The lever gave a reluctant groan as it reset into position. Wellynd, face red and dripping with sweat, placed his hand on his hip as he turned to watch the loading trolley clatter back down the rail toward the front of the warehouse. He welcomed the blast of cold wind rushing in through the large portcullis. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the blood pounding in his ears and embrace the autumn bite that gnashed at his hot skin.
On Ars Illuve, it was still late summer. But Wellynd, like every islander, liked to think of the Sea of Elaudri, whose winds now hammered at the side of the warehouse, as a sort of Oracle. The sea shouted the shift in seasons long before the land. Even now, weeks before the trees on the mountainside would turn traitorous and forsake their ageing leaves, the air had a certain scent to it. That unsettling smell that prophesized violent storms and bleak, bitter nights.
It was the same air that preceded every stormy season past. There was, however, one major difference. Those seasons, in spite of their violent hails and cutting winds, in spite of their ten foot waves that thrashed the docks and never failed to carry some unfortunate soul into Elaudri’s unfathomable depths, were brightened by a sort of youthful optimism. He used to spend those few months nestled up inside, reading tales of Usum, learning about Artan history in the small schoolhouse of Kellek’s Watch. Even last year, when a landslide from the mine cut off the town from the rest of the island, his hopes weren’t dampened. He remembered hunkering down in the back of Neera’s house with his friends, listening to hail rattle the roof as the four of them dreamed about going to the Revenshore Observatory together and leaving their small, quiet island behind.
That was around the time they had finished school for good. Their final lesson was the same one that everyone learned before making their way in the world: how to channel.
Wellynd frowned. He never liked the word “channel”. He couldn’t believe that people even called it that. It just didn’t seem to fit. But, it was what their teacher, Master Nasso, had called it. Pulling was what Wellynd and his friends had decided to call it instead. Because that’s what it felt like: pulling something, the very essence of the world, that fiercely hot and exhilarating substance, whatever it was, right out of the air.
It was during that final class that Wellynd had learned another important lesson. An awful lesson. He was different from everyone else.
Leaning over the railing in front of him, he let out a long sigh. Every time Wellynd pulled, he felt excruciating pain.
It was a horrible, inexplicable, infuriatingly annoying pain that swelled up in his chest. No one had ever heard of it happening before, let alone knew why it happened. Everyone just said it would probably go away. It didn’t.
Clambering down onto the ladder, he descended toward the loading bay. He stopped as a drop of sweat fell from his nose onto the black scar on the back of his right hand.
It all would have been fine — the pain, the extra work — had he passed the test. But it wasn’t fine. He’d failed.
He’d been keeping his mind off of it the past week by working. Laine had asked him to reorganise the entire warehouse while he was away in Port Alshin, and Wellynd had the sneaking suspicion his uncle had wanted to keep him busy.
He hopped off the ladder and walked toward the edge of the dock, kicking a nearby stone, sending it skipping into the choppy waters where it was stilled by a lapsing wave. Sitting down, he turned his hand into the sunlight spilling through the portcullis. The black mark etched into his skin didn’t reflect the light, and it hadn’t changed in the slightest since the examiner had burned it there a week ago.
Wellynd pushed back his hair, sighing as he looked to the horizon. Over the past few nights, when he laid in bed, body sore from shuffling crates around the warehouse, he couldn’t help but replay the scene in his head. The examiner, with his large, strange looking hat, disinterestedly telling Wellynd about his "peculiar" limitations. That such constraints were “too much to overlook”.
He rubbed the strange symbol, its delicate lines growing blurry in his vision. This symbol meant he’d probably be working in this warehouse for the rest of his life.
Despite only being seventeen, he’d already been working here for the better part of five years. He’d spent five years loading heavy crates of unprocessed stone, ore, and foreign goods into the warehouse, his toes always numb by the end of his shift from the icy water that soaked through the seams of his leather-patched boots.
He shivered.
Like nearly everyone else around him, he was just a Kosun.
It wasn’t clear what the word directly translated to; he wasn’t particularly keen on ancient Venen in school. But the implications were clear.
Wellynd would never be a Koshai. And while that didn’t mean much to most people — most folks still learned respectable trade when they failed the test — it meant everything to him. He would never be admitted to any of the Observatories and he would never be anyone important. Only Koshai, those who passed the test and learned the secret crafts from the Observers, were given high-ranking roles in Artan and Vertan society. Only Koshai would live extraordinary lives.
Wellynd wiped his sleeve across his nose and stared back down at the docking pool, his black, curly hair falling in front of his eyes. This was all ridiculous. Laine seemed just fine as a Kosun. So did Henry; in fact, Henry was reputedly the faster guster on the island. Wellynd always marvelled as the sails of The Brinebreaker swelled when Henry called the wind and the ship ripped through the waters.
Then again, Henry had always said he’d be no match for a guster from the Observatory, and that he’d seen Koshai practically skip massive warships across the turbulent waters of the Elaudri.
Wellynd sighed. He would love to see that someday.
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
He needed to stop dwelling on it. There was nothing he could do.
Wellynd shook the thoughts from his head before scanning the warehouse. He’d always admired his uncle’s ingenuity in designing the place. If the grizzled sailor was to be believed, it was the only one like it on the whole island. The small docking bay enabled the Brinebreaker to sail directly into the warehouse from the sea, and once the small ship was docked, the portcullis would close behind it. Not only did it allow the crew to haul crates right off the deck and onto the loading crane, but it had the additional function of keeping prying eyes off the boat and its cargo. When you were a smuggler like Laine, that bit was rather important.
