The snap of fingers created a brilliant yellow ember that gently landed on a nest of cattail fluff. Flames sparked, consuming the tinder with voracity. Pravel fed the domestic inferno precisely; eight pieces of kindling added sequentially, and then the cut juniper logs his master demanded. As the sweet smoke drifted up from the hearth, Pravel set the heavy iron cauldron upon the hook and prepared the ingredients while the water warmed.
Pravel arranged the sacks of powdered acuminata, ground verum, dried ocimum, and zingiber on the table and pulled over the scales and weights. Despite knowing the sequence by heart, he opened a thin, worn book to the page of faded illustrations and stray stains imparted by the apprentice during his earlier sloppier preparations. Pravel paused with a frown, about to sit the book on a stand. He noticed the condition of the bindings was precarious.
“Forma vis sect scupta ato.”
Pravel meditated on the repaired book, focused on how the materials had to move and change to bring about his will. Stemming from the nape of his neck, his will carried down his arm through his hands to the book where the fibers and string and adhesives stirred. Magic welled up from the nape of his neck and ran down his arms into the book. Strings, adhesives, and the various materials of the book stirred, knitting together as they ought. And so the bindings repaired themselves, at least to some extent. The mended portions stood out against those professionally crafted. Pravel furrowed his brow. It would suffice for the moment, but Pravel wasn’t satisfied with the lack of uniformity.
Maybe, he pondered, his master would permit him to send it off for rebinding. It would most certainly be a frivolity in the master wizard’s eyes, but it was to maintain one of his favorite references… Pravel was unsure; approval for his request could go either way.
A splash and hiss and burble as the cauldron boiled over brought Pravel back to the task at hand. With a disappointed sigh, he placed the book on the stand and raised a hand to the heated water. “Aqis haun.” Magic flowed from him once more, robbing the heat from the pot. The bubbling calmed, coming to a slow churning as the heat circulated the water just below a boil.
Pravel stemmed the flow of magic and focused on the task at hand and weighed out the ingredients before the water could come to a boil again. His master always stressed prizing precision. His master often gave Pravel this lesson after catching him taking shortcuts in preparing for his spellwork. The old man always seemed to tell when he didn’t give it his full attention. Hopefully, the lapse to let the water boil early would go unnoticed. After giving it a good mix and taking off the heat right before it boiled, the apprentice ladled out the hot concoction into several cups and placed them on a tray.
Pravel carried the tray through the tower, carefully descending the spiraling staircase that wound around the tower and stepped into the comfortably decorated sitting room where the master of the tower waited with their visitors.
“Ah, Pravel, excellent timing,” the old wizard said, motioning for his apprentice to begin with custom and serve their guests.
Pravel handed an earthenware cup to the two spear-carrying militia men, who accepted with a quiet nod. They were thin, Pravel noted. Or rather, thinner than one expected a fighting man to be. Heavily calloused hands with dirt, fresh under their fingernails, worn and degraded rings on the fringes of their hauberks, and muddied, tattered boots heralded them as farmers tasked with playing soldier, or so Pravel assumed.
The third cup he passed to the obvious person of importance among the trio. On her hand, Pravel spied a copper band with Atelaitian-blue stone in the setting. A thane, he would assume. She wore a gambeson like her entourage except that, while the garment was well worn, she kept it meticulously cleaned. And on her side rested a short sword.
She offered a polite smile and accepted the cup, smelling the aroma with pleasant surprise.
“This smells quite…exotic.”
“Oh yes, very,” the wizard said, offhandedly, taking his usual cup, identical to the set save for a slight blemish in the glaze which gave it character, according to him. “It is, without power or challenge, my favorite herbal tea.”
The old man took a sip while Pravel took his place in a chair beside his master. The apprentice looked over just in time to see the bushy gray brow of his teacher rise a hair’s breadth. He glanced at Pravel. One eyebrow continued to climb his wrinkled face in silent interrogation.
He knew.
Pravel looked away from his master, his shoulders rising and falling in what he knew was an unsatisfactory apology. To explain, he pulled the recipe book from the deep square pockets of his learner’s robes enough to reveal the mending he’d managed.
The old man chuckled, releasing a sigh of forgiveness.
The thane, watching the silent exchange unfold, cleared her throat and broke the silence.
“Master Phyrus?”
“Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat and looked nearly prepared to speak, his steel-gray eyes focusing on the thane. The slightest charge of anticipation ran through the visitors, prepared to hear what a worker of high magics would say. The fine adjustments as he collected himself carried power, purpose, intent, drawing all present into unitary focus. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, only to bring his cup to his lips and take a hearty drink instead.
