“The what?”
“A voice, a song, of true incantation.”
“…”
The word wormed around, now subdued. It pulsed, ululating, in soft singsong, as it coaxed Heos.
With glassy eyes, the prince lost himself, the utterings of the word washing over him; like a living thing, chained, wishing for freedom.
“I would advise you not speak it until I warn you.” The sage’s expression had gained heft, as a sculpture of marble, birthed to speak unmovable decrees. “Carelessly speaking this word will result in declension of your own being. Just as with the space you amateurishly carved out, and in doing so invited death, a mindless mutter of this word would not be without sacrificium. Death is the simplest, do not expect it, it would be too light.”
“Yes…” The prince’s unfocused, trembling sight, his irises, still did not meet the old mage. Their hazy fog looked to be staring inwards.
“You must consider the Order. The Order is that which you command to be. The effect of the uttering. The Sphere is the incantation’s authority. If I were to order a flower to bloom, by commanding with the word “grow”, the effect could well be considered inside the sphere of the incantation. Yet, If I were to utter “die”, the Sphere of the word, its authority, would not easily cover the Order.”
‘Not easily… Are to bloom and to die not opposites?’ The chosen expression sounded strange to the prince.
“That makes no sense, should you not say: “It cannot cover the Order?””
The sage smirked.
“Would it not…? Find out for yourself.”
The prince rolled his eyes.
“The skill of an Enchanter, a Galdramaðr, lay in both what they can order, and the extension of the Sphere they project. The distance covered by the uttering, the complexity, the extension of the Order, as in the concatenation of words or a singular one; the tone, high or low. Your wish would be to perfect all these facets, and more.”
“And how do I do that?”
“I am of the opinion that the soul determines all, so whether you can or cannot is ingrained in your most atomic being. Geist, essentially.” He hummed. “Just do it, no? Over and over, until you bring it forth.”
Were these words not contradictory? Again, this old fool made no sense; Heos thought.
The sage noticed the prince’s unhappiness, yet said nothing, and continued with his lecture.
“The word I gave you, it is, essentially, to create.” He inhaled. “Think of incantations as complex funnels that direct Ousia into a form set by the Sphere and the Order. As a blacksmith pouring molten metal into a mold. In this way, the visualization, the imagining of the spell’s facets and specificities, are conducted through the Order, commanded by the Sphere, and set into motion.” His visage brightened. “Yet, they do not take this shape from nowhere, but from the mage himself… Instead of actively conjuring the image necessary for the spell, the Incantation pulls it forth from the mages mind. This is why incantations are barred from the simpleminded, or the unimaginative, the worthless, the tasteless, the dilettantes…” A mixing pot of pride and disgust boiled in the sage’s tone. “Which means an untrue mage, he who betrays his own nature, will have enchantments twist his spells into a true shape… his nature will be revealed, and he will struggle against his own magic… Isn’t it beautiful?”
Without much thought, Heos found himself agreeing with his “master’s” declaration. He did not know why… but it rang true, undoubted by his sentiments; it did seem to posses some strange beauty.
“What does “create” hold? The further you explore the Sphere of this word, whose definition, expanse, differs from romanse and other continental languages, the wider the diameter of its constellation… not that you would be able to use it by virtue of knowing its formlessness… A study of these languages will not prove useless, however… You may find something interesting if you search for this word’s Sphere in comparative linguistics… in the bodies of continental languages…” He adjusted the sleeves of his robe. “Of course, you will not manage without reading… you must read.”
The lesson had suddenly turned into bothersome nagging…
“Why?” He asked, annoyed.
“The written word is fundamental for magic. Even if it can be taught orally, you will miss half… no, more than half of magic by reneging reading.” His face grew alight, with a… relieved smile? “I understand the reluctance. Overcome it and you will reveal the meaninglessness of this foolish instinct.”
“An old fool calling me foolish.”
The sage laughed.
