《Drinker of the Yew》


 1. The Paladins Wife

    In the wake of the paladin¡¯s arrival several weeks ago, the villagers could not decide whether or not they were happy about it. The children were excited as children ought to be when a holy warrior stays in a nameless village at the edge of the Gray Spine. Brother Lukas, the illiterate acolyte of Paronian who acted as the village''s "priest" was quick to assure the town that this winter would be a safe one. This was not the assurance of a sermon, but rather of quiet conversations in houses, stables, and hushed tones by the inn''s fire. Yet, despite these pleadings of calm there was still a tension in the village. If you stopped someone to ask about it their answer would probably be to the effect of: "all ''us in the village was relieved to have a Paladin of Men¡¯ilian for protection this coming win¡¯er don''t get us wrong sir, i''s his companion, she''s...well...you know."


    The paladin had brought his wife. Or perhaps she had followed him here. What was more clear is that her palms were branded with the thirteen-sided star of Mentilian, a punishment for magical crime. She had snaking tattoos climbing up her neck, legs, and arms of the many symbols of Yuroinis: frogs, crows, ants, and dragonflies in a lion¡¯s skulll. Some girls of the village that claimed to have spied her bathing in the pond even said she had a tattoo of the first yew tree upon her back. Dogs did not bark at her; she might-as-well not exist to them for they did not play with her either. The boys of the village caught bugs and rats and crows, in hopes that she would give them threnits for them.


    However her voice was not raspy like an insect¡¯s scurry, nor did she partake of the flesh of animals when she ate. She scorned the apples offered to her, and ignored the stares of the villagers. She was clean, the village could see that her brown hair was combed and washed regularly. She answered most questions with silence, except when she was asked for her name and where she was from. ¡°My name is Nayinis wife of Ghalos the paladin of Mentilian and I am from a small village in The East much like this one,¡± the paladin¡¯s wife would answer hastily before returning to her business. She would often speak with the paladin while the villagers were just out of earshot, they would never venture too close for they feared that they too might be charmed just as they assumed the paladin was.


    The woman was a necromancer. Or perhaps she used to be a necromancer. So far none of the villagers dared to ask as they debated among themselves. The year had been brutal, and they needed as much help as they could get. Offending the paladin could doom them all, they knew. Early in the year sickness had taken many of the village. Those who had survived the illness could barely stand to work. There had been a drought in the summer, only half of the crops had yielded anything and peddlers had come to town with candies of arsenic and cyanide. In the beginning of Autumn mistwalkers had murdered the tanner¡¯s daughter and stolen old Fynsil¡¯s goats. They had found her bloodied and gnawed in a small creek several miles north. At least they hoped it was her.


    Mercatian Cone, the old smith, had made his opinion well known by the end of Autumn.


    ¡°Who are we to feed a necromancer? Our storehouse is strained as it is. What does she do for us?! For all we know she could be tryin¡¯ to kill just like that damned peddler. At best, she¡¯s bad luck. She must leave. All she will bring is misfortune.¡±


    Several subdued hear-hears and a few claps could be heard in the warm longhouse where the villagers had met.


    ¡°Mercatian, I understand your concern. But I dreamt of the auspices of Paronian and Mentilian several weeks before their arrival. I believe the paladin was sent here. Who are we to object to the plans of Saints? Besides, they would not send a necromancer to our village in dire need of help.¡±


    Few of the villagers murmured faint praises to the Saints. The last year had been a difficult time for faith in the village. Yet, they all gave the acolyte reverence enough to not protest his opinion. Many believed that if they kept faithful to Lukas¡¯ teachings that perhaps Borinean would pity them and bring them the aid they had hoped for instead of ominous women from distant lands.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°I think we have the right to know why he brought her, and who she is. It¡¯s our village. Why not ask?¡±


    Hildegarde Mentilian, the tanner, had stood up. Several months prior she had changed her name as a promise to the second saint in exchange for justice. Since the paladin¡¯s arrival she had sided with the acolyte: no questions, for if he were to leave they would surely not make it through whatever this winter was to bring. Conversation churned amongst the villagers like an ocean at storm. Debate rolled on, until it was eventually agreed upon that someone would have to ask: ¡°Hello sir paladin why are you bound in marriage to a woman who looks like a necromancer? Why have you brought her with you to our fine village at the edge of the Gray Spine?¡±


    Rufus, the barber, was the first person to work up the courage to ask a few days following the meeting in the longhouse. The first snow had fallen before the evening he had knocked on the door of the paladin¡¯s room. His wife answered. The paladin had left to go into the woad earlier that day.


    ¡°Did you have a question for him?¡±


    ¡°Uh-¡±


    Rufus stumbled and choked on his words, somehow tripping over the word ¡°hello¡± and practically tumbling down a verbal hill by the time he had gotten to ¡°marriage.¡±


    The paladin¡¯s wife replied with annoyance.


    ¡°If you must know the nature of our companionship and my presence, I will answer it to anyone who comes to the longhouse tonight. I will answer it once, and only once because as soon as my husband returns from the woods I will not have the time for your prying eyes and digging questions.¡±


    The news spread quietly, like a plague. Instead of a cough, it was a whisper. Instead of a sniffle it was a suggestion: ¡°come to the longhouse tonight to hear the necromancer speak.¡± In the evening, the longhouse was full.


    Some of the children speculated that she had charmed the paladin, for they could never hear what she said when the two spoke. Other children said it was the other way around. The elders were most nervous. They feared that the paladin had left, and had abandoned them to misery. The snow had come early this winter, and another one of the goats had been stolen yesterday.


    The paladin¡¯s wife stood in the center of the longhouse. She held her hand to her throat, massaging the tattooed insects on her neck.


    ¡°I am no stranger to rumors. Yes, I bear the first yew upon my back. It is also true that my palms have been marked for their crimes.¡±


    The longhouse once again churned like a sea of words and speculation. The necromancer grabbed her yew staff and beat it once hard against the wooden floor. The sea calmed. The only things left speaking were the small, ignored sounds of the fire crackling, of snow tapping the window, of wood creaking, of the wings of insects drawn to their fate at the central hearth.


    ¡°You say you had questions for my husband. Yet, the way you stare at me tells me none of your questions were about him. You have never questioned him with your gaze, and had no intention of questioning him with your words either. You are not questioning who he chose, you are questioning why I am here. I will tell you my story, for I need your trust. I will tell you of my still-birth under the double moon, my childhood, and of my loss. You will hear the story of how I walked through The Rippled Plains, and how I supped the teet of the first yew as I sought vengeance. You will learn how I uncovered the secrets of the lair Yuorinis and how I lived to remember the wretched song of the thirteenth saint that only brings pestilence and death. I will speak my many secrets to you, for the rotting maiden and Decay have brought me to your village to defeat a threat that is ancient and powerful, and to succeed in defeating it I will need your trust.¡±


    The fire of the hearth went out. The room was now draped in moonlight that hushed the villagers. She spoke low, so only those who leaned in could hear her story.

 2. Double Moon

    I was born on the night of the double moon nearly forty years ago, cold and lifeless. It was spring, and the snow had just melted. My mother, Clemence, had been sitting next to the stream well into the evening she had gone into labor. My father Rudel, a woodsman, had made a fire next to the stream to keep my mother warm as they waited. It was when the moon rose high above the mountain cypresses that my mother called for the medicine woman, Synwye.


    Synwye had prepared for stillbirth, and forced a warm tincture down my throat. She then told my mother to bathe my body in the stream every hour until the moons were at their apex. My mother, while not educated in magicks, was wise and heeded Synwye¡¯s directions. She bathed me every hour in the stream next to the mountain cypresses until her hands were numb and she could no longer bear the pain. It was only after the sixth time she bathed me that my flesh gained its color and my lungs could take in the air. I would be my parents¡¯ only child, and it was only after tasting the first yew did I understand the nature of my re-birth.


    Being born under the double moon, a sign of auspice for many of the kingdoms of man, certain expectations were held of me. My mother would often gossip to the other women of the village ¡°Perhaps she¡¯ll become a medicine woman or the mayor.¡± It is from her I learned how to barter and how to count, and the names of the twelve saints that man does not scorn. It is from her I first heard the stories of how magic came to be when Knowledge¡¯s tears turned to rain and made the first oceans and lakes and streams. It is from her that I learned to spin thread on the wheel for the roughspun cloth of shrouds and the wax-covered coats which repelled the rain during the spring and autumn.


    I would walk with my father and he would teach me about the woods. It was from him I learned that the tree which acorns come from is the oak, and that it was best for firewood. It was he who first showed me the yew, and told me I must never chop that tree. It was from him I learned to tap the maple for its sap, and to boil it for syrup to use in medicines and eat with breads.


    Using our spare threnits my parents paid Synwye for early tutelage, as they had great expectations for me. The last child born under the double moon had become a successful merchant in the West and had brought much prosperity with the gold hilants he had given to the village in recent years. Because of my parents'' investment I could read by the time I was eight, making me the only literate person in our family of three.


    My parents would purchase me books from the passing merchants and peddlers, and when asked why a child might need this book they would reply ¡°she is a child of a double moon and because of that good things are fated for her.¡± In my eleventh year I was apprenticed to the apothecary, Synwye, who had brought me into this world. I learned to concoct tinctures for headaches, pain, and for coughs. It is from Synwye I knew which plants I was to tell children to never touch. It was during this time I first learned about the saints, beyond what mere children are told during the feasts of Icegrowth and Sunslength.


    I had observed Synwye would pray to a saint for every poultice made and medicine ball she coated. Soon I too learned to pray to Mentilian when grinding iron and boiling bandages for wounds, for as the servant of Justice he cares the most for those wounded undeservingly. I learned to pray to Paronian when the young expectant mothers came to us with ails of nausea, for she serves Fertility and wishes for all things to multiply. I learned to pray to Hazalian for those without threnits, for he seeks for all men and women to prosper. There were prayers for the other saints. Kalitian for unknown ailments, Urostian for those who had been crippled, and Borinean for the people who came to us out of desperation.


    It was my fourteenth year that sealed my fate, that I am certain of, for the chords of the wretched song decreed it to me as I lay in the space between life and death on the black altar. For in my fourteenth year I did hear Synwye pray to Yourinis. It was late in the evening, on the night of a double moon, that a noblewoman came to us crying.


    I remember her well. Her hair was long and blonde, and her robes were velvet and silk and decorated with golds and silvers of I had only ever seen on the moons. On her hands she bore rings of platinum and rubies, but it was her face I remember most. It had been warped by a foul potion her husband had thrown upon it in a rage. She lived in the keep nearly a week to the south, and had lied to her husband saying she was going home to visit her family. She pleaded with Synwye to help her. ¡®Please¡¯ she said ¡°This cannot go on. He yells at me when he is drunk, he hits our children. He has killed dogs for small indignities. I cannot live like this. Either I must go, or he.¡±


    Synwye silently opened the windows, and quenched the fire. The only light by which to work came from the twin-mooned sky. She waited to speak until the wind and mist slithered into the apothecary. ¡®Lady of this land¡¯ her voice sounded almost like wings of dragonflies ¡®I will not take your gold, your money, or favors from you. You have already given the payment of your beauty to Yuorinis.¡¯ Synwye snapped directions at me to get nightshade, yew, hemlock, and the seed of an apple. I gathered all of these things, and ground them together with the pestle. Synwye took the pestle from me before I was done, and spoke a prayer under her breath.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Maiden, singer of wretched songs. A price has been paid. Thou who serve the planter of the first yew that brought death, and with it life, will call upon beetles and wasps and maggots to the body claimed by this seed. From it will sprout a stunted tree that births only fetid fruit by which thy creations may eat, and remind those not yet buried that one day too they shall meet thy patron, Decay. For this seed is not one of justice, but of fate.¡±


    She handed the woman the ball of poison and told her to give it to the husband the next time he was drunk so she could tell her husband that it was a cure for hangovers. The noblewoman left the village that night. In two weeks we received news that the marquis was dead.


    ¡°You must never speak of what you saw here¡± she said ¡°for the thirteenth saint is feared and scorned. She does not serve the mortal realm, and for this man does not worship her. In her wake comes rot and death and all things bitter, as these are the things that come to us from Decay, the planter of the first yew. You may be the child of a double moon, but that does not mean you cannot fail your dreams and fall into a life that only knows bitterness. You must be steadfast in your discipline, for hubris is often the flaw of those born under your auspices.¡± It was not until my sixteenth year that I spoke the name of the thirteenth saint aloud.


    It was also in my fourteenth year that I saw magic for the first time. It was during the winter before the year melted anew that a skald and his sled dogs came through the village peddling fireworks, sweets, and toys. It was only during the feast of the last night of Icegrowth that the skald performed small magicks and told stories for the amusement of the village. The snowflakes molded into the shapes of butterflies, and passing by the laughing children shone yellow from the penetrating firelight. The stars sank to the ground as if they were held on thread as he sang the story of Ghalstorin, the saint of promises and oaths, who vowed to cut at the blanket of night until only daylight remained. It is from his oath that we have stars to look upon to guide us through the night.


    The skald spoke of his own travels to the court of Heurlynth where he sang and danced with magicks for the Laustuun and the other, lesser-courtesans of the Granite Court. He poeticized the magicks that could heal wounds and disease. He spoke of witches that could conjure water from the aloe plant. It was because of this night before Firstmelt that I desired to learn these magicks before I became the medicine-woman of the village.


    I spoke to the skald once, before he left, to request that he teach me his magicks. ¡°These arts to you I cannot beget. Dangerous are the powers that reach behind the curtain. Besides, my magicks are simple trickery, and will be of no use to you. If you truly desire these things, head across the border to Moringia, to the city of Arimens and seek those who praise Kalitian. A practitioner may apprentice you there, if you show coin and skill.¡±


    Until my sixteenth year, did I save the threnits Synwye paid. I did not spend them upon trifles any longer, for I had to save them for apprenticeship. However I did not laze in my studies of apothecary. Seeking Synwye¡¯s recommendation, however hesitant it might be, I worked to learn everything she knew. For if I was to leave for Arimens I must be knowledgeable enough to impress the most powerful wizard. Yet, she would not let me touch the bark of the yew, the leaves of the nightshade, nor water hemlock. So until my sixteenth year I did not touch the yew, nor nightshade, nor water hemlock. I avoided eating apples, for they are the favored wombs of Decay.


    I was to be a mage, and must avoid the forbidden magicks. Synwye often lectured me on geography and culture, for she had traveled much when she was younger. I dreamed that I too would meet the elves of the Deep Woad, and glimpse their porcelain masks they dare not remove around mankind. I believed that one day I might petition the Laustuun and the other courtesans of the Granite Court for their patronage. I dreamt because I was a child, and did not yet understand what dreams meant. Synwye was critical of my dreams.


    ¡°Child you mustn¡¯t study magicks because for you it will only lead to bitter things in life,¡± she would tell me time and time again.


    Until my sixteenth year, did I dream, practice, and save. Until my sixteenth year I did not speak the name Yuorinis; nor did I touch the bark of a yew, nightshade, or water hemlock. I believed I would never learn the bitter and forbidden magicks of the necromancer, for I knew that for as long as I did not touch the yew, the nightshade, or hemlock that I would not bring Decay to me. I would only make medicines for coughs, headaches, and wounds. I would only create tinctures for pain and nausea. It was not until one fateful day in my sixteenth year that I touched these poisons again. It was not until one fateful day in my sixteenth year that I did speak the name Yuorinis in prayer. It was not until one fateful day I fell to the hubris that troubles all men born under the double moon.

 3. Sixteenth Year

    It was on a hot day near the end of Sunslength in my sixteenth year that I did again touch the yew, and the nightshade, and the water hemlock. I dreamt that in the next year I would leave for Moringia to study magicks by which to compliment my apothecary. I would then return to the small nameless village in the western mountains and purchase Synwye¡¯s apothecary, and never touch hemlock or yew or nightshade lest I bring misfortune and bitterness into my life. Before this hot day near the end of Sunslength I had memorized all of the poultices, medicines, and potions that Synwye would give to me. I had begun to tap the maples to use in the medicines she and I prepared for those who could afford the threnits.


    In the two years previous I had grown much in my profession. I had seen women die, men die, and children die as there was nothing we could do for them besides pray to Borrinea. I had treated an illness that swept the village while fighting the hearth in my body from that very same unwellness in the dead of winter. I warned the children of which plants they should not eat, and which bugs to not touch. When a soldier was brought to us for care I prayed to Mentilian and Hazilan every sunrise for months with each ball of willow bark I gave him to wean the pain of amputation as he learned to walk upon his oaken leg. Many times I ran the apothecary making the medicine for coughs, pain, and nausea while Synwye spent her time seeking the rare roots and fruits of the wood.


    Synwye did forage on this hot day near the end of Sunslength of my sixteenth year wherein I touched the yew, and the nightshade, and the water hemlock. It was near midday, many hours after Synwye had gone to search for rare roots that a young mother ran into the apothecary carrying a child barely old enough to speak. ¡®Nayinian¡¯ she said, for that was my name before I drank the milk of the first yew.


    ¡°Hazstorin has eaten the berries of nightshade and you must help him. I do not have the threnits you request as the harvest has yet to come, but I pray to Ghalstorin for my child¡¯s health.¡±


    I grabbed the boy and pressed hard to his plexus so he could vomit, but he could not. Synwye had not returned, and disregarding her advice I grabbed yew and water hemlock for I know those upset the stomach. I boiled them into a tea and forced the liquid down the young boy¡¯s throat. Then, I gave a prayer to Yuorinis that I will not repeat here lest the young children make my same mistake. It was upon giving this prayer that Synwye returned with her rare roots, and was forced. The boy had died after he vomitted the berries of the nightshade upon my hands.


    Synwye was quick to discipline me once the mother had left.


    ¡°Child,¡± she said ¡°I know you touched the yew, the hemlock, and the nightshade for I can see their stains in your palms. It is true that these may help expel poisons and bile. However, I did tell you to never pray to Yuorinis for she only brings decay and bitterness. I told you to never pray to Yuorinis nor to touch yew, nightshade, or water hemlock for those prayers are prayers of fate, not prayers of growth. It is because of your prayer that the boy died. Go home, for I cannot teach you any longer. I must pack for this village will no longer seek healing from me.¡±


    I protested and pleaded with her to stay


    ¡°Please Synwye, I must learn so I can go to Moringia to learn magicks and return to buy your apothecary from you. The village will forgive you.¡±


    She spoke bitterly to me


    ¡°Child, you prayed to Yuorinis because you assumed many things as all men born under the double moon do. I must leave, for all know that I have prayed to Yuorinis before because of your actions. Those loyal to the marquis will seek me and burn the town unless I abscond far to the south whereupon arrival I will take a new name as I did here.¡±


    I pleaded again, asking to go with her so that I might complete my apprenticeship. Again, she refused.


    ¡°This town will bear the winter with no apothecary. My shop will burst with termites and roaches and rats and carrion crows before the autumn¡¯s close. You will sell what you can to the peddlers, and take less from them so they do not ask questions from you. You will give these threnits to the mother who screams to Borrinean for alms. Then, hopefully, you will never give Decay the ownership of any fate nor will you speak the name Yuorinis in prayer lest you bring misfortune upon yourself.¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    Synwye left the village, and I sold what I could to the peddlers at a low price that they asked no question. I gave the threnits to the mother of Hazstorin who was still sick with grief, and spent the rest of the winter planning my journey across the Moringian border into the city Arimens so that I might find a wizard under which to study. I had spoken the name of the thirteenth saint, and because of this to leave was the only option.


    I used what threnits I have to purchase a coat for winter, and spun myself a flaxen cloak for spring and autumn when it rained the hardest. I kept for myself the bags of willow bark and other useful medicines that no peddler would purchase from Synwye¡¯s decaying shop. My father reminded me that Oak was best for fires, and my mother made certain that I could make bread and mash from the acorns so I could eat if hunger and death ever drew too close.


    It was during the winter of my sixteenth year that I learned what it meant to fear Decay. Illness and misfortune took wealth from everyone in the village. It was during that winter when the stores of food throughout the village rotted. It was during that winter that the skald was absent. It was during that winter wherein the music played at the last feast of Icegrowth was a blizzard that froze the livestock, howled at our doors, and shrank our fires to candlelight. It was during that winter that I understood why Synwye had warned me to avoid yew, nightshade, and hemlock.


    Greenpeek came to our battered town, but my time was limited. Much like my stay here I only received stares and questions. ¡°Why did you poison Hazstorin? How long did you know that Synwye prayed to the thirteenth saint?¡± It was when the new apothecary came that I knew it was my time to leave. I spoke to him of the ailments of the village, and which roots and berries to buy from the caravans and peddlers that came to town each year. I told him to avoid yew, nightshade, and water hemlock for those who had survived the winter believed they brought bad luck. He thanked me with some of his spare threnits, and asked me why I could not apprentice to him.


    ¡°Sir, I have made mistakes in my hubris, and I must leave this village as not to remind them of Decay and the misfortune their previous apothecary has left them to suffer.¡±


    The apothecary understood. He said he would write a letter for me if I decided to head through the border to Arimens in Moringia and that he would protect the health of my family so I may see them when I return and bring prosperity to the village. The new apothecary brought news from the East, that the conflict between Moringia and Junumianis had brought strife that sent him further West to our village.


    With the new apothecary came a new acolyte, as our previous priest had perished during the blizzard. A young man of Paronian who took the name Benevolence spoke to a suspicious and starved congregation that the worst had passed, and that the thirteenth saint would no longer starve the village. He spoke to me too, before I left.


    ¡°Nayinian, I have not known you long, but I am told you seek to learn magicks in Arimens. The apothecary has told me of your previous experience and the prayers that were given to the thirteenth saint. Avoid the symbols of Yuorinis and do not pursue necromancy or you will forever be bound and gagged by brands of Mentilian upon your palms as punishment for magical crimes. I have been told you were born on the night of the double moon nearly sixteen years ago, and that your parents and the village still expect great things from you. If you avoid necromancy and the symbols of Yuorinis your fate will remain yours and the village will have healed enough during your time in Arimens for you to return and purchase the apothecary.¡±


    I told him I had no intention of touching the symbols of Yuorinis again, for in the previous winter I had seen what Decay had wrought. My friends and family gathered and gave me words of Virtue and Prosperity and Luck and Order before my departure, and it is with their gifts I left for Arimens in the third month of my seventeenth year.

 4. Peaks of Perpetual Winter

    Having never left my village before, I did not understand the length or the difficulty of my journey west along the trade road. Synwye had subtly tried to discourage this sort of behavior, but her talk of the dangers only filled me with the desire to journey. My journey was to take me further through the Harinese Mountains far to the West, to the peaks of perpetual winter where Icegrowth never leaves and ribbons of light dance in the sky to tempt men to not look where they are walking. My journey was to take me over the river Kalipaonin that takes greedily of the dirt and dust to nurture the island within its miles-wide flow. My journey was to take me past the thundered plains where it is said that Urostian¡¯s ashes were spread under a petrified tree for he prefers stone to wood as it makes for the strongest shelters. My journey did take me to these places, and more. Yet, first I must speak to the perils of travel and the cost of war that I did see when I climbed the peaks of perpetual winter of the Harinese Mounts, crossed the river Kalipaonin, and traversed the thundered plains.


    The road that runs the rest of the Harinese beyond the village is winding and dangerous. Like the most venomous snake the youngest of its coiled paths are the most venomous. Of this, thankfully, I was warned and did not risk the shortcuts that tempted (and still do) the inexperienced travelers who fall prey to bears and wolves and ice. On this portion of my journey did I first pass a caravan full of families who prayed to Mentilian, Urostian, and Borinean for their homes had burned and shattered in conflict. They too were headed far west to Moringia so that perhaps their pleas to the saints might be answered and that war which is still waged under different names.


    They spoke of the brutality of the army of Junumianis that had burned their crops and hidden their children from all except Mentilian, for the saint of justice knows where all injustice festers. Many of them told ¡°this is not a conflict of righteousness, it is one of greed and power¡± and to avoid Arimens for they feared it too would fall prey to greed and power. I did not let their warnings affect my desire to learn magicks so I could return to my healed village in many years and purchase the apothecary, as Benevolence had said was possible. Before I ventured ahead of the caravan I purchased a torch as the spies of Junumianis were said to not carry torches and I had not yet reached the peaks of perpetual winter where the warmth would be needed.


    Before I had reached the peaks of perpetual winter in the middle of the Harinese I encountered a pack of Harinese white wolves. Harinese are unlike those that tread in the thick evergreen forests in the Gray Spine next to your village. Those wolves are pests and cowards who eat your chickens and goats while the village sleeps. Harinese whites do not fear man, as we are simply other game to them for near the peaks of perpetual winter the mountains are bald making food scarce. The sun had begun to lay its red and purples across the wilds when I first saw the long-cast shadows of those beasts stain a patch of snow that had refused to melt. At first I looked for somewhere to hide, so that the wolves may not see me and not reach me where I slept. I continued forth, for I remembered that my mother had once spoken that the nose of the wolf often serves as its eyes.


    It was when the sun fell past the mountaintops and the reds and purples of twilight faded to blues and silvers of cloudless nights did I hear the Harinese white for the first time. The sound is more desperate than those who scream to Borrinean for alms in their slumber. To experience a pack of Harinese is to make the howls of the most fierce blizzard but a breeze. There are few howls even throughout the Deep Weald and the salted lands that surround the crypt of the thirteenth saint that bring such despair. It is said that when a liar that has done enough as to be scorned by Ghalstorin hears the cry of the Harinese white, that he will simply lay prostrate to be eaten, for the liar knows a lie when he hears one and wolves do not lie when they take an oath. I heeded the advice my mother had once spoken that I must head for shelter if I were ever to hear the call of the Harinese white and lit my torch to continue walking through the night.


    The howls continued, as the pack stalked me from beyond ridges and slopes until eventually I saw the distant lights of the village next to a small woods that lay in the valley under the peaks of perpetual winter. It was when I was halfway down the path to that village that the wolves howled once more and began their hunt in-earnest. Hearing their yelps and their paws scratch against the bald stone of the mountainside I saw three options before me.


    My first option was to run along the coiling dirt path and hope to outrun them. I knew this would not work because my father had taught me that to run from wolves will lead to certain death. My second option was to bear the torch towards the beasts and pray to Ralurusian that the pack remembered that all wolves should fear flame. My last option was to run down the unpathed slope, which was shorter than the coiling path of the option that would certainly. I held my torch out in an attempt to give pause to the beasts but it did not work, for in their hunger they had forgotten that all wolves should fear flame. Looking backwards down the dark and rocky slope I set my foot off the trail, taking the only option that would not guarantee my fate.


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    I was not but a few feet down the slope that gravel slipped under my foot and I tumbled down the side of the mountain, throwing the contents of my bag (but fortunately, not my threnits) upon the cold stone. Soon, I found myself in wildgrass in front of the village as two boys ran out to help me.


    "We heard the wolves hunt and saw you fall off of the coiling path and down the rocky slope into the woods next to the village. You should thank Borrinean that you carried a torch or we would not have been able to see your fall and wind you laying in the wildgrass.¡±


    The boys had to help me into the village, for when I tried to stand I found that my left leg was twisted and could not hold my weight.


    My condition forced me to spend the next month recovering in the village that lay in the valley under the snow laden peaks, for my leg needed to be tended to by the village apothecary. During my period of rest in the village I grew familiar with Ynguinian, one of the boys that found me at the edge of the woods in the wildgrass. He too, was in his seventeenth year, and had offered his help to the apothecary while I recovered. Each day he changed my bandages and set splintwood he would ask me of my journey to Arimens.


    ¡°I plan to study magicks, and once I am learned and worldly I will leave Arimens to purchase the apothecary in my village,¡± I would tell him. He would respond


    ¡°For many months I have wanted to leave this village for elsewhere, for there is not much but wolves and peaks of endless snow. Can you take me with you?¡± and not wanting to bring Decay upon this boy I told him


    ¡°no, for I only have the threnits for myself and your parents and the apothecary still both have use of you.¡±


    Which was true. Every morning and every evening he would ask me of myself and ask me to bring him with to Arimens, and every morning and every evening I would tell him of myself and that I would not bring him with me to Arimens.


    At the end of Sunslength was my leg healed but was at an odd angle so I could no longer run and my gait was awkward. On the day I was to leave, and before I stepped on the coiling path towards the peaks of perpetual winter, Ynguinian presented me with a carved stick made of oak. ¡°I have made for you an oaken staff to balance and walk on because you told me that your father taught you that oak was the strongest wood. I hope that this will also serve you as a stave for magicks, as I have heard that all mages carry a staff.¡±


    Which is untrue, for mages carry books to cast their magicks for they typically serve Kalitian and call upon her for aid and power. Still, I thanked Ynguinian for his thoughtful gift, and I silently acknowledged it as a word of Virtue given to me from the boy. With that solemn acknowledgement I started up the coiling path towards the mountaintops where Icegrowth does not end. What I did not realize was that Ynguinian had more to say to me, as he ran out in front of me and held his hands towards the stars to invoke the fifth saint.


    ¡°You have said you will not take me, and I dare not ask again for you have given your word. However, I hold my hands towards the stars and give an oath before Ghalstorin to aid you on your journey to Areminens so that we may both arrive safely, for your leg is twisted and I fear the journey will be too difficult for you alone.¡±


    I could not object to his oath, for Ghalstorin is not pleased with those who lie and Ynguinian had never lied before, and I would not be taking him, he would be taking me. I accepted his commitment, for he had outwitted me, and we began to travel together.


    It took us three weeks to walk the coiling path through the peaks of perpetual winter where Icegrowth never leaves. Those days we curled for warmth in scratchy woolen blanks, and walked sunburnt from the snow under our faces. It was not an easy three weeks, and I believe I would have met my fate upon those peaks had I no companion to aid me, for there were many times I lost my footing and fell. It is our last night in the peaks I remember most, more than twenty years later.


    It was a moonless night that we sat under our rough woolen blankets eating acorns we had found weeks earlier in the woods that I remember most. We had not spoken a word in several days, for we were both exhausted and hungry because threnits do not buy food where there is no village. We had been staring up at the sky admiring the work of Ghalstorin when the ribbons of light only visible on these peaks made themselves known to man and the animals who could still remember what Beauty was. They curled in their imaginary wind and threw the colors of flowers and oceans and sunlight upon the eternal snow and for the moment I forgot that I had left my village because I had touched yew, nightshade, and water hemlock and prayed to the thirteenth saint who brings only bitterness and Decay.

 5. Gift and a Lesson

    Our journey to Arimens took us to flatter and warmer places where villages were more common and and thankfully did not freeze at night as it was barely Midsun by the time we left the peaks of perpetual winter. Several days down from the peaks we were very happy to see a village so we could spend our threnits on two rooms, warm baths, warm beds, and hot food. The innkeeper asked us of our journey to Arimens ¡°The only path from the east into our village is over the peaks of perpetual winter, did the war of greed and power between Junumianis and Moringia drive you over those peaks to this town?¡± Realizing we were still within Harinia we explained to him that we did not flee the war as we were from the same kingdom as him and his village. He apologized for making such assumptions, for he had never heard people with accents such as ours, and then asked ¡°If war is not what brings you through this village, why have you taken the trek through the peaks where it is always Icegrowth?¡± I told him that I planned to study magicks in Arimens and Ynguinian told him of his oath to escort me safely to the Moringian city. ¡°Arimens is a good city, I hear, for it has resisted the call of the war that is of power and greed. However, I have heard from some of the peddlers that have come to the mountains that marks of war have started to spread along the road that leads to Arimens. You should be wary and take the main paths for I have heard that on all roads there are bandits, disease, liars, and desperate men (among other things).¡± We thanked the innkeeper for his advice and continued along the road the next morning.


    It was fortunate that we were not yet to the large trade road that led directly to Arimens, for it (and the many roads that followed alongside) was full of perils. Only the desperate, poor, foolish, and locals take the road through the peaks of perpetual winter and for this reason it remains to this day a small path tread by few and not a major route for trade. For Ynguinian and myself it meant that we did not yet see what greed and the desire for power brought upon the land. Rather our journey took us by clear and cold mountain streams, over knolls of wildgrass, and to small villages who had yet to be affected by the festering conflict. Before reaching the larger trade road Ynguinian and I camped by a river in stamped wildgrass and conversed as we often do when he asked me ¡°Navinian, do you think I would make a good warrior?¡± I thought for a bit, for he was strong and handsome and I could not stomach the thought of him fighting and taking lives, for I had done one of these things and I would not wish for him to do the same. I also considered his commitment to his oath and the companionship he had provided to me. ¡°I think you would make a good warrior¡± I said ¡°but I think you would make a better companion in Arimens.¡± He did not continue the conversations and he was contemplative and quiet for nearly a week. It was only after we had reached the main road and faced our first danger did he fully consider what I had told him.


    Nearly a week after our conversation on the knoll of wildgrass we finally arrived at the crossroad where the large trade road to Arimens begins. Ynguinian and I, being from small villages in the mountains, did not have the experience to anticipate the shock one gets when they travel in a foreign land. At the crossroads was a town with a name, Dew¡¯s Flat, which was wondrous to us for we had never been to a settlement that held a name. The streets were cobbled, which we also found wondrous for we had never seen cobbled streets, let alone more than one street, and along these streets were stalls of peddlers and merchants that traveled with caravans selling their wares. These too were wondrous to us, for our villages did not have stalls. We barely had the threnits to spare for food and board. It was then I began to worry that I would not be able to study once we had reached Arimens, as I did have many threnits but if food was expensive then education must cost a fortune. I did not speak my worry to Ynguinian, for fear he might wish to no longer be my companion. This was a stupid fear to have, as the boy had sworn an an oath. But, I was little more than a girl and did not understand the power that deities, saints, and oaths wielded yet.


    However, it was because of this fear that I did seek to learn a spell. I believed that if I could show ambition to study that any mage in Arimens would take a child born under the double moon. We spent three nights in Dew¡¯s Flat, so during those nights I wandered the streets of half-closed stalls and liars to find a single scroll or word of power. On the first night I prayed to Borrinean, as children who seek spells do, but I did not find anything. On the second night I offered Kalitian the words of Virtue I had received at home and from Ynguinian for hope that I might learn anything. I did not learn anything that night. However, when I slept I had a dream of rain and floods and did hear a voice that sounded like the rustling of old vellum and smelled like the finest inks. Kalitian sang to me: ¡°Child of the double moon, brought into this world by the chilled mountain stream, heed this: If magic is what you seek, you will find it at the end of a winding and muddy trail through the tall and thick wildgrass towards a creek. Avoid the main road, for you will never find the knowledge you seek there. A price has been paid: on this path a widow has offered many words of Knowledge for my aid, and you have offered valuable words of Virtue for the same.¡±


    I woke up quickly and forced poor Ynguinian to leave very early in the morning, since I knew he would not break his oath. The moons had barely set and the town of liars had not yet woken from its drunken stupor when we strayed from the main trade road and instead walked a smaller path that became muddy and led into the tall and thick wildgrass. Ynguinian did not complain; he kept the oaths he took both in action and in disposition, but I could tell the humidity and the mud displeased him greatly. I also knew he was worried, for he kept saying ¡°The innkeeper from that first village told us to stay on the main road, for there are many perils these days and the main roads are safer.¡± I rebutted him, ¡°Kalitian told me there was no knowledge on that road, and that we must take this road because there is knowledge to be had here.¡± In his humor he rebutted me ¡°that is true, for I now I know I hate the feeling of mud under my feet.¡± We laughed to such a volume and such a length that as we walked over the mud the joke nearly killed us.


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    For all of this laughing I had to stop to catch myself, and it was then that several men jumped out from the brush onto the muddy path to face us. They wore the tunics of traitors, scoundrels, and cowards and they brandished knives and swords at us and threatened us ¡°Your coins or your life!¡± I felt a deep fear, deeper than I had with any wild animal for I was a child from a mountain village and I knew what wild animals could do, and unlike the man holding a sword towards my throat animals have forgotten what death and killing is. Men, however, know these things too well. I held tightly to my coin purse, for I did not want to lose the threnits that I was to pay to learn magicks. Ynguinian, however, was more level-headed and pulled the coin purse off of my person and spoke to them. ¡°I will give you this coin purse on one condition, and that you must swear to Ghalstorin that Nayinian and I will travel this road unbothered by you and your men, lest you face his fury.¡± The robbers laughed at Ynguinian¡¯s bargaining, but agreed to it because it amused them.


    I was so furious with Ynguinian that I hit him with my staff in and yelled so fiercely and so low that my throat burned and I covered his face with spittle. ¡°How dare you make me laugh so intensely as to draw bandits to us! How dare you give away the money to pay for my tutelage! Those were not your threnits to give you oafish knave!¡± Ynguinian, being a man of Virtue did not strike me back in anger, instead he calmed me with his words. ¡°Nayinian, I gave them the threnits because I did not want you to die and I swore an oath to Ghalstorin that I was to make sure you reached Arimens safely. I am truly sorry, but there was nothing to be done there. Instead, let me swear to you another oath: I will stay with you in Arimens until you can afford the fee for tutelage. I will give you every last threnit, korint, and hilant beyond what I need for myself, even if it means my hands must be bloodied and my back broken. For now, I am happy that we are both alive. I am also grateful the robbers forgot that more than one person in a group can carry a coin purse.¡± Ynguinian flaunted his coin purse in front of my face, only to set it within my palms instead of back on his belt. I apologized for striking him, for he spoke his oath beautifully and with that I realized he had carefully considered the offer of companionship I had spoken to him days before. Ynguinian and I continued down the muddy path in the tall and thick wildgrass, arriving at the creek Kalitian had spoken of a couple of hours after the sun had begun to step down on its path.