Turning from the waters of the docking pool, he walked toward the front of the warehouse and eyed the peculiar object crudely affixed to the wall inside the operators booth from where the crew operated the portcullis and the loading crane.
The device was a jant.
Well, it kind of was.
Most of the jants Wellynd had seen were comprised of a circular, brass plate moulded around a crystal sphere that held a diamond-like stone. This jant, however, was more of an oval, had several score marks along the front plate, and he could swear there were a few faint cracks in the glass chamber. He guessed that Laine had either bought it from another smuggler or, more likely, taken it from one of the rich merchants he so often swindled when they went on a run.
Like most people, Wellynd had no idea how the strange contraptions worked. All he knew was that they were used for moving things more easily. A person would stand in front of it, their hand placed firmly against the stone, pull the ambient energy out of the air, and then push it into the device. At least, that’s what he’d been doing, though it seemed every person had a different way to describe their process. He and his friends had used it to practise pulling, and, even though the exam was now behind him, he couldn’t get himself to give up the daily ritual.
He checked behind him to make sure the trolley, and the hook hanging from it, had come back to its starting position above the pool before staring forward and relaxing his shoulders.
Inhaling, he placed his hand on the brass plate and closed his eyes. Letting out a slow, long breath, he imagined falling into himself.
The waves lapped against the wall of the docking pool, their tempo slowing as all else fell away.
Keeping his breathing steady, he focused. Maybe it won’t hurt this time.
The air around him was cool, laden with tiny specks of the ocean drifting ashore. He felt it patter his skin and imagined absorbing it through his pores.
There it was.
The air grew thick as a soft tingling heat washed over him.
Magic. He couldn’t help but shiver with excitement every time he felt it.
Delicately, he began to will the energy into his body.
Gently.
He had to coerce it into him. Maybe if he was slow enough, it wouldn’t hurt.
He felt it pour into the centre of his chest.
Pain. He tried not to panic as the stinging heat began to radiate outward from his sternum. Ignoring the sweat rapidly forming on his brow, he turned his focus to the cool brass plate beneath his palm. Wellynd pursed his lips and exhaled a shaky breath, exerting his will on the mass that now throbbed in his chest. Imagining the energy as a vein of fire, he began to direct it down through his arm and into his hand until he felt the fire begin to flow into the jant. The metal greedily accepted it, the crystal encased within the enclosing glass sphere responding to the energy with a rapid rattle.
The jant was now burning hot. So hot that he felt as if he were holding his hand against a wood stove. Unable to take it any longer, he shunted the last of the energy into the jant. A loud clack echoed from above as the empty trolley shot up the rail and snapped against the top of the loading bay.
Letting go of the jant, Wellynd found himself stumbling toward the ocean before bracing against one of the dock’s posts. After a moment’s rest, he raised his hand, and, like always, was surprised when he saw no lingering effects from the jant. No burns, no change in his skin’s honeyed complexion. Nothing.
The pain in his chest was completely gone, too. It always happened that way. He couldn’t even remember how the pain felt.
Flexing his fingers, he rolled them into a fist before shaking his hand out at his side, briefly glancing up at the balcony and the loading bay behind it. The trolley was swinging loosely without any cargo to weigh it down.
Wellynd bent down and took a seat on the side of the dock, letting his legs swing freely, leaning back as his hands came to rest on the smooth wooden planks. He had just replaced them last year, and the treated wood showed little sign of wear. That would change in the coming months. Elaudri’s salty water quickly ate at the wooden boards and caused them to rot, especially during the Season of Storms. He stared out toward the horizon, noting the long wispy clouds farther out at sea. It looked like a storm might be headed to shore. But, for now, the gusts blowing only a moment ago had lapsed into a light westerly wind that smoothed the incoming waves as they lapped softly at the support beams beneath his feet.
Bracing his palms, he suspended himself off the dock and stretched his leg downward to kick at the top of the water, splashing out toward the open sea. No. He would find something different to do. He had to.
Wellynd glanced back towards Laine’s office door. He’d been procrastinating setting out for his delivery all morning and was dreading the trek to the mainland. He sighed. Exchanging smuggled skald with criminals wasn’t exactly a cure to his melancholy. Then again, neither was sitting around here. At the very least, he’d get to see Alara.
Standing up and stretching his arms, Wellynd went into Laine’s office and walked over to the large wooden desk that sat in the middle of the room. As always, the desk was littered with papers.
Pulling open the top drawer, he fished through the miscellany of broken tools, bolts and half-smoked cigars until he located the small blue pouch Laine had mentioned. From the rancid smell alone, he could tell it contained Thislrut powder.
Neera’s mom, Kellek’s Watch’s only healer, used the stuff in a lot of her salves and ointments, but the plant didn’t grow on Ars Illuve. She had hinted that her supply was running low and to bring some back if he had happened to come across any. He chuckled to himself. Although Laine would never admit it, Wellynd had the sneaking suspicion that the old smuggler had a crush on the woman and imagined that he had sought the powder out as soon as he docked at Port Alshin in Melyar.
Straightening up, Wellynd squinted and scanned the dim office, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. The only source of light assayed its way through the dirty windows facing the sea. It was a mess; there were papers strewn about every available surface, and the room reeked of cherry cigar and mildew.
It took him a few moments, but he finally spotted his quarry; a large rucksack sitting in the corner. Striding over, he grabbed the strap and promptly slung it over his shoulder. He groaned. It was heavy. How many skald was he delivering? He’d have to take a look at the list once he hit the road.
Taking one last habitual glance around the cluttered room, Wellynd headed for the outside door, making sure it was locked on his way out, and bound up the stairs.