“First of my year,” Oliver answered, and he downed his glass.
“Then why in the hells would I ever want to graduate from there?” Draysky said, causing Oliver to choke on his wine. “All that work and look where that got you. Same outpost as me. Same carriage as me. Same duck as me. Sounds like a waste.”
Oliver felt for the glove in his pocket, and Draysky laughed, louder than normal and spreading out over the interior of the carriage to occupy more than his own side.
“You watch your mouth, ridger–”
“Keeper,” corrected Draysky. “Go ahead, hit me with that glove. You see, Oliver, I’ve learned something from watching you Keepers. Whenever you use magic, you either have something fancy like that glove there, or you have a source for your power. Seeing as you haven’t resorted to using anything new, and I haven’t ever seen you draw a rune, I’d venture to say that thin piece of velvet is all you have between me and you.”
“More than you have,” snorted Oliver.
“Is it?” Draysky asked, and traced his finger through the air, leaving behind the now familiar burning red trail. He could feel it sucking up the air of the carriage, and as he brought forth the magic, his stomach growled despite the empty plate in front of him. His vision tinted just slightly, his mouth watering as he looked at the wood forming the cabin, a single word forming in his mind.
Burn.
Then he clenched a fist, letting the flames die away, the sensation like sliding into a pool a few degrees too cold for enjoyment.
“You may not have a source, but I do,” he finished as Oliver pushed back further against his chair, and Draysky closed his eyes, napping away the rest of the morning.
They stopped in midafternoon at a stream to water the horses and relieve themselves. The Silver Keeper glared at him as he walked back, seated next to his assistant in the cold open portion of the carriage, where the wind stripped away any warmth on his face. But something else had caught Draysky’s attention. Two legs dangled casually over the edge of the carriage top, just inches behind the Silver Keeper’s head, kicking lazily in the air. Balean lay in the sun, stretched out on the cabin rooftop, meeting Draysky’s wide eyed stare with a wave and a wink. Then he motioned casually down to Draysky to board the carriage and whispered through a crack in the roof as they waited for Oliver to return.
“Good progress, good progress, boy! Already out of the outpost in just a few days. And drawing some rudimentary runes without even passing out this time. I told you that aurel would come in useful, eh?”
“The hells do you think you’re doing?” Draysky hissed back up, and he was met with a harrumph.
“Traveling. Isn’t it obvious? Look, I said I needed a fresh slate for a student, but I was speaking in the doesn’t know what’s good for him type of manner, not the actually an idiot type.”
“You’re the one acting stupid. They’ll be able to see you there, and what then? They’ll cast us out on the road.”
“Them? See me? Ha! I can remain quite hidden if I want to. You never saw me in the Grinder until I deemed so, did you? Trust me on this one.”
Draysky frowned, casting a look out the window to where Oliver was returning, though Balean must now be lying flat out of sight.
“So you’ve finally come to teach me then? Now that they’re taking me to Keeper school?”
“School? Child’s daycare is more like it. Any respectable mage wouldn’t have flinched back at the fiery lines you produced in the carriage, with or without kernels. You were right to call his bluff. Yes, I’m here to teach you, but more than that. We have a deal, you and I. You could say our fates are intertwined. We’re intertwined.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Which makes you creepy by association. That’s how intertwined works. Now that’s aside, how about you get us to the Tower safely, and I’ll help after that.”
“Help with what, exactly?”
“We’ve been over this! Dismantling the Keepers, opening doors that should be locked, the whole kaboozle. Now, your friend is coming back. I'd best be gone. Wouldn’t want them to think you are talking to the air, would we? Unless you want them even more afraid of your instability, that could work. Goodbye. And behave, I’ll be keeping an eye on you!”