    It was at the creek that we saw the stains of war upon the land. The water was covered with refuse and on the surface of the water clung, like a parasite, the unnatural colors of oils used in the making of armor and weapons. Parts of the creek were so dark that I had to blink to remind myself that it was the middle of the day and the sun was still on its path above the horizon. Next to the creek there was a small house with no door built of smooth river stones and woven wildgrass with fishing poles, nets, and spears leaning against it. This was clearly the widow¡¯s home that Kalitian had told me of, so I approached the open door and saw the old widow laying on the floor. I saw that the widow was ill, for she was pale, shivering, covered in sweat and her clothes smelled of vomit. Kalitian had brought me to heal the woman who had given her words of Knowledge.


    I tried to converse with the widow, but she was too sick to respond. I spoke of the situation to Ynguinian: ¡°Kalitian has brought me to this polluted creek to help this widow, for she has offered words of the third saint¡¯s patron. If I am to learn magicks from this, we must stay for several days and give her the water from our waterskins while I tend to the widow¡¯s health.¡± It was at this point I did lie to the man, for I asked him to forage the roots I would need, as the heat had exhausted me. However, in truth it was that I feared touching water hemlock and bringing Decay to myself once more. Ynguinian did not want to stay, fearing for our safety, but he kept his oath and stayed with me and helped me to nurse the widow back to health, unawares of the offense that bid my leave of my village.


    It was three days that we slept next to the house with no door built of smooth river stones and woven wildgrass, and it was three days that I did nurse the widow back to health. I was as not familiar with the roots and herbs that grew next to creeks below the mountains, but I was of good fortune that Ynguinian agreed to help forage the roots and herbs I did know of, as I feared I might touch water hemlock. On the third day that we cared for the widow she had the energy to walk and speak, who did thank us for our aid, and told us that we must take her to Dew¡¯s Flat for the creek was too polluted to live by and she was too old to walk far by herself. I told that widow that we would do such. However, being young and hasty I did take time to ask her of Kalitian¡¯s payment. ¡°Widow, we sought out your home next to the polluted creek where oils cling to the surface of the water, for Kalitian had promised to me magicks. Do you have magicks to teach me?¡¯ The widow responded ¡°No, I have paid the price of words of Knowledge to the third saint, and that is all I have. I know much of fish, smooth river stones, and the weavings of wildgrass, but I know nothing of spells nor did my husband before the thirteenth had her way with him. Instead I will teach what I know of weaving the wildgrass once I am safely to Dew¡¯s Flat.¡±


    So we took the widow through the winding and muddy path in the tall and thick wildgrass back to Dew¡¯s Flat, where she taught us to weave baskets of wildgrass tight enough to hold water and fish. It was during my weaving of the wildgrass that a lizard climbed to my shoulder. It was no ordinary lizard, for it had three eyes and six legs, and three tails and each leg had three toes, for it was a messenger of Kalitian that only shows to those the saint has spoken to. The lizard, unlike the common lizards who were not blessed by Kalitian, still had its full knowledge of language and magic and did whisper to my ear. ¡°Kalitian is pleased that you have answered her call, but displeased that you are impatient and ambitious, for learning takes time and spells of magick are not knowledge. Heed her displeasure, for she has requested I give the spell known by some of my visage, a spell for which you cannot be noticed. Practice this spell. Do not treat it with the same irreverence you treated yew, nightshade, and water hemlock. Spells are many things, and this one shall be both a gift and a lesson to you, for Kalitian bids that this spell will teach you the patience to learn you lacked with the widow, and thus it will not give you the renown you seek.¡±

 6. Greedily the Dirt and Dust

    We left Dew¡¯s Flat along the main trade road the day after the lizard whispered the spell of unnoticing into my ear. However, we were now wary of the dangers the innkeeper from many weeks ago had spoken of so we sought the protection of a caravan and its guards along with battered peasant families displaced by the war of greed and power. We were fortunate that the caravan was also to cross the river Kalipanoinin that takes greedily of the dirt and dust and traverse the thundered plains towards Arimens. The caravan boss, a merchant named Urostyne, assured us that if we paid him many threnits we would reach Arimens unscathed by bandits and that we would avoid disease, liars, and desperate men for him and his guards had traveled this route for many years and knew of these hazards.


    I did not practice the whispered spell during the first week of travel, for I held anger towards Kalitian. ¡°Kalitian in her condescension has taught me the useless magicks of the skald, for my lack of patience. It is not for this spell that I did risk my life and risk touching yew, nightshade, or water hemlock, for I was patient for many years to leave for Arimens and study magicks and do not need more lessons of that skill.¡± I would say, for I was a foolish child that did not understand magicks, patience, or peril. It was after the first week of travel that Ynguinian did sit next to me and ask me of the spell the lizard whispered to my ear. I told him of my spell of unnoticing, and how I would not practice it for I had been condescended by the third saint. ¡°Nayinian, even if you cannot use the spell to impress upon the wizards of Arimens you would do well to practice it, for it is rare that a saint speaks directly and to scorn a gift given freely by one is to bring misfortune.¡± Which is true.


    It was due to Ynguinian¡¯s assurance that in the second week of travel I began to practice the spell of unnoticing that the lizard whispered into my ear in Dew¡¯s Flat. Each morning before the caravan took down their proud tents would I try to cast the spell. But for each morning that week the spell would do nothing. Each evening as the caravan lit the fires to camp and sit in the wildgrass would I try to cast the spell. But for each evening that week the spell would do nothing. My frustration grew over the seven days, but at that point I was determined to learn the spell as a matter of spite, for I erred and believed Kalitian had condescended me. Sitting next to the small fires on the knolls of wildgrass during the evening I would tell Ynguinian that I would show the third saint that her condescension was foolish, for I was a child of the double moon and because of that I believed great things were meant for me even if a saint did not acknowledge the auspices of my birth. Ynguinian, being a man of patience, did not rouse me to more anger and simply shook his head in silence each time I spoke of my frustration towards Kalitian.


    It was in the third week of travel that the caravan boss, Urostyne, told us we were to dine with him for breakfast and supper, for we had paid him many threnits. We were grateful to eat better food than the battered families that rode in the carts. It was also in the third week of travel that the caravan boss Urostyne told us we were to no longer ride in the carts full of these battered families, but to join him in his carriage, for we had paid him many threnits. We were relieved to ride and dine with the master of the caravan, for his food was the healthiest and his carriage was the safest from attack as his guards were fiercely loyal.


    It was also during the third week of travel that the battered families fleeing the war of power and greed fell ill. It was on the third day of the third week that we saw many of the men, women, and children wore black pox on their hands, held a pale sweat and shivered in the heat. It was on the fourth day of the third week that we heard the coughs and the groans of pain from illness. Finally, it was on the fifth day of the third week that the caravan master did not allow us near the carts and tents that were not his, for it was obvious that the battered families were plagued. ¡°I forbid any approach to these families¡± he would say ¡°for they are sick with plague, and plague spreads quickly to those who sleep next to it.¡± Which is true of plagues. So, accepting the caravan master¡¯s logic and wishes, I did not approach the families for fear of bringing Decay and bitter things into my life once more.


    In the beginning of the fourth week did I succeed in casting the spell of unnoticing. As I have said before: Each morning and each evening I would try to cast the spell and fail, and I had not stopped in the fourth week for I was foolish and insisted that Kalitian had condescended a child of the double moon and because of this I intended to spite her. Yet, when I did finally cast the spell on the second night of the fourth week I did not notice any difference. I believed the spell had not worked as it had not for every other casting I had made of it. It was not even when I woke up the next morning to the caravan gone and Ynguinian calling for me did I realize I was unnoticed. Nor did I realize what I had done when I ran up to poor, crying, Ynguinian as he screamed to Borrinean directly to my face for fear that his search was in vain and that he had broken his oath to Ghalstorin. I spoke to him, ¡°Ynguinian, you oafish knave, I am standing here in front of you so we must stop playing games and head back to the caravan before we are found by bandits, liars, or desperate men.¡± He did not acknowledge me, and it was at that moment I knew I had cast the spell of unnoticing in the evening before I slumbered. Quickly, I undid the spell and embraced my worried friend. At first he was cross with me, for I had let the caravan leave us behind as he looked for and we were now on an unsafe road of bandits, liars, and desperate men. Once I explained to Ynguinian of my unknowing magicks he became less cross and we started down the trade road to Arimens to find the caravan that had left us behind, since we still feared bandits and other things of the roaded and needed protection.


    It was during this walk, when the sun was still crawling skywards that Ynguinian asked a question of me: ¡°Nayinian¡± for that was my name before I drank the milk of the yew, ¡°I know you are skilled in apothecary, for you have told me of your plans to study magicks and purchase the apothecary in your village and you nursed the widow in the house with no door back to health. Why do you not use your skills to treat the plague that has taken to the families?¡± I spoke the truth, which was that I feared only Decay and bitter things would come to me if I tried. Ynguinian was insistent, however. ¡°I have heard a father cry out to Borrinean for his daughter¡± he told me ¡°and I did see him try to leave this morning and the guards stopped him from leaving. The father pleaded with the guards but they would not let him leave. I have seen bodies thrown to creeks, and I have seen children cry over their parents. Nayinian, you are the only way these people can get aid, for not even Borrinean will answer their prayers.¡± I was hesitant, for if I did get sick with the plague would bring Decay to myself, the caravan, and the battered families. In the end I did submit to Ynguinian¡¯s suggestion, telling him that we would both keep our distance, touch no one, and that he would have to gather the roots and herbs for me again. I did not tell Ynguinian he was to gather things to help me avoid touching yew, nightshade, and water hemlock. I did not tell Ynguinian that it was for my hubris that I prayed to the thirteenth saint and because of that I feared Decay.


    The day was waning and it had just reached the hour in which the light of the sun makes all things radiant when Ynguinian and I had reached the caravan and approached the carts full of battered families and plague when the guards did prevent us from getting close enough to observe. I spoke to the caravan guards that we would not approach the ill directly, and would leave herbs for the sick at a distance so they may touch no one. However, the guards rebutted me, ¡°Girl,¡± they said ¡°The ill are not to leave the cart, for Urostyne has forbidden it. You are not to approach the ill for Urostyne has forbidden it, for the illness will only bring plague and Decay the caravan if it spreads.¡± I spoke bitterly towards the guards, for they had condescended me: ¡°I am not a girl, for I am in my seventeenth year and apprenticed in the apothecary. If the ill do not receive treatment all of the men, women, and children will perish and their deaths will bring much worse than plague to this caravan and its people.¡± The guards were steadfast in their denial: upon Urostyne¡¯s orders we were not to see or speak to the ill.


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    It was the twilight hours of the next day, and we were to reach the river Kalipaonin the next day for crossing, when the cuts of Ghalstorin began to reveal themselves upon night¡¯s viel that I suspected we were in the company of the liars and desperate men the innkeep had warned of. We were dining upon seasoned lamb, as Urostyne had brought much meat with him, when I recognized the two men who drove the carts carrying the men, women, and children fleeing the war of greed and power supped with us, away from the ill. In haste I excused myself and Ynguinian to our tent, where I whispered low of conspiracy and poison. ¡°Ynguinian'''' I whispered carefully to him for fear that others may hear ¡°if I am wrong to come to a judgment in haste, set me upright for you are a man of virtue. I believe this illness to be false, and that Urostyne is a scoundrel. If you do not object, I will cast the spell of unnoticing upon myself so I may seek and observe those battered souls in the carts of pestilence, that I may know with certainty that Urostyne is a man of cruelty and greed.¡± Ynguinian did not object to my subterfuge, but bid me to be patient for he knew I was hasty in many things I did (even if I did not) and he knew that judgments made in haste are those likely to hurt the honest man and not the scoundrel. I heeded his caution and cast the spell of unnoticing upon myself and absconded to the tents of the battered families to know with certainty that Urostyne was a man of cruelty and greed.


    Stagnant near the ill women, men, and children I observed. Upon their bodies I spotted again pox of black and yellow sweats, their cough dry as vellum rips only to be drowned by the throes of pain and cries for their health to be returned. These things I observed first with my eyes and ears upon ill, and it was with my nose that I smelled death, familiar to me. Among the pestilence I witnessed a widower thralled to the pain of grief as his tears fell into his pox-stained hands, for his daughter and his wife lay prostrate as Decay had come for them. The corpse of his wife was pale, and with her long hair of rough flax and the stern visage she held in death did she remind me of Synwye and my hubris. I thought to turn back, but knew better. For if this was a plague I would bring it upon Ynguinian with my return, and I had promised myself and others to spite the thirteenth saint and Decay so that I would never again cause bitterness and death in my haste. With temper did I tread the border of the tented ill under guard, for even if I had the spell of unnoticing cast upon myself I knew I must be patient in matters of exposing chicannery.


    It was once I came upon the potted stew of peas and beans that I confirmed the merchant¡¯s treachery, for it smelled of a rare but potent root that grows near the gravestones in Harinese Mounts. Synwye had told me of Cuarinis root, for a young girl had swallowed it in the village once and it was my business to know of the proper treatments for all poisons Harinese children swallowed. She informed me of treating the poisoning thusly ¡°Nayinian, it is of import that you should know this, for children of the village occasionally ingest the funerary root: the only treatment for Cuarinis poisoning is hunger, clean water, and time.¡±


    It was with this confirmation of poison that I returned to Ynguinian to tell. Many hours late into night, for it was after the first moon set that we did sleep, we spoke low and hushed of aid we could bring to the poisoned families; Ynguinian suggested the fortune of our crossing of the Kalipaonin. ¡°There is a barracks and camp on the island in the river Kalipaonin, and all must pass for the river is miles-wide. Perhaps we will find a paladin or a virtuous man and tell him of Urostyne¡¯s treachery and see him punished.¡± Thus, our plan was struck. When we arrived upon the island in the middle of the river Kalipaonin we would go for aid.


    Just past dawn when the celestial sphere shifts drawing up the sun upon the sky to cast its ethereal rays upon the earth did we look down upon the river. Its waters raged in torrent, taking greedily of the dirt and dust from all that touched its miles-wide flow; and in the middle did lay (and still does) an island, polluted by the war of greedy and power that would, in time, desecrate lakes and forests and streams and meadows and mountains.The waters of the Kalipaonin swayed to the toxins of that war, for much like those of the widow¡¯s creek they were black and foul. Even the island itself had begun to take greedily of that blackness, reeking of sulphurs and ashes. It was upon this island that we did try to enact our plan after the caravan mounted a fragile barge to cross the roiling flow.


    But, as when Ynguinian and I had tried to observe the ill families, the hired soldiers of the caravan did not let us pass to the fort, which they claimed would be to prevent plague. Casting the spell of unnoticing upon myself I wandered the halls of the barracks with my oaken stick, seeking a general or paladin. It was with fortune (that day) that good men fight unjust wars, for I did find within the barracks a paladin of the eleventh saint, Ralurusian, whose patron is Memory. I undid my spell of unnoticing, and fell to my knees to seek the aid of the knight of Ralurusian, ¡°Please sir, there is a great injustice you must see to. A merchant by the name of Urostyne has poisoned the people of his caravan and I cannot stop him for I cannot fight. I know it is poison for I have studied apothecary and did smell the root in the food of those who have fallen ill. You must get these people away from the scoundrel so they can drink water and eat no food for three days to cure themselves of the poison.¡±


    The paladin, Raluros, spoke to me: ¡°Calm girl, thy work is done and mine has begun. My patron¡¯s patron is Memory and my patron¡¯s domain is story and fire. I will take the stories of many, and then I will bid the general of this fort to remove the ill from Urostyne¡¯s control for three days as you bid. If thy story be true, and in three days time the illness fades, then justice the merchant will receive. If ye lie before me-and I do not believe ye do- and the merchant is no scoundrel, then justice ye shall receive in his stead.¡±


    For three days we were held in isolation on the island in the middle of the river Kaopolin, and in three days time did the health of those poisoned improved. Urostyne¡¯s possessions were seized and found among them was the Cuarinis root and the tattered coin purses from those who did not survive his cruelty. Urostyne¡¯s parting words I remember strongly: ¡°Only wealth and coin matter, for this war will lead to extirpation, and before extirpation the only good is pleasure, which wealth brings.¡± Urostyne and his men were sentenced to drown. Rocks were tied to their feet, and they were thrown from a cliff into the river Kalipaonin. Of their bodies, the river took greedily as omen; as it did the dirt, the dust, and the blackness of that dreaded war; engorging the polluted island within its miles-wide flow.

 7. The Price of Stories

    After Urostyne¡¯s drowning there was unrest among us that remained of the caravan, since with the merchant and his men¡¯s execution many feared the thundered plains would be too perilous to cross. Ynguinian and I were cautious of these perils, but intent on finishing our journey to Arimens, for I desired to spite Kalitian by learning magicks and he desired to keep his oaths.


    Ynguinian forced me to opt for patience, as perhaps we may find a way to Arimens safely if we wait. The island fort lacked the supplies to hold all of us for long, so on the second day after Urostyne¡¯s drowning we were told that we must leave by the end of the week. It was on the third day after Urostyne¡¯s drowning that Raluros did offer his aid, seeing as we were all in need of protection. His voice, like all paladins of Ralurusian, sounded of fire, smoke, and gravel.


    ¡°I have seen the woe many of you wear upon your faces and have heard whispers of the perils the road through the thundered plains to Arimens may bring: The towns of liars and swindlers that sell rotted meat and dirty water, the raiders who burn caravans and those in them alive, and the shriekers that with those rotten and decaying wings steal children from their beds and the arms of their parents. Let it be known that these things are true of the thundered plains. You now know of the perils of this journey from which I intend to protect those who still wish to cross, I leave to all the choice to cross the plains under my protection or to take your leave at the river Kalipaonin.¡±


    Much discussion was had among those who had rode in the carts, for misfortune was already heavily upon them and many could not fathom taking the risks of travel when death had already lingered so close on their journey. Ynguinian and I had our own concerns of peril: not having seen the power of a paladin outside of stories we were cautious that one paladin could truly protect anyone from the dangers of those plains ¨C and many of the peasants questioned the paladin¡¯s capabilities as well. Raluros, wise as most paladins are, saw this and assuaged some of their hesitance by naming five soldiers to help aid him on the journey.


    But the paladin and five soldiers were only six, and being twenty less than Urostyne¡¯s force, many who rode the carts did not continue and instead founded a village upstream of the island fort. Ynguinian, myself, and thirty of the battered peasants recovering from poison chose to venture along the road to Arimens through the thundered plains. Ynguinian and I were wary of the knight¡¯s confidence, for even with auspicious dreams the path was still dangerous, and we had yet to witness the power of one chosen of the thirteen saints. However, this was the only means to Arimens safely; I had magicks to learn and Ynguinian had oaths to keep.


    We left with the paladin and soldiers among thirty of the battered peasants, mostly younger families with children hoping to avoid that war by heading west. Upon crossing the river Kalipaonin did the landscape begin to show the first signs of the desecration from that war: for days we marched muddied paths alongside the refuse of tents and fires of those soldiers who were soon to meet death in that bitter conflict. It was during the first anxious day of this long march that Ynguinian began training in swordplay with the soldiers, but not Raluros, for the paladin refused to lift his blade against honest men. I spent my days practicing the spell of unnoticing, still, for magicks are only as strong as their user is practiced, and I was still of the thought to spite Kalitian. The night before we reached the first town along the thundered path did I, foolishly and offensively, ask the paladin to teach me a spell.


    ¡°Girl¡± his voice sounded low and of gravel as the voices of all paladins of Ralurusian do, ¡°I know of thy aim to learn magicks upon arrival at the city Arimens, for I have seen thy ambition in each casting of thy old and simple spell, myself immune. I have seen thou read books of many letters and words in hopes you might find words of Knowledge. Thou are hasty, and misunderstand many things about Knowledge. If thou truly held Knowledge, then thou would know that I cannot teach thee magicks. I know not of the stories of powers thou have encountered from skalds and storytellers in nameless villages, but know this: a paladin¡¯s power is not magic but prayer, and my prayers stories and words of Memory. Do not compare me to these lesser men, wizards and skalds and bards. With prayers of story comes a great and painful price which none of these men would pay. I do not speak words written in dusty grimoires, but the fiery crackles and the tones of the hearth; that sacred and common place where Memory became the patron of the eleventh Saint. I speak again: my power is not magic. My power is a deeper and costly language as to kindle hope in the hopeless, for Memory and prayers to the eleventh are the last refuge of desperate men who have yet to turn to Luck and that scoundrel Borrinean who is lucky to be a saint at all.¡±


    To the paladin¡¯s words I did not respond, for I was not deeply a fool as to ask an angered knight questions. However, there were many questions and words I did want to ask. Many of the children who sit before me may think of one question that I did not speak: ¡°Sir paladin¡± I wished I could ask ¡°what is the price of stories?¡± But, perhaps finally heeding Kalitian¡¯s lesson, I swallowed my curiosity and kept it withheld. In speech¡¯s stead I waited and watched the knight as he led us through those plains and into the first of many towns of liars and swindlers. It is in the first town that the paladin bid us to sell the carts and tents and told us that wood is valuable on the plains. It is in the first town of liars and swindlers he told us the story why all houses on the plains of the sixth saint¡¯s grave are initially built of wood, for even in death does Urostian enforce his preference of all shelters of stone to those of wood.


    Each town onwards , for many weeks, did all of us who remained of the caravan use the money from the carts and tents sold to buy fruit, meat, and breads. Each town onwards did the swindlers and liars give us these things ripe, unrotted, and fresh. Each town onwards, did I observe and listen to the paladin speak to the swindlers and liars of those towns to learn the secret stories he spoke to ensure our protection, but no stories did I hear. The paladin, each time, simply spoke of the needed supplies low and hushed so you had to lean in to hear his voice which sounded of fire, smoke, and gravel. The towns, each time, did treat us fairly and not scam or lie to us.


    Being hasty, I assumed the paladin had spoken secret stories to Ralurusian, but older now with Knowledge I know that is not true. Rather, I now know, no town was foolish enough to draw the ire of Ralarusian¡¯s servants lest all travelers from all lands know of their swindles and lies, for it is paladins of the eleventh saint that travel the most and the farthest.


    It was as summer decayed, during Heatswane, that I first heard Raluros tell a story. The cost, however, I would not learn until further on our journey. It was late in the night, the silver moon just having set, and I had stayed up with Ynguinian who, in his good-heartedness, had chosen to keep watch during the nights to preserve the stamina of those soldiers who helped to escort us through those plains. In the darkness Ynguinian saw the movement of those raiders, crouched and low.


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°Quickly¡± he whispered to me ¡°you must cast your spell of unnoticing and let the paladin know of the raiders who approach. I cannot yell or shout to alert, for if I do they will decimate us.¡±


    I cast my spell of unnoticing and woke Raluros, who upon hearing that raiders approached us in stealth, grabbed his blade and confronted the scoundrels without his armor or shield. He shouted towards the darkness with such an intensity as to draw the raiders out of hiding with their blades drawn and torches lit. Fifty lit torches, I counted, throwing the colors of their licking flames against the trampled and muddied grasses of the plains. One of the raiders spoke with threats of decimation, extirpation, and fire if we did not hand over all that belonged to us. Raluros then, in what I assumed was an act of courage but I now understand to be the knowing vehemence of his capabilities, addressed the men; unflinching was his demeanor.


    ¡°Cretins. Worms. Small and useless men. Cowards. Ye will leave these men and women who seek refuge to their lonesome or I will show you the truth of these statements. If ye push me to conflict, the powers bestowed of that storied order which I serve ye shall know with certainty. Certain ye shall be of cowardice. Certain ye shall be, certain that you are cretins and worms before all things mighty and virtuous.¡±


    One of the raiders closest mocked the paladin, for he was a fool of the highest order.


    ¡°You are one, and we are many more than one. The only power on the plains is that of violence, and many violent men are we. Cur! If your plan is to insult us, then we will slaughter you as we have many dogs before.¡±


    It was as the raiders began to charge that the paladin unsheathed his sword. The fools stood in awe with mouths agape at the dripping rainbow fire engulfing the mithril of that ancient and magical blade. Taking this window of pause, Raluros began to tell the story of the creation of men and the planting of the first yew. He spoke how men rose from seeds planted by Virtue himself, and how all men were born at their prime and did not age nor die of old age. He spoke of the wars ancient kingdoms waged and the anointing of the first twelve saints that lived to be hundreds of years in age. He spoke of that time when Decay looked upon the world and its many beauties, envious of worship given to the other twelve patrons and in this envy she did plant the first yew and from it the first child: the thirteenth saint.


    Raluros spoke of how Decay, through Yuorinis, warped the world to satiate her envy: beasts forgot speech, trees withered, fruit rotted, and man began to age. He said that it was when man first began to die, did we first experience dread and fear that could not be stopped: Decay. He spoke of how men of all nations tried many things to rid the world of death. They gave offerings to the many patrons, created the art of apothecary to slow illness and ageing, and even tried to burn the first yew. Yet, none of these worked and their failures only served to increase their mounting anguish.


    It was this anxiety we know as Firstdread that the paladin suffused the minds of those raiders with: from the paladin¡¯s mouth did spew black smoke that engulfed seasoned cutthroats and vagabonds that harried the caravan. This smoke, suffused with the words of the paladin¡¯s story revealed to the men the truth of the paladin¡¯s utterances, for when confronted with Firstdread did these men cower. The cretins dropped their weapons and torches; wordlessly and wild-eyed like frightened beasts scattering upon the thundered plains. The next morning Ynguinian would be given one of the swords as a gift of thanks from the other soldiers.


    Raluros addressed the caravan after the passing danger took flight from his story, his voice lower, weaker, and perhaps carrying the faint scent of char and brimstone.


    ¡°Worry not. They will harass you no longer.¡±


    Had I not heeded the paladin¡¯s admonishment weeks prior to his repulsion of the cowards and cutthroats I would have asked him at what cost did he hold such power. To be able to call upon the memory of Firstdread must take such a cost, yet the paladin showed no signs of tiring or Decay as a result of his story. He did not limp, he did not cough, nor did he have any of the restrictions I knew of the paladins of other orders. Yet I did not ask, for I was trying to avoid further chastisement and I was determined to find Knowledge on a road in which there was none.


    Several weeks of travel passed until I learned the price of stories. For each city the trade road branched off to, did the muddied path become less marred by the marching of the soldiers headed east to fight in the war of greed in power. For each day we drew closer to the edge of the thundered plains did the refuse and pollution of journeying soldiers diminish.


    It was on the last day in the thundered plains that I learned the power and the price of stories.


    The day was clear, and we had just passed through the last branch on the trade road before Arimens. The road was dry, the grass untrampled, and no pollution did exist beyond that final branching before Arimens, as the disease of that war had yet to spread to the far West of the continent. It was before the sun hit its zenith that we saw the shadows of a flock of the massive shrieks with their decaying wings and gaping mouths fly over a distant plateau and towards us at great speed. Ynguinian ran past me towards one of the children of the caravan, knocking me to the ground as one of the great beasts swept towards the young boy. It was then I saw Ynguinian grasped in that foul maw intended for the boy as he thrust his sword into the shriek, causing the foul ichor that keeps it in a state of undeath to stain the dirt. The aberration writhed as it sank, limp over the dry ground. Soon it was followed by the injured Ynguinian.


    I ran to tend to his wounds, giving a prayer to Mentillian (the first I had given in nearly a year) that I could save the man. The swarm of shrieks grew to a volumnity only seen in swarms of insects as one of the guards was lifted from the ground and devoured head-first. It was then that I learned what the desperate truly feel like, what these men and women who had traveled for many months to escape that war had felt enough to leave all things behind them. It was then that Raluros told his second story. He spoke of Urostian, who fought a terrible foe who enslaved the corpses of those taken by illness unnatural: works of necromancy. Raluros shouted to the heavens of the rainstorms that granted magicks to men, and within an instant the winds became tempestuous and dark clouds gathered overhead.


    One of the many aberrations lurched for Ynguinian, but when all seemed hopeless (and I feared Ynguinian¡¯s death the most) the paladin raised his sword upwards to the fierce storming shadow and told of the battle between Urostian and his foe. Practically burning his throat, I could see steam and smoke and a hearth within the knight¡¯s mouth as he yelled of how waters fell upon the world giving the very magicks that felled Urostian, and how the thundered plains earned that name. Spewing cinders and fires and smoke, Raluros described that with each mighty swing of Urostian¡¯s sword he brought lightning from the heavens, smiting the undead the foul wizard had wrought.


    Waters fell in sheets from the summoned storm, and kindling the blaze in his throat the paladin wailed through the crackling flame which consumed of his speech:


    ¡°Remember, thou are but imitations of the beasts of the Patrons! Remember of the man whose ashes are spread over these plains and your master he smote with that blade of stone and light! Urostian I call upon your aid to deliver Memory to these creatures that seek to harm those who have no Shelter!¡±


    A great wall of lightning decimated the undead beasts, leaving the smell of burnt flesh, ash, and rain in the stillness that followed. I looked down to Ynguinian, the dirt and water surrounding him crimson as he struggled to breath. Desperately I shook and begged him to stay on this plane, for he had sworn an oath for me. Raluros, who on his face still wore the immense pain of his story and bled from his mouth did approach Ynguinian, and holding the symbol of the hearth saint to Ynguinian¡¯s chest, the paladin coughed and spit blood as his breath turned to steam on the air to tell a third story, drowned by the descending rains.


    Ynguinian¡¯s wounds sealed and steamed as warm flames sprouted on his flesh. My dearest friend was safe and alive.


    ¡°Thank you Raluros, for you have saved someone dearest to me. I will never forget what service you have done for me here.¡± I spoke to the paladin, expecting a response.


    The storm dissipated suddenly, revealing the clear skies of the day once more. I looked towards Raluros, and saw the blood streaming from his mouth.


    ¡°What was the final story you told, to save Ynguinian?¡± I asked


    Raluros looked at me square, his eyes bright orange from his oath. He could not speak, for his throat was burnt and torn. His face bore anguish and streaming tears I would only come to know years from then. He did not pity or admonish me. No. He smiled to cover the wounds of that third tale and it was then I understood the price of stories.

 8. The Veins of Fate

    Several hours after the attack on our caravan did we leave the thundered plains. The trees, unlike those of the plains, were unpetrified and held verdant leaves that had yet to corrode under early-Autumn¡¯s chill. It did not take long for many to realize the paladin¡¯s stories had rendered him unable to speak,disheartening those of the caravan who had survived the attack (twenty-five in number, including the guards). Yet, even as many of us grieved the lives lost to the shrieks with their decaying wings and foul maws, one could not help but to hold optimism close to one¡¯s chest. The land, undesecrated, carried no marks of the war between those two consuming powers, Moringia and Junumianis; the road was unmuddied, the grasses of those greener and more-forgiving plains untrodden, and the hills held no refuse of men who marched towards the fort on the river Kalipaonin, for the city Arimens had yet to involve itself.


    Still, communication with the paladin was of a necessity. Even if there were fewer liars, swindlers, bandits, and beasts who roamed these wilds, we needed to be able to understand what the man who led us towards the unsullied city needed of us. Fortunately, being a child of the double moon, my parents had educated me in words and letters. For the rest of the journey the paladin would scrawl his words into the dirt with a stick or on rocks with charcoal for me to read and relay to others.


    Raluros told us it would be many months before he could whisper, but assured us that the dangers of this portion of the journey would be lesser than what we had encountered in the thundered plains.True to his word, the troubles were lesser, and there was only little conflict to be had. The highwaymen were not so desperate as to attack a paladin of Ralurusian, for they fled at the first sight of the flames of Raluros¡¯s mithril sword. During the final length of the journey, during which Raluros scrawled words in dirt and rocks to communicate, I also tended to Ynguinian¡¯s recovery as well. While it is true that the paladin¡¯s story had saved my friend from mortal woundage, it did not spare Ynguinian from the pain and time of recovery of near-fatal wounds. Each morning Ynguinian had to drink bitter tinctures for pain and he walked the trade road with the aid of the walking stick he had originally made for me, slowing our progress significantly.


    I remember very clearly, our arrival to the city we had climbed the Harinese Mounts, the river Kalipaonin, and walked the thundered plains to reach. For Arimens, unlike other cities of its size and prominence, reveals itself to the visitor slowly. Upon arrival, there is no sudden view from the top of a hill where you can see the brook flowing fast under the many wooden bridges. Arimens has no great and sudden walls of stone that brandish regential power in their exquisite and looming architecture. No, these things are true of Ginoria where the granite court holds its sessions, and these things are even true of the seat of power which began that wretched war: Junumianis.


    However, the untainted city has none of these things. Arimens, as I have said, reveals itself slowly like the first trickle in the creek during Greenpeek. The dirt roads slowly give way to increasing cobble. The wooden houses start to condense and compact until they lay upon themselves as wood to a pile. This ever-increasing flow of things makes it easy to ignore the mage towers which peek above the ever-growing streams of buildings, people, and animals. Ynguinian and I saw the city, much like the crossroads, as wondrous, for we had never seen so many people in one place. The streets were crowded such that one could not move without touching the shoulders of people from all backgrounds. Fishers held grass-woven baskets above their heads, full of the river''s bounty. Merchants from many distant places sold salt, saffron, and texts in unreadable languages. It was filthy, as all cities are for there is never enough space for cleanliness in those places.


    I held tight to my coin purse as Raluros led the caravan through Arimens towards the great stone temple of Urostrian, for he knew they would assist us in finding refuge and shelter in the chaos of the wen¡¯s sprawl. The paladin warned of pick-pockets, muggers, and pesky children that took money that was not theirs to have, and having previously lost money we were not about to make that mistake again. Ynguinian was particularly alert, for he knew of the dreams that coin purse represented to me, and he had sworn an oath to work until I could afford tutelage. Secretly, I believed his promise would be unneeded, for at that time I often thought ¡°what teacher would reject a promising mage born under the double moon?¡±


    That temple to Urostian seems, at first, an unimpressive building. The windows are simple, and the exterior is gray stone. The interior is at first glance simple and unadorned, the seat and floor carved of common riverstone. However, it is the dome, walls, and windows of that temple which conveys the sublime of Urostian¡¯s preferred element. Carved ornately into layers of red, white, yellow, and brown stone from distant mesas is the saga of the sixth saint up until his final moments. Each scene stretches many feet up until all carvings meet the domed roof that, within deep shale, lay arcing paths of quartz lightning that snake the walls just as the gilding of a frame serves a painting. The windows, rather than glass, are thin-cut stone through which the sun drapes the seats and chiseled chronicles in ethereal color. It is a solemn place, and just as Urostian often asked of his followers in life: those grey walls provide Shelter to the downtrodden, abused, and unlucky.


    It was at this temple of Urostian, did we bid farewell to Raluros who before taking his offered Ynguinian a written recommendation for the city guard and suggested that perhaps greater things beyond that lay in his future. To me, Raluros bid nothing, and it is now clear to me that even after I had learned the price of stories that I still had yet to learn the patience Kalitian bid me to learn. Rather than look for more permanent shelter within the city on our second day within, I began a fruitless and sobering search for an apprenticeship. Foolish then, I believed the spell Kalitian had gifted me would impress the magickal scholars of Arimens. Lonesome I walked the streets of Arimens, wielding my measly threnits and naivety as I sought the mages of the city.


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    Seven mages I sought the tutelage of. The first mage, Zuryne, a master of fire and light, remarked that unless I already knew flame magicks he would not apprentice me. The second mage, Naronian, a manipulator of birds and beasts, told me that I lacked the hundreds of golden hilants that would cost her tutelage. The third mage, Kalityne, a refined enchanter of metals, refused me as many children of the double moon have done as I had and their inexperience only caused him trouble. The fourth mage, Yularelian, a scoundrel and a cur, refused me because I was a woman. The fifth mage, Junan, was too old to take a new apprentice.


    The sixth mage, Hazlyne, who healed and mended, had too many apprentices and even then I could not afford his teaching. However, seeing that I was determined to learn he advised me to speak to the seventh mage of Arimens.


    ¡°Seek Corindrian, an old mage who studies the magicks of weather. He has taken precocious and ambitious students before, and if you can impress him he will have much to teach you.¡±


    Taking the sixth mage¡¯s advice, I found myself addressing the weather mage as the sun sank over the western horizon of the city. Corindrian offered me tea, which I declined, and asked me of my past, my reasons, and my skill.


    ¡°I only seek those who have the capacity to learn, and can truly demonstrate Knowledge of magicks to me,¡± he said.


    So I began my tale. I told the mage of my birth under the double moon, of my journey through the Harinese Mounts, of Ynguinian¡¯s friendship, and of Urostyne¡¯s treachery and drowning. I told him of Kalitian¡¯s gift, my first magicks, and our journey through the thundered plains wherein I did learn the price of stories. However, I did not tell him that the spell of unnoticing was a gift and a lesson, and I did not tell him of Synwye¡¯s warnings and how I had touched the yew, nightshade, and water hemlock. I did not tell him these things, for I feared he would not apprentice me. Attempting to persuade the man into giving me knowledge of magicks. I even cast my spell of unnoticing as a means to impress him. Corindrian, the old mage, rejected me anyways, for he was wise enough to know when things are unspoken.