All three travelers looked puzzled for a moment while they undoubtedly contemplated for a moment whether this old man was truly a wizard of repute such that he could remain independent of any mage guild or if he was a doddering old fool.
Pravel tried to remain stoic, pressing his lips together and turning his face from his master’s facetious antics. Still, he let a small smile slip despite his attempts to remain composed. The thane glanced over and scowled, snapping back to Phyrus.
“Good Wizard, I did not travel these miles to be insulted and mocked!”
While she raised her quite understandable protest, Pravel felt a wave of magic sweep over the room, the hairs on his arm standing on end as the charge left a tingle in the air, perceptible only to those students of the Arcane. Phyrus was casting a spell. Only Pravel, from his position next to the archmage, could see him surreptitiously mouthing the incantation while the cup obscured it for those sitting across the room.
Pravel couldn’t tell what had been done, but wanted desperately to know what the old man was up to.
Phyrus held up a hand, and Yicene held her tongue, acutely aware that he was a wizard in his tower and she was a guest being granted his hospitality. “I meant no insult. You’ll have to excuse my humor; it has grown rather stale in this abode where my attempts at levity have dashed themselves upon the crags of my apprentice’s utterly serious demeanor.”
The apprentice in question looked at his master, a tad surprised at his assessment of his student.
“Ah, then…all’s well,” the thane said, and offered a smile to reaffirm her words. She took a sip of her own drink and her eyes widened slightly at the spices.
“Moving on to business,” Phyrus began, reclaiming focus once more. “What brings you to my tower, Yicene?”
“As I announced on your front step, I am in service of the Atelaitian Crown as a proprietor, a thane stationed at a small town beyond the Southmarch Garrison.”
Phyrus sat his cup down as the explanation continued, a hand absently stroking his long, graying beard.
“So, the Crown assigned you to a village that can’t have more than…what? Around a hundred people?”
Yicene nodded, “Correct. Four years of study and training to be appointed to a border town on the frontier. We have a hundred and thirty-four at last count. Which-“
“-One moment,” Phyrus said, cutting Yicene off. “Why would Vester devote someone of such training to somewhere so remote? A punishment?”
The three visitors shifted in their seats at the brandishing of the king’s name, but such were the benefits of a wizard’s station.
“No, not a punishment,” Yicene said, giving a quick glance to the younger of the armed men with her.
“The Crown has a desire to expand to control the Trilan Strait. My job is to assist the Alderman in growing the village quickly: building new houses to accommodate new settlers, expanding the arable land, and such. And in our attempts at expansion, we’ve noticed some unusual activity with our kobolds.”
Pravel and Phyrus both perked up slightly at the mention of the diminutive house spirits; one with rapt attention, the other, idle interest.
“How unusual? Are they being seen?” Pravel asked, receiving a glance of admonishment from Phyrus.
Yicene shook her head. “No, I don’t believe they’ve been showing themselves, but they’ve started going missing. People have found their half-burned candles left scattered about, dirt tracked into homes, and a general sense of unease has settled in.”
“I take it you don’t employ a spirit keeper?” Phyrus asked.
“No, we do not. It simply isn’t a financial possibility,” Yicene said with a sigh.
“So you’ve sought me out to help find out what is going wrong with your kobolds? Why not go to the Guild?” Phyrus asked, suspicion in his voice.
“I would like to have this matter resolved quickly,” Yicene said quickly. “The Guild would be unwilling to travel so far, especially without a prohibitively expensive rate-“
“-You assumed my skills would be cheaper than the Guild?”
Yicene froze as Phyrus’ tone grew cold. She quickly collected herself, offering a flattering smile.
“No, not at all, Master Wizard. We knew your services would cost in reasonable proportion to your skill, unlike the Guild. Were we to go that route, they’d surely assign us a novice with an exorbitant price.”
Phyrus chuckled. “Good answer.” He took another long sip of his herbal tea before continuing. “However, I am sorry to say that you have come when I am preparing for a vital experiment. It would be several synodes before I could travel to help.”
Pravel looked at his master; he wasn’t aware of anything his master was planning, certainly not on that scale. He wondered if the old man merely didn’t wish to make a trip for some lowly house spirits. It wasn’t glamorous work to be sure, but Pravel would love the chance to work with such spirits.
Yicene furrowed her brow for a moment. “I- the village- would be indebted to you for helping us solve this matter. I need to be absolutely positive that there is not some magical phenomenon causing the kobolds to vanish that could endanger the village. Surely, it would be a trivial matter for one of your prodigious skills.”