Oliver opened the door, settling back in, and the carriage was off again. He’d been right about the duck; their meals after that were not as fanciful, but they still matched Draysky’s family’s yearly celebration meals. After two days of bumping along, the road started to take on a better quality. No longer did they have to stop every two hours to push the wheels out of the muck from the melting snow, and here even ice was rare. Dirt and weeds and trees took over for shale, stretching as far as Draysky could see in every direction. All of these had existed at the outpost, but in limited quantities, not in the amounts he now witnessed, and it made him wary of the long shadows and hiding spots they cast.
With each hour, Draysky’s cramped knees complained more of the carriage’s small interior, and his lungs protesting the stale and stagnant air. Oliver kept the windows closed to preserve warmth, but Draysky much preferred the open air. If the carriage moved slower, he would have disembarked long ago to walk alongside instead of being trapped within.
“Don’t you set up protections for ritebalds?” he asked as they prepared camp on the third day.
“This far south? No need,” said Oliver, waving away the question. “They’re more of a northern concern.”
That was the first time they had spoken that day, and Draysky held no regrets. The next morning, they reached the first town since the outpost, nestled in among the trees so it wasn’t visible until they were nearly on top of it. Perhaps five times the size of Draysky’s own village, it was occupied by loggers that hefted massive saws on donkey-pulled carts in and out of forest. They attracted a few passing stares as they pulled into the inn, known as The Waypoint, which doubled as the town’s tavern. The Silver Keeper handed off the reins to a stable boy who pulled the horses off and away, and they walked to restore their supplies at the local store.
Draysky followed, then tripped, stumbling into the Silver Keeper as the man fished for his purse. Together they went down, the Keeper swearing as the contents of his purse scattered in the dirt, and he pushed the larger Draysky off.
“Keep that up and you’re walking the rest of the way,” he snapped, gathering his belongings then stalking into the store. Draysky frowned, looking behind them in the dirt. Nothing was there that should have tripped him. Being confined to the cramped carriage all day long must have been making his muscles misbehave.
“‘Bout the only visitors we get this time of year,” said the storekeeper as they entered, greeting them at the door. “Still several weeks until the trappers return and start searching through here for moss fox pelts. Anything that won’t preserve for that long you can have half off—traders came in early this year, and I overbought. I don’t have their iceboxes, and no one ships kernels this far north.”
But Draysky was no longer listening; instead, he stood still by the door, taking in the rows upon rows of food in front of him. There were vegetables and fruits, ripe and barely touched by blemish or rotten edges. At least five varieties, something that would be an anomaly even in the Keeper section of the outpost store. Salted meats and fish occupied a rack near the back, and they smelled fresh. It wasn't the stuff so dry that it took several minutes of chewing to break it down. Candies lined the shelf in jars under the counter, the kinds of candies that they only saw when the Silver Keeper arrived, and there were mounds of supplies that typically ran short in the outpost. Salt, for instance, took its own corner, accompanied by other jars filled to the brim next to it, many of which would be available in the outpost only the week after the Silver Keeper’s visit.
“Quit gawking,” said Oliver, “and help us carry this back to the cart. It’s not going anywhere on its own.”
He held a sack of recently purchased rations, but instead of complying, Draysky’
s face turned hot.
“All this, only a few days' ride away from the outpost in a slow carriage. And right now, at the end of winter. More firewood than I could carry and more than enough food to feed our village twice over,” he said, his glare deadly as it focused on Oliver. “Why were we never permitted to retrieve it?”
Burn, said the voice inside his head, as his finger twitched, curling inward toward his palm. Burn!
“It’s more complicated than that. What, you think we could just let you go running off down here? You might never come back,” retorted Oliver, as he tossed the bag down at Draysky’s feet and left the store empty handed.
“Exactly,” whispered Draysky as he picked it up, then he returned to the inn for the night.
To Draysky, the concept of an inn was something of a mystery. Few had reason to travel to his outpost, and those that would were Keepers, their own quarters prepared for them by the time they arrived. Why anyone needed beds for a single night was beyond him, especially when they had a carriage waiting filled with sleeping materials, and the outside wind blew so softly that the air was a comfort.