    ¡°Nayinian, child of the double moon,¡± Corindrian said. ¡°I understand you to be a dedicated and ambitious seeker of truth. However, as I am faithful to Kalitian whose patron is Knowledge, I know that you withhold certain things from me. I also know that you do not understand the nature of knowing yet. I am old in years, and in that age I have learned the nature of the gifts Kalitian gives to those who pray to her. The vellum maiden¡¯s gift you bear, the spell of unnoticing, is also a lesson. You must first learn patience, and then you will know what knowledge truly is. Once you have heeded her lessons, and have the gold hilants to pay for apprenticeship only then will I consider you. That is all I can promise, as she bids I cannot aid you in this pursuit.¡±


    Understandably, I was upset at the mage, and bawled in frustration in the lower room of his tower as another apprentice of his escorted me out of the tower. I had traveled for months to Arimens, and now I held no teacher, no means of return, no Shelter but the temple of Urostian, no means by which to quickly get the golden hilants for my study, and one friend.


    Distraught, I walked the nighttime streets of the autumnal city I had already grown to hate. I avoided the temple that evening, not wanting to embarrass myself in front of Ynguinian. Instead, I searched for a fortune teller, hoping that one might provide guidance and hope to me. I wandered deep into a cramped and dark alley, and did see a small door falling off of its hinges. Above this door, was a faded painting of two moons within an eye, the symbol of fortune tellers on the western part of the continent.


    The interior of the building was dusty, and in disrepair. However, at a table sat a man. His teeth rotted, his skin speckled, and his hair ghostly white. He was old to the point where one could practically see the bones of his fingers. It is from him, my fortune did he read. I told him of my rejection, and my woes, and he listened in silence.


    ¡°Your fortune, two threnits,¡± said he.


    I set the two silver pieces next to the white bowl he kept in front of him as he set a knife and a rat within his white bowl. He swiftly grabbed the blade and jammed it with a force that betrayed his bony fingers into the poor creature, which flailed about as it squealed and gurgled blood as it died. Warm, and lifeless the corpse was as hundreds of insects came out of the darkness to devour the corpse. In a matter of seconds, five neat lines of red lay at the bottom of the bowl, glistening under moonlight. It was then spoken much like the insects which devoured the corpse.


    ¡°At the beginning of your life was death. Knowledge you will gain after an encounter with luck. Then, written in red are the veins of bloody misfortune. Then, once again, birth, and your fate no longer yours.¡±


    At first overwhelmed at the fortune, and the brutality of the rat, I remembered the warning Benevolence had given me while I still lived in my village.


    If you avoid necromancy and the symbols of Yuorinis your fate will remain yours.


    All of the sudden I was hit by the shock of revelation. I had just witnessed the foul magicks that had felled Urostian: necromancy. I had not avoided the symbols of the wretched saint, nor of Decay. Swiftly I grabbed the threnits, revoking my payment, as I ran from the decrepit fortune teller. I ran long through the city, praying to Borrinean that my fate was still mine and that there was still hope I could avoid the Decay and bitterness in my life for I still had many things dearest to me.


    Finally, after running long under the moons did I slam the stone doors of the temple of Shelter and sprinted into Ynguinian¡¯s quarters where I embraced him: for he was what I worried of losing the most to bloody misfortune. We talked for many hours as I told him of my misfortunes with the wizards, and of the harrowing and necromantic fortune I had recieved.


    Assuredly, the virtuous man spoke: ¡°Nayinian, I do not know how to read, or of magicks. But, I do know one thing for certain: your fate is yours to do as you please. For if your fate did not belong to you, you would never have survived the long trek to Arimens. Decay will not come to you from one fortune, even if necromantic in nature, and fortune tellers are often liars. Be happy you are alive, for I know that I am.¡±


    Ynguinian was right that I still possessed my destiny: for it would be years until I severed the veins of fate.

 9. Luck and Plague

    Ynguinian and I spoke long through the second night we were in Arimens, and it was through his reassurances that slowly my concerns of Decay and fate dwindled, practically forgotten in the next two years. It was because of him I was able to set my fear of yew, nightshade, and water hemlock aside when I took up the labor of apothecary once more. It would be two years until Luck happened upon me and I would begin my apprenticeship, and the first of those was prosperous. In our first weeks in the city yet to be tainted by the growing conflict in the east we chose to live together and paid monthly for shelter in the western quarter, for it was furthest from the war.


    While I took up my duties as an apothecary once more, being more cautious as to not make my previous mistakes, Ynguinian was trained and assigned in the city guard on Raluros¡¯s recommendation. Ynguinian was faithful to the oath he took when we had sought the widow by the creek along the muddy trail, and every threnit and bronze korint he earned beyond his needs set aside for my apprenticeship.


    As I said, it was a hopeful and prosperous year, for the weather was not harsh, the waters of the river that ran through the city were healthy and clear, as the conflict had yet to infect the men and the cities of the west.


    Daily, that year, I would walk the sun-draped cobbled streets to haggle for the ingredients of common herbal remedies and tinctures. Once my daily walk was done I would return home to dry out the extra herbs and plants in the small quarters Ynguinian and I shared, filling our residence with the musty scents of yet-finished remedies. This was a necessity, for I could not pay the fees for anything more than a small stall on the street if I hoped to one day apprentice under a mage, and it is common sense not to leave valuable things on the street overnight lest one wants them taken by thieves or drunks.


    During the prosperous year that my fears of Decay and fate dwindled, I had established some renown in the western quarters of Arimens, as Synwye had trained me thoroughly in all manners of rare herbs and then-uncommon treatments. While I could not help all who came to me, for many wounds are beyond medicine, I could help those who would not have the threnits or hilants for the services of doctors or wizards. The tradition of apothecary I had trained in was rare in cities, and rarer among the poor (for despite our happiness and prosperity, Ynguinian and I were poor). This reputation I had gained as an apothecary of rare skill would bring Luck upon me in that second year of labor in Arimens.


    My second year in Arimens, however, was not defined by Luck but by the wretched war Junumianis waged against Moringia. Silently, almost as first snow falls in the winter months, a consequence of that war of greed and power came to the city: plague. Recalling those days before the arrival of illness in that fatal second year, the pollution of that damnable war now appears the obvious harbinger. The clouds hung low in their dreadful grays, as Rats dragged filth from alley to alley. Each day more soldiers could be seen marching the dark and flooded streets full of refuse. Each day the criers of the city spoke more of the war. Each day more men and women, even some virtuous, left the city for the desecrated lands of slaughter past the blackened river Kalipaonin where Urostyne and his men were drowned. These were just portents of the fatal illness that wracked the autumnal city that had so far resisted the taint of that war.


    Long nights I held, during that fatal year. Many came to seek the alms of my rare apothecary, and many did I fail. With my herbs and plants of the day exhausted, I returned home to the quarters where Ynguinian and I lived only to be driven to sleeplessness by the desperate ill who praised any saint who might hear their prayers. Daily I walked the streets that year in search of answers of illness. Daily I prayed to Kalitian for knowledge to save the ill, fearing it may befall Ynguinian and that I might lose him.


    The most disheartening thing about plagues, is the noise of suffering. They begin silently, luring victims in until the coughing and screaming begins. People scream in pain, people scream in dehydration, and people scream in madness. At night you see desperate men in taverns drinking to quick deaths and singing dirges for lost friends. The bells of gathering are replaced by the constant chiming of recorded death in the temples. The stillness of the night is replaced with crying to the saints and symphonies of tolling bells of death, drowning out the desperation like a drunk drowns his sorrows in liquor and other poisons.


    As the ill became louder with their pleading for alms and the streets were filled with pain and the bloody vomit of suffering, I remembered a sick woman Synwye and I had treated during my second year of apprenticeship, who bore similar illness. Her vomit was red, her body aflame with pain, and red pox lined her face, neck, and chest much like those of the city.


    Synwye had gone to search a cave in order to aid the woman, for on the roof of some caves grows an ethereal blue moss, depths hanging-moss, said to be blessed by the ninth saint, Daristian, whose patron is Nature. It is a rare moss, many who traverse caves may see it very few times in their life. However, seeking knowledge to help those who came to me for healing, I bid to Ynguinian that we would travel several days outside of Arimens to a cave system in the north to scour deep for it.


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    For three days we journeyed northward on the road to the caves where depth¡¯s hanging-moss grows. Much like our original journey to Arimens, the roads were full of liars, swindlers, bandits, and scoundrels for us to avoid. Fortunately, we were tougher and wiser and stayed clear of the trouble of the road, for poverty often makes one more wary of the dangers of travel.


    Foolishly we descended into the caves, as we were unawares of that danger the veins of the earth presented. The darkness of those places encroached on the light of our torch, almost as to devour its light. The rocks were damp and sharp, for caves were meant to harm man. Some of the passages we tread required us to squeeze through jagged cracks that caught on our clothes and made it difficult to breathe. Heed my warning and heed it well: do not go into caves unless it is death you seek, for you will find nothing you are seeking. This was not the case for Ynguinian and I, but that was not a case of skill.


    On the fourth day of delving, did we find depths hanging-moss. Ethereal, like the sky at twilight, it shone its gentle blues and purples of the small and damp room it grew. Only one larger plant of slightly shorter than myself descended through the dripping calcite overhead. Quickly we gathered it, and made our way to the surface and the road to Arimens.


    Several weeks, nearly sleepless, I worked to recreate the tincture Synwye had made for the woman. Despite my failures I worked without frustration, for in seeking to help those in need I had finally begun to learn patience and to understand what knowledge is. I had assumed knowledge was simply to know things, but that is untrue. Knowledge is to understand things, just as I had come to understand the nature of nameless ethereal moss that grows in the dark caves of the world. However, despite the tincture heightening depths hanging-moss¡¯s potency, it did not always work, and it did not prevent the illness in the first place.


    For months I treated those who came to me with the tincture I concocted for the plague. For months I prayed to Hazilian for most who came to me lacked the threnits to pay me, for illness had eaten their purses and coffers. Ynguinian and I began to run low on monies by which to pay for shelter, and it was then I believed I would never have the funds to apprentice. It is the tragic truth that poverty begets illness and discomfort. If there was a second plague, or random misfortune, we would have less threnits available to us than when we had arrived at Arimens.


    Realizing this, I told Ynguinian many times I would release him from his oath, for it is not fair to make a man work forever for nothing. Ynguinian, ever the optimist, remained steadfast in his oath as all virtuous men do.


    For many months Ynguinian would tell me, ¡°Nayinian, I have given an oath to you, and there is a plague about. I would be foolish to abandon this oath and to abandon you alone to this city. Luck will come our way next year, and the following year.¡±


    Ynguinian was wrong, however, in the next two years the war and its portents had all but claimed the west. If it were not for an encounter with Luck, stuck in poverty to die in Arimens I would have been.


    As the plague waned and we all gave prayers of thanks to the saints, a wealthy colonel happened at my stall one day. At first, the man stood to the side of the street to stare, for I was young and the wealthy and powerful do not expect young poor women to be skilled apothecarists. An hour or so passed until he deigned upon himself to finally speak his business to me.


    ¡°Nayinian,¡± he spoke ¡°you have renown among the poor and misfortune of this city. They say you treated the plague that wracked the city more successfully than old doctors and other healers. Many people have come and gone to your stall this past hour, confirming to me these things. I come to you with no illness of myself, but rather to seek alms for my daughter. I have tried many things: healing magicks, doctors, surgeries, bathing in warm spring water, and prayer, but none of these have cured her of the vicious ailments of Decay she experiences. Her hearing is leaving her, and many days she wakes up with poor vision or blind. If you can help her, I will pay you handsomely.¡±


    A condition like this I had not heard before, but intrigued I told the colonel, Colonel Haryne, I would help him and his family with this strange illness of the eyes and of the ears. For months I tried many tinctures and herbs I could think of. Most did nothing. Some would work for a short time, but her condition would worsen. I had requested the daughter spend more time in hot waters, for it helps with certain conditions, but instead her health worsened. Nightly I prayed to Kalitian, who did not respond. The daughter, Carmyne, however, was not saved by a saint or an apothecary, but by Borrinean.


    Ynguinian was late to come home one evening, and when he did his mood was unusually foul.


    ¡°My sword was shattered because the blacksmith who forged it was an inexperienced swindler. The iron was not pure iron, instead containing lead! This is what the guard gets for hiring men who make pipes to make blades! Cheap trash!¡±


    This struck me as odd, for lead is not good for pipes.


    ¡°Ynguinian, are you sure this smithy makes pipes of lead? Did you not know that lead can be poisonous? My father taught me to never use metal buckets, for they often have lead which dents easily and can be harmful to touch.¡±


    Ynguinian confirmed to me: the man made pipes of lead. That very moment I left for Colonel Haryne¡¯s manor, and upon arrival confirmed that the daughter bathed in heated water brought in through lead pipes.


    ¡°Replace the lead pipes with those of copper or iron, and your daughter¡¯s condition might pass.¡± I told him. At first he rejected the idea, for it was expensive, but I was steadfast as if I were Ynguinian, keeping to his oath, and confident that I understood his daughter¡¯s condition. Several weeks passed after Haryne changed the pipes to the bath in his house, and my suspicions were confirmed: the girl had suffered from metal poisoning, a little known condition. True to his word, Colonel Haryne offered me a handsome reward: many gold hilants, and a favor. Luck had hit me square in the face, and I wasn¡¯t about to let it sit there.


    ¡°Sir, you are a powerful and honorable man,¡± I attempted to flatter him. ¡°I understand that men like yourself have connections to certain individuals, and places. I understand my request to be large, but I wish to study with the mage Corindrian, the master of weather.¡±


    Colonel Haryne thought of my request for an extended period, silently. Eventually the Colonel agreed to help me pursue magicks fully, under a condition that many years later I would realize was fatal.


    ¡°Nayinian, I will pay for your tutelage, and other fees, for I promised handsome pay. In turn, you will enlist to aid Moringian forces with your newfound knowledge, for the kingdom always needs mages in times of war. I am rich, yes, but I cannot afford Corindrian¡¯s fees without outside aid. I will call a priest of Mentillian, and we will sign a contract.¡±


    I did not then realize aid meant I would be summoned to kill.

 10. Apprentice of Magicks

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    Following the signing of the colonel¡¯s contract, and Corindrian¡¯s hesitant agreement, I was given quarters in the mage¡¯s tower with the weathermaster¡¯s other apprentices. The first and older apprentice, Ornookian, who was barely older in years and far more practiced in magicks at that point in his studies than I was when my apprenticeship ended. Immediately, he scorned me for reasons unclear until years later. The other apprentice, Jaryne, was but twelve years of age. Corindrian bid the young apprentice not yet study spells or other magicks, for the child lacked the discipline and skills to safely study arcane forces. My new quarters, Ornookian¡¯s scorn, and the many years between Jaryne and I made for a lonely and difficult year. My studies did not relieve these frustrations, for the weathermaster made it clear that I had much to learn if I was to earn his praise and learn the healing magicks I had long sought.


    On my first day the weathermaster spoke thus: ¡°Nayinian, you are here not because I believe you have learned patience, or know what learning is. Only for the price I owe the kingdom of Moringia have I apprenticed you. I request you heed the virtues of patience and caution, for the healing magicks you seek are potent. Error in casting will cause you such woe, presently and in your future. Until I deem you ready, only illusion magicks shall you learn. Once you have shown me you are not hot headed and impatient, then can I show you the fundamentals of the stronger arcane forces.¡±


    The weathermaster¡¯s concerns were of course well founded, but being the impetuous and ambitious student I was, I aimed to please. I kept many late nights in which the tomes and scrolls I poured were only illuminated by the small motes of fading candlelight. Each morning I joined Ornookian and Jayne to clean the cramped and towering library of the wizard¡¯s domain. Each day I would tend to the errands assigned to me by the weather magus, and each evening I would cook for the four of us before once again keeping a late night pouring through tomes and scrolls of illusion magicks.


    Over many months this routine became dull and irritating. I missed my friend Ynguinian strongly, for I had not seen him in many months. I grew frustrated at having to do simple chores that could be completed by simple spells. I grew tired of only being able to study late into the evening, rarely if ever receiving Corindrian¡¯s direct instruction on the actual matters of magicks. In my many months there I had never seen the old mage manipulate the arcane, even for mundane tasks. So, many months into my first year of apprenticeship I confronted the old mage regarding my exhaustion and frustration at my duties.


    I approached the old mage, as he was scouring the tomes of his tall and claustrophobic library, and there laid bare the displeasure I had felt over the first months of my apprenticeship:


    ¡°Corindrian. Many nights I have stayed late, straining to read books and scrolls by faint motes of fading candlelight. Many days I have done your errands without complaint, and many evenings I have cooked for you and the other apprentices. Yet, you refuse to help or teach me any of the fundamentals of magic. There are spells that can do this simple and tedious labor, giving all of us time to study and you ample time to teach me the things I am supposed to learn. I tire of these small illusions and chores. Do you intend to teach me of magicks, or to bore me of the pursuit entirely?¡±


    The dark-skinned mage lifted his hand and struck me with a strength that betrayed his wizened appearance. Then, squatting to look in my eyes, for his strike had thrown me to the ground, Corindrian spoke, Corindrian spoke sounding almost as one of the tempests that afflict the Rippled Plains south of The Deep Woad that surrounds the first yew.


    ¡°Nayinian. Many times you will have to learn this lesson, yet I hope this first teaching is your harshest: there is more to magicks than knowing magicks. Dangerous and difficult it is to pull and shape the formless substance, shown to us by Knowledge, from beyond the celestial sphere. To do so poorly and recklessly will bring only woe and bitterness to yourself. Healing magicks are the most dangerous, for the thing being manipulated is life itself and that domain is where Decay¡¯s presence is closest and therefore most likely to infest the caster. If one is to err and misremember the incantation in the first language, or provide the wrong ingredients, or misplace one¡¯s hands, then slowly they will rot, and their village rot, and Virtue of good men will rot.


    ¡°There is more to being a mage than casting magicks: it is to know the right spell to cast, and it is to craft that spell concisely. Several minutes it would take me to memorize a spell to dust the books. An hour or so it would take me to recall a spell to cook dinner. Yet, no other spells would I be able to cast during these times. There are greater problems I have been tasked to solve, and when you have patronage to a count, a king, a city, or an army then you will understand why it is not an option to solve all of my problems with magicks. I know the spells that change the rain on a whim. When the floods came to Arimens I could have spoken a spell to have the waters recede and keep the streets dry. But, I did not, for I have higher duties to attend to for this city and this kingdom.¡±


    Angrily I implored the old mage: ¡°Then let me learn magic that can actually serve to help you, for you are my patron and illusions are not of use! I have studied for many months, that must be enough! What tasks must I complete to show that I have knowledge of small trickery and fanciful images?¡±


    To which Corindrian responded ¡°Show me you understand the nature of the magicks Kalitian gifted to you,¡± and absconded to his higher duties. Tired of being condescended in the ways of magicks I went to my quarters, locked my door, and set to craft a spell of illusion with which Corindrian would no longer set aside his duties to instruct me more thoroughly in the arcane forces.


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    That night I did not sleep, instead I modified and tinkered the spell of unnoticing I had learned years ago into a sorcery that would not fail to draw notice for its ingenuity. It took me until sunrise to memorize the words in the first language necessary for casting the new spell, gather its components, and with precision rehearse the hand positions lest I manipulate the wrong sources and bring misfortune to myself. For I was new to spell-crafting, the incantation was laborious and the spell took many hours to cast upon myself.


    That morning as I began my many chores, the other apprentices could not help but to notice me. Ornookian in particular was not his foul and untalkative self, but even went as far to praise the effort and detail with which I cleaned the tower¡¯s library. As I prepared to do my errands for the day, Corindrian finally showed himself to the apprentices and he could not help but notice me and everything I had done for him. This was the nature of the spell I had crafted to express my knowledge of illusions, the most useless magicks.


    ¡°Naynian, I am pleased with the effort by which you have worked, and more so impressed by the ingenuity of the spell you have cast. Allow me to review the passage in the first language you have crafted. If I am satisfied that your knowledge of the first language did not expose you or us to danger, then I will work to teach you the fundamentals of arcane forces, and relieve you of some of your duties.¡±


    I showed Corindrian the spell in the book he had given me to study. For nearly an hour in complete silence the wise mage reviewed the morphing runes of the first language I had scrawled into my small spellbook. In the end, Corindrian was satisfied, and the next day I began to study more potent and dangerous forces. I learned how to pull water from the aloe plant, and to ignite dried sticks. Over many months I learned simple spells of Corindrian¡¯s own devices, which he bid me cast to save him and Ornookian the time and effort.


    One day at the beginning of spring, Corindrian bid all of his apprentices to ignore their chores and leave the tower for the day.


    ¡°Apprentices, I have a spell of great precision that I need the utmost silence for. Do with this day what you wish, but be sure to watch the skies if you wish to see what study makes one capable of.¡±


    Happy to have a break from my studies, I knew exactly who was going to be my acquaintance on that day as I sprinted to the western quarters to find Ynguinian and tell him of my studies with the weathermaster. He had yet to leave his quarters, still musty from the apothecarial ingredients I had stored there, and I found myself surprised to see that his regalia had changed. Instead of the symbol of Arimens, seven lines to represent the seven wizard towers of the city, he bore the thirteen-sided star of Mentilian, the second saint, whose patron is Order. By Luck¡¯s favor, the virtuous man had time before returning to his duties as a squire to a paladin of Mentilian.


    For many hours, then, did we wander the streets of Arimens talking of the happenings of the past months. I told my dearest friend of the new spells I had learned, the ones I had crafted, and of the demeanors of Ornookian, Jaryne, and Corindian. I told Ynguinian of how much I had longed to see him again, for my studies were stressful and kept me late into the evening. Ynguinian told me of his decision to become a squire, for he knew that if he were to become a paladin he could go and fight the battles he pleased, and he longed to protect me as I traveled with the Moringian armies after my apprenticeship under Corindrian was finished. It was perhaps then that I understood he intended to court me, and I tried vain to hide my excitement at this possibility. If Ynguinian knew of my eagerness, he did not show it, for he was a man of Virtue and would have known better than to embarrass me.


    As our day about Arimens continued we ate much food from market stalls and regaled one another of the training we were each receiving and of times-past. The company was so great that we nearly missed the approach of a tempest to the city. Coming from the thundered plains, a mighty storm of lightning, fire, and ice encroached quickly towards the city. Many windy tendrils the powerful storm set upon and devoured the lands to the East, visible from the elevated perch atop Urostian¡¯s temple where we had opted to sit. The roar of the storm began to reverberate through the city, as people (ants to us) ran indoors to seek shelter from the bizarre and unnatural-seeming storm. The storm was almost to the gates when Ynguinian insisted we move indoors for safety, as neither of us had heard of such a nasty and destructive storm.


    Recalling Corindrian¡¯s words earlier that day, I had Ynguinian sit. The arch mage had told his apprentices that if we wished to see his potency, we should watch the sky which then roiled more forcefully than the most broken and violent. The storm had begun assimilating the eastern quarters of the city, when from Corindrian¡¯s tower a great barrier expanded and repelled the devouring storm. Angrily, the bizarre squall clawed the edges of the city, each strike of lightning more ferocious and desperate than the last.


    For many days the storm looked for weaknesses in the barrier as to breach the city, but Corindrian¡¯s magicks held steadfast and indestructible. The following weeks, conversation was had among all people of the city. ¡°Why had Daristian brought such wrath upon Arimens and its honorable people? What if the weathermaster had not been here to provide salvation to us?¡± Yet, now I know it was not that ninth saint that had brought such wrath upon this. No, this was the most blatant sign of that ancient and powerful evil I have been summoned to your village at the edge of the Gray Spine to defeat. That storm, however, was only a portent of the terrible wrath that the ancient adversary would see to bring upon man, incurable by the magicks I long-sought.

 11. The Politics of Spellcraft

    In the aftermath of the ruthless storm that ravaged the Arimensian landscape, Corindrian fell violently ill for several weeks, for the weathermaster had erred slightly in the casting of his barrier which had repelled the violence of the unusual squall. Surprisingly, Ornookian was actually the one to inform me of Corindrian¡¯s illness, perhaps because I was the only other member of our tower that could do anything to help the ailing mage.


    There was not much to be done to help Corindrian¡¯s recovery except for bedrest, simple foods, and herbal teas to prevent vomiting. However, this did not mean I was simply free to do as I pleased. Ornookian took charge in the weeks that Corindrian recovered, and during this time the Council of Arimensian Warlocks was called by their patron, the wealthy elite of the city (and the regent), to confer regarding the conflict and the recent storm in two weeks time. Ornookian and I kept late nights for the days leading up to the conference compiling an incomplete understanding of the spell Cornidrian had used to quell the storm within the city. The weathermaster¡¯s quarters were littered with incomplete scrolls torn in frustration, of rotted and discarded components, and long lists detailing the precise hand motions needed for a spell of the weather barrier¡¯s specificity and power.


    On the luckier days, our patron master could weakly answer simple questions, including as to how the weathermaster had predicted the strange storm. In the midst of the plague the previous year, Corindrian had detected a pattern so foul and unnatural that for a year he determined to work a spell to repel the storm, lest if come to Arimens. He had spoken of his premonitions to no one, for if the other wizards of Arimens had known he could not cast other spells during that year the patronage he typically received would have been reduced and his status among the council lessened, especially if the path the storm took ended up avoiding the city.


    As I had said, rumors that the storm was Daristian¡¯s punishment were rampant throughout Arimens. Our job, for Corindrian was our patron, was to be his representatives at the meeting of the Council of Arimensian Warlocks and to explain what he understood of the nature of the storm, probably artifice in origin. But what wizard could cast such a spell? No mage knew of weather magicks more thoroughly than our master, yet this is what Corindrian¡¯s findings had suggested. The day of the proceedings, Ornookian made clear my role and his, for he was more experienced in the politics of spellcraft.


    ¡°We are to attend only to serve the ends of Cornindrian,¡± Onookian, serious and low spoke as we walked the cobbled streets of Arimens to Ursotrian¡¯s great temple where the council was to confer, ¡°our service to him is much like saint to patron. To protect his mission and secrets will be our duty. To this end, it will do you well to, for once, keep your mouth shut and your questions at bay. Hand me papers and inks when I ask for them, but elsewise do not overstep your rank. Selected me, our master has, to represent him. Do not give the other members of the order, nor the regent, reason to believe our master lacks the ability to teach or serve this city. Yularelian and his students are particularly wily and resort to tactics of guile and trickery. Be wary of the words they say.¡±


    I bit my tongue at Ornookian¡¯s words, for he had been quite cordial to me during the past weeks. I felt, almost, as a friendship was beginning to form and that maybe my time under Corindrian¡¯s tutelage might be less lonely. Alas, my hopes were squandered and I hid my disappointment behind a stony face as we slowly walked into the stone halls of Urostrian¡¯s temple. My temper this time did not betray me, thankfully, for I aimed to not disappoint my master; especially in the presence of Yularelian (whom you might remember is a scoundrel and a cur) or his progeny.


    As we passed through throngs of guards, we found the main chamber of the sixth saint¡¯s temple was completely barren of any furniture. Rather, the six remaining mages, the regent of Arimens Lord Parmentian, and several others stood near the center of the ornate stone room. We were the last to arrive, and with that arrival began the posturing of the mages of the council. For each time they met, the mages presented spells to impress the present nobility in both their creativity, but in their efficiency. The assumption of those not educated in magickal matters was that each spell was improvised. But, to the educated eye, these were deeply subtle, difficult, and calculated spells, embroiled deep in the politics of the city and its order.


    Yularelian, fittingly, was the first to present. The master of vines was announced to those in attendance, flanked by his two apprentices. As he presented himself to the council, he outstretched his arms slowly, and in three precise words in the old language a great tree of many limbs frose from the center of Urostian¡¯s temple. The branches of the tree spun and intertwined, shaping into chairs and a large circular table with enough room for the regent, several paladins, and the seven mages with their apprentices to sit, other seats orbiting the new sitting place. Gently and deeply the vinemaster bowed, for he knew he had given an impressive display.


    The five other mages presented their gifts as well. Zuryne, the master of images, conjured a small sun high upon the slate and quartz dome of Urostrian¡¯s temple. Caronian, the master of beasts, summoned many ethereal hares, which set the table with fine clays and cloths for dining (almost as fine as those found in the Granite Court). Kalityne, the master of metals, set a block of silver upon the table, which then sparked and flailed as a serpent might until it formed many cups and utensils for which to eat our meal. Junan, however, offered nothing, for he was done with the games of petty and childish mages. He had brought a bottle of wine, and fine velum for all of the mages and their apprentices to take notes upon. Hazlyne, the master of life, caused thick foliage to sprout along the tables and chairs, and quickly the green began to bear fruit of all sorts. A long yellow fruit (which I have never again seen), strawberries redder than rubies, and grapes of deep purples and greens that tasted almost chilled.


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    Finally, it was Ornookian¡¯s turn to present a gift before the council. I had not realized this was a tradition among the mages, and he had mentioned nothing of it prior. Briefly, I worried that he might not have anything to present, and that we would disgrace Corindrian before the other warlocks. Quickly it became apparent that I was wrong, and it was of great advantage to Ornookian that the temple had massive windows on top. Ornookian whispered one word, and pointed directly to the large symbol of Urostian that was upon the back well. Immediately the falling of rain, which could be heard upon the thin-cut stone windows, ceased and the sun gentle layed itself in golds and whites and reds to illumine the glory of the sixth saint.


    Praises were thrown upon all of the presented gifts. Yalurelian''s words, on the surface, were that of praise for Ornookian''s performance. But to those who understand the game of the mages, his speakings we''re calculated jabs, aimed to nullify what good impressions Ornookian had made.


    "Ornookian," Yularelian said, "a beautiful and eloquent gift you have bestowed to the council and his majesty. The subtlety, grace, and power of your castings, far outshining many previous gifts, makes one wonder what Corindrian would have brought forward. It is such a shame that we cannot witness that arch mage of weather''s intended gift, no doubt of masterful craft if your casting is to be any indication of his skill.¡±


    With that small speech, the room was split on Ornookian¡¯s attendance. For those who trusted Yularelian were keenly aware of Corindrian''s absence, and the regent had even stirred in his chair upon the master of vines''s remark. Now that his posturing was complete, Yalurelian gave authority to Lord Parmentian, who began the proceedings of the council in earnest.


    Conference began about distant things. Lord Parmentian, who had long kept Arimens out of the dreaded war of greed and power, showed a new face as discussion ran its course: that of insistence. More soldiers were needed to repel the encroaching forces of Junumianis, several weeks ago they had pushed over the Moringian border, and would no doubt be at Dew¡¯s Flat come autumn, unless the course of the war changed. Yularelian and those who had sided with him were against further intervention, unless the war broached the encampment on the river Kalipaonin. There was palpable fear in the room that, if the war were to go longer, that Harinia might turn its allegiances to Junumianis, or crumble entirely under brutal attack. Zuryne and his apprentices were selected to cross the thundered plains and the peaks of perpetual winter to ensure that the vassals of Harinia were loyal to their elected crown, and that elected crown stay loyal to Arimens and the whole of Moringia, through means of magical favors provided by the Arimensian Councill of Warlocks. Ornookian seemed troubled by this, but for what reason I did not then understand.


    The topic then turned to Corindrian, and the matter of the bizarre storm which breathed fire and crashed against the arch mage¡¯s masterful barrier. Yularelian, once more, was on the offensive regarding my master¡¯s absence, calling into question is ability to serve the needs of the city, sowing seeds of doubt and fate into the regent¡¯s mind.


    ¡°Ornookian, you have come here today for Corindrian is sick, yes? By what means was he sick? Certainly not of magical illness, we would hope?¡±


    The foul mage took a pause, and then looking directly at me uttered words of disrespect, as it seems my reputation had found its way to the master of vines.


    ¡°If he does not have proper care, I would be more than happy to recommend a knowledgeable apothecarist.¡±


    Ornookian, calm and equally calculating (for he had been to many meetings), turned the favor of the room around on Yularelian with his response.


    ¡°I believe you too, would bear such illness if you were to craft a spell of such a magnitude as to prevent the destruction of the city. As for an apothecary, I assure you that we have the best one in the city within our employ. You have heard the tale of Colonel Haryne¡¯s daughter, yes? A strong illness of blindness and deafness was abated by an apothecarist you would not deign to think had skill. Even the blind know the look of a good apothecarist when one is in the room, and my fellow apprentice Nayinian is indeed the most potent one this city has to offer. It seems you are unfamiliar, or perhaps did not notice her, which would make sense for what I know of your preference for students. In either case, I am happy that you are now acquainted and more knowledgeable of my master¡¯s care, which is impeccable. He is recovering swiftly.¡±


    The regent stirred once more, and looking at some of the other mage¡¯s and their apprentices I could even see the smirks they wore at Ornookian¡¯s retort. It was at this moment I also saw that Ynguinian was in the room, standing next to a paladin of Mentillian, whose patron is Order, in formal regalia. My dearest friend was also smiling, and I could not help but to gain confidence from his presence.


    The regent, appreciative of the retort but not wanting the room to devolve into the tiring verbal jousting of wizards, interjected before allowing Ornookian to return to the matter of the most recent storm.


    ¡°Before apprentice Ornookian proceeds regarding the matters of weather magicks, I seek to make certain things clear of this council. Corindrian¡¯s absence, while regrettable, is not what is being discussed forthwith, nor are the qualifications of apothecaries. Your relations to me, much like saints to their patrons, and my will in this room be as demanding as their decrees if not more. Let me give all of you a gift, as you have given me: Ornookian is to be treated as an expert on their matter, for no other mage besides Corindrian surpasses his mastery of the sky and the winds, even if he is still an apprentice. This much has been made clear to me by the gift he presented earlier. To make absolute my will: him and him alone I wish to speak upon the matters of strange weathers of fire and ice and salt. Master Ornookian, please continue.¡±


    The next hour, Ornookian (with my aid) presented what we knew of Corindrian¡¯s spell construction, and the nature of the storm it was designed to repel. Liberties were taken with the timeline of spellcraft, over the course of several weeks is what Ornookian told the mages. To tell the truth, however, is that the spell was probably of a longer craft than Corindrian admitted to us. Years in length of construction, even. Regarding the storm¡¯s origin we neglected to mention Corindrian¡¯s concerns that it was artifice in nature, but did say that we believed it was not Daristian¡¯s doing, for Nature¡¯s saint rarely holds grudges. The mages of the council had their opinions on these matters, no doubt could be had there, but Ornookian accomplished what we had set out to do: show Corindrian¡¯s loyalty and utmost service to the Arimens and get the regent to believe it utterly. Ornookian had accomplished something for himself in that room as well: status. Perhaps, he hoped, he might have some control over his own destiny. But, alas, his fate was not his. Yularelian had begun to sow fatal schemes for all of his rivals, and that included Corindrian and his students.

 12. Matters of Trust

    The Arimensian Council of Warlocks met regularly throughout the next year, an unprecedented change from their usual habits. None of these meeting was I allowed to attend, and when I asked of Ynguinian what was spoken during them he refused to tell, for he was a man of Order and had spoken an oath of secrecy to the council and the regent. However, each time I did ask he would reassure me that it was nothing dire, and that he would tell me if it was.


    If I were more patient and more like Ynguinian, I would not have continued to pester the man. I do not blame myself for my concern surrounding these meetings, as it was an anxious time for the city of Arimens and the empire of Moringia. The storm that Corindrian had shielded Arimens from had left terrible and permanent scars of ice and fire and pollution on the once-clean wilds surrounding the once-unaffected city. The war had continued to consume the safety of the lands as well. What were once safe trading roads and marketplaces were now filled with bandits, liars, and desperate men. The raucous play of youths in the streets was replaced by the sounds of hammering smithees forging the seeds of destiny for those young men lured by the war of greed and power. The temple to Urostrian was brimming with refugees who had lost their homes in the brutal squall.


    One fateful day of my second year of study near the end of Autumn Cornidrian summoned his three apprentices to discuss an urgent matter. The weathermaster had just returned from a meeting of the council (Ornookian was forbidden from attending this time), and one could see the weight and tension of that conference had followed him to the tower. The words he spoke were heavy, like iron.


    ¡°Apprentices, horrid news has come from Harinia: Zuryne and his apprentices were branded and the master himself was slain by the forces of Junumianis. Yularelian¡¯s apprentice, Ghalyne, has been elected to the council under the title of Master of Waters.¡±


    Ornookian looked thunderstruck, as the master of weather appeared to address him alone momentarily.


    ¡°There were many strong choices, and I did not agree with Ghalyne¡¯s appointment, but unfortunately I was outweighed and the regent¡¯s mind was made up. This matter is not the only matter which I have to address. Jaryne, you are excused now.¡±


    The weathermaster made sure our younger counterpart, Jaryne, was well out of earshot before he continued on with the next part of his address.


    ¡°Ornookian and Nayinian, the council and the regent have requested our presence within the Temini Barony to the northwest. We will leave in a week¡¯s time, prepare spells of protection, and tell no-one. We will be gone for many months, but other than that I cannot tell you of our business in that region until our journey is underway. On the roads there are no prying ears coming and going.¡±


    With orders given, Corindrian took his leave to prepare for the mission the council had given us. The next week I spent preparing several spells with which to protect myself with. The spell of unnoticing and the several variants I had crafted thereof had become natural and well-known to me, so little preparation I needed to use those. Therefore I spent most of my time crafting a spell of the sky, and a spell of the ice (with Corindrian¡¯s assistance), and what little time I had during that week I spent with Ynguinian, for I knew I would not see him for many months.