“Now, remember. Set the Order properly, and the Sphere, so as to not incur in a sacrificium. You will feel, in your being, when something, if it were to leave your lips, would harm you. Even if you do not yet have this sense with non-enchanting magic. It also, usually, corresponds with the “amount” of Ousia you must manipulate.” The sage yawned, covering his features with his robe’s swinging, swirling, storming color. “Cultivate taste, and a brilliant imagination, this is another aspect of growth as an Enchanter. In which, again, reading will aid… will prove fundamental.”
“Yes, yes…” His neck turned, to meet the sage’s eyes. “Hm… The amount of Ousia… How much…” His eyes opened, questioningly. “How can you measure it?”
“You can’t. Ousia is uncountable and immeasurable.” A disappointed sigh. “Truly saddening… the term “amount” is used vulgarly. Delve into it, however, beyond these nascent shores…” He smirked. “And you will feel that something as magnitude, or tension, purity, flow or what have you, are much better a descriptor of the “amount” of Ousia necessary… Most have their own word for it. Amount is used vulgarly, Amnia is the general, scholarly form for an indeterminate plurality, Amnion for an indeterminate singularity.”
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“So, the same…”
Even if nothing made sense. Even if one must conduct magic blind and deaf, his enthusiasm did not wane. If anything, he suspected his “master” of being unnecessarily obtuse… magic had been good to him, so he found no fault with it.
“We’re nearing the end of this lesson, so, I’ll give you some homework, then take you back to the palace…” The sage adjusted his tired legs.
“Very well…” Then, his eyebrow perked up, doubtful. “Some what?”
“Things you must do outside of these lessons.”
“Practice…?”
The sage scoffed.
“I would assume my dear disciple to be diligent in this aspect, needing not my reminder.” His tone had turned overly embellished, clearly sardonic, until it morphed back to steady seriousness. “No, your task will be different.” A soft breeze blew past. “Remember, carefully… have you ever been attacked?” The old mage’s eyes, even through the snow-cover of his brows, even if closed, seemed to burst forth, inspecting the prince. “Threatened… inexplicably pursued by someone wishing to take your life?”
“Attacked…? Like, that man in the alley… when I got lost?” The prince absentmindedly commented, finger’s fastened to his chin.
“Yes. I know of this already. Any other instance?”
“Hm…” The violent current of his memories thundered round the cupola of his head. “I think… Oh, yes! When I lived in the villa, someone got in, with a knife…? I ran and…” His shoulders shrugged.
“Hmh. It was not only this one individual. A hundred and fifty odd others stormed the villa that day, being repelled by the royal guard.”
Heos nodded, unmoved.
“Does this have to do with the homework?”
“Yes.” The sage tugged at his beard, as if to emphasize the heft of his following words. “Before you were birthed, a similar incident happened in the same villa. Where another group, less numerous, sought to break through and claw at your pregnant mother, so as to kill you, still in her womb…” His head had tilted towards Heos, and, somehow, tinged the light summer air a somber tone, dimming its color. The words cut into the meadow, leaving behind a stagnant, grim air. “Does this not cause even a flicker of curiosity in you…? Why is it that these masses seek to kill this budding prince so fervently…? with such zeal that they dispense of their own lives, and are torn apart by the royal guards…? In fact, your father tortured one of these men, and found little more, by bloody methods, than unconcise ramblings. The Hiéron are stupefied as well, they find no trace…”
‘Hierón?’ This word had not reached, with its meaning, directly into his mind.
“What’s Hiéron?”
“The crown’s somber, night-clad hand.”
“Uhh…” A typical response from this old mage… He ignored it and pondered the riddle set before him “Yes… I’m curious… why do they want to kill me? Do you know why?” As he understood it, two people —or more— sought to kill each other, —or one or the other— when beset by an irreconcilable conflict, wound or circumstance… He, who had first left his palace not long ago… how could he be the victim to such a state of things…? Even as an unborn babe, what had he done to bring upon himself this consequence?
“Yes.” Not a change in expression.
“You will not tell me.” Rolling eyes. “What if I die? And it’s because you didn’t tell me.” He smirked, looking to tear down the sage’s nonchalance.