Regardless, he took his bed of straw, one better than had been available in his own home. He wrinkled his nose thinking of how many others had slept in that bed, like a stable, their own sweat now coating it. He laid down his coat to form a barrier as the others in the room winked out their candles and fell into slumber. After shifting for a half hour, and long after the snores of the Silver Keeper sounded, sleep finally claimed him, and Draysky dreamt.
He relived the Grinder, entering it and the heat and the smoke and the dust. But this time it wasn't him that was being pulverized. Rather, he was performing the grinding, powering the shale, chipping away at the crystal. His hand wrote the runes upon the stone dais, their power springing up to do his bidding. His back pulled up the mighty column of the mountain’s core. And his eyes read the book that had laid upon the table, except now the letters made sense, forming words that would be incomprehensible to him when awake.
The Eternal Flame
All fire must burn, must consume. So too must life. From a spark a babe is born. From kindling it arises to childhood, then it reaches the twigs of adolescence. At adulthood it seeks the wood’s heart, in old age it turns to ash, and in death it blows away upon the wind.
But, this is only if the flame consumes.
To those brazen enough to pursue it, an eternal flame burns, but does not destroy. Such are the fires of the heavens, with no need for consumption, that they simply live among fuel as one might a house. In this way might a soul be preserved in a body, such that age never blemishes the skin, nor bones grow brittle, nor teeth fall out.
The method, if possible, is one of utmost difficulty, requiring the proper preparation of fire and earth. For if the flame alone is conjured, the soul shall be swept into the heavens in heavenly fire and scattered. And if earth alone, the soul shall be bound to the earth without fire, and the candlelight that is life shall be extinguished.
The balance is delicate, with a steady requirement of aurels for anchoring to the earth and sustenance for burning.
He blinked as he looked at the book, then cast his eye to the Grinder. The shaft of earth aurel reaching down, powered by the red fire on the dais.
This, he knew, was what would let him climb the ranks of power. This was the ultimate protection. The ultimate anchoring to Earth, yet freedom to explore beyond. For here, even if his life’s fire were to go out, a spark would remain. A spark that could always be rekindled.
A cheating of death.
Draysky was startled awake from his dreams by a sharp nail tapping his cheekbone.
“Why are you trying to burn us down? We still have some use for those Keepers, though little,” whispered the voice above him as Balean came into view.
Balean gestured down to Draysky’s finger, where a trail of sparks drifted down, starting to smolder in the straw. Draysky leapt up, smothering the smoke with his sleeve, while Balean led the way from the room.
“It’s time we took a walk,” Balean said, slipping through the open door while holding his finger to his lips, “before that finger starts getting too many ideas. Consider this lesson one.”
The night was dark, the moon covered by clouds that also blanketed the stars, and they moved as ghosts in the shadows. Balean led Draysky to the spot where they had left the carriage, then pointed down in the dirt, where a small sparkling caught his eye. A small bead that glowed in the darkness.
“That puppet of a man dropped this when you fell into him earlier,” said Balean, leaning over it. “You see it? This is another form of aurel—one of heavenly power, known as a kernel. Go on, pick it up, it won’t bite.”
Draysky held it in his hand, and there was a slight warmth to the bead, but nothing else. Nothing like the fire aurel that tugged at his consciousness from his finger.
“Kernels are energy. They are what cause change. They make things happen. Keepers draw upon their energy, and connect that to the earthly aurels embedded within themselves. This is where their power arises, you see.
“But you—you cannot do this, just as they could not draw upon an external fire aurel. You have energy within you, so you pull forth substance from your surroundings. They have substance, so they can pull energy. Each without the other is useless, and it is only in combination that they grow strong.
“Now, if I were to draw energy from this kernel, it would have an effect on me. Like drinking a glass of beer, it would cloud my judgement. The effect varies: Some become giddy, others glim. Myself, I feel a confidence like none other. Like liquid fire in my veins, for that is my own first aurel, the flame. I dare say, if I were to do so, you might even find me unbearable for a time!