    It is the night before I journeyed to the Temini with Corindrian and Ornookian, that I look upon most fondly when I reflect on my short apprenticeship. Ynguinian and I had gone towards the top of the shelter-builder¡¯s temple just as the twilight of the celestial sphere slipped over the horizon. The many strikes of Ghalstorin and the two great moons at their apex shone upon the small balcony at the top of the building¡¯s dome as he and I looked out over the Arimens that had radically changed since our arrival.


    Much like that night on the peaks of perpetual winter, quiet enveloped the landscape. No winds tarnished the impeccable scenery on that brisk night at the end of Autumn, no bells of the many temple were being struck, the forges had closed for the evening, and the usual marching of soldiers was absent, for they had been called in on curfew. Deep in conversation, the woes of that wretched war of greed and power were forgotten to us, the only life we knew then was the vast stretching city of Arimens; its remaining Beauty revealed to us by the double moon. We had spoken of our journey, of those cold nights in the Harinian mounts, of our families, and of our futures, but by then the conversation had lulled and quieted as we spent many minutes in a silence that the brave squire ended.


    ¡°I have heard news that you are headed to the Temini Barony tomorrow. Are you worried about what might happen there?¡± Ynguinian asked, hushed and low as to call upon guidance from the eleventh saint.


    ¡°I have many concerns. I do not know of my purpose there, nor of the dangers the road holds. This sort of worry is unusual for you as of late, what is causing you such concerns? Do you know of things I do not?¡± I implored the squire, fearing he may know future dangers that Corindrian had not been informed of.


    ¡°That is a way of putting it, Nayinian.¡±


    He seemed less confident than his usual self, uncertain, and afraid.


    I told him, ¡°Ynguinian, if you can at all tell me what worries you, let me know. It is not like you to be uncertain and afraid,¡± for I thought it was his oaths of secrecy he had sworn that brought unease to him.


    ¡°I am afraid for you, that much is true,¡± he said, ¡°but, that is not the only thing that gives me hesitancy. I know the power of mages is enough to protect from all but other practitioners of spellcraft, and I know that you are an exceptional warlock for Corindrian and Ornookian have spoken highly of you in conference. Excuse me as I do something foolish¡±


    Ynguinian produced a small amulet of Mentillian hung in silver from his coin purse. It was made of no metal or stone that I had ever seen before. The amulet¡¯s material was as if stone and light had merged and had been suffused with the deep red of the mouths of the tall fiery mounts of the Hunal Islands far to the south, where it is said that Order himself begat the legendary blades of the twelve saints. It was as the stone of Urostian¡¯s grandest cathedral reflected the magmatic glow of the amulet did I realize what Ynguinian intended with it.


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    ¡°If you are travelling far, I want to offer you protection even if I cannot defend you with my blade. Please take this amulet as a symbol of courtship. It would make me the world¡¯s happiest man. If that is not something you wish, I apologize and hope you will accept this amulet as a symbol of my respect and admiration for you and the life you¡¯ve allowed me to live away from my nameless town in the Harinian mounts.¡±


    He stood stiff and nervous holding the amulet that glowed under the double moonlight outward in offering to me.


    I accepted his proposal immediately, of course, for I truly loved him.


    ¡°When I return from Temini, we will talk about the ceremony, my betrothed.¡± I whispered to him, held in his embrace


    We spent the rest of the evening in silence, and much like that night in the peaks of perpetual winter I forgot of the misfortunes that plagued myself and the land. Afterall, why worry? It had been many years since I had last touched yew, nightshade, or water hemlock. I had avoided necromancy, and I still possessed my fate: I was to marry Yngunian.


    Corindrian, Ornookian, and I left Arimens with a small squadron of soldiers the next morning. The landscape outside of the city served as a reminder both of the disaster the weathermaster had averted, and of the raging war which had brought much ruin to the land. The first week we travelled, many of the stone fences belonging to farms along our path had been destroyed and upturned by the bizarre squall. Many trees had been turned to charcoal, or obliterated entirely except for their trunks. Long stripes of sharp magmatic rock coiled like vines over the road, for the fire and lightning of that storm had been so strong as to melt and warp the earth below it. What the storm had not touched had become desecrated by that war. The creeks and rivers ran black and foul, and much of the path was black with mud and polluted with the garbage left behind by soldiers who marched through Arimens towards the fort on the River Kalipaonin.


    In the second week of travel the damage of the storm was no longer noticeable. We had not quite reached the coastal mountain range that the Temini Barony lay within, and for a brief moment one could still see the Beauty of the passing landscape, for Beauty and Nature had yet to begin their Decay as a result of that disgusting war. More alive colors were, and more lush the noises of birds and running children before the war reached its horrid zenith.


    In the third week of travel, we were waylaid by desperate bandits. It was the middle of nighttime, and it was raining (for it was not quite cold enough to snow). I had stayed awake admiring the amulet of nearly-forgotten reds my betrothed had bestowed upon me, when I heard the sounds of footsteps through the heavy rain outside of the carriage. None of our guards had heard the footsteps, I could tell that much. They stood as if nothing was the matter, as they could barely see or hear anything in that storm. However I could hear such subtle things, for over the course of my apprenticeship I had mastered the spell of unnoticing and knew when things wanted to be left unheard or unseen.


    I leaned my head into the rain, and alerted one of the guards, who did believe me until lightning struck upon a nearby hill, removing the cloak of night from the large contingent of stealthy intruders.


    The first guard went to disturb Corindrian, but I grabbed his arm and forbade him, as to wake up the weather mage would be useless (and detrimental) here, for Corindrian was working on a masterful and intricate spell to present to the Temini Barony, among other ¡°gifts.¡± My master, however, had tasked me and Ornookian to learn certain spells for protection.


    I stepped out of the carriage into the downpour, and thought back to the moment many years ago on the thundered plains, when Raluros had protected me and Ynguinian. Then, imitating the demeanor of the paladin of the eleventh saint, I shouted with an enchanted voice through the rain towards the would-be assailants.


    ¡°Whoever you may be, heed my warning: We are three masters of spellcraft who have business to the northwest of these lands. Leave us be, or taste the storm you have used to cloak your misdoings.¡±


    Lightning struck again, as I began to utter the words in the first language of a powerful spell of protection. The bandits had given pause, and it would be enough time to finish the spell I crafted.


    The other guards near the carriage called out to the darkness, trying to scare them off, but with each strike of lightning they inched forward. I was fortunate it was raining so strong as to prevent the striking of arrows as I finished the utterance, and cast the spell I had played.


    Branching lightning descended from a low cloud between us and the bandits. However, not quickly as natural lightning. No. Imagine golden honey dripping from a spoon, slow and steady. That is how the branching lightning came to the earth, illuminating the landscape with blinding light. The second portion of the spell I had yet to speak, and instead (wisely) I threatened them with my learned prowess, unless they leave.


    They began to run towards me as I spread my fingers wide and my arms outward, causing the lightning to spread all along the muddy ground. The assailants were pinned to the ground with coursing shackles of lightning. There was a moment of only the sounds of torrent and grunting men, until tangible thunder struck them, causing great pain. I dismissed the shackles and the men who did not writhe on the ground ran off into the stormy night. I went back into the carriage, soaked, to see Ornookian and Corindrian had awoken.


    ¡°The problem is gone, I have taken care of it. The bandits will bother us no more.¡±


    The two promptly fell back asleep, but sleep I would not find that evening, for in my haste I had cast the spell wrong and for the entire evening I heard deafening thunder when I was at the precipice of sleep. For weeks I would wake in the middle of the night, hearing the sound of thunder, but I had protected us from the threat as instructed, and that was all that mattered.


    The rest of the third week bore no rain storms or desperate bandits. The sky was clear, and the air was brisk as we made our way towards Temini, passing leagues and leagues of forgotten Autumn colors. Yellows that have faded to time adorned now-decayed poplar trees, reds only known knights of Ralarusian adorned the smaller wild bushes that we passed on the road to the Temini Barony. It was in the fourth week of travel that we finally learned the nature of our visit to the Northwest region of Moringia.


    ***


    Nayinis leaned towards the children of the village who were sitting cross-legged on the longhouse floor in front of her. Their eyes were wide, and several whispered to each other in wonderment over what a forgotten color might look like.


    ¡°It is true, the world used to hold many more colors. Many perished when the first yew came to this world, but those strange colors your parents often mourn can still be called upon by Memory, for now. Shameful it would be, for no children of this generation to witness the former colors of the peaks of perpetual winter, or of lightstone, by which the blades of the twelve saints were forged.¡±


    The necromancer put her hand into her shirt, and lifted outwards the deep red amulet that Ynguinian had bestowed upon her and held it high above her head. The amulet, seeming almost ponderous, she set in the now-empty hearth, and whispered inwards to cold wood.


    The hearth alighted once more, and then slowly like a smoke ascended moving ribbons of forgotten colors of the peaks of perpetual winter.


    The children of the room saw Beauty in its fullest for the first time that evening, and from that moment on, Nayinis had their trust.


    More outwardly now, she spoke to the disheartened residents of the nameless village at the bottom of the gray spine, for she knew she would need conviction in her speech if she was going to gain their trust once they learned of the crimes her hands had been branded for, and the horrid things that happened in the wake of that fateful day.

 13. The Temini Barony

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    It was in the fourth week of travel that we were due to arrive in the Temini Barony, and that Corindrian finally revealed to us the nature of our visit to the north westerly edge of Moringia. Baron Darronin, who oversaw that region, had so far refused to cave to join Arimens and the wider kingdom of Moringia in that wretched war. The vast deposits of iron and coal were vital if we were to turn the tide of the war to Moringia¡¯s favor, especially after the slaying of Zuryne and Harinia¡¯s sudden turn of allyship to Junumianis. Our mission was to offer spellcraft and magicks to Baron Darronin and his lands, in hopes that such an offering might sway the apathetic regent to join the war effort and offer forth his vast deposits of iron and coal. We also sought the services of his smiths, for the region in which Temini Barony resided was famed for its mastery of the metal-forming arts.


    There was difficulty in this mission, however, for the region we were to stay for several months was infamous among those who studied spellcraft for the killing of mages. The people of that region were deeply wary of any who practiced magicks, for several generations back the baron¡¯s mage had partaken in necromancy, and because of that had brought much woe to the land. Once that mage¡¯s misdeeds were uncovered (and they were many), a mob stormed the baron¡¯s estate and carried the man to a great pillar of fire where he was set ablaze. The same fate had met many mages who practiced in that region (and now those who remained were unskilled and kept their practices a secret), and for generations the barony had not given any mage patronage due to the suspicions of magicks that clung to the Temini airs. All three of us mages knew that this mission was probably to fail, but we could not question the decisions of the council and the regent, as the regent was Corindrian¡¯s patron, and him the patron of Ornookian and myself.


    I remember clearly the day we arrived in the heart of the Temini Barony. It was just as Autumn ended and winter began. Snow had been falling for a week at that point, for in the far north snow happens even in flat places that are close to the seas. With each crossroads and settlement our carriage passed we were watched intently by suspicious eyes and frosty whispers, for it was not often a carriage from Arimens was seen that far north and that far west, and our presence had not been announced by any criars. In-fact, our presence had not even been announced to the barony, for the council feared that he might refuse the diplomatic intervention, for the baron was a virtuous man and cared for his people, and knew that contributing to the war would not bring anything of value to his people.


    The closer and closer we inched towards the heart of the barony, the more pure and beautiful the woods were. Evergreen pines towered over the road, and the dusting of snow was pure-white; untainted by pollution. The sky was clear of smogs and smoke and clouds that had come to define most days in Arimens. The pure snow refused to melt into slush and mud, even after spending most days under the sun¡¯s radiance, trodden by horses and soldiers.


    As twilight laced the land and the hearths of each home shone visible through the small windows in such a way that reminded me of the village I had come from, we finally reached the wrought-iron gates of the baron¡¯s estate. The gate was as much a symbol of wealth as it was a symbol of unwavering values: the design of each bar was florid, bearing hearts, the symbol of Paronian, whose patron is Virtue; the thirteen sided star of Mentilian, whose patron is Order; and the first letter of the old language, which is the symbol Ghalstorin whose patron is Language.


    A small squad of the baron¡¯s personal guard was at attention, and approached the carriage to ask of our business, as we were so far from Arimens and no visit had been announced. Corindrian presented the seals of both the regent of Arimens and of the king of Moringia, and spoke cautiously to the baron¡¯s men.


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    ¡°My name is Weathermaster Corindrian of the Arimensian Council of Warlocks, and I have come to the Temini Barony at the request of the regent Lord Parmentian who serves the will of the king. I cannot speak to anyone but him about our business here. If you are doubtful of this seal¡¯s authenticity, then present it to your master and he will know with certainty we are not liars or scoundrels. Please, we have come a long way to speak with the baron.¡±


    The guard gave a brief acknowledgement, and held us outside in the cold for several minutes as he went inside the estate to confer with the baron. Several minutes later, the Baron in all of his fur-cloaked majesty came out to the carriage to introduce himself to my master.


    ¡°Archmage Corindrian, I am Baron Darronin Temini, regent of these lands by the king¡¯s will and ancestral right. I have heard your name before, a while back. I was not informed in advance of any visitors, and am curious to know why a mage and his apprentices were sent to my domain by the Arimensian regent. He does know of the history of the lands, does he not?¡±


    Corindrian thought for a moment, and once more, worded his response with deep care.


    ¡°I am certain he knows his history, my lord. I am here at his request, and who am I to deny the request of the man who gives me patronage? I am aware that magicks have a reputation in these lands. Secrecy, however, was a necessity of my visit, and my status as one of the regent¡¯s wizards was considered carefully in the decision to send me to discuss matters of diplomacy with you.¡±


    Frost hung on the breath of everyone at the gates now, and it was clear the baron did not want to be outside for much longer, perhaps even more so than he did not want an archmage and his two apprentices within his lands. Hastily, he invited us within the estate and arranged for his staff to provide us with rooms. Ornookian was first if we could be given access to the library, for it had been a month since neither he nor I had any access to tomes of magicks to study. The baron gave his answer, annoyed at the young mage¡¯s insistence to go searching through tomes at such a late hour.


    ¡°A library I have. Yes. However, no tomes you desire would be in there. I do not trust magicks in my halls, or my lands, and it would be best that you tread lightly in these matters while you are in my domain. If you still wish to read, all books must remain in the room. If you want to find the library or anything else in my estate: ask a servant. It¡¯s not my duty to deal with children.¡±


    Disappointed in the baron¡¯s answer (and fearful to draw his wrath), Ornookian and I remained discussing late into the night. We worried the regent¡¯s judgment was wrong, and that our mission would be unsuccessful. The baron had no want nor need of our services, and the longer we stayed the more suspicion and ire we would draw. Ornookian believed that this sojourn was Yularelian¡¯s duty.


    ¡°Who else would send the weathermaster and his apprentices far away so he could whisper his poisonous words into the regent¡¯s ear? Why send us out here, except to get us killed?¡± Ornookian spoke bitterly.


    Naively I tried to reassure Ornookian that this was for the good of the kingdom, and to watch his tongue lest Corindrian scold him for his speculation.


    ¡°Ornookian, you and I both know that even if he behaves like a serpent, Yularelian has the best interests of the kingdom at heart. Him and Corindrian are friendly. I doubt that the master of vines would intend to injure his friend. You mustn''t let Corindrian hear you speak like this...he would be cross. Our duty is to do what our master says, and I trust that Corindrian would not take us with him lest he knew we would be successful and kept safe.¡±


    How innocently I spoke of friendship and country, for I had been convinced the war was not one of greed and power, but of Virtue and Order. While I will never know with certainty that Yularelian had arranged our sojourn to the bitterly cold Temini Barony, it is with age and wisdom that I can say with certainty that it benefited his schemes for power. As Ornookian and I spent many late nights discussing the purpose of our visit and our hopelessness of success Corindrian spoke in private with the virtuous baron. It was, perhaps, on a night much like this one during our stay in the Temini Barony while silent snowfall gilded the tall evergreens that Ornookian¡¯s fate was decided next to the light of a great hearth. What prompted the baron¡¯s sudden change of attitude to magicks, however, I will never truly know. Grateful I was, however, that he was still a virtuous man when we secured his commitment to the war of greed and power.

 14. A Hunt to Impress

    Much of the time we spent in the Temini Barony was accompanied by an atmosphere of dread. The servants avoided Ornookian, Corindrian, and me as much as possible. The Baron refused to speak to either of us apprentices directly, preferring to provide anything we needed to know through our master. It was clear he wished to be rid of all of us as quickly as possible but was unable to, for the kingdom politics of Moringia were not that simple. The kingdom provided much for the Temini Barony, and Corindrian had made it clear that we would not leave until Darronin forwent his refusal to aid Arimens and the rest of Moringia in that dreaded war.


    During many dinners the virtuous Baron would remain steadfast in his refusal, unwavered by the conversations him and my master had held in private.


    ¡°Corindrian. You are honorable for a mage and know intimately the matters of my kingdom,¡± the baron would often begin, ¡°but I see no purpose to intervene in this conflict. It would do nothing but bring woe to my people. I will not lose a generation of my land¡¯s children to border squabbling. You are well-read in magicks, you and your apprentices must be knowledgeable of the foul arts desperate men are drawn to.¡±


    Necromancy. The mere hint of it would bring silence to the room.


    Of course it was no longer a mere border squabble. The armies of Junumianis had made their way to Dew¡¯s Flat by the time Ornookian, Corindrian, and I had left Arimens. The war had become an all-consuming effort for each faction. To surrender at this point was not an option, the eastern empire of Junumianis sought the lands west of the river Kalipaonin just as unrelentingly as Moringia craved the gold mines of its enemy. The two monarchies had never warred in their centuries-long existence. It was those who hungered for power and wealth, seduced by the illusions of glory, that controlled the conflicting forces.


    Yet, virtuous men often fight in wars of greed in power, for even they are not immune to temptation and lies. I know not how Corindrian changed the mind of Darronin, but as the strangling winter lessened its chilled grip on the weather, the Baron began to observe the lessons the weathermaster gave to me and Ornookian in the library.


    At first I thought Darronin¡¯s attendance was political in nature; that it would be only a matter of months until we were sent home with our diplomatic mission a failure. Perhaps if he were questioned by the regent, Darronin¡¯s attendance to our lessons would show that he heeded the things the kingdom had offered to him to contradict what we would speak of his stubbornness; that he was loyal to his duties only as far as he needed to be to express his fealty to the crown.


    That is what Ornookian and I reasoned at night, when Corindrian and the Baron could not hear our private discussions. But now, having many years between myself and the events that transpired in the Temini Barony I know that Darronin was simply a cautious man with deep reasons to fear magicks, who had begun to change his mind. For what reason, I do not know. Perhaps he simply gave in to Corindrian¡¯s insistence. Perhaps he had new information that caused him to reflect on things. Or perhaps he was simply not as virtuous as I think he was, for Memory, like all things, is subject to Decay¡¯s influence.


    As winter was fading to spring, and after the baron had sat in on several lessons, it came as a surprise to myself and Ornookian to find ourselves invited along on a hunt with the baron¡¯s only child and some of the minor nobility of the region. Darronin¡¯s son, Nominon, named after Beauty¡¯s saint, was roughly Jaryne¡¯s age. Although Nominon, like many of the region, was deeply wary of magicks, I do believe the two would have been friends if they had met.


    What came as more of a surprise to all of our small party of warlocks was that the baron requested we prepare some spells to assist in small ways. Darronin asked Corrindrian to keep the sky clear and the wind low to make tracking easier, Ornookian prepared a spell to help track elk and foxes, and I was asked to prepare a spell of fire for warmth and to illumine the trails when night set in (for the sun sets early in the far north.) Simple magicks for simple tasks; the baron could have asked for much more.


    However, to ask for more would have been to err and frighten those who attended the hunt. Darronin¡¯s decision to ask for simple spells was a calculated effort to dispel the foul reputation magicks had long held in his dominion. With that invitation to practice magicks openly, Ornookian and I knew the baron was beginning to succumb to Corindrian¡¯s efforts. That, and Corindrian was blunt with us as we prepared our spells the day before the hunt.


    ¡°Apprentices, it is of the utmost importance that your spells tomorrow showcase the most of your ability as possible. Darronin has begun to ease his worries on magicks and spellcraft, and we must take full advantage of this. To this end, your spells must not simply meet their function, but correspond to what good stories of mages the citizens of this barony would know. You must be like a bard, who delights the imaginations and desires of the audiences to which they recite the grand epics.¡±


    I remembered my first encounter with magicks, with the skald who had traveled through my village many years ago. How the stars had sunk to the ground on silken strings, and how he had told me his magicks were but simple trickery: useless to me, and if I wanted to learn true magicks I would head to Arimens. I could not help but to smile, knowing that Ornookian, Corindrian, and I would have to rely on simple trickery to succeed in our diplomatic assignment.


    The day of hunt began with a light rain, no doubt Corindrian¡¯s doing. Those who had been invited on the hunt had gathered by the large front doors of the estate, making conversation amongst themselves and trying their best to avoid staring at any of us mages. Some of the group was certain of the hunt''s cancellation, for they feared that the rain would cover up any tracks and make navigating the snowy terrain difficult, as it would most be ice. However, before any of them could decide upon not attending the hunt, the baron was quick to address those concerns.


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    ¡°My noble guests, I have heard your worries. Certainly, this rain is not the proper weather for a winter hunt, and usually the time might be better spent indoors drinking and lamenting our lack of fortune. It is especially misfortune, for the skies this morning were clear until your arrival to my estate and a fortune teller had given me good auspices regarding this hunt: my son was to get his first elk. A pity! A shame! I had even hoped to introduce you to my honorable guests: mages from the far city of Arimens.¡±


    Whispers immediately flooded the stone entrance of the baron¡¯s home. The baron¡¯s audience was not keen on mages, as was expected. But, being a confident man (perhaps, even, a rehearsed man), he turned to Corindrian and continued his address.


    ¡°Archmage Corindrian, it¡¯s such a pity that this foul weather plagues us. I know little of magicks, but I have heard rumors that powerful and virtuous mages could bend the weather to their will. I assume such knowledge is difficult to come by, but perhaps you might be able to?¡±


    Corindrian responded in a manner that was almost assuredly rehearsed. Ornookian and I knew he was not a confident speaker, and usually spent many days rehearsing before addressing the council; always in a peculiar lowering cadence. The cadence by which he spoke revealed to us (but not the baron''s guests) that he had practiced.


    ¡°Honorable Baron Darronin Temini. I am humbled that you would ask of me if I was knowledgeable in such arts, and it is of good fortune that the weather is my domain of specialty. The spell to break this bad weather is complicated and ancient. If you would give me a moment of silence, I may be able to recall words of the first language and bring about the sun to accompany your hunt.¡±


    The baron thanked Corindrian for his answer, and bid him to see if he could turn the foul weather away. The weathermaster began a long incantation, minutes in-length. At the end of the incantation, Corindrian knelt to the ground, and quickly blew at the ground, causing air to stir within the house. Paintings were shoke, and several of those in the room had to hold on to their hats for fear of loss. Suddenly, the air was still, and through the front windows one could see saint¡¯s rays cast through the parting clouds. Corindrian had saved the hunt in dramatic fashion (and had even drawn some applause), and now it was up to Ornookian and myself to impress upon our wary audience


    Nominon held a large smile on his face, for he had tried many times to hunt an elk to no avail and having heard of the auspicious prediction his father spoke of (probably fabrication) was eagerly leading the entire hunting party through the woods in search of beasts. However the young noble¡¯s enthusiasm turned south the further we went, for it seemed that the footprints and other signs of beats commonly found in snow had been obscured by the earlier rain.


    Noticing Nominon¡¯s waning enthusiasm, many of the men in the hunting party began to suggest that these conditions weren¡¯t ideal for a hunt, and that the time might be better spent indoors drinking. Hoping to keep them enthusiastic about the prospects of a successful hunt, Darronin addressed our group once more.


    ¡°The earlier weather seems to have made our task much more difficult. It is true that it is much more difficult to track beasts after rain, and the ice certainly does not aid us in finding game. If the conditions prove to be the same the further we walk along the estate, then perhaps we will have to turn back and spend the rest of the day merry-making and drinking.¡±


    Nominon¡¯s shoulders became heavy with disappointment, and the men now talked more openly of ending the hunt early. Ornookian, realizing it was his opportunity to cast a spell, interjected.


    ¡°Lord Baron Darronin Temini. I do not mean to step out of bounds and offend you or make my master seem an inadequate mage, but I happen to know of a spell with which I can track the game we seek.¡±


    Ornookian sought the nearest tree, and began a lengthy spell by pressing his hands against the icy bark. It seemed, almost, as if the mage whispered secrets to the tree, and soon it began to bend towards Ornookian as if to answer back. As the spell ended, the lowest section of the trunk began to boil like water, and reaching in Ornookion pulled out a hound made of wood and fungus. Along its back ran a pelt of winter wildflowers, glistening with morning dew.


    ¡°This is a hound of the forest,¡± Ornookian spoke to the crowd, ¡°it will help us to survey the forest for game, and help us avoid the dangerous trails where men could get injured.¡±


    The men of the party all stepped back from the hound, for like all men of Temini they held a deep mistrust of all magicks. Ornookian saw this, and was quick to try to make them at ease. To show the beast was under his control, he commanded it very specifically to stand on one leg, and to sit, and to climb a tree. While not all of the men with us were convinced of their safety, their worries were set aside enough to where their priority became to not offend the baron¡¯s judgment in inviting the three wizards to the hunt. Soon the verdant hound led us safely through unmarked trails, followed next by the once-more enthusiastic Nominon, and then the rest of our party. I was at the back of all of the men, for I could not walk quickly in the slush. The baron, seeing that there was a danger of me falling too far behind, walked next to me, for he was a virtuous and empathetic man, even if he was still wary of magicks and mages and spellcraft.


    Morning passed into midday. Several of the men had caught foxes, rabbits, and other small game, but Nominon¡¯s elk still eluded the young noble. The sun had already begun to set, for that is the nature of winters in the far north, and once more the men on the hunting party spoke of drinking and merry-making, certain we would soon head back to the estate. As in many places, it is dangerous to hunt at night in Temini. Mistalkers emerge from the darkest shadows, wolves stalk for prey, and other unmentionable things wander the woods searching for men who wander in blackness. This is not to mention that those who wander late in the far north put themselves at risk of being bitten by frost or sudden bouts of confusion.


    Nominon however, was insistent on spending more time tracking an elk Ornookian¡¯s hound had scented-out; the hound had been increasingly active and sensitive in recent minutes, no doubt sensing it nearby. As our party rested near a stream, Nominon pleaded to the baron to continue the hunt longer.


    ¡°Father, please hold the hunt longer,¡± the boy said, ¡°Could not one of the mages light the way with their magicks? It should only be a few minutes longer until the stag is mine, and you did tell of that auspicious fortune.¡±


    Seeing that it was now my turn to impress upon the men, I spoke to the baron that I had a spell that could light the way. Carefully I stepped on the frozen rocks next to the dark stream, for I heeded my master¡¯s advice to craft a spell to impress upon those who were suspicious of spellcraft.


    Dipping my staff into the stream, I spoke words of fire and warmth until steam rose from the waters. A trail of fire coursed under the current, until it snaked on to the shore. Small, six-legged lizards composed entirely of flame crawled from the crack of fire in the riverbed to the surface, gently illuminating the darkening grove.


    They scurried along the floor of the forest, hot enough to warm our party, but not enough to scorch or ignite the flora. By this spell we navigated the woods in search of the stag.


    Just as our party was to turn in, in defeat, Nominon quieted us and pointed far into the distance where stood upright a mighty and healthy stag; antlers branching as tall and as wide as a mighty tree. The young lad produced a crossbow, pre-pulled for the poundage on it was significant, and aimed with steady arms at the elk which stood still in fear. Nominon pressed the trigger, and the bolt flew true, striking the creature in its neck, killing it instantly.


    Soon we all gathered around the dead creature, with its sad stony eyes unblinking, and its limp body which dripped red to the fire-lit snow. In that moment, in front of the corpse, the other members of our party began to change their minds on magicks, as the wretched war between Moringia and Junumianis had begun to taint their minds with promises of riches and glory.

 15. A Mage of Wary Lands

    The tide of the winter season withdrew two weeks after the hunt, making way for spring. Darronin continued to watch our lessons, but now had his son and an advisor in attendance as well. In reflection, it was obvious what the baron considered, but I was none-the-wiser for I did not yet have full knowledge of Corindrian¡¯s assignment for his visit to Temini.


    During one lesson, Nominon asked if I could instruct him, a request Corindrian firmly denied, giving to no amount of begging from the young noble.


    ¡°Young lord, I cannot fulfill such requests from you to learn the art of magicks.¡± Corindrian said, ¡°My students both gave up much for my time, and to task them with training you, let alone safely, is not something I would ask of them. Do not further request tutelage from me or my students, lest you draw my ire.¡±


    Corindrian¡¯s refusal was stren to such an extent that I expected Darronin to be upset with the mage. However, rather than responding with anger and stubborness the baron further scolded his insistent son.


    ¡°Child,¡± the baron addressed his son, ¡°your eagerness is not welcome here. As the archmage has told you, his students have given up much to reach their advanced skill in a dangerous art. You are impatient and impetuous if you believe you will conjure sylvan hounds and flaming lizards within your first year of study. Sooner you would be to mis-cast a spell and perish or fall gravely ill, than to do such things. Sooner you would be tempted to those ill-gotten and dreaded magicks than to pursure the virtuous path of study. In time you will grow patient and virtuous, but for now you are too young and ambitious to pursue magicks safely. Do not pester them again.¡±


    Darronin¡¯s address ended with him striking and dismissing his son in anger, uncharacteristic of the lord¡¯s controlled and calculated demeanor. Still, even through his lashing anger one could tell that he was a virtuous man, for he feared impatience and the pursuit of the arts only viceful mages pursue. Perhaps, however, the anger was the result of that consuming and wretched war and its promises of glory and power.


    As the snow melted, revealing the woodland thicket and the spring sea of evergreen horizons in Temini, one could sense it was less beautiful and untouched than before our arrival. The sky was more gray now than in winter. The trails and grass were muddy and difficult to tread. The forest grew darker and thicker. Fog settled in nightly, almost as if to consume the houses of the barony. Children went missing, and a mild illness spread among the region. Not deadly or as contagious as the plague that had afflicted Arimens years prior, yet potent enough to linger at the edge of every stray cough, every whisper, and each time we saw the baron.


    Troubled and anxious, the baron requested my presence alone behind the locked doors where him and Corindrian typically spoke. Darronin¡¯s sitting room was sparse, containing only a few large chairs and a low table set on a rug, all which placed before a smoldering hearth. He offered me spirits and wine, which I refused. Synwye had taught me that alcohol clouds the mind and I knew the baron would not have summoned me unless he sought my expertise and my full faculties, for he was not a trivial man.


    The man spoke more plainly than his typical mode of speech, for he did not have to be as cautious of his words within his private domain.


    ¡°Nayinian, I am grateful you have answered my request for an audience, I know you and your colleague Ornookian are busy with your many studies.¡± Darronin spoke.


    ¡°My lord, my gratefulness most certainly exceeds yours to have received an audience with someone such as yourself is a unique honor I have yet to experience.¡± I told the baron.


    Darronin looked at me with heavy and exhausted eyes, before continuing onwards to his reason for requesting my presence.


    ¡°My son has spoken enthusiastically of you. He told me you were knowledgeable about plants, herbs, and illness. He said your knowledge most likely surpassed most in the region. At first I made his words out to be mere exaggeration as many young men are prone to do when they are enamored with a woman. However, I spoke to Corindrian to ask of your background in medicine, and he spoke just as highly of your ability. He said you successfully treated a strange plague that had ravaged the city of Arimens. This is true, yes?¡±


    I told him that it was true. I was skilled in apothecary, as I had trained in that craft before I left my village for Arimens so that I could study magicks.The baron then asked a risky feat of me.


    ¡°As you are knowledgeable of illnesses and cures and herbs and plants, then I need your aid in ridding my lands of that nuisance plague. The knowledge of disease comes natural to you, and it would be wasted if you did not help me in this matter. If I am to involve my domain in the war and take favors from mages, then my lands must first be rid of that omen of Decay. Your display during the hunt has assured me that you will be successful in these matters, if requested.¡±


    The baron did not realize the difficulty and danger of curing a sickness with magicks, for it is dangerous to reach beyond the veil for healing magicks as Decay is always close by for those who make fatal errors. Yet, not wanting to disappoint the baron, and wanting to return to Arimens so I could be with Ynguinian, I accepted the baron¡¯s task without complaint.


    Corindrian was not pleased with my eagerness to engage in such lofty pursuits, when herbs would do fine, but seeing that this may lead to the success of our mission in Temini he guided my efforts closely. However he did not lead, for his domain was weather and he trusted my spellcraft in the domain of sickness and healing. My knowledge of apothecary made it less laborious to craft the necessary magickal utterances in the first language. For that reason I was also less likely to craft flawed language when it came to spells of this nature, and thereby draw attention of the thirteenth saint and Decay and bring woe upon myself. Kalitian and Knowledge  were my guides, and deftly they steered me away from a fate similar to that when I had touched the yew, nightshade, and water hemlock.


    Two weeks it took, to craft the baron¡¯s requested spell, and no more than two weeks did it take. Any longer, and the language for the spell would have changed, for the nature of disease is that of constant change.  I knew if my words were no longer proper I would bring woe upon myself, and so an untested spell I took to meet the baron¡¯s summons that morning.


    The foyer of the baron¡¯s manor was full of his staff, his servants, and his guard, all of whom had been touched by the illness. Coughs and sniffles permeated the marble halls of the home (for Urostian prefers stone to wood) as I found myself within the throng of those ill who served the baron and his dominion. For they were not nobility, they still treated me and the other mages with suspicion. The plague was not helping our reputation within the Temini Barony, but that was the problem I had been requested to solve, and soon, I figured, we would no longer have to put up with the whims of the Temini ruffians; content in Arimens once more reading tomes from master Corindrian¡¯s library. Darronin addressed his staff and servants and soldiers with the same dignity and repose he had shown to the nobility and Corindrian.


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    ¡°As many know, an illness has befallen my staff and my servants and my soldiers. It is a strange spring for the barony, and it has been a strange winter as well. For the first time in many generations the walls of this estate have housed mages. This was not upon my request, nor would I have allowed it under normal circumstances, for all of these lands know of the dangers of unchecked spellcraft. Do not mistake, however, those unvirtuous and unrefined practitioners who practice the thirteenth saint¡¯s foul magicks for the guests who have called Temini their home these past months.¡±


    The baron took a pause in his speech, for the room was tense at the mention of magicks and the region''s history with foul magicks. His denizens respected the virtuous man for more than most subjects of aristocracy, and ceded the air for Darronin to continue his address.


    ¡°I have summoned you, my faithful denizens, as a matter of trust. As many of you know, my relationship with magicks and spellcraft has changed during my guests¡¯ visitation, and with that I urge you to reconsider what you know of most mages and warlocks. I have asked the talented mage Nayinian, who is knowledgeable of medicines and illness, to craft a spell to eliminate this nuisance plague. If you do not wish to have a spell cast upon you, I understand. A man¡¯s life is not something to be trifled with, and foul magicks have haunted the imaginations of Temini since long before any of our times. However, if you trust me as your superior, as a caretaker, and a man I beg of you to stay. If I have your trust in all matters, then so should Nayinian, master of alms.¡±


    I could see the doubt on the many faces of the throng. They had every right to leave that room and to continue onwards with their doubts and worries of spellcraft. Darronin, however, virtuous and trustworthy had won them over time and time again. If the virtuous baron trusted me, then their trust extended to me. It was then I understood the power of Virtue, which the baron fortunately still possessed. Once those summoned had made up their mind, I began to cast my spell to eliminate the illness.


    This spell, unlike those of the hunt, was not one to show prowess and impress, for the magicks were far too dangerous to complicate in such a manner. The only thing I could give to the spell was my total and unwavering focus. Each word I spoke related to that illness¡¯s nature, and to its eradication. Each motion of the hands required the utmost precision, for to throw caution to the wind when shaping the void beyond the edge of the world would have been to bring woe upon myself and this plane.


    Minutes within the chamber passed in utter silence until I began to draw the plague from the mouths of those presence. Tendrils of black fell to the floor only to coallesce to the center of the stone room in a sphere of darkness, visible. A fragment of Decay herself. Faster and faster I pulled the illness, and the louder the whispering winds became, for a goddess scorned expresses her anger in subtle and quiet ways. Once all plague had been pulled from those gathered in the foyer simply clasped my hands together and dissipated it into nothingness.


    The simple nuissance-illness was no longer, and I had made no mistakes in casting my spell. This was the moment the baron¡¯s subjects began to accept the magickal arts. Still weary, yes, but in that moment they began to learn. Unfortunately their Knowledge would not last, for that was the nature of that wretched conflict: to consume all that was fine and good and virtuous.


