuck in a house full of boys and a mother who cares more about the bottle than she does about the broth.

“You also have something of a partial gift.” Leela’s attention snaps back to the old man. “You almost have the eyes for wizardry but not quite and just the tiniest speck of a sorcerous talent that lacks enough substance to grow. ” Something about that look in her uncle’s eyes is unnerving.

“I don’t understand,” Leela says. “How can I have bits and pieces of mage gifts?”

The wooden bench by the fireplace creaks as the old man lowers his immense weight. Uncle Gorlogg never lost his muscles in his advanced age and now resembles an ancient battle scarred ox.

He motions Leela to sit as he lights his pipe and takes a great many puffs before regarding her again.

“You probably think that every kind of magic has a gift but it really doesn’t take a full gift to make a mage.” Those scars on his arms and legs left over from the war stand out in the fire light.

“You know me as a seeker, a mage who sees hidden things and reveals them. In the war they relied on me to sniff out our enemies.” His smile returns as he blows out a huge cloud of smoke. “But what you don’t realize is that a seeker is but a half formed sorcerer who cannot cast spells.”

As he chuckles his weight causes the bench to shake and squeak in response.

The concepts of high and low magic have never made much sense to Leela. Perhaps it's simply that Taniran is not the center of the world and mages born in this less than always tolerant kingdom are often drawn to the promise of wealth and power in nearby Arcania.

Those few who remain are mostly drifters like her uncle or hermits who reject the comforts and pitfalls of civilization and live in the wilds. Still, the lifestyle is more appealing than waiting to be married off to the first butcher or street cleaner who cuts a deal with her father.

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At least a mage has choices and power enough to demand a degree of respect or if nothing else to enact revenge on any who dare harm her. But for Leela the world of magic all appears very much the same and those mages who style their arts as higher than others simply seem like snobs. But if her uncle is right and she has no reason to doubt him, then she may owe all those high mages an apology. She also may be in for a very sudden change in lifestyle.

“What does it mean for me?” She asks.

“What do you want it to mean?” Her uncle counters. “We aren’t Arcania with it’s mystic festivals and customs. This is all very informal, I see a talent in you for the lesser arts. If you want to pursue it and your father has no objections, then your third cousin Gala in the city I think is a good fit to take you on. ”

Leela tries to remember who Gala is from the last big family wedding. She knows there are maybe four mages in the whole extended family, not counting herself and her sister. One is a sorcerer who lives across the border and there’s Uncle Gorlogg of course and then Faml who is a spell singer, that leaves Gala the summoner. A picture grows in her mind of a dour woman of middle years wearing many rings and carrying many pouches.

“It’s not an easy art to master and the results take time. In a place like Arcania you’d be forced to frequent slums and take on less than noble work to make your bread, as circle summoning is considered the lowest of the low magics.” Her uncle’s words knock the wind from the girl’s sails. He playfully slaps her back and laughs as she rocks in her seat. “Luckily you don’t live in the high and mighty Arcane Triumvirate. Here in Taniran a good summoner is worth her weight in gold.” He laughs even louder at the blank puzzled look on her face. “Think about it, girl. Summoning often takes a fortnight to accomplish what the high arts can do in an instant but in a land like ours where high mages are scarce the demand for such magic is unending. ”

Leela feels silly for having not thought of that. In fact she feels silly for having not thought of any of the things Uncle Gorlogg has told her. She finds a new sense of determination growing in her belly. Can she really become a mage? Can she avoid being married off to one of her brother’s idiot friends like buck toothed Billo or Trover the peeping perv? The prospect of a life where she controls her future, where she has the power to decide if she’ll ever wed. The power to choose when and if she’ll have children and even to take on a lover with no fear of being shackled to a brood. Then there’s the prospect of making her own money and the thought of walking the streets without fear of being raped for there aren’t many fools who would dare anger a mage. All of these thoughts pass through her mind in an instant and she knows with a certainty that she can’t pass up this chance.

“If my father agrees, I’ll go to the city.” She says, silently promising to run away if he doesn’t.

“No need for any rash thoughts.” Gorlogg says, stretching as he stands up. “Don’t go thinking i’m a mind reader just because I can read you like a book, girl. If it makes you feel better your daddy is also pretty easy to read and I imagine he’ll be over the moon to learn that he’ll never need to pay a coin in dowry.” He chuckles. “Though with both his girls gone he’ll either have to take up cooking or get one of your idiot brothers married to a nice girl who knows her way around a stove. Either that or somehow get your mamma sober enough that her cooking doesn’t taste like shit but only tastes like puke.”