A simple shake of his head was all the old mage answered.
Heos’ eyebrow rose. When he was to ask again, his “master” had already begun to talk.
“Your homework will be to find the reason for this phenomenon… I do not expect you to do so in a week —that is, until we meet again—, so, I will ask you, only, for hints, and traces… unravel this question…”
“Why? What does it have to do with magic.”
The old mage froze, struck pallid, still, by the words.
Instead of an answer, the sage’s chin tucked, his sight piercing downward, as his chest heaving, silently, a set of movements, until laughter erupted from his mouth.
Instead of the jovial, or childish color it usually possessed, this laughter was gangly, almost pained; the hopeless cackles of a crushed, and lost, wounded man.
They crumbled out, with no consistency to their parade, making the shoulders of his “master” tremble, shakily rise in nervous tremors.
The dance rose in intensity, sounding more and more as the blackened caws of a crow over carrion. Tossing the sage’s body into trembling, violent and crackling shivers.
He held his chest… perhaps he comforted himself…? No… he simply shook far too much from the laughter.
Strangely… no sadness bloated this outburst; the sentiments it sought to convey… no, it sought to convey nothing… A transparent spectacle, impossible to understand.
“Hehehe.”
The laughter died down to a giggle.
The night-sea crashing violently in the sage’s robe shook, even when he had already grown silent.
Heos looked on, unperturbed, impassive, waiting for the mage to regain his senses.
Finally, the snow-covered brows rose, as the marine-blue arms uncoiled from the shuddering figure.
Speaking as if not a thing were out of place.
“I would recommend you search for clues outside of this palace. Even if you ask your father, he knows little…” Fully composed, the sage had straightened the manner in which he sat, his voice full, again, instead of sharp. “Once you advance in all, the usage of your own, spontaneous magic —outside of the Arts— the incantation I gave you, and your search for this revelation —which I won't give you, of course— this magnanimous master of yours will show you something far more interesting than this cynn city.” His white hair swayed. “My wish is, also, to give you the entirety of the Omphe I possess.” Nails scratched his bearded chin, thinking. “Although… whether it is possible or not…”
Not caring for the inexplicable shift, Heos continued with his questions, undeterred.
“The entire Omphe?” The word had not been beamed, meaning and all, into his mind, this time, nor the first time he had heard it.
“An entire language, a body, of which this word I have given you is but a single bone.”
‘So, an Omphe is a language…?’ It did not seem this simple… Following, of course, the prior definition he was given by this same old mage.
He held his chin, eyelids lazily draping over his irises.
“Mhm… I would do so anyway… I’m curious.” If the sage knew… and he said the answer lay in the city… Well, it was not the most reputable of sources, still… He wished to see, both an answer to this question and the city, once again. Perhaps he could also ask Mr. and Ms. Swan… Mr. Owl maybe… Swan definitely…
“Have fun.” The voice of the old mage resounded, while the prince still held his eyes closed, in contemplation.
The breeze seemed to disappear…
Nor did it feel as sunny as before…
‘Huh?’
Before he could even open his wondering eyes, the voice of a guard sobered his mind.
“Your Highness, it is time for your next lesson.” An ordinary tone, diligent, coming from the red, white and gold sentry
He was in the study… where he had, before, found the sage as he hid, as he waited… iridescence shimmering round the cloaked figure, a clue to its hiding-place…
“What…?” Magic?
Now, he sat where that old fool had hidden, as he stared at the stoic soldier, announcing the arrival of his next teacher… the passing of the time.
And the sage…
Dissolved into the air… perhaps lost, far, far away…
He smiled.
‘Hehehe’ An inner chuckle, which soon poured to the outside.
Heos could not wait.
The guard watched as he laughed… Did the prince enjoy studying that much?
The giggles endured until the next tutor arrived.
Drowning, softly, into the chiming air of summer… gold-hewn, drunk with bird-song and blaze-skinned.
Dancing, dancing… With giggles for its sound.