    Darronin was pleased in my performance. Little did I understand the importance of what I had just done, for it wrought consequences far beyond convincing the baron utterly of the war effort. The spell sealed Onookian¡¯s fate, and the fate of the Council of Arimensian Warlocks, and perhaps even the fate of Arimens itself. Yet, not yet was my own fate decided, for it was not until I drank of the first yew that I no longer controlled my destiny.


    Later in the evening, the baron took me aside with what he viewed as auspicious news: he would become my new patron (thereby joining the war effort), and he wanted me to marry his son, for to marry the student of one of the Arimensian Council of Warlocks would bode great boons for his territories.


    ¡°Lord Darronin. Your offer humbles me, but I cannot accept for I signed a contract to aid the Moringian army once my apprenticeship had completed.¡± I objected, which the baron replied:


    ¡°Nayinian. Your contract was to aid the army for three years. Your master represents the interests of the kingdom, and if it is his wish for you to become my mage, then your contract will not be breached. No gods or saints, or paladins offended.¡±


    He sought me, perhaps greedily. Temptations of glory  had begun to afflict his desires, for a virtuous man would not look for loopholes in a contract spoken before a priest of Mentillian. Yet, he must have been virtuous still, for my next objection to this arrangement he respected.


    ¡°Lord Darronin,¡± I spoke once more, ¡°I cannot accept your humbling offer, for I am betrothed.¡±


    I presented Ynguinian¡¯s amulet to the baron and spoke again to him.


    ¡°He trains to became a knight of Mentillian, and he is a virtuous man. I must return to him. I cannot marry your son, and this kingdom cannot be my home.¡±


    The baron accepted this objection, for he was good at heart. Never would he insult Virtue or Paronian, who bless all marriages. Darronin was a widower, and love to him was sacred.


    ¡°Nayinian. I apologize for my insistence,¡± he spoke, more humbly than I had ever heard him before.


    ¡°I am a widower, and marriage and love are things that I will not interfere in. Cannot interfere in. I still desire to be your patron, but to pursue such a matter further would not only be an affront to Paronian and Virtue, but an affront to my deepest self.¡±


    And with that, he dismissed me, and then summoned Ornookian and Corindrian. It is for this reason I was Lucky he was still a virtuous man.


    However, I did not realize he would desire to give patronage to Ornookian, or that Corindrian would accept such an offer. Not until I learned of what Ornookian had given up to study magicks, that is.


    Ornookian, despite moments of closeness, was never quite fond of me, for I had not given up what he had in order to study magicks. Not only had Ornookian given up years of his life study,  he had also given up his freedom in exchange for tutelage.


    I would later learn that Corindrian had intended to put Ornookian on the council as his replacement in several years, and had never intended to damn the young mage to a library without tomes to study in a land wary of magicks. A land where several years prior they had burned a skald at the stake for simple illusion magicks. Useless magicks. A land where Ornookian was damned to stay in and where he would eventually be burned on a ghastly pyre.


    The new court mage of Temini was furious at me and Corindrian for what had happends. He called us Yularelian¡¯s dogs. He called us curs and other foul names, and then locked himself away until Corindrian and I left Temini. The baron, having acquired his mage, agreed formally to contribute to the war efforts, having finally succumbed to Moringia¡¯s diplomatic tactics.


    As Corindrian and I left Temini in the carriage we had arrived in the forges began to spew ash and embers and smoke into the sky. The hammering of metal polluted the air as a heavy black rain fell to a muddy earth and followed us until we left the region. The land and the people of the Temini Barony had become tainted by the war between Moringia and Junumianis, and perhaps I am to blame for the fate of the mage of those wary lands with their muted and forgotten colors.

 16. Corindrians Secret

    The weathermaster of the Arimensian Council of Warlocks stood hands-clasped in Baron Darronin Temini¡¯s private sitting room, facing the large door of the room in anticipation of his host¡¯s arrival. The amber flame-light of the hearth permeated the room and bounced off of the bald arch mage¡¯s dark skin. The only sound besides the small cracking of fire were the intermittent taps of the twilight wind and snow upon the tall arching window to the left of the hearth.


    The wooden door drifted open slowly, the sound giving away the age of its hinges, as Darronin entered with a bottle of wine tucked under his arms and two goblets held between his fingers. The baron set the bottle and goblets down on a low stone table between two tall leather chairs that faced the hearth. Yet to acknowledge Corindrian, the noble poured wine into both goblets and sat in the leather chair to face the hearth. Without looking towards the mage, Darronin began the nightly ritual between the two men.


    ¡°And how are you going to try to sway me this evening, mage?¡± The baron had finally ceased hiding his displeasure with the two men¡¯s nightly conversations.


    Corindrian grasped the goblet closest to him, and strolled over to the window to look out on the landscape. Neither moon was out, leaving the snow dark blue that faded to gray, and then to the blackness of the treeline.


    The archmage of weather had been doubtful of his mission from the start. While Corindrian understood the need for secrecy and subterfuge, Junumanian spies certainly would not have suspected Moringia to send mages to the Temini Barony, he did not truly expect to convince the baron to aid the rest of the kingdom. There was nothing the kingdom could offer, even magicks, that would change Darronin¡¯s mind.


    The baron knew of the storm that nearly laid waste to Arimens, of the loss of Zuryne in Harinia. Messengers had brought news to the baron for years that detailed the price of war: illness, pollution, corruption, and destruction. Unless Corindrian could convince the baron that the war would not bring ruin to the people of Temini and that it would benefit his domain, Darronin would refuse to aid in the war. Even if Corindrian could conceive of what might sway the baron, there was still one other problem: a mage could never convince the baron.


    Corindrian turned towards the leather chairs, and sat next to the baron.


    ¡°I was thinking I could sway you with drink, my lord. However we¡¯ve had so much wine over these months that I am uncertain it would work before I become drunk.¡± Corindrian took a sip of wine.


    ¡°Leaving soon?¡± the baron asked.


    ¡°To the contrary, my lord. Your manor is quite comfortable, and the roads won¡¯t be safe until mid-Spring.¡± Corindrian took another, larger sip from his goblet.


    Once more the sitting room fell back into the silence of crackling fire and tapping snow as the two men sipped wine and gazed into the hearth. After several minutes, the baron broke the silence.


    ¡°Humor me mage: why come here?¡±


    Corindrian took another sip of wine, and set his goblet down on the table, giving a careful response.


    ¡°To do my duty to the kingdom at the behest of the council and my patron, my lord.¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯s not the question I asked,¡± Darronin interjected. ¡°I want to know why you came. What brought one of the most powerful mages in all of Moringia to a place where he would be feared, and possibly killed? Why come here at all, if you knew you were going to fail?¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t have a choice in the matter.¡± Corindrian refilled his goblet.


    ¡°Lying never did a man well, Corindrian. You are the arch mage of weather, tamer of the monsoons of Kaylynth. I heard their witch-queen did not take kindly to that feat of yours, nearly had you killed for it. How many years ago was that, forty? You are old, travel must have been difficult on you at sixty-four. You could have objected to whatever order you were given on age and reputation alone, but instead you lie to me. To me, of all people, a minor baron at the edge of the kingdom. Why come here of your free will if you knew you would fail?¡±


    Darronin looked the mage in the eyes for the first time since entering the room.


    ¡°I don¡¯t lie, baron. I had no choice in this matter, just as I had no choice four decades ago when Harwyne flooded her own kingdoms. I had no choice in this matter just as I had no choice to cross the Gray Spine into these lands many years ago. Fate tipped my hand. I did not choose my vocation for status, or for power. I chose it to help those others, my lord.¡±


    The baron poured himself another glass of wine.


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    ¡°Then you can help my domain by leaving.¡± the baron spoke, stumbling on his words.


    ¡°No. I will not leave until I am certain your people will be safe-¡±


    ¡°-And now you dare to question my ability to lead?! My citizens and I don¡¯t need your help. My lands are unpolluted and untainted from that idiotic and pointlesss war. My citizens are safe because I made the right choice to avoid the conflict.¡± Darronin erupted in a fury, ¡°I¡¯ve never considered sacrificing my people for pointless conflict before in order to protect them! A truly eloquent point for someone of your senility!¡±


    ¡°Stop this nonsense!¡± Corindrian shouted back at the baron. ¡°Is this how you speak to your elders, or were the signs of Paronian and Mentillian on your gate just to look pretty?! Is your manor of stone a facade as well?! Perhaps you will change it to wood next year when you stop praying to the saints entirely!¡±


    The baron remained silent, stirring his wire goblet and glaring at the mage.


    Corindrian slowly walked towards the window to look upon the twilight snow as he took a deep breath to collect himself.


    ¡°My apologies, my lord. I should not have lashed out in that manner. I¡¯ll take my leave.¡±


    Corindrian walked past his host, and was almost to the door when the baron spoke to him.


    ¡°I apologize for my outburst, Corindrian.¡± Darronin paused briefly, and then continued ¡°The priests say that Paronian showed that even virtuous men can come to anger, and that anger oftentimes tells us what is important to ourselves. You could have been angry with me many times during your time here. You could have been angry that I hold your vocation in disdain. You could have been angry that I refused to assist the kingdom, and you could have been angry for my insistence that you leave. Tell me, why did you come to anger over a matter of Virtue?¡±


    Corindrian turned to face the baron, his hand on the door¡¯s handle.


    ¡°I had heard you were a good man, Darronin. I thought that even for all of your superstition you would be willing to listen to me. I want to help, but I can¡¯t unless you show me you are the man I was told ran this barony. I need you to trust me when I say that it is your best interest to join the war effort.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t leave then. Sit. Here¡¯s your chance to gain my trust. Convince me.¡± Darronin gestured Corindrian to the empty chair in front of the hearth.


    The mage walked back to the leather chair, and sat once more.


    ¡°Darronin. What I am about to tell you, I have told no one. Can you promise to Ghalstorin that you will not say a word of what I speak of here?¡±


    The baron raised his hands upwards, invoking the fifth saint.


    ¡°I swear to Ghalstorin that I will never speak of what you are about to say.¡±


    ¡°Let me be straightforward with you Darronin: this war is pointless. There¡¯s nothing to be gained by joining. Your barony will suffer plagues and pollution just as the rest of Moringia has. Some of your people will die, and there will be nothing you can do about it.¡±


    The baron had not expected to hear Corindrian say that.


    ¡°I could give less of a damn about the king or his wishes,¡± Corindrian continued, ¡°however, I have reason to believe there is something deeply foul that larks at the edges of this idiotic war. Nature herself is becoming more violent, and the shriekers of the thundered plains have been more active than in past centuries.¡±


    ¡°So I¡¯ve heard.¡± the baron replied, now listening fully to what the weathermaster had to say.


    Corindrian stood up and placed himself in front of the fire, facing Darronin.


    ¡°Those things are concerning by themselves, my lord, but they are not what drove me to your domain. It was the storm I repelled in Arimens which drove me to your barony. It was not a natural storm. Nature would not do such a thing, nor would Daristian or any other patron or saint. I sensed it in the air nearly four years ago, and I am certain that it was spellcraft.¡±


    ¡°Necromancy?¡±


    ¡°No, but perhaps something more foul.¡± Corindrian said.


    ¡°If I had not been in Arimens, and if I had not taken my time in crafting the barrier to repel it, the city would have been turned to glass and rubble. I am worried that your barony, without a mage, would meet Arimens¡¯s intended fate. I came to convince you to give patronage to someone, anyone, because I did not want to see men and women die senselessly. I¡¯ve known of Temini¡¯s superstitions for many years, and I know that they are strong and difficult to dispel. Please listen to me. I am begging you.¡±


    Corindrian¡¯s shadow cast long past the baron.


    ¡°Do not let your domain crumble because you¡¯ve forsaken Knowledge and Kalitian. If you want to survive, and if you wish for your son to live to raise a family and become virtuous, you must try to and let go of your suspicion. There are those who practice necromancy, yes, but I can promise you that the storm that hit Arimens brought with it a fate worse than death. Utter annihilation. That is what awaits us on the other side of this bloody war. There will be more storms, and there will be things worse than them, no doubt caused by whatever mage was powerful enough to craft such a terrifying spell.¡±


    Darronin¡¯s stoic demeanor shifted to one of visible concern.


    ¡°And the only way I would be able to guarantee a mage skilled enough to ensure my domain¡¯s survival would be to-¡±


    ¡°Support the war effort. Yes.¡± Corindrian responded.


    ¡°And this wicked mage you spoke of, their skill is how great compared to yours?¡± Darronin asked.


    ¡°Exceeding myself and each member of the council, undoubtedly. I was ill for a month after repelling the storm.¡±


    Darronin took a long swig of from his goblet, pondering the sobering information.


    ¡°Corindrian, I do not take this news lightly. Starting tomorrow, I will sit in on the lessons with you and your students. I cannot fully trust you until I understand what sorts of things mages study. Real mages, that is, not necromancers. Show me that you are teaching your students correctly, not just book learning but lessons of character.¡±


    Corindrian sat down once more, and finished his second goblet of wine.


    ¡°So it seems I convinced you after all, my lord.¡±


    ¡°No Corindrian. You¡¯ve only just now been given the chance to.¡±


    The men, silent, drank late into the evening warmed by the emanating amber of the hearth.

 17. Mastery and Irony

    Corindrian and I returned to Arimens unharmed, but in low spirits. During the course of the journey my master lamented to me that he had given up his protege, his replacement. When I questioned Corindrian on why he let Darronin take Ornookian away, my master could only say that it was a necessary tragedy that we left him in Temini. I was cross with him for a time, for I felt simply as a pawn in his games.


    Seeing my anger at him, Corindrian began to bring me to the conferences of the Arimensian Council of Warlocks as his assistant and protege. Although we both knew that I would not take his place on the council, for that was an honor now reserved for Jaryne and I still intended to return to my village and purchase the apothecary once the war ended, I was still humbled by the opportunity to sit in the hallowed halls of Urostrian once more.


    During our time in the Temini Barony, the army of Junumianis had advanced up to the fort on the river Kalipaonin, and no further. However, now that Spring had come (and with it, the full aid of the Temini Barony) the armies of Moringia had managed to push their dreaded enemy backwards, a few days on horseback beyond Dew¡¯s Flat.


    Ynguinian and I spent many late nights discussing matters. On optimistic days we discussed when we might get married, and where the ceremony would be. On those days we were clutched by fear that our villages had been destroyed by the war we talked of elopement. Each time, however, it was clear we would not marry until the war had ended, for. Ynguinian had yet to finish his training and take his oath, and I was expected to serve my promised time in the kingdom¡¯s army.


    The politics of the Arimensian Council of Warlocks had become more complicated since Corindrian and I departed for Temini. All communications sent by the mages were required to be screened by Yularelian, Ghalyne, or a knight of Mentillian to prevent the sending of any magickal information. While typically not an issue for the mages of Arimens, for they were secretive even amongst themselves, this rule perturbed my teacher greatly. Corindrian had insisted that we copy as many writings as we could to send to Ornookian, including the spell by which to dispel that bizarre storm that had nearly consumed the city. When I asked the weathermaster how he intended to deliver the magickal writings to Ornookian, who would probably refuse to have anything to do with us, he responded with frustration and stubbornness.


    ¡°Nayinian, we will figure out how to deliver these writings to Ornookian soon. For now, we will keep writing, for he will need many tomes if he is going to be of any use in Temini.¡±


    Over the course of months we copied a small library of spells and magickal texts. By the end of the process the tower¡¯s library was covered in inks, and the stubs of waxen candles that had burned far too late into the evening. I had never seen Corindrian so focused and determined in a task before. His quality of writing did not fail him, even on little slip and in his seemingly-constant anger at the forbiddance of the shipment of magickal supplies. What time he did not spend copying texts, or arguing with the council to overturn the embargo on the supplies of spellcraft he spent with me teaching the same spell of repulsion he had used nearly two years prior.


    Many times I would wake at my small desk in the library for my master to scold me that I was sleeping instead of spending my time learning the intricacies of the spell of his creation. Constantly he would hound me to study that spell, even though I could not comprehend the strange incantations that my master had crafted. The words themselves were elusive and ambiguous, and the motions of the casting were almost improvisation in nature. It was unlike any spell I had previously cast, nor any I had encountered. I now understand that Corindrian had foreseen other similar catastrophes to the great storm that had nearly felled Arimens, for I have encountered similar cataclysms in the nearly-twenty years since that fateful storm.


    Unlike the spells given to man by Knowledge that lay within the domains of the thirteen patrons, the nature of these calamities and their spellcraft is desecration itself, designed to outmatch normal magicks with guile and subterfuge. It is beyond rot, and beyond woe. It seeks only to consume, and pervert the natural order of things. It is no wonder to me, now, that Corindrian was ill for so long after the casting of the barrier around Arimens. If any other mage had attempted Corindrian¡¯s spell it is with utter certainty that they would have perished, for no mage before or since has known of weather to such a degree that the weathermaster had.


    Months of constant study were not enough to truly teach me Corindrian¡¯s spell, and without warning the mage changed the focus of study. Instead of studying his spell, or copying magickal items for Onookian that were forbidden to be sent, my teacher began to instruct me in matters of combatting the efforts of opposing mages.


    A fight between two mages is as much about subtlety as a sword is about farming, which is to say: it is not a subtle or detailed craft. It is more about modifying the spells one has learned and knows well, than it is to prepare specific items as a means to negate the other mage¡¯s magicks. My lessons in these matters began with Corindrian sending harmless magicks towards me, and having to dispel or maniplute them with whatever I had prepared. The weathermaster would not inform me of when this practice would occur until minutes beforehand, for there is usually no foreknowledge in magickal warfare. To make matters more difficult I had to memorize spells to tutor Jaryne with, so many of my spells were small and delicate, and therefore not suited for the tasks Corindrian asked of me.


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    Over many months of practice, up to a few weeks before what would have been the beginning of my fourth year with the weathermaster, I became more skilled in the matter. I was no master in the matter, as many times I had fallen sick attempting to improvise alterations to a simple spell to please my master. I improved enough to meet Corindrian¡¯s standards; high as they were. While this did not prepare me for all aspects of magickal battle, it was a crucial experience. If it were not for his training, I would certainly have perished to the first of Junumianis¡¯s brutal mages, for they caused me much trouble when I fought in that terrible war.


    Near the end of my third year with Corindrian, it became apparent that it would be my last as well. While my suspicions that my time in Arimens was ending soon were roused when I began to study war magicks, it was not confirmed until one of the last meetings of the council I attended. In addition to those who normally attended such as the mages and their apprentices and the king, there were also unfamiliar faces present under Urostrian¡¯s mighty dome. Colonel Haryne and two men in military outfit of higher rank: I would soon learn they were Commander Partelin and Lieutenant Jurin of the Moringian army. The commander and lieutenant were in-charge of a fifth of the kingdom¡¯s soldiers, and their station was the fort on the river Kalipaonin that Ynguinian and I had crossed many years ago. Their presence was unexpected, as the distance between Arimens and the fort had become significantly more dangerous in the years since Ynguinian and I had walked those roads. If both men were present, it made clear that this was not a small request.


    Partelin addressed the council, making clear what he sought: three mages, for the death of Zuryne and his apprentices, had greatly diminished the capabilities of the Kalipaonin Regiment to push back against Junumianis¡¯s spellcraft. Yularelian, who seemingly had the regent¡¯s ear at this juncture, was enthusiastic about the request and offered up his apprentice Quatimonian. Colonel Haryne, who was also present, spoke to offer up my services to the army as a fulfillment of the contract I had signed years ago.


    Corindrian attempted to delay my service, asking for more time to train me. But the Colonel did not relent in his insistence that I comply with the contract I had signed, especially for it had been completed in front of a priest of Mentillian.


    ¡°Corindrian, you knew that one day Nayinian would have to leave your service in exchange for her fees.¡± The Colonel Spoke ¡°Do not attempt to renegotiate a completed contract. Mentillian frowns on those who would forsake order and law.¡±


    My teacher held his tongue, but I knew he was deeply upset with it. It was not pleasant news to myself either, but I kept my composure so as to not embarrass myself in front of the Commander and the Lieutenant. We left the conference early as the council discussed the final apprentice to leave for the war, as the decision had no bearing on our business and Corindrian wished to speak to me of urgent matters, and so did I.


    As soon as we had reached Corindrian¡¯s tower, I was once-more cross with the mage.


    ¡°Corindrian, why are you upset about my departure? Did you not want me gone in Temini? Why the sudden change of heart, why care about my presence if you did not before?¡± I asked in anger.


    The weathermaster struggled to hold back the tears of sorrow, for I had hit on some amount of truth with my angry accusation, for I had not yet relieved myself of the anger I felt from the incident of my near-abandonment in Temini.


    ¡°My apprentice,¡± the archmage said, ¡°I did care for you, as I do all of my students. Do not think of me as an uncaring man, because I am not. I suggested to the baron to take you because I thought it would be safest for you. I did not want you involved in the war, for it is a pointless war for fools that will only bring you suffering. I didn''t intend to abandon you, but for you to use Knowledge to kill others goes against everything I now stand for and everything I have learned.


    ¡°It is true that I always intended Ornookian to be my successor, and that was a factor in my decision to offer your services to the baron. While it would have been difficult work, at least you would not be set upon a life of destruction and woe.¡±


    I told the mage that I need not worry about woe and ruin, for it had been many years since I had acted in ignorance, or touched poisonous plants which were of Decay¡¯s domain.


    ¡°Nayinian, plants and ignorance are not the only way one can bring about woe. Have you not seen Nature with its decaying colors and pollution? War, violence, and injustice bring far more woe than ignorance and plants. Even if you are not concerned about those things, I haven¡¯t taught you everything I needed to, or everything I could. But, I¡¯ve taught you how to teach yourself, and I know ignorance will not likely be your downfall. Impatience? Perhaps, but even then you¡¯ve grown. Your spellcraft is subtle, and you have grown much since studying under me. And I know you will be a virtuous woman one day, able to help those who truly need it as I have tried to.¡±


    I told the master that is what I had always intended, to help people and to teach others Knowledge and to heal those beyond hope. I told my master that I had not only grown as a mage, but as a person, for I had many great teachers in my travels. I told my master that I was sorry to leave him, still ignorant of many things, and not yet a master of anything.


    ¡°Nayinian, that is where you are wrong,¡± Corindrian said, ¡°through patience you have learned subtlety, and perhaps that is the lesson Kalitian had intended for you. It takes patience to harness and slow Urostrian¡¯s fury. It takes a delicate precision to draw forth Kalitian¡¯s lizards of flame from frozen winter streams, and it takes cunning to manipulate the gift of the saint of Knowledge. It is a great irony that Nayinian, Master of Subtlety, is to fight a war. It is also, perhaps, my greatest sorrow.¡±

 18. Letters and Goodbyes

    I was no longer an apprentice for the final weeks I lived in Corindrian¡¯s tower, instead, I was a guest. My time short, and Corindrian increasingly distressed that Ornookian was lacking magickal texts, we talked at length of how to subvert Yularelian¡¯s embargo. The weathermaster¡¯s initial suggestion was that I simply cast the spell of unnoticing upon myself, and send the packages towards Temini.


    However, that would not work, for few caravans headed towards Temini, and those that did were closely watched by the regent and Yularelian for fear of spies and thieves. A large collection of magickal tomes would be detected quickly.


    Immediately we realized our solution could not involve casting the spell of unnoticing upon another person, for one person alone could not survive the trek to Temini, nor let alone transport the sheer volume of tomes and vellum we intended to send. The next obvious solution was to cast the spell of unnoticing upon the magickal pages, but that would not work either for Yularelian would still inspect the letters and realize trickery was cast upon them. Perhaps then, the solution to the quandary would not lay within illusion magicks.


    Our solutions became more and more subtle, but still none would quite suffice. Corindrian suggested that we could summon a messenger, but in conjuration lay the problem that whatever we could bring about within three weeks time would not last long enough to deliver the letters. If the weathermaster spent any additional time beyond the three weeks on a superfluous spell, then he would be poised for reprimand from the council. The regent and Yularelian had made it clear that the seven mages on Arimens were only to use their skills to the benefit of the city and the war effort. A delinquent mage would not avoid notice, therefore the solution could not involve conjuration either.


    Soon it became clear to us that no magick was going to aid us, for it would take far too much of Corindrian¡¯s time, or it would be obvious upon first inspection by any practiced mage. We thought of contracting smugglers, but in that lay the problem of finding a crew that could be trusted with our identities and that cargo.


    I put forward the idea of sending Jaryne to Temini, but it was clear that to do such would not bode well for the young mage¡¯s development. Jaryne needed to study under Corindrian with all of the resources of the tower if he were to inherit the weathermaster¡¯s council seat as my master hoped he would. Corindrian asked if Ynguinian could deliver the parcels, as paladins and their squires often head eastward through and further beyond Temini. I told the mage that I would rather die than ask my betrothed, a soon-to-be paladin of saint Mentillian, who above all favors law and serves Order, to break the law and commit subterfuge. Corindrian did not take up that suggestion again.


    The day came when I was to move into the barracks, and still we had not devised a plan to get our copied books and scrolls to Ornookian in Temini. I would have some time in my day to visit Corindrian and discuss those matters, but nothing similar in extent to the time I had in those last three weeks. A solution would need to come before I left the city, and I promised Corindrian that much:


    ¡°Do not overworry about the matter of the parcels.¡± I told the old mage, ¡°You have given me the title Master of Subtlety, and I intend to live up to my reputation and the expectations you have set upon me. A solution will come in time, and we will just need patience.¡±


    Fortunately, I found an answer to our quandary before leaving the city. It was not perfect, and if I had not developed the patience Kalitian had intended for me to learn, I would have given up long beforehand. However, before speak of our plan that outsmarted Yularelian and the regent, I wish to first speak of the beginning of my campaign within the Kalipaonin Regiment.


    Commander Partelin and Lieutenant Jurin of the Moringian army greeted me early in the morning of my first day of service. Aided by a squad of men, my effects were moved from my small room near the top of Corindrian¡¯s tower to Arimens¡¯s newest barracks. My quarters there were more spacious than in the weathermaster''s abode, and the doors had heavy locks upon them for my safety. Posted outside my door there was an ever-present rotating guard of twin spearmen drawn from the battalion which I had been assigned to: The River¡¯s Third Battalion. It was fitting for a mage to be assigned to a battalion with Kalitian¡¯s number.


    Once I had been shown my quarters and my effects had been placed, the Commander dismissed himself and the rest of my introduction to the barracks and the army was overseen by Lieutenant Jurin. The Lieutenant was a tall branch of a man, and it was clear from his uncalloused hands he had never seen a day of hard labor before. Despite this, the common men of the regiment did not seem to object to Jurin¡¯s authority, as all of the soldiers came to attention for each new area we entered. I wondered what they thought of me as I walked limp and staff-aided through the muddy training grounds. Would the soldiers of my battalion consider me a burden?


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    Near the edge of the training grounds the Lieutenant introduced me to Captain Bryndin, a salty veteran with scars to show for it, and Sergeant Hahmursian the quartermaster. I gave them both a salute, before being told by the Lieutenant that I should not do that, for I already outranked the two men and it would be improper to give the two a salute. In most armies it is the norm for mages to outrank the commanding officer of their assigned unit, and the Kalipaonin Regiment was no different. The Captain and the Sergeant were both understanding of my lack of experience in the formal matters war.


    ¡°As long as you can craft spells and protect us from those damn Junumanians, I don¡¯t give a damn what you do. Just make sure you aren¡¯t saluting any common soldiers.¡± Captain Bryndin said. He was a jolly man with an infectious morale.


    The real difficulty of the campaign would be to work with the soldiers. Most of them were greenhorns coming from Arimens and its surrounding communities, although a few men had started to trickle in from the Temini Barony and were no-doubt appalled to be serving in a mage battalion. If any soldier held me in contempt for my magicks or my limp I never heard, for Sergeant Hahmursian was strict in matters of discipline and Order. He had trained to become a knight of Mentillian, but the saint had never chosen him, so he became a soldier. I would not be acquainted with the full battalion until we reached the fort on the river Kalipaonin to meet with our other half.


    The Lieutenant led me to one last place of import: the Commander¡¯s tent. There, sprawled over a large and polished mahogany table, lay a detailed map of western Korstiana. Flags, figurines, and small pieces of papers with names on them littered the topography that detailed Moringia¡¯s strategy for the war. Also present in the room were three other mages, two of whom I had met: Yularelian¡¯s apprentice Quatimonian, and Caronian¡¯s (whom you might recall summoned the ethereal hares) apprentice Marinon. The third mage was not one I had met before. His name was Nestyne, and he was a veteran mage of the Moringian army, and my superior.


    During my last weeks in Arimens, the three of us former apprentices spent our days practicing in the matters of countermagicks and war magicks under Nestyne¡¯s veteran eye. When we reached the fort on the river Kalipaonin we would begin drilling with our battalions. Until then, however, it was limited to us four mages as the greenhorns among us adjusted to our new reality.


    As part of our duties we were expected to attend meetings of Kalipaonin Regiment''s officers, as we ranked among them as well. We were not expected to speak, or contribute, but it was of strategic importance that we were informed of strategies of the army and our regiment. Knowing these things would inform the spells we prepared, and how we conducted ourselves on the battlefield. I came to despise these meetings, for their contents were often grim. Such is the strategy of wars of greed and power.


    On the first night of my last week in Arimens I said goodbye to Ynguinian, my betrothed. We spent the night walking reminiscing of the past in the city, knowing we may never see it again. We passed the quarters where I used to set up my apothecary stall and stuff our rooms full of smelly herbs and plants and tinctures. We passed by the great domed temple of Urostrian, where we spent our first days in the magickal city, and walked over the gas-lit stone bridges of the river that ran through the center of Arimens. Its waters used to be clear as the mountains, but now had become filthy and polluted, just as the rest of the landscape had over the course of the war. We bought food from a street vendor, and ate slowly as we turned back for the barracks and a final goodbye, knowing it would be many years before we saw one another.


    ¡°Nayinian. I will be far to the south in the city of Starathens, in the temple of Mentillian. Please, write letters to me so I can know that you are safe, and cared for. My oath I took to protect you many years ago may have been fulfilled, but that does not mean I cannot protect you in other wars. I will pray to Mentillian for you, and write many letters to you, my betrothed.¡± Ynguinian said, as we stood at the door of the barracks.


    I told him that I would write to him constantly, and that as soon as I had finished my service I would walk the many miles south to Starathens it would take to reach him. I told him that I would ask Sergeant Hahmursian, the quartermaster, about the matters of letters in the morning. I rightly suspected that the army would not force soldiers to go for years without contacting their families. Finally, before the evening ended, we embraced one last time, and I watched as Ynguinian walked off into the encroaching darkness of the magickal city.


    The next morning I spoke with Sergeant Hahmursian who told me that all mail sent by soldiers was free, and sent to their home regions with the recruiting caravans. It was then I found the solution to Yularelian¡¯s embargo: I would have Temini officers send letters of magickal supplies to the baron. Their communications would not be searched, unlike my own, and all I had to do was convince them to send the parcels Corindrian and I had prepared. While Ornookian might not receive everything we sent, for many things get lost over long distances, it brought a great relief to my master Corindrian.


    The morning my battalion left Arimens for the river Kalipaonin, Corindrian came to give a final goodbye. The weathermaster looked in poor health, but in high spirits promised to write letters to me, and I told him I would do the same. He gave me a final thanks for my help in the matter of delivering magickal writings to Ornookian, before I left.


    ¡°Nayinian, Master of Subtlety, I knew I named you correctly. You were a good student, and it is a shame you did not study with me longer.¡±


    That was the last time I ever saw my master. Corindrian, Archmage, Weathermaster of Arimens died several months later and his seat was filled by another of Yularelian¡¯s apprentices. I never learned what became of Jaryne.

 19. Once More Through the Thundered Plains

    The wilds surrounding Arimens no-longer resembled the verdant wildlands and farms Ynguinian and I had journeyed through many years prior. What communities survived obliteration were small, fractured, and starving. The Moringian army brought them much-needed rations when we passed through. The paths were so muddy and covered with waste, and the lands so polluted and desecrated that it was difficult to tell where the ruin brought upon the earth marching soldiers ended and the once-verdant wildlands began. I am fortunate that due to my leg I did not have to walk these paths and instead rode in a carriage, for I certainly would have made a fool of myself.


    Among the soldiers one could sense a creeping illness of the mind, one which I had only seen once before on the thundered plains years prior: a deep and lingering dread. We had yet to reach the plains of Urostrian¡¯s tomb, and already the soldiers feared the journey that lay ahead. The shriekers had become more aggressive, and their territory had expanded. None of the towns of the thundered plains remained; their citizens either fled or were left as carrion for the fattening horde of aberrations.


    Even the officers and us mages were wary of the plains, although we would never admit such to the common soldier. We did not know why the shriekers had suddenly become more active, although members of the council believed it could be the work of a necromancer. The thundered plains are a place for men beyond desperation; those willing to turn to foul magicks and bring Decay upon themselves.


    Even though I had seen the shriekers before, and had reason to believe that no harm would come to me, I prepared a spell in secret. While I was not as strong in the domain of weather as Corindrian, nor was I paladin like Raluros, I knew those wicked abominations feared lightning the most. However I could only use the crafted spell once, so I vowed to withhold my power in patience and only cast the spell if our situation was truly dire.


    Sensing the Kalipaonin Regiment¡¯s discomfort, Commander Partelin addressed his men the day before we reached the thundered plains. Nearly a thousand of us all gathered before him as he stood high above us on the roof of his carriage and spoke deep and loud outwards over the throng of fearful men.


    He told them to not fear, and to toss aside hesitance as they walked through the gravesite of Urostian, for the sixth saint favors those with a resolve of stone. They were soldiers of Moringia, and for that reason the saintly quality of hardiness was expected of them. So long as they held themselves as stoics, no harm would come.


    It was a good speech, but it was not for the officerst. Privately we were told that men would die and there was nothing we could do to change that. While now we were of the good fortune that I could keep the storms away and thereby prevent lightning from striking the wooden carriages, four mages would not be enough to prevent men from dying. Some as young as their seventeenth year, possibly younger, would not make it through to the river Kalipaonin.


    On the first day in the thundered plains, we encountered an omen of what was to come. A large shrieker, easily larger than any I had seen previously, lay dead in the gray and turbid mud. It had engorged itself on the corpses of the ghost towns, causing its stomach to burst from an excess of rotting flesh. From then on I prepared the spell of unnoticing, and cast it upon myself each night before bed. I asked my tent-mate, Marinon, to cast the spell of noticing within the tent each morning before she left, just to make sure I would not be left behind. She asked me to do the same for her. This ritual left the thundered plains with us, and for nearly two years we cast the spell upon ourselves each night.


    The Regiment¡¯s first week on the thundered plains was calm. Morale had improved as the men had finally grown to know one another, and we had yet to be troubled by the wretched shrieks of the thundered plains. Captain Bryndin and the few veterans he had brought along sang tunes from the south for the rest of the battalion, and on one of the nights some of the greenhorns had managed to get Sergeant Hahmursian, the quartermaster, excessively drunk. I refused anything beyond cider, since I needed my faculties at all times. When one of the common soldiers kept offering me drinks, the Sergeant (rather drunkenly) used that soldier as an example making it very clear that no one should be offering me any such drinks.


    The second week on the thundered plains is when men began to disappear. First, one man from the fifth battalion could not be found in his tent. We did not figure it was a shrieker yet, for he was a known drunkard and a lousy soldier. As they say in the region of Temini: only idiots, the desperate, and heroes wander the wilds on their lonesome.


    The worry from weeks prior began to slowly infest the regiment as more honorable men went missing. A young man from Arimens, not older than eighteen years, went missing in the middle of dinner. Men began to lose sleep as they offered themselves up for additional watch duties, and the drunken and rowdy greenhorns became compliant, attentive, and sober.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    If the shriekers were showing up to grab men in their sleep, which many were certain it was, they were doing it silently. The thing about shriekers, however, is that they were never silent. The wretched things always made noise, for they were crude recreations of life made by a powerful and twisted necromancer hundreds of years ago. It was only possible if the beasts had learned; if somehow, their rotting minds had grown to understand silence. We did not want to believe it, because for many centuries they were known for their piercing shriek that sounded of shattering glass and torrential wind. If they learned, then it would mean that something, or someone, had changed their nature.


    It meant Necromancy.


    The attacks began in the third week of the month we spent on the thundered plains. It was nighttime, and my battalion was sitting by a raging bonfire when a large shrieker dove down and grabbed one of the men, his name was Bastilan, and dragged him through the roiling flame and upwards into the stygian night. We could hear his screaming becoming more distant until it was smothered by the ragged howls of more skirmishing aberrations.


    Men ran for their crossbows and for shelter as a dozen or so men were taken into the dotted black. We were not quick enough to react, and from then forth all men were required to keep crossbows upon themselves at all times. Mages and officers were to stay in the carriages, and each watch duty was officially doubled. Commander Partelin promised the Kalipaonin Regiment would not be caught unawares again, but the officers and I knew it was a lie. The Commander had told us that he expected more deaths, and more surprises before we were beyond the thundered plains. Two nights later there was a second attack. Twenty men died.


    I had considered casting my spell of protection during the skirmish, but I held off on it. I knew that if the attacks were going to worsen it would be best for me to wait to cast the spell. Most likely I would fall violently ill, and the only things those wretched undead covet more than someone caught unawares are the bodies of the ill. And so I waited through two more attacks.