“Similarly, you have started to pull upon that fire aurel in your finger. It affects your mind, Draysky, and is why you want to burn everything on sight. At least, until your will masters it.”
“I don’t want to do that! Besides, I’ve already drawn a rune with it," Draysky said, stuffing his hand in his pocket to hide the budding spark that emerged at the very suggestion of burn.
“Drawing a rune is the first step on a long staircase. A small piece. Anyone can draw one, but who can command it as if it were their own arm? Few. You must learn that control, or you’ll be a liability to anyone within hearing distance.”
“I wouldn’t actually do anything to harm them.” Draysky said, and Balean chuckled.
“Were those sparks from your finger earlier just a coincidence? Of course you wouldn’t try to. But it only takes one slip up to result in destruction. I’ve seen men fall beneath kernels before without sufficient mastery of them. Men that used to be bright eyed, but the power of heaven burned through them too strongly, sweeping away pathways of thought, burning in what is unnatural to men. They stop living within the real world. They talk only in abstracts. Empathy departs them entirely. Suddenly neither food nor water holds importance to them, and they wither away, sustained only by heavenly power until there is nothing left.
“If you are to be my student, you cannot fall to that same temptation. If you succumb to the command to burn, then you, too, shall burn. Drinking from a cup sustains a man, drowning kills him.”
“Then why did you ever give me this thing, if it could kill me?” Draysky demanded. “And now it’s in my finger?”
“I wouldn’t have suggested embedding it in your flesh,” said Balean with a wave, “but perhaps in the long run that will have its advantages. I warned you, the path is dangerous. If something this small troubles you, turn back now.”
Balean waited, but Draysky pushed away the concern brimming at the edges of his thoughts. That aurel had been his ticket away from the outpost. It had been what brought the slightest traces of fear into Oliver’s eyes. That alone made it a treasure.
“Staying? Good. This is what must be done: You must know the fire, and you must command it. The knowing I shall teach you in the day, during your carriage rides. To the othe
rs, you will appear asleep, but truly, you will be exploring that wealth of wisdom quite literally at your fingertip. There is more to fire than burn, and you must learn that, understand that, and accept that.
“And at night, I will teach you to command.”
Balean stopped walking, and Draysky found himself in a clearing—a small patch of rock with no trees or vegetation, far enough away from town that Draysky could no longer see the outline of rooftops. Something rustled in the bushes, and Draysky turned tense as Balean quieted him.
“A rabbit and nothing else. You heard Oliver, ritebalds are for the north. Now, your attention, if you please.
“When we first met, you cast a rune that sapped out the entirety of your interior kernel. Your kernel is weak. From your years of drawing runes, it is stronger than most in the village, but that’s akin to winning a race among snails. When you took Oliver's glove to the face, that internal power is how you survived the blow. No other ridger had the natural energy to push back, but you had just enough magical muscle to resist it. Think of it like this. For years, you have been building your strength by walking a leisurely pace. Now it is time to run.
“Every night, you are to exercise that muscle, that kernel. It must grow larger and stronger, should you ever intend to use it. Only with magic will that occur, with the drawing of runes. To grow, you must spout fire as if your fingers were made of lantern oil.”
“What if the fire escapes me?” Draysky asked. “What if it burns down the carriage before I can control it? Or the inn?”
“A setback indeed,” said Balean. “But I think we can agree that the loss of useful Keepers will be minimal. Worth the risk, eh?”
Chapter 45: Draysky
“Again,” Balean commanded from his position on a tree branch ten feet off the ground. He’d leapt up there in a single bound, gliding back down to settle weightlessly on a twig as thick as Draysky’s pinky.
Draysky grit his teeth, then redrew the rune in front of him. His finger slid along the air as if it followed a template, or a groove. Like speaking a word in a language he had just learned, the specific symbol made sense in a disjointed way. Fire sputtered from the lines, as if he were trying to breathe out after all the air was pushed from his lungs, squeezing the very last bits of available energy from himself.
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