The wizard shook his head and finished his cup. “I’m afraid my answer is an unwavering ‘no’. Gold has little sway to me, and there is no new knowledge from kobolds. My work has to take precedent.”
“What about your apprentice?” Yicene asked, looking at Pravel. “We will pay him the same to ferry your skills to our aid by proxy.”
Pravel met her gaze with a broad smile. “I think it would be an excellent opportunity to familiarize myself with lesser spirits, Master.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The room looked to the wizard.
“No.”
“What?” Pravel asked, his smile faltered, fallen.
“You heard me,” He said. His look was imperious, and not one which invited rebellion despite his orders, but one which truly meant Pravel was not to go… lest there be consequences.
“I need Pravel to assist me in the preparations for the experiment. I cannot tolerate delays. Now, I have spoken on the matter and to question my decision is to protest a tempest.”
He offered Yicene and her compatriots a warm smile. “You may stay the evening and prepare yourselves to start your journey on the morrow. The tower will tend to your horses and prepare your rooms on the floor above. Ascending further will lead to your untimely demise.”
Phyrus rose with none of the expected trappings of age and strode out the door.
“Excuse me,” Pravel implored the guests, sitting his cup down to follow his master.
Pravel hurried to catch up to Phyrus, youthful legs carrying up the tower two steps up at a time. And yet, even by the fifth rounding of the spiral, he hadn’t reached the old man. With his breath struggling to keep up with the athletics, Pravel came to a stop on the steps. A suspicion took root in the apprentice’s mind. He quieted his breath and placed his hand on the cool stones of the tower wall. He heard and felt the steady rumble, quiet but immediately recognizable. Phyrus was shifting the tower, keeping himself ahead.
“You old tenizoloth,” Pravel said. Two could use magic in this tower. He grinned and pulled out his spellbook: a heavy leather-bound tome with the cover bearing a stygian iron disk with inlaid gold and emerald chlorom. Five chlorom rings, each with a unique gemstone, surrounded a star of gold, which represented the five worlds in their dance around Omia. The apprentice turned past the cover and thumbed through the pages, stopping perfectly at the spell he was after.
“Invican vis incantyr: Forma Aer!”
The magic flowing from the nape of Pravel’s neck to his limbs suddenly quickened. He felt invisible lines across his body grow taut as wind whirled around him, snapping at his cloak and robes. Pravel shifted his weight from foot to foot and felt the air churn beneath his steps.
With a bounding leap, Pravel leapt up the curling spiral, jumping from step and wall as the very air aided his ascension. It only took a half turn for the apprentice to catch sight of Phyrus’ red robes. The old man had reached a landing and turned to see Pravel right behind him, utterly disheveled but smirking at the wizard’s failure to keep him distant.
“Collect yourself,” Phyrus ordered, his frowned countenance showing no hint of how he begrudgingly found his apprentice’s solution whimsically effective. But that spark of pride and approval quickly turned into an icy dagger of grief in the old man, deepening his sullen look.
Pravel nodded, his high spirits sobering with what felt like admonishment. While Pravel corrected his tousled hair, brushing it back past his ears, and adjusted skewed robes, Phyrus waved his hand over the door to his study and the door obeyed his silent order to open. Gadowyn gave a warble of a greeting as they entered and flew over to a perch closer to the wizard. The magpie demanded her tithe, and Phyrus presented a cracker he’d thoughtfully taken from the refreshments offered to their guests. Pravel watched from the door, hesitant to move further into the room lest Phyrus send him away with the odd mood that’d struck him. The archmage could often grow irate when Pravel failed to follow instructions perfectly, and terse when his mood turned foul, but never cold to the point of trying to leave Pravel’s company.
Phyrus, with a show of empty hands, broke the news to Gadowyn that there would be no more treats, much to the chagrin of the avian familiar who sulked back to her favored perch where she could look out of the room’s large window and monitor the whole of the study. It was to the latter where she focused on this occasion, sensing disquiet from her master and the boy that had been at the tower for a few decades now. Barely any time at all.
The wizard sat down at his writing desk with a sigh. “You will not play with kobolds, Pravel.”
“Can we discuss it before completely ruling it out?” The apprentice asked. “I’m starving for practical applications locked up in this tower.”
“I give you plenty of practical applications for your studies!” Phyrus said sharply, turning in his chair to level an indignant glare at Pravel. “Magic functions the same in these walls as it does in the dirt and sticks. But if you desire fresh air, take a walk about the grounds and clear your head.”