    By the time of the final attack we had lost a hundred and twenty men on the plains. Some were deserters, desperate for their lives. Some fought valiantly to protect their comrades. All were consumed by the disgusting fiends and their howling maws. Quatimonian could not cast spells, as he was ill from repelling the beasts, and Nestyne had lost control of his hands from a summoning gone wrong (it would be many weeks until he could cast spells again). Protection of the regiment was left to myself and Marinon.


    Her and I stopped preparing spells of healing by this point, for all of the victims would be devoured one way or another. Instead we focused on the spells that we could cast in tandem, and spells favored by Urostian¡¯s domain. The night Raluros protected Ynguinian and I from the shriekers was emblazoned into my memory. We knew the weakness of the beasts. It was just a matter of patience to ensure our survival. Cast the spell too soon, and our regiment would fall when we became too ill to cast another. Cast the spell too late and it would be a futile effort.


    It was the middle of the day, and the regiment could tell we had made it to the edge of the plains, for we marched past the stone ruins of the ghost towns that were once home to liars and swindlers that sold rotted meat and dirty water. As I needed to avoid casting superfluous spells, the sky was cloudy and gray as a slab of granite. Nearing noon, suddenly, and without warning, a dense white fog rolled through. It was only knee height, but with it came a bitter cold I had not felt since the nights I had spent on the peaks of perpetual winter. Looking upward, it almost seemed as the clouds had split to reveal the night sky.


    However, it was not night, for as the clouds split further it became apparent that the blackness above us was a descending horde of shriekers. Their collective scream sounded of grinding metal and rattling thunder as they dove with haste towards the regimented.


    I began to chant the words of the spell in the first language, but the fog that had grabbed the knees snaked up my chest and nearly froze my tongue. Someone had cast a spell with the intention of silencing Marinon and myself. If I could not unfreeze my tongue, the regiment would collapse.


    I moved as hastily as I could, nearly tripping over my bad leg to the one solution I could think of: a bottle of wine on the back of the carriage. I uncorked with my teeth, and haphazardly spoke the word in the first language for fire before taking a large swig of the bottle. Then, handing the bottle to Marinon, my body and all of my limbs began to burn with immense pain as I raised my arms upwards and began to shape the spell inspired by Raluros¡¯s smiting on the same plains many years ago.


    My head began to thunder, for I had slurred some of the words, but I stayed obstinate in my course. If I did not cast the spell, we were doomed. While I could not bring down a storm of lightning large enough to smite the shriekers, I knew I could craft a spell with which to buy us two days worth of travel, hopefully enough to get us out of the fell beasts¡¯s range: I had combined the spell of unnoticing with the spell to conjure thunder.


    High above in the unblemished gray of clouds a loud and resonant thunder sounded throughout the muddy plains. The shrieks paused, and dove for us once more. Again, the thunder reverberated through the bodies of the men of the regiment, and the beasts. The shriekers paused longer that time, before continuing their assault.


    Finally, a third time. All of the men of the regiment fell to the ground vomiting up gravel and dirt as the shriekers stopped in the air, and flew back west towards their abominable nest. We would go unnoticed for two days at best. Enough time for respite, and for reinforcements from the fort to reach us. I do not remember much of the rest of the journey. I did not sleep for nearly three days, but apparently several of the men died from expelling too much gravel and stone from their bodies. It was a harsh lesson in why mages do not cast enchanting magicks on squadrons of people.


    The regiment arrived at the fort on the river Kalipaonin in low spirits, battered, and ill. Perhaps the experience made us stronger, that¡¯s what some of the veterans said. I did not feel strong, no. Once my illness passed, I began to feel the burden of guilt. It would be a familiar presence in the coming years.

 20. Changed Men, Desolate Crossroad

    It would be two weeks until I had recovered to a point where I was able to sit in on the officer meetings. The group was larger now, as half of the regiment had been stationed at the fort on the Kalipaonin, waiting for the Commander and Lieutenant to return with new mages and new soldiers. Now that our regiment was whole, we could begin to strategize our push into Junumianis.


    However, my mind was not on war strategy, and neither was Marinon¡¯s. What we had seen on the thundered plains had left a festering anxiety. There was a foul mage on those desecrated plains, and we were stuck between that wretched warlock to the west, and the wrath of Junumianis to the east. We had felt the bitter cold of the Necromancer¡¯s silencing mist, and the more we learned of Junumianian summoners, the more we worried any push might be fatal.


    We were not the only ones in the regiment who had been changed by the slaughter on the thundered plains, for when you walked among the common soldiers, you could tell who among the men had been on that fatal crossing. Those men never turned their backs to the west, for they feared aberrations might show at all times. The sight of distant birds on the gloomy horizon was enough to cause the men to recoil and shorten their breath, for they anticipated, much like on the plains, that they would be carried away in rotten claws and devoured.


    But yet, the men had something we did not: comradery, in the strictest sense. The officers were fewer, and to show that our nerve was shaken to the common men would only be to drag morale down. So, letters aside, Marinon and I only had one-another with whom to speak our thoughts, for Quatimonian was still distant then, and kept to the male officers. We could not speak to Nestyne, for he was our superior and the conversations bordered on improper and dishonorable.


    One evening, speaking quietly so as not to be heard by the two guards who kept watch of the door to our cramped room in the barracks, Maronin revealed her worry and her regret to me.


    ¡°I should never have come to Arimens in the first place, and would not have if I had known I would be sent through those ghastly plains. My family still lives in the capital, and I could be with them instead of here had I not decided to study magicks. Maybe I can still leave, and disguise myself so they cannot track me down for desertion¡­¡±


    ¡°You know well that to desert is foolish. They took blood from us back in Arimens, and there are mages much stronger than you in the kingdom. It would be foolish.¡± I said.


    Maronin spoke once more


    ¡°I suppose it would be foolish to choose death. If I desert now, it would not bode well for me. I would be tracked down. Do you regret coming here too, Nayinian?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± I said, ¡°How could I regret learning magicks? I had no other choice.¡±


    ¡°You chose to come to Arimens, did you not?¡± she asked.


    I told Maronin that I had, but had felt forced by the circumstance.


    ¡°Then you had just as much choice in the matter as I did. So, I ask again, do you regret coming here?¡±


    I thought of all that I had learned under Corindrian, and my betrothal to Ynguinian.


    ¡°I could never regret it, even when things are as uncertain as they are now. I don¡¯t yet have what I want, but even then I have many things I would not otherwise have had.¡± I told her.


    She kept quiet for a moment, and asked me a different question.


    ¡°So, suppose you had come to Arimens by your own free choice. You still chose to study magicks, did you not?¡±


    I told her that was true.


    ¡°Then, do you regret studying magicks, and where it has led you? Weren¡¯t you a successful apothecary? You did not need to change anything.¡±


    I told her I still did not regret studying magicks, for they were important to me. Even in our anxious and precarious position that we were now in, I would still have studied.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    ¡°I don¡¯t feel made for this in the same way you are. I could have had many good things, but now all I have is one friend and the protection of paranoid men. I should not have offered to come here to the Commander. I thought that if I showed skill I could attract the king or a noble¡¯s patronage in Gurones.¡±


    I told her that it was still true that she could.


    ¡°And what if I die?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Truly good things never come without fear of failing to attain them. If you leave now, you¡¯ll never hold anything good again, for you¡¯ll draw the ire of Mentillian.¡± I told her. I do not know if I truly understood what I was saying then, but I hold true to it now.


    She told me she would sleep on what I had to say, but that she would likely not desert. Mentillian would punish her for going against Order if she did, and goodness is difficult to find when one has drawn the ire of saints. If she served well, and if Luck was on her side, then she could still get what she had come for.


    Once most of the men had fully recovered, the regiment began preparations to move out towards Dew¡¯s Flat. The Kalipaonin Regiment had driven off the Junumianian forces at the end of the previous fall, and we would be returning to turn it in to our forward-base, for it was close to the first strategic target: the walled city of Icinerenth, which sat between two great rivers at the top of a hill in a large valley. Junumianis had taken the city from Moringia two years ago, and now it would be our duty to reclaim the city for the kingdom. The soldiers assembled the trebuchets for moving, and most of the soldiers (including the mages) were moved into tents on the eastern edge of the river in preparation for Dew¡¯s Flat.


    On the day our march to Dew¡¯s Flat began, the siege-equipment was still on the island fort, for we had hoped to get the trebuchets through the roil of the Kalipaonin without having to expend the effort of one of our mages. However, the black and polluted waters were still in torrent, meaning Quatimonian¡¯s skills would be needed.Yularelian¡¯s former apprentice had been given the title Master of Flows, for he was skilled in all magicks involving water and its movement.


    Quatimonian, unlike his teacher, was a stout and squat man. The methods of his castings were also unlike that of his master. Yularelian, the Master of Vines, that cur, was known for his smooth-flowing motions and his almost-whispering tones, and I had expected something similar from the Master of Flows, given the nature of his expertise.


    His motions were forceful and swift, approaching the river in ferocity. His language was terse and disjunct, more like what one might expect from a mage who specialized in metals and fires. With several quick motions he threw his arms forward and pushed the flow of the Kalipaonin westward temporarily.


    One could see a crosscut of the flowing roil, devoid of life, and on the riverbed the remains of several bodies with rocks tied to themselves, which were run over by the large wheels of trebuchets. The soldiers of the regiment dug into the side of dark soil, forming a ramp to push the large machines of war up onto the shore so we could relocate to Dew¡¯s Flat. It only took a few hours of diverting the flow of that terrible river to move the siege equipment to the eastern bank. Once the job was done, the Master of Flows diverted the river back to its natural path with a tumbling and white cacophony of rushing waters, covering up the shattered bodies.


    The journey to Dew¡¯s Flat was filled with dreary and gray days. The carts and the men kicked up the muddy earth, causing the carts transporting the trebuchets to get stuck, which slowed us down a few days. We would be staying at the former-crossroads until it wast he proper time to move on to Icinerenth. We had spies within Junumianis and the walled city, and it would only be a matter of waiting for any possible reinforcements to the city to be displaced northward, for that was where the most of the fighting was occurring.


    Dew¡¯s Flat, the once vibrant crossroads full of spices and liar, was now destroyed. The buildings had been razed, and the tall and thick wildgrass of the area had either fallen limp and ill, or had been trampled under the mud by the fighting. Expecting I may be needed for more than casting spells, I searched the grounds for any useful herbs or plants, but could find none.


    While searching the bed of a small creek, however, I saw another ill-omen. A six legged lizard lay sprawled on its back on its clutch of three eggs, it had been dead for some time for its head eaten through to its skull. The clutch had yet to hatch, and perhaps never would. It was so covered in filth that I did not realize the rest of its body was orange-scaled, much like Kalitian¡¯s servant who had first given the spell of unnoticing to me.


    I grabbed the corpse, and dug a small hole for it, away from the eggs, which I left to hatch on their own, although I did not truly believe they were. The oily pollution of the war had most-likely claimed the eggs of the lizard. Still, I tried my best to give reverence to Kalitian and cast the spell of unnoticing upon the egg with hope that they one day might hatch before giving a prayer to the third saint.


    The desolation of the crossroads made me wonder, once more, what had become of my village and Ynguinians. Would they be in such a state as Dew¡¯s Flat? Did my parents still live? What of the inn-keep on the other side of the peaks of perpetual winter? I could not imagine any of those villages had avoided the creeping desolation of the conflict. I wrote Ynguinian for comfort that night, imagining what Starathens might have in-store for my betrothed. I prayed to Paronian that it was nothing like the shattered lands I had seen.


    We spent two weeks in Dew¡¯s Flat before marching the five days to Icinerenth. We arrived early on a hot summer morning, the walled city looming over the dawn-lit dying grass as we spread our forces around the settlement. The third battalion faced the large stone gate of the city as the sun crested over the eastern horizon. There were no longer any shadows obscuring the city¡¯s white stone that had been burn-scarred in the war. Small black birds held still in hot summer air above the city like patient flies. The soldiers of the regiment watched the same scene play out for many weeks in anticipation of the stewing conflict. The forces within the besieged city would soon succumb to the pressure, and it was then I learned to fear the fury of a desperate mage.

 21. The Battle of Icinerenth

    CW: this gets a bit brutal, even moreso than chapter 19.


    The Commander informed the officers of the attack three days prior to committing. The spies within Icinerenth had revealed the food shortage had started to affect the morale of the Junumianian soldiers and the citizens. More importantly, we received information that the single mage of that regiment had begun to prepare spells for a coming conflict. The more time we took, the less chance the mage would have to respond, but we still needed some time to prepare if we were to breach the elevated city.


    Nestyne was insistent that none of us employ spells with which to harm, and instead rightfully fearing the potency of the mage, only prepare countermagicks and other contingencies. Without his planning, I do not know that all of the mages would have survived the battle.


    For more than twenty years Nestyne had served the Moringian army, although not always as a mage. He had begun as a simple foot-soldier in his youth, and had learned magicks through eavesdropping on the preparations and practices of the mages of his regiment. In his second year of service, and in the midst of a slaughter desperate to live, Nestyne cast a powerful but destructive spell that had nearly taken his life. Many months, it took, for the young battlemage to regain his health, and never did he regain it fully.


    Once he had recovered, the mages of his battalion took him in under an apprenticeship where he gained a limited understanding of the higher concepts of spellcraft, and learned to read and write. However, because of his desperate spellcast, Nestyne suffered from bouts of immense pain, and his hands constantly shook preventing him from safely casting countermagicks and spells with precise hand-motions. So, knowing proficiency at countermagicks was a futile effort for himself, the veteran battlemage became a specialist in summoning and animation of earth and wood. I can only imagine how potent a mage he would have been without his injury.


    It was before the sun rose on the longest day of Sunslength that the battle of Icinereneth began. Soldiers pushed siege engines across the withered grass still dew-dropped from the night air followed closely by phanaxes carrying tall ladders. Behind them lay the archers, myself, Quatimonian and Carinon, and behind us the summoner Nestyne and the trebuchets of such a height as to tower over the eldest yew. Our dawn-lit forces inched slowly towards the flickering walls of the city, resembling more a swarm of insects drawn to flame than an army of men. The landscape, then, became filled with dreadful stillness and silence only found in places where men are buried or are about to perish as we waited for the signal to begin the assault.


    It never came, for above the tallest spire of Icinerenth a bright orange mote, appearing almost as a miniature sun, emerged from the blueness of pre-dawn twilight before exploding outwards with a great force and speed. Hungry tendrils of flame raced towards the soldiers of the army, torrential rivers of flame that lit up the dried grass and immediately evaporated all of the dew. So awestruck was I from this violent and sudden flare, that I nearly forgot my duties to the men before me.


    RIght before a great wave of fire would have collapsed upon and consumed the third and fifth battalions I called forth a mighty gust which both fueled and redirected the flames upwards to the heavens. The sky briefly lit with a mighty conflagration, many times brighter than the sun, before settling back into twilight. The spell had caused me to lose my balance for the rest of the fight, as I nearly fell over to the left side when I had all but finished, and I would have to spend the rest of the conflict adjusting for this. It was more important that battalions under my watch were safe.


    I took a brief note of the state of the battlefield. Some of the men, none within the battalions under my charge, had been engulfed by the flames, but those fatalities were minor. One of the trebuchets had been hit by a tendril of fire that Carinon had deflected. Some of the dead grass had been set ablaze and were now smoking. Our men began to move more recklessly through the newly-set screen of smoke towards the city. The men were panicking, for they had not been given the order to charge. Nestyne said the mage would try to use fear to get men out of the range of our protection, and remembering this I tried my best to run through the burn scarred battlefield, fearful of what the next volley of the desperate mage might entail.


    As the fires raged within the valley, it became apparent that we were now fighting two enemies: the army of Junumianis and the ever-growing forces of flame and smoke that was a consequence of the mage¡¯s first volley. The tactics of the opposing force were clear: distract, whittle, and force our hand as much as possible. We were already at a disadvantage, for we were attacking the high ground. If our focus became too split, we would certainly fail to take the city.


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    The fire needed to be tamed, and fortunately for this we had Quatimonian. I could see in the distance Nestyne had signaled the Master of Flows, and that Quaitmonian had created a large circle of fast-flowing water around himself to quench the blaze. We would be safe from the fires, for a time. However, this meant it was now up to just myself and Carinon to provide protection against the Junumianian mage¡¯s wrath.


    All of this, the fire, and the spells, were before the battle began in earnest. As our force finally reached the torch-lit walls of Icinerenth, the sky became in swarms of arrow volley as the phalanxes began to charge the walls with their tall ladders. A mass of corpses formed at the base of the wall, just barely visible through the volleys of arrows, boulders, and receding smoke.


    The siege engine was nearly to the western gate, men in each position to push the ram were falling to stray arrows, only to be replaced by the closest footsoldier who would no-doubt soon be struck by another arrow. It was not my job to protect these men from weapons, I had to keep focus on the chaos of the sky for signs of the mage. He was far more powerful than we had anticipated, and it was only until much further into our campaign did we fully grasp this mage¡¯s ability. What I saw next taught me to fear summoners over all other mages.


    Suddenly, out of the smoke and arrow-filled sky, descended two hulking stone gargoyles, their skin blacked and marbled with a glowing red, as if the two beasts had erupted from the peaks of the fiery peaks of the Hunal Islands. The fiends landed with a force that threw the soldiers of my battalion backwards. The larger one threw itself upon the crew of the siege engine, and lifted a soldier high into the air before pulling him apart at the torso. I could not hear his screams over the havoc of battle. The second gargoyle ran towards the closest phalanx, splitting it down the middle by throwing soldiers scattering over the plains, which smoldered where the fiend stepped.


    The one who had destroyed the siege engine took to the air and quickly I found myself feet away from the molten creature. I had done nothing to protect my battalion from the threat, and that I had nothing I could throw at the beast. I was the Master of Subtlety, and there are few things less-subtle than flaming beasts of stone summoned by desperate and powerful mages. It was then I first understood what it was to feel Firstdread, as death stared into my eyes. One of the soldiers of the third battalion, in a squad specifically assigned to my protection, threw me aside as the creature swiped at me with its brutish arm, impaling the soldier in my stead. I could smell his organs burn. The lucky soldiers of that squad were given quick deaths.


    I cast the spell of unnoticing upon myself and ran towards the archers and phalanxes, trying to think of a way to assist the men who were under my protection. Seeing the gargoyle still wreaking havoc, and that my men had begun to fall back from the hill, I knew the only solution would be to call for aid. Grabbing a spear of a fall soldier, I thrust it high, sending a wave of colors into the dawning air: the runes for Nestyne¡¯s name, for I knew only the veteran could stop the gargoyles. We had prepared for simple summoned creatures, for there were many minor summoners in the Junumianian forces, but few at the level of spellcraft this mage possessed.


    The gargoyle fighting my personal guard had flown off elsewhere, leaving only the gargoyle among the phalanx. I cowered within the brush, waiting for Nestyne to arrive. By the time I had cast the signal, thirty men had been killed by the creature, and more would fall unless my commanding officer was timely.


    From behind me I heard the footfall of a lumbering, literally, lumbering beast. Nestyne had animated and was now riding one of the destroyed trebuchets as a massive and splintering four-legged beast which resembled a dragon. The groaning wooden limbs of the behemoth pierced the dry ground as it walked over the archers and into the melee with the gargoyle. I feared that the wooden creature might succumb to the flame and heat of our foe¡¯s servant, but those fears were soon assuaged.


    Hundreds of arrows stuck out of the body of the wooden dragon, seemingly impervious to pain, as it thrust a limb into the gargoyle with an impact that sounded many times larger than a split tree. The stone creature was annihilated instantly as Nestyne turned his efforts towards guiding his mount up to the gate, which the dragon also made short effort of.


    The western gate breached, the forces of our army merged into a writhing swarm as we stormed through the entrance of Icinerenth. Trampled over brutalized comrades, unlucky enemies, and the dismembered limbs of forgotten soldiers as we ravaged the city. As one final effort, the mage collapsed the temple of Ghalstorin that rose above the city, and threw the rubble without caution towards the warring masses, killing the men of all allegiances indiscriminately. I still do not know for certain how the mage escaped our capture, but we never found him after the Junumianian forces surrendered to us.


    I retired to my tent after the enemy had surrendered, for it did not matter if I was at negotiations. I fought vertigo for the next few days, and thought of Ynguinian who was now far to the south. What would he have thought of the slaughter that I had witnessed? What if I had not thought to cast the spell of unnoticing upon myself? What if we had not had an experienced summoner at our disposal? I most certainly would have died.


    Over the next few days we looted the city for valuables. Officers were given first-take of the spoils we thought we had earned. Of course, these were items that belonged to normal citizens of our same empire. We had liberated them, and then we impoverished them. I paid it no mind back then, for it is difficult to understand the goodness of one¡¯s actions when fighting in a war of greed and power, especially when one is young.


    We offered the captured army two choices before we continued our eastward march into Junumianis: enslavement, or freedom at the cost of a removal of foot or hand, so they could no longer fight us. I do not know how many men chose dismemberment, but I know for the rest of the campaign we were followed closely by carrion birds who circled our enslaved and captured, and I know they never went hungry.

 22. Interlude - Men of the Kalipaonin Regiment I

    Warring campaigns are grim places, that much is true. But, I do not wish to paint a poor picture of my comrades, or my battalion, for they were not viceful people. Many of them came from nameless small villages such as this one, and they were not naturally cruel or avaricious. I also do not mean to excuse our actions as soldiers in Icinerenth and the other cities we assaulted, but such was the corrupting nature of that war of greed and power: the wilds were not the only thing polluted and desecrated, for the souls of men were were also corrupted by the desolation of conflict.


    Following the battle of Icinerenth I assigned additional men to my squadron. In particular I assigned two athletic veterans to my personal detail: Burinomin, and Harkinon, who were known within the third battalion as Bur and Hark. Both men had served four years prior in regiments to the north before reassignment to the Kalipaonin Regiment, and were skilled in a variety of weapons. Having learned the glaring weakness of my magickal craft, I equipped Bur and Hark with war hammers to use in the event I was once-more assaulted by an animate gargoyle or other creature of stone. I did not regret my decision.


    In addition to being members of my squadron, I quickly became good friends with Bur and Hark. Bur, more than anything, loved to gamble, and nightly Bur, Hark, Marinon, and myself would play card or dice games to pass the time, if Marinon and I were not busy preparing for battle. Sometimes Nestyne would join us, but he preferred to spend his time among the officers. On rare and cherished nights Quatimonian would break out of his shell and throw a few threnits into the pot.


    I never counted how many threnits I lost to Bur, but the loss of them was ultimately irrelevant, for it is difficult to spend silver during war. Iron is much more valuable metal in times where the greatest good is to draw blood from others.


    Hark was not much of a gambler and put up with Bur¡¯s obsession, but he enjoyed showcasing his strength. During breakfast Hark would challenge others to contests of strength such as sack tossing, or hammer throwing. If we stopped our march eastward for lunch he might challenge another soldier to arm wrestling or another silly game of strength. However, it is Hark¡¯s evening obsession, the one that gave him his namesake, that I was most fond of; the burly man was an admirable singer and poet.


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    Once a week, as sure as day turns to night, one could hear Hark perform for members of the battalion. His lines full of wit, and his songs full of heart, he was a plentiful source of morale. In later years, when I was low, desperate, and seeking my vengeance, I oftentimes found myself comforted by fleeting Memory of his lyrics and the drunken laughter that followed.


    There was one night, early in the war, that I remember more clearly than most, a miracle considering it was one of the few nights I drank to excess during that war. I had just received my first of many letters from Ynguinian, and because I missed him dearly I held foul mood and was much in-need of cheering. Seeing me sullen and quiet (for I was much more hot-headed and outward in those days) Bur, Quatimonian, and Marinon dragged me from my tent into the middle of the regiment saying they had a surprise for me.


    ¡°Why take me from my tent? I am tired and wish it to be morning so I can be one day closer to my betrothed. I do not want to be among these drunkards!¡± I complained and tried to break free from their grasp and head back to my tent. They insisted I would like what was about to happen, which I sincerely doubted.


    Then, from behind, I heard the beating of a drum and tambourine and short and jumpy melody on violin and flute. At first I tried to ignore the song and pull away from my friends¡¯ merriment. Then, I saw Captain Bryndin emerge from the throng of the third battalion playing a pristine fiddle that had been colored almost as red as an apple, standing out against the dirty and muddy camp. The Captain had a large smile on his face, and took a brief pause from playing his fiddle to get the rest of the battalion to start clapping. At that moment I realized I recognized the melody: an old Harinian song about a girl whose betrothed goes off to war, and then returns drunk the next day. I tried desperately to hide my smile, and succeeded briefly until the next part of the surprise was revealed.


    From the tallest tree in that camp, roughly thirty feet up, Hark released a thunderous, jolly, and incredibly drunken note over the merriment, and then, holding note for nearly 10 seconds, grabbed a rope and swung down off the tree, landing in from of me and my friends, and sang the entire ballad with the help of the battalion.


    We sang far too late into the night, and I should have been punished for my drunken idiocy.


    As I said, I am not telling this story to excuse the actions we took as soldiers. We took from the weak and the downtrodden. We killed and maimed many pointlessly, and many taken prisoner by the Kalipaonin Regiment died of illness that I could have easily cured. Us mages killed many without remorse, and for no purpose, I am certain many among you have heard of tale of the Battle of Ghorin¡¯s Respite. However, let me make one thing clear: the men of this army were not naturally monstrous. We were not virtuous, no. We did not enjoy what we did for the sake of it, but our actions did please that ancient adversary who regales in woe and cruelty, and most of all Extirpation, for our actions were our choice, ignorant, corrupted, or otherwise.

 23. The Mists of Mesayne

    Several days after the battle at Icinerenth, we received a message from the regiment north of ours.Once we had finished reclaiming the walled city and its wealth, the regiment turned eastwards the small city of Mesayne which lay across the true border of Moringia and Junumianis.


    The journey to Mesayne was unpleasant, for the weather was wild and fluctuated between the exhausting heat of summer and the ominous gray chill of autumn. One day several men would faint from the heat, and crows would circle the regiment expecting death. The next day frost would cling to the breath of the marching regiment and those of us who rode in carriages would drape ourselves in woolen blankets for warmth as the mages discussed strategies to neutralize the Junumianian wizards.


    Nestyne in his years of experience was concerned what might occur if we encountered the mage from Icinerenth again, for we could not find any sign of the mage¡¯s fate. A mage of that power, and desperate enough to attack us with the ferocity we had faced down in Icinerenth certainly would have survived and fled east towards reinforcement.


    Seeing the weather beating down upon the regiment, I offered to summon easier weather for travel, but Nestyne immediately forbade it. His lecture was serious, but not grim.


    ¡°The weather treats no man differently based on creed or country, and the same it be with armies and battles. Do not waste your skill upon crafting a spell that does not provide an advantage for our men, as the only thing that will do is make sneak attacks and other subterfuge more dangerous. We must be prepared at all times to fight enemy mages, and predicting the weather does not do that.¡±


    Still, I was knowledgeable enough in the matters of weather and seasons to know whatever we were experiencing was too amiss to be within rhyme and reason. The landscape and the sky exuded a bizarre atmosphere almost as if Nature herself had forgotten what seasons were, and recalling Corindrian¡¯s spell from many years ago I assumed it was the doing of one of the mages of Junumianis. It was not until years later that I would realize this was the machination of a force more dire than any Junumianian wizard.


    After three weeks of marching, slowed by the encroachment of the bizarre atmosphere, the Kalipaonin Regiment set camp near the small city of Mesayne. Autumn had set in early, a relief from the strange fluctuations, but in retrospect an omen of the all-consuming nature of the conflict. The non-evergreen trees began to fall into the reds and yellows of Decay, and frost now hung on the breath of men. The sky was clouded, gray, almost as a thick slab of granite. Yet, it could not have been stone, for there was no Shelter would be found for those who once called Mesayne home in the aftermath of the battle.


    Our plan of assault was simple, for there were only two mages in the small regiment at Mesayne (one of whom was most likely the Icinerenth mage who would be ill and : I would bring a storm (far easier and less dangerous now), and we would use the mist and rain of that storm as cover. Once we approached too close to the city for any efforts of the mages to repel us with any cataclysmic magicks, lest they bring danger upon themselves, our larger force would eventually overwhelm their¡¯s.


    The evening before the attack, I cast the spell to summon a storm. The spell was not ornate, or beautiful, and to the untrained eye it appeared to do nothing. Yet, to a weathermage (especially Corindrian) it would have been unsubtle and crude, for the wind changed directions suddenly and heavy dew plagued the camp within minutes. The spell, cast too hastily (despite the season) threw me into a daze wherein my vision was obscured, and I was prone to distraction. Nestyne and I would observe what I could of the battle from a nearby hill, and receive spoken accounts of the conflict along with the Commander and the Lieutenant.


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    It was before the sun rose that the mist of the storm set in. The phalanxes navigated the damp pre-dawn blindly, linking themselves arm to shoulder to the men who stood at front. Caronin, perhaps one of the most skilled enchanters I have ever encountered, had cast a spell that aided vision on a small portion of the frontline men who were to lead their squadrons through the misty darkness. While my memory of that battle is incomplete, I recall visions of the tired men, linked arm to shoulder, walking out of the torchlight and fading into the fatal mists of conflict.


    Nestyne, for his part, had been working on a spell to ensure the final breach of the city without any cost of illness to himself. The wooden drake had left him more stiff than usual, for it was a quick and improvisatory casting (to the extent such a label could ever apply to summoning), and the veteran mage and magickal tactician was now making great care to be at his full faculties. Nestyne knew that if magicks were to affect his mind or drag him to illness, there was a strong chance he would make a tactical error and cost many men their lives. So, the summoner took the utmost care with his spells from Mesayne onwards.


    About a week prior, Nestyne had found a deposit of clay in a riverbed, and Quatimonian and myself had taken turns to make sure the clay stayed wet as Nestyne shaped and molded the material into something serviceable. The result was a golem, at least two men tall, created for a singular purpose that would force the small Junumianian regiment to retreat. Perhaps, with luck, we might even capture the mage from Icinerenth who had previously evaded us. Alas, if capturing that mage had been so easy, perhaps I would not have fallen into Necromancy.


    The noise of the conflict began as dawn hit the devouring mist that lay in front of Mesayne as if it were a sea. The clash of blades and spears were the crash of waves, and the rain ( streaming downwards from the granite sky) and the yells of men became the unending roil of undulating waters. Yet, though we heard the terrible noise of death and vanquishment the mist remained still, for it swallowed all motion and all light under its placid surface.


    The fighting had been going for several minutes, when out of the muddy turmoil rode the messenger.


    ¡°We have yet to push close enough to the city, Commander Partelin.¡± spoke the young messenger, who was perhaps not older than Jaryne in years.


    Commander Partelin was stoic in his demand.


    ¡°Keep pushing, then.¡± he said, dismissing the young messenger to the rain and the muddy grounds of the swallowing mists.


    Minutes passed, and then within the mists one could see distant bursts of flame surface from the sea of mist. The mage from Icininerenth was not too ill to fight, even after his desperate display of power at that battle. It spoke both of that mage¡¯s foolishness, but also of his prowess. This was no mere apprentice. I could tell that the mage was not at full strength, for the bursts were intermittent and weaker than what I would have expected from a mage of that potency.


    As if knowing I expected more from him, a large burst of fire emerged from the mists. Immediately following, waves of dark mud that grasped the spout of cinders and flames and pulled it downwards into the placid white like a back of wolves to devouring game. It was clearly Quatimonian¡¯s spellcraft, the motion of the earth was too violent and abrupt for Carinon to have manipulated.


    The messenger rode outwards from the fog once more, and spoke to the commander.


    ¡°Sir, we are close to the city. The incline has lessened.¡±


    Commander Partelin spoke solemnly.


    ¡°Tell the captains to stay clear of the center of the field.¡±


    The messenger rode back into the mists which coiled around him, almost as a weed, before he disappeared into the white stillness.


    The sounds of warfare shifted, indicating we had control of the battle, and then Nestyne released the golem.


    The hulking beast of clay began its journey slowly at first, but with each step gained speed and power as it sprinted through the obscured sea of war, parting the mists of wake. The bodies of countless young men, most Junumianian, lay on the muddy ground, drowned by blade or magicks as the golem struck its intended target: the city itself.


    The Junumianians began their retreat, for they knew Mesayne and its citizens were not worth the trouble of disarming the golem. Shortly after our victory, the storm retreated exposing the entire fields worth of dismembered and desecrated bodies before the small city with its crashing buildings and consuming fires. We looted what we could find, but anything of value was hard to find, for the golem and our torches had made simple work of the centuries-old city. By the time night fell the city was rubble and ash. The former citizens walked aimless westward, hungry, cold, and hopeless well into the night until their torches, distant, faded into desecrated wood and grassland.

 24. The Taking of Huroncenth

    After our victory at Mesayne, the Kalipaonin Regiment pursued the mages and the remnants of the Junumianian forces further into the enemy¡¯s domain. Several small skirmishes were had in which the use of magicks beyond one mage¡¯s would have been tactically foolish, so Nestyne forbid any use of magicks. Over time it became clear our hunt for the mage from Icinerenth was not fated for success.


    Winter, fast-approached, and the two Junumianian sorcerers did much to slow us. The withering grasslands and forests were set ablaze over and over, the soil was loosened, golems lay in-wait, each time our progress halted. Further, and further we found ourselves from our goal, and with the seasons against us Commander Partelin ordered us to fortify the city of Huroncenth, a wall-less city built atop a tall plateau.


    With only one direction of approach accessible to foot soldiers and a clear view eastward towards what remained of the Junumianian empire, Huroncenth served as an ideal base for winter. From there we could communicate with the rest of our forces, similarly successful, and communication over the long continent would come quicker and more reliably.


    The problems of Huroncenth, however, were twofold: the citizens were fiercely loyal to Junumianis, and we would have to take control by force. Victory was already assured, for their forces were far inferior to our¡¯s, but to over-tax our resources would be to leave ourselves vulnerable to any opportune assaults from Junumianis before winter could fully set in. Given that we could not employ our normal tactics, the problem fell to the mages for how to ensure the cost of victory was small.


    There would still be costs: all officers knew that the lives of foot soldiers and messengers, the young boys from burned villages and distant townships, were a resource. Such is the nature of wars of greed and power, wherein victories are purchased with lives. Out of all of us, even more than Nestyne, Carinon despised this fact the most, for she had come to heal and protect, not to kill. To spend the lives of our men had already taken a heavy toll upon her, before the amount was deliberate. Casualties were assumed to occur in normal engagements, but to plan and induce them went against every fiber of the healing mage¡¯s person.


    ¡°Why do we talk of throwing away the lives of men?¡± Carinon objected, ¡°Did Paronian not talk of how lives are sacred? Does Mentillian not care for those injured unjustly?¡±


    Nestyne intervened, scolding her.


    ¡°Do not think that the loss of men does not pain me, or anyone else among us Carinon. It is true that most of the saints pity the dead and those who do not value life, but this is also war. Men die. Cities fall. This is the way of things.¡± The summoner spoke, backed by his years of wisdom visible if one stared directly into the dark of his eyes.


    Carinon rebutted more furious and more volatile than I had ever seen her before. I did not realize how strongly the war had been affecting her, but with each sentence I could hear the weight of grief dragging her voice downward and gravel-like.


    ¡°If the nature of things is to crumble, and to wither, Nestyne, then why do we care when our loved-ones die? What about the wife of a soldier, regardless of allegiance? Should her happiness not factor into our decision to kill her son? The men fighting this war, the footsoldiers, they are not mere numbers. Instead, each is unique and each is irreplaceable with their own lives and goodness within those. Among those individual and unique men, we choose many to die. We know they will die. It is not a simple risk, unlike a typical battle, it is an explicit decision to send them to their deaths. How can you justify that? Do you not care for men and their lives?¡±


    ¡°Insubordination if you speak to me in that tone again, Carinon.¡± Nestyne, terse, continued.


    ¡°I have had many friends. I have seen many friends die. I know grief. I know loss. I know war. I am your officer. This is our job. You know the punishment for criminal mages. Branding. The silencing ward of Mentillian. This is not a threat. This is a warning. You accepted the duties of conflict. You will fulfill those duties until you die, or the war is won.¡±


    Carinon, against her instinct, remained silent at the command of typically casual and friendly Nestyne. She, wittingly or not, struck a nerve with the veteran, and knew it unwise to push, unlike myself. But, this was not my conversation, nor were these my concerns, for I had grown desensitized to the costs of the war of greed and power.


    Men were recruited. Men went to battle. Men died. I thought such was the way of things, for that is what that foul enemy, Extirpation, desires. Now, years departed from those ghastly battlefields, I grieve for them every day, hoping that their Memory stays alive to defy the will of that terrible fiend that only seeks to consume.


    Sensitive to Carinon¡¯s plight, and Nestyne¡¯s foul mood, we began (except Carinon, for she was silent for three days) discuss a means to eliminate sacrifice on our part. Quatimonian suggested I enchant our men with the spell of unnoticing, but that could not work for that was not in the spell¡¯s nature to be used for violence. Even if I could craft a spell, and not obliterate myself with its casting, modifying the spell thusly would draw the wrath of Kalitian. In short, it was not an option.