She feels some sympathy for her family but not much. Her father and brothers could stand to cook for themselves. She knows at least her father learned to cook in the army since he’s largely who taught her. Besides, it’s not as if the city is too far for visits unlike her poor sister destined for a hermitage in the darkest wilds.

***

The repeated single word mantra continues as Draken dodges and deflects everything from falling branches to small dead animals to much larger dead animals to hissing and snapping live animals ready to tear out his throat. As he marches through the shuddering, creaking woods he says the word ‘fuck’ with such variation in tone and meaning that a linguist could derive an entire language from his usage.

Beyond the swirling dust, leaves and branches brief flashes of color catch Draken’s eye. He trudges forward, dodging the occasional wooden limb and blinking grains of dirt from his eyes. He sees strands of magic power floating here and there like strings of brightly colored thread on the wind but all blowing in a single direction, up a slope and veering off into a rocky outcropping where a bramble of small twisted trees clump together in a weird mass of intertwining branches.

Draken leans on the nearest oak and checks the map. The mass is labeled as “The Tangle” and leads near to the marked spot. Strands of magic swirl through the twisted branches like a river of color.

The Tangle seems like a solid wall of thin, brittle branches. A bit of weight and Draken can feel them giving way. He steps back, climbing it is right out.

Reaching for the flowing strands of magic and pulling them into himself, he feels his mental powers expand. Branches snap, crackle and pop under the pressure of his mind.

A narrow opening forms in The Tangle and Draken pushes himself into the strange twist of knotted limbs. There isn’t much space to move and every step he feels a snag on his coat, a scratch on his face, a nick on his ankle, a gash on his hand. On the up side as the branches close in behind him the wind’s ferocity is reduced from that of an attacking tiger to that of a rambunctious cat. As he gashes his palm he is reminded of a calico he used to play with that liked to maul his hand for fun.

Through the shadows of the gnarly branches he sees flashes of light and color and feels an immense pressure closing in. It’s a slow and almost remote sense of building dread.

As he emerges from The Tangle into the bright sun he is unprepared for the intensity of the wind and nearly falls on his face. Righting himself his eyes are overwhelmed by sizzling colors and bombarded with flashes of light. He doesn’t need to check the map, he sees the forces of magic colliding and his heart quickens.

Before him, near the crest of the hill is a group of tall oaks blasted of all of their leaves. The mightiest mages tremble under the power of the magical epicenter, Draken is overwhelmed by the size of it. How can anyone expect him to control that much wild magic?

“Morro must be out of his mind to trust me with this.” Draken whispers aloud. “Come on don’t be a pussy.” He swallows hard as he looks at the enormous vortex of magic and feels his confidence fleeing him with each passing second. But he is determined not to lose his focus or his cool. It takes a few long and sweaty minutes. Deep breathing, concentration and trying very hard to push down the rising tide of panic bring him where he needs to be. He finds the key flows of magic energy.

He touches one with his mind and suddenly feels as if fingers of madness are wiggling in his brain. He screams, falling to the ground and almost soils himself as he breaks contact. In that long instant his mind is overwhelmed with a need to die. The obsessive and irrational suicidal impulse passes as quickly as it comes but the lingering self hatred is hard to shake off.

As he shivers in the dirt the feeling slowly fades and he looks back up at the vortex with a knot of cold growing in his stomach. He considers turning back, telling the old man that he’s not ready.

“I don’t expect a lot from you,” Top Boy once said. “But I expect you to finish any job you take on. There ain’t nothing in the world more valuable than your rep, get known as quitter and nobody will ever respect you.” His uncle’s words echo in his mind and Draken sighs, knowing them to be universally true and not specific to the life of a thief. If he quits now and goes begging Morro for help, the sorcerer will never respect him again.

Sending him out alone is a test and if he fails there’s no doubt the old man will ride his ass from here to eternity.

“Tricky fucker,” Draken mutters with a grin as he dusts himself off. What he does here will determine the sorcerer’s opinion of him for the rest of their relationship. Face the vortex like a man and be treated like a man or run away like a coward and be treated like scum.

“Act like a bitch now, i’ll be a bitch in his eyes forever.”