Phyrus waved his hand as if to dismiss the apprentice, but Pravel did not budge.
“Master, you yourself have gone on at length of your travels, your adventures across the Five Worlds, your grand battles against other wizards, about unearthing objects of power! You were the one who said it was the best learning you could have ever experienced, so I think this is a harmless, if rudimentary, opportunity for me to start that same process.”
The old man gripped the arms of his chair. His fingers drummed against the wood as his face shifted through an assortment of scowls. His apprentice hadn’t been this bold in questioning him since he was young. Phyrus floundered for a counterpoint, even though he knew his apprentice was not far afield with his reasoning and desire to go.
“Aricho,” Pravel continued, while fidgeting with the magic ring on his forefinger, “has been writing to me of his recent assignments…”
Phyrus’ fingers ceased their tapping. “Oh?”
“Err, well, yes…” Pravel said, hesitating, holding his hands behind his back, and therefore hiding the ring from Phyrus’ sight.
Pravel cleared his throat. “Adigon has him studying a Gatebuilder ruin in the Porsorlas. Alone! He says he has to use magic to even get around the mountains, where walking is too treacherous. Not to mention hunting and the wards still active in the ruins…”
“I suppose you’ll want to go visit him too? Out of the question-“
“-No! No, Master. I’m not asking for that. Not now, at least. I understand that’s too much. I’m trying to say that if he can do that sort of thing, I can surely deal with some kobolds successfully.”
“Aricho has more experience than you. I would entrust him with such a task before sending you.”
Pravel protested; the other apprentice only had a few more years of study after all, but Phyrus raised a hand and Pravel held his tongue.
“And, as you said, helping kobolds would be rudimentary. It is beneath you, Pravel. I understand your desire for experience, but the worlds are growing ever more discordant. Especially for mages. You can learn in safety here until I decide it is time for you to venture forth.”
“How much longer will it be?” Pravel asked, a keen edge laced with his otherwise level tone. “I’m no longer a child, Master.”
“Neither are you wizened. I will decide when you are ready. Now, you make me weary. Begone.”
Phyrus turned back to his desk and began collecting the papers scattered about. He stacked and sorted, moving them about, looking busy, but Pravel could see it was an act.
“Master!” he said with a volume and severity that took both of them by surprise. Despite the unfamiliar territory, Pravel grabbed hold of that spark of fury, but met with an inferno. When Pravel opened his mouth to speak again, Phyrus’ voice thundered through the Arcane itself, tinged with magic.
“I said, begone!“
The room shook, the ever-burning torches lining the walls roared with tongues of flame that billowed to the ceiling. The men stared at one another. Phyrus permeated an air of practiced command, and Pravel glared back. Gadowyn let out a displeased croak, ruffling her feathers as the sulfurous smell of burnt magic crept from the strained torches.
With balled fists and gritted teeth, Pravel sulked from the room, slamming the door in his wake.
Phyrus sunk back to his chair, deflated not only from the burst of untempered magic, but from having to raise his voice at his apprentice. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, looking at his familiar, who was likewise studying his face with glassy black eyes. “What am I to do with the boy?” he asked, gently running his fingers over the bird’s feathers.
Pravel’s eyes searched the stones as he wandered down the steps in the wistful hope they might hold some answer for him. What good, he wondered, were the years of instruction he’d obediently submitted to if they were so blatantly squandered? Pravel wasn’t a novice any longer. For over twenty years, magic was his sole focus; studying under Phyrus was all he knew, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to know things beyond that.
“Master Pravel!”
The apprentice startled as Yicene’s voice shattered his solitude. He looked up from the steps to see Yicene walking up towards him, her hand dropping from the hilt of her sword. She seemed relieved to see him, but still on edge; looking past him to see further up the spiral.
“Thane?” Pravel said, confused.
“The tower shook, and we heard shouting…”
Pravel collected himself and forced a smile; he hadn’t considered what their guests must have experienced when glimpsing Phyrus’ power without context.
“Apologies for that: everything is well, I assure you. Please, may I escort you back to your quarters?”
Yicene’s gaze lingered on Pravel for a moment, then looked past him again, curiosity drawing her attention to the upper floors. “Very well,” she said, acquiescing.
“I hope we haven't angered your master,” Yicene said as Pravel met her on the steps and they descended together.
“Oh, no, I doubt you and your companions had anything to do with his mood.”
“Is it safe for us to stay the night, then?”
Pravel looked at her, perplexed, “Of course. It will be far safer here than the surrounding wilderness. May I ask what prompted the question?”
Yicene tilted her head slightly, brow furrowed.