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    I suggested that Nestyne might be able to craft several golems of snow, and set them upon the city. As my knowledge of summoning and animation was limited then, Nestyne informed me that what I sought was impossible with the time available to us. To create a spell so quickly would leave the veteran ill. Without the veteran to advise us newly-appointed masters, the Kalipaonin Regiment would be left vulnerable to any magickal offensive from the Junumianians. With the types of summoning magicks available to us, the best we could do would be to level the city, making any conflict pointless.


    Nestyne, then, suggested that Quatimonian might be able to manipulate the banks of snow, and freeze the forces within the city. This was doable, but not under our current circumstance. Unlike the mages given patronage in cities such as Arimens, time was not a resource afforded to us. If Quatimonian had many months wherein the only thing he did was study and craft a spell, then it certainly would have happened in such a way. We only had days, and I could see the anguish in Carinon¡¯s brow when we concluded that men would have to die.


    The next day we reviewed our options, and eventually settled upon a forgettable plan wherein I would summon fog once more. Many of our men would die in the snow, of that we were certain, but it was the best we could muster without Carinon¡¯s input, who had been silent since her outburst. In-all, perhaps two hundred of our own men would die taking the city. The militia would fight til death to defend their home. We had no other choice


    Quatimonian, usually quiet, lamented the fate to which we were about to assign our own men.


    ¡°It is a shame that we could not remove pain and hesitancy from our soldiers, for then we could send the same force forward and lose less of our own number. Still, I fear this loss may still be too heavy, on both my mind, and our forces.¡±


    Carinon, who had been stoic and silent thus-far, spoke. I could hear in her voice she was still dismayed at the subject matter, and of what had yet to come. Yet, faint hope could still be heard, a faint hope that she might prevent needless death, for those undeserving of the cruel fate we mages had been prepared to ordain upon them.


    ¡°This plan is far too costly as it is, and I accept now that we will have to sacrifice men. Quatimonian, do you forget the title my master has bestowed me, and for what magicks I am truly known?¡±


    ¡°Carinon, are you not a master of healing? You know that Nestyne has forbidden you from any excessive healing. It is far too dangerous to heal the number of wounded from this battle.¡± Quatimonian spoke.


    ¡°I am not the Master of Healing, Quatimonian, that is my teacher¡¯s title. I am Carinon, Master of Bestowment. When you speak of no pain, and no hesitation, that is within my purview. I can make select men impervious to these matters, until the city is ours. Men will still die, yes, but less, for they will not hesitate when injured.¡±


    Nestyne placed his hand to his beard, and stood deep in thought for nearly a minute. No one else spoke, and only the subtle sounds of snowflakes and frosted breath could be heard in the ponderous stillness. I was certain he would reject the proposal based on the number of men to be enchanted, and the specificity of the spell. It would be a fatal spell to any mage unfamiliar with bestowing. Even when I bestowed the spell of unnoticing upon the men of the regiment with Carinon¡¯s aid, the side effects of those magicks were still such as to kill several men outright, and to cause severe illness in both of us.


    However Nestyne, wiser and more experienced than I, asked her of the spell she intended to cast.


    ¡°How many men will need to be enchanted, Master of Bestowment? What side effects do you expect for yourself?¡±


    ¡°I will need fifty men from our regiment. Fifty men of my own choosing. Men who deserve death. Those who we know have done unmentionable things, those who are scoundrels, those who are criminals. I will bestow my enchantment upon them, and they will charge through Nayinian¡¯s mists first. I do not expect any illness for myself from this enchantment.¡±


    It was the last sentence that left us thunderstruck. Certainly any mage would face severe repercussions from such a feat. I objected to her spell.


    ¡°Carinon, I saw you fall ill after the enchantment in the thundered plains. Both you and I were near death. I cannot believe you will face no repercussions for such a spell. We all know the dangerous nature of bestowing enchantments, however temporary, upon men. You saw men die as they threw up gravel and bile.¡±


    ¡°Nayinian, I was sick from that spell because I had not prepared a single word of it, nor had I prepared any enchantments that day.¡±


    Carinon was no liar. We had all underestimated her abilities, for (much like myself) she was subtle and not flashy. She had exhibited no great displays of power yet, for that was not in her nature. If she was as powerful as she said she was, then I could no longer object.


    The mages agreed upon her plans without further discussion, had them approved by the Commander, and we woke up early the before the late-autumn sun rose to begin the assault.


    Fifty men assembled before Carinon, them in their regalia, she in black. Fifty men were told they were our best, our strongest, our most reliable, and that is why they had been gathered so early in the morning. This was a lie. They were told that a spell to make them unstoppable and fearless would be cast upon them, and that they would lead the charge into Huroncenth.


    Carinon cast her enchantment, showing no weakness, and the men likewise showed no weakness as they marched solemnly into the fog I had summoned. We followed close by on horseback with the reinforcements who would finish the job. From the edge of the mists, I watched Carinon¡¯s ordained carnage unfold.


    The fifty men, fearless, charged the fortifications. A volley of arrows slipped through the mist, impaling all of the men. Only one fell, and the rest continued their fatal charge. Another volley. Several men were struck in the chest. They did not notice, they did not care, and they did not relent.


    Our forces slammed against their militia, two dark waves upon the light snow now trimmed with red. Limbs and pieces of dismemberment littered the snow, but our men did not care. They pushed onward into slaughter, dead men walking. The untrained militia of Huroncenth did not stand a chance.


    After the battle, if such an event could be called one, there was the gruesome business of casualties. Men, some halved and some disemboweled, walked oblivious to their wound and their world. How could they care anyways? They would be dead soon. We had to watch them die in order to tally them.


    From what I saw, I knew that none of us had been told the true nature of Carinon¡¯s enchantment, and perhaps it was the best. Cruel, bizarre, and yet, as if paradox, merciful. I looked into her eyes that evening and saw no contentment in them. Certainly, the death she gave those men was not virtuous. How could it be? That was the nature of Extirpation¡¯s conflict: one way or another, you would cast men and their souls to oblivion as, slowly and for its own sake, that foul god defiled all thought good and all thought bad.


    She had no other choice.

 25. Interlude - Oath

    The Spring sun had just begun to creep beyond the temple of Mentillian, throwing its light upon the calm morning waters of Starathens¡¯ southern bay, when Misinos finally found his squire reading a letter amidst the scurry of dock workers and refugees. The knight of Mentillian had initially been relieved that his squire knew his letters and numbers, for those were usually the largest barrier for squires from rural towns. Now there was scarcely a day when Misinos couldn¡¯t find the squire truant reading from his growing collection of letters, and it was growing frustrating.


    Of course, Misinos couldn¡¯t blame the lad. The old knight had been in love many years ago, and even though the romance had passed, he still felt it tug on his heart strings.


    Such is the way Virtue created our feelings. Misinos thought to himself as he slipped through the river of people to his squire at the edge of the dock.


    ¡°Ynguinian. We have a ceremony to attend. Letters can wait. Isn¡¯t that the point of them?¡±


    Ynguinian looked up to Misinos sheepishly, quickly tucking the letter inside his vest. He wasn¡¯t particularly tall for a knight, he was actually a few heads shorter than Misinos and most other recruits. The squire had short black hair, his skin was almost brown as bark, and he was deceptively scrawny except for his barrel chest, a blessing of having grown up in the high Harinese. What the Ynguinian lacked in raw strength, he more than made up for it in endurance and dedication.


    Virtuously stubborn. Misinos recalled the recommendation for squireship that Raluros, a longtime friend and knight of Ralarusian had given him.


    ¡°I apologize, sir Misinos, I did not see any holiday listed today when I left.¡±


    Ynguinian and Misinos began to walk along the crowded streets, at points holding on to the other¡¯s arm to weave through the citizenry without losing one another. The sides of the cobbled paths were filled with wallas and beggars to which Ynguinian tossed the occasional coin before scurrying to stay even with Misinos who kept a pace to rival his own.


    ¡°Well Ynguinian, did you consider that some ceremonies are not holidays?¡±


    A carriage shot through the market square, nearly hitting the two men.


    ¡°I checked before I left. I¡¯m not on-duty for anything.¡±


    As Ynguinian and Misinos drew closer to the center of Starathens and the looming temple of Mentillian the buildings now were stacked upon themselves, as if cramped mounds of stone and wood, shadowing the narrowing streets. What greeny was left on the sides of buildings had fallen ill, burned, or grown gnarled and dark.


    ¡°Then you have not heard news of Huronos, I suppose.¡±


    Pushing through the constricting and snake-like streets (rebuilt in a hurry in the past few months), the two men emerged into the seemingly-pristine District of the Twelve with its pillars and buildings of white stone, claimed to have been carved by Urostrian himself.


    ¡°Someone takes an oath today?¡±


    Misinos could sense a hint of enthusiasm in the squire¡¯s voice as the two walked briskly along the brick-laden streets of the District of the Twelve, Ynguinian oblivious to the subtle disrepair around him. Yet, Misinos not only saw it: he sensed it deeper than love, or grief, or joy, or anger, or hatred. Something was wrong, and Misinos did not doubt that the death of Huronos, knight of Daristian, was related.


    Starathens had once been a beautiful place, before the war, but now the temple of Mentillian and the devotees of other saints were in a losing battle to maintain the Nature and Beauty that had once graced the city. Even the majesty District of the Twelve, home to Mentillian¡¯s tower, had begun to fade in small, secret places. The stained glass windows of the smaller shrines had lost their brilliance. Paint from the frescos that adorned the portion of the temple that belonged to Ralurusian and Memory had begun to leaf and fall silent to the ground. Even that famous white stone held small dirty blemishes behind trees that bore secret illness. That damnable war, it seemed, had brought more to the land than conflict¡¯s typical woe.


    ¡°Yes. Tirainon is to be one of Daristian¡¯s twelve.¡±


    Ynguinian¡¯s enthusiasm faded slightly, but if the squire felt any negative emotion he kept it to himself.


    ¡°It is an honor to have trained with her.¡± Ynguinian spoke, closer to whisper, as the men found themselves walking under the humbling archway of Mentillian¡¯s towering monument.


    The floors of the temple were laced with silver, platinum, intricate details depicting the creation of the world and the anointing of all thirteen saints. Yes even her, whose name men fear to speak lest they bring woe, waste, and withering upon themselves. That floor created in a dream of Beauty¡¯s saint, however, was a mere trifle in comparison to totality that was the dwarfing temple of Mentillian.


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    A monument dreamt by the second saint, to create the grounds where all saints and all patrons could be worshipped as equals. To eliminate dispute, and to hold higher above all things Order. Order of kingdoms. Order of knights. Order of people. Order of law. Order of saints. All were equal subjects, and all found themselves represented within these hallowed walls, which to experience such could only be subscribed as sublime. The feeling of being utterly diminutive before a storming cloud of thunder, or staring downwards upon the nightscape of a metropolis so expansive that it disappears over the horizon as one realizes that each of those glittering stars of torchlight represent a life so full of wonder that to imagine each and every one would take until time itself fell into Decay.


    Two immense windows near the top of the tower, carved in the shape of the crescent moon, represented Borrinean and Luck. Frescos descended down each pillar of the impossibly towering structure, seeming almost as a flowing fire of motion and color. The stories they told represented Ralurusian and Memory, and each brush stroke represented Beauty and Nominian. Along the circular enclosure were unfinished portions of architecture from which grew ivy, flowers, moss, and fruitful trees that descended the walls as a primal tapestry representing Daristian and Nature.


    Carved deep into the stone enclosure of pure marble were the hopes and dreams of countless centuries of pilgrims: the youth who hoped to find love, her name forgotten to time; the soldier who hoped to find peace, his life taken by blade. These prayers represented Sirangian and Desire. The pews, a circle of aged wood encircling the central dias , each lattice bent and interwoven as if a basket. These represented¡­


    Who again?


    The seventh saint is¡­


    Misinos muttered under his breath.


    ¡°The eighth saint is Sirangian, the seventh¡­¡±


    I must be getting sick.


    These represented the seventh saint, whose patron is Ingenuity. The stone, the building, the foundation itself represented Urostian whose patron is Shelter. Lining each bench, carved words, each of the twelve oaths spoken by those saints. These represented Ghalstorin, whose patron is Language. Off to the side, in a small hallway, a collection for those prosperous enough to donate to the sick, the needy, and the hungry of the city. That small wooden box of immaculate make represented Hazlian and Prosperity, for Hazlian preached that true Prosperity was to share with others. Streaming down each pillar of the immense cathedral: ever-flowing water that glimmered in sunlight. This water represented Kalitian and Knowledge. The temple itself, the coalition of saints, represented Mentillian and Order.


    One knight, present at all times, kept watch next to the dais. Being human, they represented the highest saint and the most benevolent patron, as neither architecture, nor nature, nor art could represent those. For only a human can represent Paronian and Virtue. Subtly on a wall of a hidden room, a list of each knight deceased, one freshly carved, serving as a reminder that goodness of life is fleeting and contingent. This solemn monument, unspoken, unacknowledged, represented Yuorinis and Decay. All thirteen resided there.


    Now, standing in the central dais, was a young woman who held a tome of Daristian¡¯s life. The sunlight filled the entire room, a reminder that Nature and Daristian watched in anticipation of the woman¡¯s oath. Order by order, the clergy, the knights, and the squires gathered in the solemn monument to man and divine as they had for millenia to invoke the ancient rites that sent their souls beyond the celestial sphere to the realm of saints and the patrons. Not all who gave an oath were permitted back to their bodies. Such was the nature of the divine realm.


    Paros, the arch-priestess of Paronian, addressed the crowd low and hushed, so only those who leaned in could hear her speak.


    ¡°An oath-taking will commence in these ancient halls. Daristian. Nature. I invoke thy aid to this squire¡¯s adventurous song; that her soul¡¯s flight to your realm provides what she needs to uphold you through her oath, and that you deem her worthy of holding such words.¡±


    The priestess¡¯s voice hung on the air and the marble walls as the subtle pitches of her voice became emphasized by echo, warping into the strange harmonies of the celestial architecture. Then, once complete silence was had, the squire took oath in the archaic language of her order.


    ¡°Daristian. Nature. Tirainon I be¡¯est. Most vows thou listen, of such length they be. Nay, not me. Each passing day I see thou defiled, sickly, and withering. I swear thusly: to travel northerly, to the Deep Weald, wherein I will seek the elves, and rid thou of this unnatural pestilence.¡±


    Tirainon frothed and the mouth fell upon the dias, hitting her head. Red filled trickled from her blonde hair, but none dared to aid the squire. This was Nature¡¯s judgment alone. If man interfered with her will, then her wrath they would surely bring. If the squire was to die, it was simply the way of things.


    Tirainon¡¯s oath, minutes later, still echoed high within the chamber, now only the faint chirping of the cathedral¡¯s partials. Blood, seemingly ever-flowing, trickled off the dais towards the surrounding pews. Still, none had moved, not even the squire. Nature would tell if she lived.


    An hour passed until a mass of small purple birds, each with nine eyes and nine wings, flocked through the westward opening of the temple of Mentillian and perched upon Tirainon¡¯s body. The largest bird leaned downwards to the squire¡¯s ear and seemed to whisper. Suddenly with a scream the woman woke, dissipating the flock. Dried blood stained her robes, hair, and face, but not her eyes, whose color was immistakible: the deep purple of Daristian, ninth saint, whose patron is Nature. Within those new eyes, granted by her oath, those close would later claim to have seen pure Firstdread. Something in the realm of the divine had troubled her.


    Keeping whatever horrors she had witnessed to herself, the new knight spoke to those gathered within the temple of Mentillian.


    ¡°Family. Tirainon, no longer. Siranulos, I be¡¯est. Knight of Daristian, defender of Nature. Tomorrow, I leave for the Deep Weald.¡±

 26. Interlude - Poisons

    Jaryne was violently thrust mid-dream back to his cramped quarters in Corindrian¡¯s tower. The weathermaster had shaken the apprentice awake, and was practically leaning over the boy. The archmage¡¯s dark face embellished with the blue, white, and gold of the night sky which shone clear threw the thin window to the right of Jaryne¡¯s bed.


    ¡°Wake up boy! Wake up!¡± the weathermaster frantically shook Jaryne, dropping his characteristic stoicness he held in their lessons.


    Jaryne shot up, pushed the weathermaster away, and quickly lit a candle as he slipped out of his bed. The low candlelight revealed the aged wizard curled in pain on the floor; his eyes were wide and sweat dripped from his face. Corindrian held his balance uneasily on the wall to the right of Jaryne¡¯s door, and forced a sentence through his tense mouth.


    ¡°Boy! Pack your belongings!¡± Spittle flew from Corindrian¡¯s mouth onto the floor, the candle too dark to reveal any redness.


    Jaryne paused. He had never seen the weathermaster like this before. Something was wrong.


    ¡°Go! Pack your things now so I know you¡¯ve done it!¡± the weathermaster spoke, more hoarse than before, finishing with a cough.


    Jaryne dragged his small leather trunk from under his bed and began to fold some of his robes when the weathermaster started, reckless, throwing the young apprentice¡¯s belongings into the trunk.


    ¡°No time for care. Everything. Hurry.¡± Corindrian was not himself, and for that Jaryne found himself scrambling to make sense of what he might need to pack on a short notice.


    The now-alert apprentice grabbed any book he could find, any trinket, any quill, and any inkwell he could find and threw them into the trunk. Still in the midst of packing, Jaryne heard the sound of clinking metal, and turned to see that Corindrian had tossed a large sack plump with gold and gems atop his belongings. Never once had Jaryne questioned his master Corindrian, never once had a shred of doubt formed regarding the weathermaster¡¯s stoic orders and abstruse pedagogy. Each dish scrubbed unquestioned. Each book read faithfully. Each chamberpot carried unflinching. Even three years of waiting to learn but a simple charm had not phased the apprentice, for as a child of the double moon, every day of Jaryne¡¯s life was dedicated to preparing for study with a magician, and he swore to Ghalstorin that he would not fail.


    And It was the moment Jaryne realized the abundance of wealth Corindrian had placed before him, his first and only festering doubt of the old master coagulated in his thoughts.


    ¡°Why are we packing? Are you okay, sir?¡± Jaryne questioned.


    Corindrian collapsed to the floor retching violently, each drop of sweat visible under the smoking candlelight as he expelled red upon the carved stone, confirming Jaryne¡¯s doubts: something was foul, and it was going to get worse. Corindrian looked up from the bloody vomit, his face dripping snot, and barked at the apprentice.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been poisoned. Do what I say, or they are goin-¡±


    The archmage vomited again, failing to expel anything before falling to the ground gasping for air. Jaryne stood paralyzed in the center of the room as the most powerful mage in all of Moringia, his idol, his mentor, and master lay before him dying. It was not the sickly despair that froze the young apprentice, but rather the fact that Jaryne knew there was nothing he could do for Corindrian. It was hopeless.


    ¡°Jaryne!¡± Corindrian screamed, his voice piercing Jaryne¡¯s air of helplessness. ¡°Poison-¡± the archmage retched and gasped for air again as tears began to fall down the apprentice¡¯s cheeks. Jaryne choked on his words as he broke his paralysis to hold the weathermaster up. If his master was going to die, Jaryne believed he sould at least show the mage comfort in his last moments. Finally, breaking through his sobs, Jaryne strained to speak a few words.


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    ¡°You¡¯ve been poisoned. I know.¡±


    Red tears fled Corindrian¡¯s face as he embraced the small ceasefire the poison had allowed.


    ¡°Jaryne. Please. Pack your things and take...¡±


    Corindrian¡¯s shaky hand reached into his robes, removing the amulet he had worn for the past forty years of his life; his sign, his symbol of Kalitian, the symbol in the first language for water; the center containing the mage¡¯s family crest: a pearlescent cloud.


    ¡°Take my amulet. Jaryne. Take my amulet and leave Moringia. Talk to no one. Walk through the Gray Spine to the edge of the borderlands to Hesphyne keep and give this to amulet Lord Burostyne, his father owed a debt to me, and for that he will take care of you. I will set my tower ablaze, take any scrolls you can. You must leave-¡±


    Corindrian wretched and howled in pain, blood streaming from his mouth.


    ¡°Pack your things and go!¡±


    ¡°But what of my studies?! I could study with Yularelian! I can¡¯t give up on being a master, I¡¯ve only yet begu-¡±


    ¡°Boy, do not disobey my orders!¡±


    ¡°But what of my family? What of my training? What of the council?! What of our country?! I can stay and help!¡±


    Jaryne held Corindrian¡¯s head close to his one last time, before setting the archmage to the ground.


    Corindrian writhed, and nearly choking on his own blood howled in a fury known only to those dragged to the damnable fields of revenge, to those who had supped of the First Yew.


    ¡°Country?! Family!? Magicks!? Think! Why do you think they took Nayinian and Ornookian from us? They wanted to kill me-¡±


    Corindrian growled in agony.


    ¡°and now if you stay, they are going to fucking kill you! Promise me you¡¯ll leave!¡±


    ¡°Yes! I promise!¡± the sobbing Jaryne embraced the archmage.


    With what remaining strength he could muster, the weathermaster pushed his apprentice off of him, and began to speak a final spell.


    Jaryne scrambled to load scrolls and books into his diminutive trunk, as around him the tower began to quake as some of the bricks began to glow molten with heat. The apprentice attempted to listen in for one final lesson, but found the words foreign to him, despite his years of experience reading the first language.


    The words were indescribably wrong. The mispronunciations were not that of an amateur mage, but of a disgusting nature; Language and Knowledge defiled. Bastardized as if consumed by rage. Jaryne knew there would be no lesson to be had here and ran, recklessly hitting his trunk against the tower turned-kiln. Dripping molten rock fell downwards onto his arms and shoulders as the weathermaster¡¯s final bloody opus dragged the tower and its surrounding into magmatic oblivion, and throwing all of his weight against the wooden door of the tower shattered the entrance and ran for the nearest pile of snow to satiate the hungry flames still alight his skin.


    A barreling storm gathered in the double moon-lit sky, the eye directly above Jaryne, bringing the damned mage¡¯s wrath. With Luck, there would be vengeance. Yet Luck defiled too.


    Jaryne, in great pain, began the long and uncertain trek eastward beyond the Gray Spine to Hesphyne Keep upon the borderlands. The storm followed the young mage for weeks, bringing woe to each village he wandered, an echo of the bizarre storm of years ago.


    ***


    Nayinian, Apprentice to Corindrian,


    It is my solemn duty to inform you of the passing of your master and dearest friend to myself and the kingdom: Corindrian, archmage of the Arimensian Council, Master of Weather and silencer of the Witch-Queen of Kaylynth has passed away of illness. Jaryne, the last of his two remaining apprentices, seemingly wandered northward in search of his family. The old master has bequeathed none of his possessions to you, opting to leave the fate of any and all of his magickal tomes to the Arimensian Council of Warlocks.


    Those of us who remain from the council have opted to separate and move towards the rest of the battalions over the course of the year. Any personal effects of Corindrian¡¯s deemed safe for distribution and appropriate for your rank and relations will be personally delivered by future reinforcements.


    Corindrian was a close and dear friend, and it pains me to see that he will never live to see you attain mastery. He spoke highly of your skills, even if he was wary of your impatience and ambitions. I wish you many silent moments to grieve, and that Yuorinis and Decay keep their gaze away from your endeavors.


    In Humble and Virtuous Service to Kalitian and the other Eleven,


    Archmage Yularelian of the Arimensian Council, Master of Vines, Advisor to the Regent Arimens and the King of Moringia

 27. Wake in a Dark Ocean

    The long winter I spent in Huroncenth laid bare the necessity of Carinon¡¯s actions, despite her guilt and many restless nights she spent reading by the light of runes and candlewick, seeming as a means of penance.  Many brutal winters, I have seen, and that winter was so chilling and rotten that it rivaled the bitterness of the final winter I spent in my village. Had we not conquered the city atop the plateau, succumbing to Extirpation¡¯s will, the cunning and powerful mages of Junumianis would have eliminated us with utter certainty.


    Despite providing strategic refuge, Huroncenth presented its own difficulties for us mages and the army. The food stores were diminished due to the demands and ruination that all-consuming conflict had brought upon the land, leading much of the citizenry to riot in anger and starvation as their sick, weak, and injured perished of our damnable conquering. I will not pretend that the Kalipaonin regiment were compassionate or virtuous, for that would be a lie. It was Extirpation¡¯s war, his domain of desecration, even the good and virtuous were allured by the rot of temptation and seeming necessity. And us, believing ourselves righteous, maintained ignorance or our brutality.


    Carinon however, held her guilt deep within her soul and her character. As I said, she was not well-rested, and spoke often of the troubling actions she had taken to conquer the city. So troubled the Master of Bestowment was, that Nestyne relieved her of limitations he had placed on our magicks, allowing her to heal and treat those she desired.This was not a decision the had summoner made lightly, for in making it he knowingly drew the ire of Commander Partelin and other officers. To not ration and supervise a mage¡¯s spells was a significant risk to our safety, our army, and our strategy. Nestyne, however, remained steadfast in his conviction for he feared that Carinon would otherwise not be well enough to fight once the frost faded from fields and winter loosened its frozen embrace of the air and sky.


    It was for Carinon¡¯s health that the grisly business of winter was assigned to myself and Quatimonian, for with Huroncenth¡¯s starvation and riots came other troubles: resistance, subterfuge, rebellion, and murder, for the city was known to hold loyalty above all else, and so was our duty to eliminate those violently loyal men before they sprouted and they became too costly to expunge.


    It was also during the winter we spent in Huroncenth that I came to better know Quatimonian, and ultimately befriended him. Of all the mages of the Kalipaonin Regiment, Quatimonian was undoubtedly the most devoted to Kalitian and her teachings. He was not cruel by nature, and did not care much for war. He did not object to violence, but the more I came to understand and befriend the man, the more I understood that this war was a means for him to pursue the two things he valued most: Knowledge and intellectual renown.


    Our meetings and strategizing were never short, and certainly never all strategizing. As I would go about informing Quatimonian of my subterfuge with the spell of unnoticing or other magicks, the mage would often interject with minutiae of spellcasting or other conjectures of spellcraft I had yet to consider. At first, these seemed irrelevant, pointless, and wasteful; I would often get frustrated with him and demand he not interject. Yet each interjection, seeming useless, would slowly reveal itself to be of the utmost relevance to my work and our strategy.


    Quatimonian knew the first language as if it were his original: his castings were swift, easier to memorize, and safer for their precision, and it was for his knowledge that our grisly work in Huroncenth was successful. It was also, perhaps, for his knowledge that the Kalipaonin Regiment became renowned for brutality and cataclysm. When one is so devoted to one singular goal as Quatimonian was, it is difficult to see the damage one does. Waves within a dark ocean are still waves.


    Nearly two months of work, but before our most difficult assignment, I put it upon myself to understand why Quatimonian had joined the effort against Junumianis, for he was more suited for research in demeanor and priority.


    ¡°Quatimonian, you are a good soldier, but you show little passion for war or this conflict. It is easy to see you hold Knowledge and Kalitian highest above all else. Why then, did you leave Arimens to fight this difficult and dangerous war?¡± I asked Quatimonian amdist one of our many meetings.


    ¡°I had few reasons, Nayinian, to pursue my role in this war. First and foremost it was to honor the man who gave me lessons of Kalitian and Knowledge: Yularelian. My master asked of me to fight this war, and I believed myself to owe a great debt of gratitude to him so I did as requested. He was a good master, and is a good man of Virtue and Knowledge, and without him I would not be able to pursue magicks in all forms.¡±


    So Quatimonian spoke of his first reason, and I found myself bothered. I could not think of Yularelian as a good man, only a scoundrel with a distaste for all things womanly. Quatimonian continued to his second reasoning.


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    ¡°My other reasoning was because I knew I would only grow to better understand the first language better through practical application, rather than purely research. Language, Master of Subtleties, is how it is used. One can pour through hundreds of fraying scrolls and dusty tomes in search of lost knowledge, but to truly understand the true language requires knowledge of how words are intended to be used.


    ¡°Read all one desires to read about water, and you will know what people have written of water. Dive headfirst into a river, and you¡¯ll know what water is. The same is true of the first language and the careful motion of the body we use in casting our spells, and my theory of use is why my master gave me the title Master of Flows. Water¡¯s nature is not to bend and flow as poets write, but to carve and move unrelentingly on its path. This is why when I manipulate water my words are terse and forceful, and why my motions are stiff and sturdy.¡±


    So Quatimonian spoke his two reasons for joining the Regiment and gave another lesson that I would not yet realize its use until much later. In many senses my friend¡¯s words saved my life. Yet, despite his intentions and devotion to Kalitian he could not see the wake he carved within the dark ocean of war. For, as I mentioned, it is perhaps his devotion to Knowledge that gave the Kalipaonin Regiment its brutal reputation.


    Our most difficult assignment during the long winter was to root out a rebellion within the city. Several of our men had already been murdered in shadows and quiet places, and the rebel group had proven difficult to find. Seemingly, these rebels had prepared themselves for us, for I do not doubt that they had information on all wizards of Arimens and Moringia.


    The spell of unnoticing, while excelling in avoiding trouble and subterfuge, was not useful for when one intends to kill or when one is expected. The nature of the spell was subtle illusion and sleights of fields and grasses and reeds. I could not simply walk among confined quarters undetected when those hallways and corridors are under constant surveillance. If one is expected, then one will still be seen. Still, the spell remained useful as it always had been.


    So, rather than a solution by one simple spell and simple killing, our investigation became a project of many faces and many pages. Connections were drawn from man to man, woman to woman, child to child, forming an interlacing web of uncertainty. Yet, one conversation I eavsed with the spell of unnoticing, began to make clear the clouded pond of the resistance. Soon, man by man, the list fell into place.


    I knew who provided our foe their weapons. I knew who murdered our soldiers. I knew which children served as pawns for the sake of their family¡¯s survival, and eventually, I knew where to find them. Their base was hidden within a small chapel to Daristian, who serves nature. The windows framed with bent ivy of silver, and subtle shades of purple marked the ninth saint¡¯s domain. Under the pulpit, concealed with rugs and offerings to the saint lay a simple wooden door flat to the ground which opened to a lengthy ladder which delved into the catacombs of Huroncenth.


    Within those catacombs lay thousands of the dead ancestors of those who lived within the city. The city, much like the machinations of Extirpation, was built on a foundation of slaughter. And it was within those catacombs that the rebellion of Huroncenth kept its base.


    Commander Partelin gave the word to strike during the evening, for they were weak and could not resist. When asked if we were to spare any of the traitors, Partelin decreed that we would not. They had already resisted once, and the same crime twice should be met with death, for it was a war of greed and power.


    Within those catacombs, I witnessed the dark waves of Quatimonian¡¯s devotion to Knowledge his obsession with the first language, for he declared that send more than himself under the city would be a waste of time and men.


    ¡°What you need a hundred men for, I will need but a barrel of water.¡± The Master of Flows boasted. I believed him immediately, for I knew Quatimonian to not be a gambling man. At first the Commander was resistant to the suggestion, but after many reassurances he granted Quatimonian his wish under one condition: he would bring 10 men and another mage with him. I did not cast a single spell, nor was a single one of our swords drawn. Let me tell you, then, of a portion to why the mages of the Kalipaonin Regiment were the most feared of all Moringia.


    It was the dead of night when Quatimonian, myself, and ten men descended into the Catacombs. So cold, it was, that many of the skulls had frosted over, but Quatimonian showed no signs that he was wary of the cold. Before I could ask him what he intended the barrel of water for he took a hammer and smashed its contents upon the floor, creating a pool of mud. Without hesitation, he cast a spell with few words and violent gesture, and before him floated an undulating mass, a potent mire of destruction.


    Then, holding onto this muddy constellation he slowly walked through the surveilled tunnels in search of our enemy, and with each one presented the most terrible fate as streams of cold and wet dirt filled the lungs of rebellion. Those who ran were grabbed by a dirty tendril. Those who screamed in death were muffled. Those who begged for forgiveness did so in vain. And so, with one spell, an entire rebellion fell to a devotee of Kalitian, for Extirpation found his way within all domains and all men.

 28. Matters of Guilt

    After Quatimonian¡¯s uprooting of the rebellion, the long wane of winter began. However, its fading was longer, as the weather and temperament were unpredictable, and it was not until a third through spring that it finally became strategic to move further eastward into Junumianis. Until that time most of us mages spent the hours strategizing our magicks carefully, for in uprooting the rebellion we found disturbing documents that suggested a spy within the Moringian army.


    As we took heed of the rebellion¡¯s possessions a great deal of notes were found which provided significant detail of Quatimonian, Carinon, Nestyne, and myself. Our magicks, our specialties, our knowledge, and even our function as a unit were all written as if this person was intimate not only with our actions in battle, but with our histories as well. Personal details of my life were all present: my betrothal, my heritage, my master¡¯s teachings, my time spent as an apothecary, and my whereabouts. These were the same for each of the mages, although I did not think to pry and neither did they, for this was contrary to our mission.


    This finding alerted us to weaknesses in our strategy, which were twofold. Firstly, for our domains were limited and Nestyne could not cast beyond summoning without posing great risk to himself and others, that made our army fragile. If one of us was felled or incapacitated it would pose a strategic hole by which Junumianis could defeat us. Secondly, we realized we understood nothing about the Junumianian mage who had eluded us in the previous year. So, in the weeks prior to our march Eastward we began to address these issues.


    Profiling the Junumianian mage fell mostly to Quatimonian and myself, for Carinon was in low spirits. Nestyne had made it his priority to ensure Carinon was capable of protecting our men, and so bid our work be sensitive to her guilt. Although our information was limited on the mage, for we did not even possess the mage¡¯s name, the Master of Flows¡¯s expertise in the minutiae of magicks was able to provide valuable insight to potential weaknesses of the mage.


    Concluding that the mage was most certainly an expert in flame and conflagration, and based on the quality of his summons and animations, Quatimonian came to a strange conclusion: the mage was not from Junumianis, but either Harinia or somewhere southerly. Based on the strength of the mage¡¯s spells, the mage did not show the well-roundedness of a Moringian education, for Moringia has a strong emphasis on research and flexibility to a detriment of quickness and raw strength. The quality of the mage¡¯s summons was fair, but the under-reliance upon the skill was not typical of Junumianian spellcraft, which led Quatimonian to his conclusions. Strategizing for such a mage, however, would not be simple as seemed.


    Carinon was still utterly affected by the spell she had cost about the fifty men, and Quatimonian¡¯s uprooting of the rebellion seemed to worsen her demeanor. She less-often joined Hark, Bur, and myself for games, she seemingly prepared whichever spells met her whim, although rarely did I see her practice magicks, and often she did not show for meetings of strategy. Working with Carinon was likely to be a liability, and so Nestyne went to the commander and asked for some sort of reinforcements.


    The two argued long over the early spring weeks. The commander accused Nestyne of lacking the means of discipline among the mages in his charge. The summoner, however, rebutted that the commander¡¯s strategies had been too costly and that regardless of Nestyne¡¯s ability to enforce discipline, the reinforcements were necessary. Commander Partelin eventually relented and sent for these reinforcements, but gave Nestyne a demotion of pay (but not title) to make apparent his displeasure in having to send for additional help. I still hold in high regard that my commanding officer managed to forestall the march of the Moringian army for the sake of a mage under his charge. Although he never spoke explicitly of this matter, Nestyne seemed content with his resolve on the matter, and did not seem to care much of demotion in pay.


    To send for the reinforcements, Nestyne was requested to prepare a spell. For his specialties were mud and wood, he constructed a larger golem with the sensitive correspondence bound deep within its chest. Much like the earlier golem from Mesayne, this one was untiring, unrelenting, and of singular focus. It valued not its own protection, its own safety, or its life, only to ensure the letter reached our command westward and in return we would receive partial reinforcements in order to ensure our safety against the Junumianian mages. It would be two months until the first wave of reinforcements arrived.


    Due to the acquired intelligence, our living arrangements were altered to ensure our safety, especially Nestyne¡¯s. The documents procured indicated that our enemy had knowledge of his mind for tactics, and with the danger of a spy within our midst nothing would be left to chance. A larger portion of my magicks were mandated for the safety of mages, and at no time was I to leave Nestyne¡¯s charge.


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    These precautions meant that I spent less time among Carinon, Burr and Hark, and I feared long that Carinon¡¯s condition would continue to worsen, for her appearance was dreadful. Her hair was unkempt, her complexion pale and sickly, her robes were wrinkled and muddy for she did not change them for days upon end. The only moments of joy I saw in her were the times in which she could heal the wounded and remove infection. A lightness would come upon her face, and for a moment it might seem that darkness had fled her thoughts and she would remain cheerful. With each passing day I could tell, however, that she had given up practice and study, as her form was imprecise and she stumbled upon her words. I decided, then, to redouble my efforts.


    ¡°Carinon,¡± I asked, ¡°what troubles you? You are not yourself. You rarely jest, you do not study, and it has been a while since I have seen you get rest at the proper hour.¡±


    I knew what troubled her, however, but was wise enough to commit a white lie lest she descend further into gloom. She answered truthfully, but did not fully reveal her affliction, perhaps out of shame.