“This is a wizard’s tower…”
“... And?”
“It may be commonplace to you, but shaking buildings with just your voice is a terrifying prospect.”
“He didn’t use his voice to shake the tower,” Pravel said, explanation at the ready. “Master’s mind, his sapius, has created most of the spells laced through the tower: the dimension anchors, the torches, even the heating and cooling of the air. Lashing out with his emotions sent ripples through the spellwork, causing the tremors.”
Yicene stared at him blankly. “That does not go far in the way of assurances, wizard. You mean to say that the whim of his emotions can cause buildings to tremble?”
“Well, I suppose so, in a manner of speaking...” Pravel trailed off.
The thane shook her head. “I’ve been in the company of court wizards before and have even received instruction from a spirit keeper, but they were demure compared to your master. Not even in the King’s presence did I feel such a sense of foreboding.”
“Master? Foreboding?” He asked.
“Oh gods, yes,” she exclaimed, but hastily clarified, “please know that I mean no offense to you or your master. It’s just that... most people are dangerous if they can swing a sword or nock a bow, but wizards reshape the very world around them with a few words.”
“A fair point. But if you were concerned with meeting Master, why come at all over a few kobolds?” Pravel asked.
Yicene shook her head. “Truth be told, I’m somewhat desperate. The lord overseeing our southern expansion is coming next synode to see our progress, and we’ve already had difficulty in seeing eye-to-eye. I fear if he can find a shortcoming, he’ll have me replaced, and a failure this early in my career would end it.”
“I see,” Pravel said as they came to the landing where the tower had prepared rooms for the three travelers. “Will you be leaving at first light?”
The thane nodded, “Yes. If there is no help here, I won’t linger. Thank you for your hospitality, Pravel. And please give our thanks to your master. If there is nothing else, I think I’ll retire for the evening and… try to sleep.”
She looked up vaguely at the end, wondering if there would be any further magically bolstered outbursts.
Pravel nodded. “I understand. If you need anything, tell the tower, and it will let Master or myself know.” He offered a last nod, unsure of what else to do, and ascended the stairs once more to his quarters.
His eyes immediately went to the lone window in the curved wall of the room. It was open, as it always was recently, looking out on the darkened glen. Bounding hills framed the last crimson tinged rays of golden light as Omia vanished further below the horizon. Unfortunately, the widow’s sill was barren. As much as Pravel wished to deny the evidence of absence, yet it appeared Aricho hadn’t sent word of his latest journey. Of course it would be this day, Pravel thought, to not have a momentary escape to some far-off mountain in the frigid north.
Reaching into his robes, Pravel removed his spellbook from the holster of leather straps that let him carry it, protected under his outer clothing. Pravel walked past his desk and sat the grimoire in its place of prominence on his way to the window. The soft chirps of insects trilled back and forth across the glen. Pravel whispered a spell that he’d cast a thousand times on solitary nights. The forest bloomed into ribbons of light; the song of the tiny denizens of the trees given visual form. Pravel watched the soft glows of green shift to blue and yellow and pink, spreading out like ripples in a pond.
Colors swirled and rebounded off one another as the symphonies drifted across the treetops in a multitude of calls and responses. It was beautiful. But it was all so… familiar, Pravel realized. The same show put on year after year; the novelty worn down with repetition. Pravel thought it likened to an axe of even the greatest quality and strongest metal. Even were it maintained perfectly, it would one day face the whetstone for the last time before being useless.
“Let’s not get too melancholic now,” Pravel said to himself.
Turning from the window and brooding thoughts, Pravel took off his mantle and outer robes and folded them meticulously. Left in an unadorned shirt and trousers, he placed the more wizarding garments in the chest at the foot of his bed. Sitting on the edge of his mattress, Pravel unlaced his boots and laid back. He wasn’t in any hurry to sleep, however.
Tomorrow would come faster, and that would mean facing Phyrus. Pravel stared up at the beams that held up the floor above. Made from alder trees, the very trees that filled the glen. Phyrus would tell Pravel the story of how he raised the tower with his own magical might, pulled it from the very earth of Eriidin. In the same way, Phyrus promised Pravel he’d teach the young boy to pull magic from the Arcane. His master would go on and on about alder trees, how they were among the kind that could spread their roots far and grow into an entirely new tree, without their seeds having to reach the ground. Just like the alder trees, Phyrus said, Pravel would grow into a mage from the archmage’s tutelage.
From Pravel’s perspective, Phyrus couldn’t let go when it came time to let him branch out.
Then… the only choice was to force his hand.