    ¡°I am dreadfully tired, Nayinian. These fights weigh heavy on me, and I am not of good conscience. Why do men have to die? Why do we choose to kill our own and show no remorse? In the sermons to the saints and the patrons it is said that Decay and Yuorininis are to be scorned, for they dislike our kind, humanity, and the other twelve each are to be embraced, for they are what give our lives value. Yet, each day among supposedly honorable men I find, time and time again, that I do not embrace Paronian or virtue, but only disgust and hatred of life itself. What point is my magic if it does not embrace life, even if that life is not good or virtuous? Did not Paronian teach that all men are capable of goodness, however fallen?¡±


    So Carinon spoke at length, not once alluding to the sacrifice her magicks had endorsed. It seemed her decision had afflicted her so deep that it had harmed the spirit, and lest she suffer a greater pain she chose ignorance to her actions at the battle of Huroncenth. Treading carefully at the edge of her sensitivities, I tried my best to assure her of the goodness of her actions and her person, for I was not then aware of the influence of Extirpation upon the hearts of good men and our armies, nor did I realize that it was not an honorable war, but one of greed and power.


    ¡°I value our companionship deeply, and I know you are not well. You have done a good thing. A difficult thing, but for a larger good. Now, will you please do a small goodness for yourself lest I grow frustrated with you and ensure your health by force?¡±


    Carinon¡¯s was deeply tired, her eyes were gray as if they were the mists of Mesayne, yet deep down I could still see her selfless spark move her to action, if only to do the motions of care for my sake and not her own. I would not be the one, however, to raise her from the depths of despair, but I did keep her within arm¡¯s reach, lest she fall high from the cliffs of Huroncenth to the brumal plains. It would be a long voyage of recovery for her, and one that put our forces at significant risk; moreso had Nestyne not acquired reinforcements.


    As the Kailpaonin regiment prepared for the second year of our campaign, Carinon¡¯s changed demeanor brought to light something I had not yet considered: how changed all men among us had become. Those soldiers on the thundered plains were scarcely boys, not men and certainly not veterans; clumsy, green, and careless. They scarcely spoke at dinner, and had yet formed comradery. Yet, after the long winter in Huroncenth and the battles beforehand, our men had changed. It was, as if, they were of two sides: serious in matters of warfare, and jovial in matters of camp and entertainment. Perhaps, in this reflection, I wondered similarly to Carinon.


    How could these happy men suddenly change their attitude and minds to kill guiltlessly, when months prior they were different men; scared men fighting a war they had only ever heard of for three long years? Yet, in camp, they showed no signs of their scars, their grief, and their worries. I learned, firsthand, a lesson in grief before our departure.


    Days prior to the march eastward, a golem similar to Nestyne¡¯s arrived, dissipating into heap of dirt and debris as it threw a crate of precious correspondence at the wall of the city. Letters for soldiers to be read by criars, love letters to veterans, family news, and tactical information were all contained within. We rejoiced that in a few months time the first wave of reinforcements would arrive, and rejoiced at Moringia''s seemingly-unstoppable easterly advance. This good news, however, turned to matters of Decay and death for myself, as I found myself in the misfortune of receiving a letter from Yularelian, who is a scoundrel and a cur informing me that Corindrian had passed of fatal illness during the winter.


    I grieved long from the guilt. I would grieve a second time in autumn, but for sake of hatred instead.

 29. Eastward Within the Forest of Teeth

    After I received the dreadful message us of the Kalipaonin Regiment continued our eastward campaign. The commander and Nestyne had delayed us as long as they possibly could in hopes our reinforcements would arrive, but the tides of war are such that they can only be swayed to a certain extent for any force lesser than the whole. Despite our best efforts, Nestyne and myself could not recover fully Carinon¡¯s sound mind, and although she was in better health she was in little state for the complex and dangerous magicks of war.


    For this,-and the delayed nature of our reinforcements-, we continued our campaign at greater risk to the regiment and ourselves.


    Nature had struggled to recover from the extended winter, and at times the season of spring seemed to forego its presence. Lengthy portions of the Junumianian planes seemed as if trapped within summer, or winter, or autumn, as if a gridded board to play games of warfare. These sections, however, never lengthy to make a delay of progress to better fit our attire worth the time. The smallest of these were less than a mile, and the most expansive might take slightly over a day¡¯s march. This corruption of Nature and all things natural was a mere inconvenience to the dangers posed by the Junumianian mages.


    As we trod long days to stay at pace with the other Moringian regiments,-much longer than previous-, we were at far greater risk of ambush. Having seemingly intimate knowledge of Carinon¡¯s health and our harsher conditions, the Junumianian mages took healthy advantage of this. Early into our campaign the fire mage, riding upon the back of a newly created gargoyle, positioned far above us into the gaze of the sun and set fires upon the plains deep below his flight. Unnoticed until it was too late to prevent the plains being alight I was able (with some ill effect to myself) to set the blaze further away from the regiment. Our progress for the day was halted, our magickal capabilities were temporarily more limited, and our morale was damaged. If one enemy mage could cause such delay and damage, it did not bode well for the long march eastward to our first destination: the city of Nuracimens.


    In the evening merely days after the fire mage¡¯s first assault (and not long enough to have recovered fully from my counter magicks), my regiment found ourselves set upon by relentless golems; similar to the one previously constructed by Nestyne, yet fourfold they appeared seemingly from nowhere, for there was no forest for them to hide for miles. Quatimonian, exerting himself, was able to successfully dispose of the golems with a spell of rolling tides, and found himself unbalanced with a case of sea legs for several days. The common soldiers of the regiment went into the next day without much rest, for the intrusion had been late into the night and had taken nearly an hour to eliminate. Our nightly guard was soon increased, and one mage was required to be awake at all times. Nestye and Carinon were exempted of these duties for both could not safely use countermagicks, leaving four hours of each watch to Quatimonian and myself.


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    These small harassments occurred regularly over the course of several weeks, and soon the effect on capabilities of Quatimonian and myself began to be noticeable. Words would slip our tongues, our spells crafted in more haste, and we could retain less magicks for we did not have the restful mind by which to memorize complex spellcraft. The tactics of the Junumianian forces were taking their toll, and we had yet to reach our first destination.


    The tactics of our enemies were not just a matter of taxing our magicks, however, but a matter of taxing our morale. Consistently in meetings of strategy we found ourselves asking why our enemy had switched tactics. Why had the matter of warfare and battles been so greatly altered by the winter? How could they maintain their guerilla tactics at such a rate without concern for their men¡¯s safety in battle against four mages? And quickly these questions spread as a plague among our own men. With the state of our mages would we be able to hold against these tactics when treachery loomed over our heads hungry for men and their woe? The sun could no longer be trusted for warmth, only wrath. The dirt could no longer be trusted to hold men, but to drag them beneath and suffocate with cold mud.


    What we did not realize then was that it was Extirpation¡¯s war. A war of greed and power, and it is precisely for this reason that the Junumianian¡¯s became more aggressive. In part they were tempted by glory and greed to recklessness, but in part they were given the opportunity because we were the aggressors.


    In the waters of the islands far to the south there lives a fish with a bulb of light upon its head, and with this bulb it leads other fish into mazes of caves wherein the water is so brackish and terrible that it chokes all fish but this fish. This fish,-brutal, cunning, massy-, does not draw only fish. It often draws men and children out to sea and into darkness, imagining riches as they are drawn within its cavernous maw. Junumianis was this fish. Before us lay a bright bulb; hope that the war soon may end. Yet, the waters slowly began to choke, and we wandered aimless into our foe¡¯s forest of teeth. One of these teeth was the spy within Moringia, who was a cur and a scoundrel. The other was the necromancer who had sided with Junumianis for wealth, a poisonous fang of foul magicks and distaste for goodness.


    The necromancer struck in Nuracimens, and we were lucky the whims of Borrinean found us within the dark forest of Extirpation¡¯s war. You are lucky the whims of Borrineanf found us, for I was the only one fit to drink of the first yew.

 30. To Truly Fear Necromancy

    In the time before the war, Nuracimens was known as a city of beauty. Perhaps it was many years ago before Extirpation¡¯s war. The once white marbles of its immense and reaching towers were covered with soot and smog that clung to all things defiant things of man; the waters of the farmland were brackish and oily. Any good and virtuous things that the city once embodied had been consumed and what remained was a carcass of things once true: an omen of the disfigured sublime.


    Nestyne knew he had to be careful with our strategy; it would result in a defeat if we engaged too recklessly. The Junumianian mages had worn down our mages, none of our own were at full strength and of proper mind. Even Quatimonian had been fighting minor magickal ailments over the previous weeks. The enemy knew our weaknesses, of Carinon¡¯s sorry state, and most importantly had been given months to prepare the city of Nuracimens for assault. I have no doubt that without Nestyne¡¯s expertise I would have perished in the battle at Nuracimens and many other times.


    The veteran summoner had already prepared our strategy by the time we had arrived at Nuracimens. It is important to note that before I speak of Nestyne¡¯s strategy for the assault on Nuracimens that Yularelian and the other generals of Moringia urged a swift advance, the idea being that if we pushed into all-out warfare that the enemy could no longer flank us. This strategy, of course, was what man¡¯s foe Extirpation wanted (even though we had no knowledge of the dreadful being in those times). Moringia would assume the enemy could not surround us if we pushed forward and held a steady line of advancement, and so with this larger strategy at play (and our constant delays on our march) any strategy prepared for the attack on Nuracimens would carry more risk.


    As I said, the largest risk and the greatest unknown in our assault on Nuracimens was the amount of time the enemy mages had to prepare to fight us.


    ¡°Counter magicks are perhaps a war mage¡¯s greatest asset.¡± Nestyne spoke to the rest of the officers and our commander. He spoke this in-part to assuage the fears of Carinon and the others under low morale. By this point it was known I was strong at countermagicks, and moving attention away from worries Carinon¡¯s health was in-part to obscure how poor my friend was faring. ¡°Our strategy should remove any factors our enemy has prepared for. We will leave ourselves open to sudden surges of energy and more immediate spells, but most long-term preparation we will be able to mitigate. We will be able to handle ourselves against the two mages as we carry a numbers advantage in magicks and in soldiers.¡±


    Nestyne avoided any talk of casualties on our side. Quatimonian and I both knew that these would be significant. There was simply no way we could protect all of our men, not without Carinon.


    My duties for this battle were relegated entirely to counter magicks. While Nestyne, Quatimonian, and Carinon were undoubtedly well-studied, I was strongest at reacting quickly to and negating the spells of our enemies as countermagicks are a subtle art. This left the manipulation of our surroundings and Nature to Nestyne and Quatimonian. Under faint moonlight, mere hours before the assault on Nuracimens, Quatimonian kneeled onto the dry earth between our army and the corpsen city. Clawing into the dirt the mage held a mass of dry clay within his hands and shed a single tear into it before packing it gently into a cracked lakebed. This was not a spell, but a prayer to Kalitian for help on a difficult problem. It would occur to me later why Quatimonian prayed for such a boon despite his experience and vast knowledge of magicks.


    After his prayer Quatimonian stood upright, a beacon of confidence between our army and


    Nuracimens. He took a deep breath and then Master of Flows, prepared a dangerous and powerful spell. As if he were a river in flow, Quatimonian extended right hand outward with the palm parallel to the ground and then began to speak as if he were water itself. Dew condensed on his robes, tears flowed from his eyes, and mist formed on his breath as he began to shiver from a magickal coldness. As a stream ebs and flows Quatimonian adjusted his words to flow through the spell as the magicks fought against his body, steadfast in every aspect of his being. His speaking reached a sprint, his words white and frothing on the sharp rapids of the spell as he reached into the earth once more and spread the ground as if it were mere cloth, causing a violent torrent of water to rise from the dirt.


    The entire valley flooded and metamorphosed in the upheaval as centuries old deposits of earth were dredged to the surface. Any enchantments upon the ground had been cleansed. Any plans the Junumianian mages had that involved the earth would be of no use. Still, a fear lingered that Quatimonian¡¯s spell was for nothing. Perhaps the two mages had not prepared the earth to attack us as we speculated?


    Nestyne¡¯s spell was next; the veteran summoner walked to the edge of the flood and placed his hands upon the moonlight volumnity as he began to speak an incantation. The torrential flood immediately stilled as three larger figures of ice and dreg rose from the depths, water cresting silently off of their backs as each stick-like figure, three men tall each, poised upwards as if dying trees with their heads poised at the corpsen city. Nestyne,¡¯s legs were frosted over, he was chattering, and his face was blued, signaling the time in which it would be my duty alone to protect our armies. Reinforcements were believed to be still days away, but we believed ourselves honorable and did as Yularelian and the war council commanded.


    The Kalipaonin Regiment, rather than split itself as typical, coalesced into a massive phalanx as it trod knee-high waters under dark-lit skies and mists coalesced on the water¡¯s surface, encircling our forces as if crows to carrion, a patient quiet in anticipation of feast. The water¡¯s stillness broke into a roughness that clawed up the waists of our men who hoisted shields above their heads as if to prevent the night from witnessing their approach. Silence still dominated the landscape as the tree-like elementals of ice and dredge sounded as broken glass as they threw themselves as a torrential flood of water at the walls of Nuracimens. Nestyne and Quatimonian¡¯s missions had been accomplished, the rest was my charge.


    Junumianian arrows fell upon the ceiling of the phalanx like the pattering of rain, waxing to downpour and waning to drizzle, but never fading as if the hungry buzzing of insects waiting to feed on a fresh corpse. Our drummers signaled to march forward into the waiting onslaught.


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    Using an enchantment I had cast upon myself I was able to see the silent motion of dark boulders thrown by Junumianian trebuchets, which I lit with a simple light spell to warn our soldiers so the drummers could avert our men from their arc. The Junumianian mages had yet to launch an offensive. I wondered if they had already left, as they had so many times previous.


    As if predicting my uncertainty the fire mage launched a series of smaller conflagrations that I dismissed with a prepared gust of wind. It seemed that the Junumianian mages were sticking to their former strategy, as the low drums of war thrust our army closer to Nuracimens. I spoke of this to Burr and Hark as we advanced, both of whom agreed it was odd behavior, and Hark suggested that the spy among us had perished since we had taken Huroncenth. Burr reminded me of the battle of Icinerenth, wherein we had seen a truly desperate mage unleash himself upon us. Perhaps the Junumianian mages feared that from us and did not want to push too hard lest they face the wrath of a desperate mage. I acknowledged this was a possibility, as Moringian strategists believed it was always more difficult to retreat than it was to attack, and our enemy certainly knew of this tendency.


    The Kalipaonin regiment closed in on the city, I could see where the walls had cracked and crumbled under the force of Nestyne¡¯s elementals as the mist thickened around us. The rain of arrows quieted, the waters stilled, and the flames subsided, a breath of relief in the constant assault. It was in the destruction that followed that moment of reprieve that I learned what it meant to truly fear necromancy.


    The impenetrable night, cold, and mists enveloping our forces was so oppressive that even with the enchantment I had cast upon myself it was difficult to see, for everything was but shapes of black within black: a landscape drenched in silence revealed not by light, but by a darkness visible. Two dark figures, burning gargoyles, shot through the darkness and struck near me, shattering the hull of the phalanx. The storm of arrows descended once more upon us as the water through which we marched became unsteady, making balance difficult.


    Remembering lessons Nestyne had given me in the matters of summoning and animation, my best chance of neutralizing a summoning was not to kill it, but to immobilize it with a summoning of one¡¯s own. Before that could be done, however, I would have to vanquish the mists. Having studied with Corindrian, I was fortunate that I knew the words for weather and mists, and so easily I dismissed them and restored some order among our forces, unawares that my throat was starting to chill, that the mists of the plains had come for me once more.


    With my vision more clear I could see the two magmatic gargoyles rampaged through our men, the wind wreaking of burnt flesh, leather, and the charred wood of spears. I touched the water and brought about several elementals of water. These were lesser elementals than Nestyne¡¯s, less torrential in their rage, but they would suffice in subduing the gargoyles momentarily as the two summoned beasts were engulfed in primal current. The water around them boiled and steam as their flesh hardened to pure stone. Using another spell I commanded my men to keep throwing water upon the fiends, for if we did not throw water upon them they would melt the layer of stone which imprisoned them.


    Having subdued the gargoyles the army re-grouped to the beating of the war drums in a strict canon as we pushed onwards to shattered walls of Nuracimens. Arrows cracked the hull of shields, men fell to the water dead before impact as we inched closer to our goal. The mist began to coalesce on the water¡¯s surface once more, seemingly flowing into the dark and muddy waters, and our enemy kept their aggression sedate. It was when the enemy allowed our golems to run through their forces and hit the city walls that I began to suspect something was wrong.


    When armies fail, it is not a subtle nor slow thing. There are signs, yes. A stray arrow piercing the neck of a shieldbearer, a war drum ceasing, a young soldier hesitating right before he is slain far too young. These are omens, symptoms of a disease yet-inflicted. In truth, armies are slaughtered like livestock, for that is Extirpation¡¯s way and this was Extirpation¡¯s war. Our army failed the moment hundreds of shriekers descended upon us through the mists, and the dead rose in destructive craving.


    A cold hand grabbed my leg as the corpses of our deceased were animated in a violent fury matched only by the distant storms of the Hunal Islands that sculpt earth and tear apart even the sturdiest of trees. Men were dragged hundreds of feet into the air by the assaulting abominations. They fell to the ground in a lonely and silent death. The necromancer¡¯s mists had frozen their throats and bitten their tongues, and as I spoke a word of force to throw a mass of undead off of my unit I realized that my speech was restricted.


    I burned my throat to push the necromantic mists away, beyond the scope of our battle. I noticed that when men did not die within the mists, they did not immediately rise. Our only hope for survival was to retreat, and for me to keep the mists away. However, the Junumianian mages had planned for us to fall into their trap, and quickly I found myself overwhelmed.


    Scores of flaming oil-covered rock fell upon our forces as the assault continued. Our forces were already quartered, and yet still retreat had not been called. I could do nothing but try to repel the mists as I sought a means to call for retreat. The howling chorus of corpses under necromantic broke devoured what remained of order and structure, leaving our ranks to ruthless chaos as wave-after-wave I tried to press the mists away, to stem the bleeding and return to safety. I could feel myself weaken each time I pressed against the mists, repelled a flaming conflagration, or thrust the shriekers away from our forces. The mists creeping closer and closer like the accelerando of a silent orchestra of terror. It was at this moment I understood what it meant to truly fear necromancy; what it meant to be a desperate mage.


    In desperation to repel the overwhelming tempest I directed to bring me through the sea of undead to one of the war drums; hoping that one spell would serve a solution. And while the undead pressed against the ponderous shields of my guard I took the large leather beater and swung it into the head of an immense war drum and forced the only spell I could voice through my frostbitten throat: the spell of unnoticing.


    A low shockwave omitted the battlefield: for one one moment the chaos was gone. The mist was vanquished, the sky was clear,and the brackish waters flattened from white caps to glass as if Nature itself could not see our battle. For a moment I convinced myself that all would be fine, until I realized that terrible consequence I had wrought upon myself: I could not notice myself. The mists encroached once more, and the single beat of the drum faded into the distance. My spell lasted but one beat of time before the stillness vanished and the violence returned.


    Soldiers were torn to shreds by puppets of foul magicks; burned in magickal fires; devoured by winged malevolence. I feared all was lost.


    And then he arrived: Misinos, Paladin of Mentilian, warrior of Order. A bright yellow light disrupted the gray cloud cover as the sun rose east over the horizon illuminating the knight¡¯s stony blade. His voice echoed through the mouths and minds of all men of our forces, an ethereal chorus of perfect order.


    ¡°Chaos disperse, be gone foulness! To arms; to line; to honor! Dead rise no more! Wretched wings fall! So long as I command, Order lives in the souls of these men as if a Fortress; Shelter against cruelty¡¯s wrath!¡±


    The sound of mighty tolling bells and bells rang in triumphant ecstasy as the armaments and armor of the Kalipaonin¡¯s soldiers glowed with the power of the divine and a gout of warm flame fell upon them, restoring their health.


    Onward we pressed into the desecrated city of Nuracimens. Their forces and wizards once more pressed to retreat, unable to repel such a powerful boon of the Paladin. They had not prepared for him. Once more we were victorious, but soon misfortune would fall upon us. Once soft, and once deadly.


    For it was Extirpation¡¯s war; and not our¡¯s to win.

 31. The Great Earthen Wave of Khalinara

    The reality of Extirpation¡¯s wretched war was that on many occasions there was joy to lure our eyes and hearts away from the turmoil and destruction. Two days after the battle at Nuracimens, when the symptoms of my ensorcelling had begun to wane and I was once more lucid, I had cause for joy; it was of utmost fortune that, Misonos, the heroic paladin of Mentillian who had saved the Kalipaonin regiment from assured defeat was accompanied by his squire: Yngiunian, my betrothed. I remember clearly the words he spoke to me when we reunited.


    ¡°Nayinian, I dared not sleep much on the journey eastward. I was so afraid that I might die in an ambush, and be separated from you forever.¡± I knew that Ynguinian did not exaggerate or speak in metaphors when he said he feared death, for Ynguinian would never lie to me. Such was the nature of his soul, and his love.


    ¡°Ynguinian,¡± I said ¡°you could die a thousand deaths, and still I would find a way to reunite myself with you.¡±


    For several days, the freshly reinforced Kalipaonin regiment celebrated our victory with reckless revelry. Even Carinon was in high spirits after our victory, and back to her normal self. Ynguinian offered that, perhaps, Misonos¡¯s presence had restored her mind to order, after what she had done at the battle of Huroncenth. Afterall, such a boon was seemingly within the limits of what Paladin of Order could produce. If only it were so simple. Having been married to Ghalos for many years now, and having drank of The First Yew I know better the limits of magicks, gods, and spells. The mind is an uncertain place, sometimes not even understood by its controller.


    Still, I cannot fault Misonos or Carinon for what was to come. The war was everything. Promises of peace clouded our judgments and pushed us to recklessness, and both sides paid dearly for it. Thousands of Junumianians, dead. Thousands of Moringians, dead. Thousands of Harinians, my parents, my village, all dead. Countless artifacts lost to the hungry maw of violence. ¡®


    And such it still continues, for I have shown you that the world has begun to forget color. And you know that from your crops Nature has begun to wither, Prosperity is a sliver of its former glory, and your village cannot trust that all men and women who come through are of virtuous intent. Even those called upon by gods.


    Do you not find it strange that I, and not my husband, was the one called to you village? That your prayers went unanswered for moons upon moons? That the earth itself would wish you and your own dead?


    Does it not bother you that the name this village once held floats in the back of your head like the fingers of a fine mist? You understand what your village is, but not what it once was? That, despite your entire life spent in the shadow of the gray spine, you all woke up and suddenly this village lost its name?


    The enemy. Extirpation. He has taken much from this world, and I beg you to believe me: he will take from you too. He will take those you love, your hopes, your dreams, fortune, livelihood, and tradition until all that is left is desperation without hope. And then, this world shall not Decay, but simply cease. Its mana and its gods consumed.


    That wretched war is where this woe began. The source of the plague of which has infested your village. But you do not care for such things beyond your village, for it is hard to imagine such things for those of you who have never left your safe borders for the lands lorded by disintegrating empires.


    Our mages, mostly, restored to health. And though I still was in no position to cast spells, I was content to have my betrothed with me. Even when Ynguinian¡¯s duties kept his attention mostly elsewhere, it was comforting to know that this war would soon end, and I would be married.


    Carinon, in the days following Misonos and Ynguinian¡¯s arrival, was of a sound mind to return to her camp and strategic duties entirely. Her and Nestyne had began work on a new golem, this one constructed of obsidian. Corindrian had provided the volcanic glass, as his mastery of flows was not limited to water, but to many liquid things including that of molten rock. Yet, his knowledge of the earth was not to such a great degree as Nestyne¡¯s, who had to help the Master of Flows in making the spell brief enough to cast within the period of an hour.


    Therefore, until the golem was completed, Quatimonian¡¯s war magicks were limited to a few lesser spells, and I could still not cast for fear of causing harm to myself. Misonos, although his oath was powerful, could only be a sparing resource for the regiment. For the more the paladin tried to hold upon order, the more risk his requests of the divine would bring his voice to Decay. Any attack by the Junumianis, then, would have to be fended off mostly by Nestyne and Carinon.


    And that is precisely what happened. Having tarried in Nuracimens, the Kalipaonin regiment marched eastwards once more. Towards Khulinara, a Junuminian city nestled within a vast and green valley. Or rather, the valley would have been verdant were it not for the corruption the war had sowed within the land, and now had come to reap.


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    Dead trees grasped for sunlight among shrouded banks of fog and polluted waters. The devastated forests were laden with petrified thorns and stinging nettles so thick that a grown man could hide in plain sight mere feet away from passing soldiers without notice. And so, doing what was of good wisdom, it was decided that our army would detour to a more open pass, for an ambush among those trees would be devastating. Especially since we had no intelligence on what had become of the Junumianian summoner. Why had he not fought with the necromancer and the fire mage and Nuracimens? Woe was about to give us our answer.


    Coming through the northerly pass into the valley of Khulinara, our army marched in a wide file to ensure retreat could come easy. All officers were on horseback (and foolishly, I had decided that Ynguinian and myself could share a mount) in the event of a sudden ambush. The shrieks, although repelled at Nuracimens, presented a fatal tool in the hands of the depraved necromancer.


    Suddenly, from a great distance from a treeline an arrow shot at the speed of thunder, landing near the fight of Quatimonian¡¯s horse and throwing a massive upheaval of dirt. The arrow had been enchanted, and an archery assault began as Junumianian forces appeared in the high ground to the left of the pass. The only options were to run, or to charge. And, for it was a war of greed and power, the Kalipaonin charged recklessly into the fray.


    The rhythm of the war drums pulsed through our forces with an ancient rage of a tormented beast. Our savagery would not let this guile be unpunished. Briefly, Nestyne considered unleashing his obsidian golem, but decided against it. He knew it would make short work of Khulinara, the rain of arrows (especially with the sorts of enchantments we had seen) would make activating far too risky for our long term strategy: breach the empire, protect our mages, spare our magicks.


    And so, Nestyne instead requested Carinon to enchant the air around us, to lessen the velocity of the arrows to that of a glacier¡¯s pace. Which the enchanter could do with ease. Now our collection of mages ran up the hillside amidst the vespertine formation of arrowfall, seemingly safe from the brunt of the attack.


    So coordinated our ascension up the hillside was, that even the appearance of the fire mage presented little quandary. Carinon effortlessly dismissed the mage¡¯s spells, which gave the impression that, perhaps, the Junumianian mage was not at full capacity, for the fires did not burn as hot, nor approach as quickly. I remember believing I could have reversed the spells if I so desired, for they seemed to straightforward. And this was exactly the point. The attack was a lure.


    Suddenly, an arrow broke through Carinon¡¯s slowing enchantment at an impossible velocity, striking Quatimonian in his leg and off of his horse. Carinon froze when she saw the blood and the pain on the Master of Flows face. He was caught in pure agony. And then, looking backwards to the rest of our forces we realized our tactical error. And why the Junumianian summoner had been missing for so long.


    Towards the downward slope, the ground began to recede back like a massive wave. The earth retched in a great quake as the lowlands arched hundreds of feet tall began to coalesce and slant over the bulk of our supply, archery, and officers. A great wave of earth, seemingly taller and wider than the wave of legend that had nearly destroyed the great witch-queen Harwyne of Kalynth, arched with intent to crash upon us. So large this wave was, I briefly believed that it dwarfed the distance Ghalstorin had climbed when he thrust his sword into the tapestry of night to create the stars.


    And the Master of Flows had no countermagicks. And Carinon had frozen, her mind once more in disrepair. And so powerful this wave was Misonos could not conjure order out of its chaos, for it held a fury of disorder only known to Nature¡¯s wrath, and that of Extirpation for it consumed greedily the dirt, the dust, dead men, living men, the polluted soil, desecrated Nature; all within in its deathly trajectory..


    I dug through my muddle mind to level counterspells in desperation, but none of the spells I threw against the encroaching wall of churning earth could muster enough strength to even abate its flow. The tragic truth was apparent: I was the Master of Subtlety, and no subtle magicks would stymy the spell that would soon devour our forces.


    The Junumianian summoner must have worked years on this spell and the preliminary achievements. Somehow, in the time between winter in Icinereth and the battle of Nuracimens the summoner had created this impossible feat of sorcery. But how? How could such a thing be possible? Yes, Junumianian sorcerers had an understanding of the earth in much the same way that Corindrian had understood weather, Quatimonian waves, Carinon enchantments, or Nestyne the creation of golems. But, even such a spell would have to be the result of a team of late master wizards and a native understanding of the first language.


    And so, Carinon, Ynguinian, Misonos, and I watched in horror as we could do nothing to stop the slaughter. Quatimonian writhed on the ground like a dying snake. Nestyne, however, would not stand for it.


    The summoner steadied his shaking hands, and I saw a cold fury in his eyes. I recounted the story of how Nestyne had injured himself in a desperate countermagicks.


    I understood him completely, at that moment. I knew the anxiety of a greenhorn before he ever drew blood. I recounted the chaos and the fear that paralyzed me when I had thrown my first real countermagicks at the battle. I felt Nestnye¡¯s guilt for the four thousand days of lonely violence he had been gifted with, a gift given simply because he had been the only one lucky enough to survive. At that moment, as the Great Earthen Wave of Khulinara extend wide its earthen jaws, I understood completely why Nestyne had to do it.


    This was the Nestyne, who had helped to revise and hone the countermagicks of dozens of mages for nearly two decades in the Moringian. This was the same Nestyne who had cared for Quatimonian, Carinon, and myself as if we were his brood. The same Nestyne who held a magickal talent so superb, that if his spells were not limited by his injuries, he would have rivaled Corindrian in power. The same Nestyne who had taught himself the first language from rote memorization, simply because he loved magicks.


    Nestyne thrusted his palms into the earth, and spoke true three perfect words in the first language. Their meaning was so precise and so true, that all on the battlefield could have understood what Nestyne had just yelled at the rolling wave of death.


    ¡°Never! Again! Cur!¡±


    The hillside shot up, throwing all men to the ground. In howl of agony, Nestyne thrust a new mountain into existence from the earth. Hundreds of feet below, the wave crashed against the sheer cliffside. The Kalipaonin regiment was saved. Nestyne collapsed to the ground, his skin cracked with fissures the leaked a fine red. His skin had turned entirely to stone. His hands had crumbled into dust. Literally, they too were stone.


    ¡°Victory. And at what cost?¡± Nestyne said. And then he paid the price of stories.

 32. Fateful Venom

    Nestyne¡¯s death, like illness, lingered like a snake in tall grass, waiting for weakness to strike once more with its fateful venom. With our forces damaged and our magical tactician deceased, the Kalipaonin Regiment was like a tattered skiff adrift on stormy swells. Our mages were far too green to rely upon in such a capacity, and poor Carinon had fallen back into her deathly moods, with no sign of recovery. She blamed herself, even though our enemy was not thought to have been capable of such a spell. Quatimonian, for he was logical to a fault, was much more at peace with the matter, reasoning that it was simply fortunate that we lived, and so worked to comfort Carinon. I was still in no position to be casting spells in battle, for my poor attempt at countermagicks had left my left arm paralyzed, as if it were stone. A common result of working magicks upon the earth, I knew it would be several weeks before I could fight once more.


    Within several hours of the battle upon the newly-raised mountain, the decision was made for our forces to fall back and regroup with Yularelian¡¯s forces in the West. Carinon, Quatimonian, and myself would have no time to grieve our mentor¡¯s passing. It was a pain that lingered with me for many years, that I lost both of my mentors within months of the other.


    I remember Nestyne¡¯s grave clearly, and one can still find it if they climb to the peak of Mount Khalinar to this day. The grove of trees, which run next to a small stream, petrified after his death. All that rests in that secret place for more than a few years at that lonely grave shifts to stone, for the magicks Nestyne had called up were so potent that they linger to this day. In many years the bards will speak this story when they speak of war, of loss, and the price of stories. This brings grief upon me, for I know that Extirpation has already torn so much of Memory from this land. It will be a story of the real man that was, his name will be forgotten, and he will transfigure into folktale. Into a man that never truly existed.


    Such is the way of Memory, for it decays. But, not in such a way that many already forget the creation of Mount Khalinar was a recent and lived event. And once I have resolved the matter to which I have been summoned to your village; this too shall become myth, or legend, or perhaps seem so ancient as to have been an impossibility of creation. The petrified grove will not be a monument, or a grave. It will simply be, without word or tale.


    Yet, for as long as I shall live and tell this tale, do remember that in the grove of petrified trees next to a small stream, hidden on the back of Mount Khalinar, there is a grave that marks the turning point of the war between the two ancient kingdoms of Moringia and Junumianis. And it is from Nestyne¡¯s stony grave that the Kalipaonin fled westward.


    The roadless mountainside, plagued with trees and gravel, did not take kindly to the mortal touch. Travel was slow and hindered by landslides that made safe progress difficult. The Kalipaonin regiment slept but four hours per night, for we knew any Junumianian offensive may prove fatal. It was our only chance.


    Despite the Kalipaonin¡¯s survival, morale to fight was low, and lower still was our cohesion. A group of men from Temini cursed magicks, blaming myself, Quatimonian, and others for the death of their comrades and the defeat at Khalinara. Commander Partelin, a brilliant yet brutal man, held no patience for disobedience. Their punishment was a suicide mission, tasked with diverting the pursuing Junumianian forces along the freshly-risen mountainside. If they survived, they would be granted their freedom. In the end, they all chose death at the hands of the Junumianian mages and the necromancer¡¯s fertile brood.


    Among us mages Quatimonian immediately took charge, for he was the most dedicated to tactics, and the only among us of sound enough mind and capable enough body (for, as I mentioned, I had injured my leg in the peaks of perpetual winter, forcing myself to walk with a stave). After the change in leadership my assigned task, beside committing to a swift recovery, was to dedicate myself to the study of fire magicks. My only purpose in the regiment, now, was to protect against any assaults by the Junumianian fire mage.


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    And so, for many long and dreadful hours, I studied the nature of fire. Silently, I observed candles burn down their wick, watched cook the flesh of butchered livestock, and stared into the sun (for it too is an immense fire of the purest manas). I spoke to Misonos many hours about the nature of the god-fire coursed through his veins and lacquered his voice when he commanded the world to bring itself to the whims of Order. And I thought of the price of stories, how Raluros had saved Ynguinian in the thundered plains all of those moons ago. I pondered the nature of its ability to kill, and its ability to save. Its potencies both to squander, and to nurture, and how from squander can still come birth once more.


    And I pondered even more the price of stories. How when Decay had come to the world, the fire of language had waned, and soon the first language was but an imprecise memory held exclusively in the minds of men. How animals had lost their speech, and had forgotten to fear the very thing that had brought them life. Fire has its fingers in our lives, in many subtle ways. And, although fire was not inherent to my magicks, I hastened myself to control it as I had the spell of unnoticing given to me by Kalitian and Knowledge. And while I was no master of fire, as we fled further westward back towards Huroncenth, I knew I would be ready to repel the fire mage who had plagued us for over a year.


    Quatimonian¡¯s role, during our retreat, was not of his choice. Commander Partelin, terrified of a repeat of the events of Khalinara, bid that my new superior spend his time constructing countermagicks to a similar spell. So, the Master of Flows began to study more the nature of stone and dirt. And this was, in-part, why the study of fire fell upon myself. If the Junumianian summoner had changed his strategy to such powerful manipulations of the earth, treating it as if it were an ocean, then the only person suited to such preparation was Quatimonian. However, this would prove to be a waste (and Quatimonian and myself discussed at length the uselessness of the order).


    Both of us deemed it unlikely the summoner would be able to create a spell of such a magnitude, let alone memorize and cast it, within the coming months, especially if the Kalipaonin was going to alter its eastward path after regrouping. It would require divine intervention, or such a specific knowledge of the potential battlefield that one would have had to have been born in the spot the spell were cast, or a mage to die as a result of the casting. All three, we knew, were very unlikely. And yes, while this was Extirpation¡¯s war, his machinations were far more subtle than that. It is only now, after I drank from the First Yew, that I can fathom the subtlety and barbarity of what was wrought upon this realm, and that of the gods.


    Carinon, during this time, was barely lucid. Between the attention of Quatimonian, and that of Misonos, she only had the mind to hold to one singular task: she hastily made golems from bonfire ash and mud of our trampled men. Carinon, refusing speech with any of us, would wake with the rising of the sun, shape the crude men of mud and ash with trembling hands, whisper enchantments into their misshapen forms, and release ten to twenty a day. And this was her entire life. She had to be fed, bathed, and cared for by Misonos and Ynguinian, and when I was not studying the nature of flame, I supervised Carinon to ensure she spoke no words of dire consequence.


    It was Carinon¡¯s trauma that drew Partelin¡¯s ire the most, for he was not a perfect or patient man. Each moment that Misonos was not there to render judgment upon the commander¡¯s virtue, he spent inventing his anger. ¡°Useless girl¡± he would call her. He would ask her why she had not been able to save Nestyne. Berate her for the useless spells. And this only drove Carinon further and further to wallow in that dark place that war had brought upon her.


    And then, one day, Quatimonian witnessed Partelin¡¯s rage. Never had I seen Quatimonian so vengeful. He shocked the earth with his very breath, and spoke words so true and honest that I initially mistook them for being spoken in the first language.


    ¡°Harm or mistreat Carinon again, and you can forget Junimianis. You will have an actual enemy to worry about.¡± He said. Partelin left, and the two did not speak for the rest of our campaign. And so Extirpation further divided us, feeding on our disorder and suffering as the realm (much like Carinon) forgot itself, forgot colors, and forgot the price of stories. I wonder how many men forget the price of stories by the time we would march over the Kalinaran mount once more.