by Unknown
“Got it,” Kyle said.
“Weave the light pattern.”
Kyle did so, pulling the light backward, then forward, seeing the pinpoint stretch into a thin thread. He pulled it back again, then left, then right, then forward. Within moments, the tangled thread snapped inward, forming a throbbing knot in the center of his mind's eye. He threw it outward, seeing the familiar burst of light through his closed eyelids.
He opened his eyes, and despite himself, he grinned.
“Well done, Kyle,” the Dead Man congratulated. “You learn quickly.”
“Thanks,” Kyle mumbled, feeling his cheeks flush.
I did it, he realized. I had my Awakening!
He lowered his gaze, unable to keep the smile from his lips. He thought of Kalibar, and suddenly wished that the man were here. He would have been so proud. He pictured Kalibar standing there at the edge of Crescent Lake, and his giddiness seeped away.
“Is something wrong?” the Dead Man inquired. Kyle hesitated.
“Just wondering about Kalibar,” he admitted.
“Kalibar is fine,” the Dead Man reassured. He put a cold hand on Kyle's shoulder, and Kyle resisted the urge to pull away. “I have no desire to harm him,” the Dead Man added.
Kyle glanced up at his captor, seeing those sunken, glittering eyes staring down at him.
“I admire Kalibar,” the Dead Man continued. “He is a good man...one of the best I've ever met. We share the same goals,” he added. “We both want what is best for the Empire.”
Kyle dropped his gaze, saying nothing.
“It was never our intention to kill Kalibar,” the Dead Man stated. “Or any of you...other than the traitor.”
Right, Kyle thought.
“Kalibar and the traitor murdered a dozen of my children,” the Dead Man murmured. He gestured at Kyle. “Yet I've let them live, given them a home. And now I've given Kalibar a new purpose, one that any man would enjoy.” He smiled. “And you...I've treated you as one of my own.”
Kyle swallowed, keeping his eyes on his feet. He couldn't argue with what the Dead Man was saying, but he knew the truth. This wasn't a home...it was a prison.
“The men that Kalibar and the traitor killed had wives and children who loved them. Friends who cared for them. They must be honored, and remembered. There will be a funeral for them tomorrow evening. I expect you to attend.”
Kyle nodded.
“All actions have consequences,” the Dead Man counseled. “If we don't witness the consequences of our actions, then we will never learn from them.” He paused for a moment. “Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good,” the Dead Man replied. “Weave the light pattern again,” he ordered, “...using your own magic.”
Kyle hesitated, then closed his eyes, focusing on his mind's eye. He waited, trying to feel the vibrations at the edges of his consciousness. He felt them much more quickly than before, and reached out to them, pulling them inward towards the center. They coalesced into a tiny sphere, which he wove into the light pattern. He threw the pattern outward, and was rewarded by a brief flash of light.
“Well done,” the Dead Man congratulated. “The next step is to learn how to create light for a longer period of time.” The Dead Man gestured, and a globe of white light appeared above his outstretched palm. “To understand how to do this, you have to understand more about how magic works.”
The globe of light vanished suddenly, and the Dead Man lowered his hand.
“Magic is energy,” the ghoulish instructor explained. “Like light, or heat, or magnetism. But magic is unique in that it can control all other forms of energy. When you throw out the light pattern, you are using magic to force the particles of air to release light.”
Makes sense, Kyle thought. He'd learned a little about light in school, about how it was made of photons emitted from excited electrons.
“The light pattern requires magic to power it,” the Dead Man continued. “The magic you weave to create the light pattern is only sufficient enough to power it for a split–second. You must continue to supply magic to the pattern if you want the light to last longer.”
“How?”
“You have to send a 'stream' of magic to the pattern after you throw it out,” the Dead Man explained. “Weave the light pattern, but hold it in your mind instead of throwing it out.”
Kyle did so, closing his eyes and pulling magic into his mind’s eye. He wove the pattern, then held it there.
“Got it,” Kyle said.
“Now pull another strand of magic into your mind's eye,” the Dead Man instructed “...and push it to the pattern.”
Kyle front, knitting his eyebrows together. He concentrated, trying to hold the light pattern in place as he drew more magic from the edges of his consciousness. He pulled the magic inward, but the light pattern unraveled, sucking back beyond the edges of his mind's eye. Kyle grimaced, opening his eyes.
“I lost it,” Kyle apologized.
“Try again.”
Kyle did so, closing his eyes and weaving the light pattern once again. He held it there carefully, pulling more magic into his mind's eye. This time, he managed to hold the light pattern in place; it was a bit like trying to rub your belly and tap your head at the same time. He pushed this second dot of light towards the pulsating light pattern, and the dot stretched into a thin thread which fused with the pattern.
“Got it,” Kyle said.
“You should sense a thread connecting to your pattern,” the Dead Man stated. Kyle nodded. “This thread will connect your mind to the pattern after you throw the pattern out,” the Dead Man continued. “Then you will be able to stream magic to the pattern through this thread.”
“Okay.”
“Throw out the pattern now.”
Kyle did as he was instructed, pushing the pattern outward. He saw the remaining thread of magic in his mind’s eye, watched it thin out like a stretched rubber band. There was a flash of light, but this time it did not fade away.
“Pull more magic from your mind, and send it through the magic stream towards the pattern,” the Dead Man commanded. Kyle did so, and the light grew painfully bright. He turned his head away, losing control of the stream. The light winked out immediately.
“Well done Kyle,” The Dead Man murmured. Kyle opened his eyes, looking up at the Dead Man, and saw a smile on the man's lips. “You have a gift for weaving.”
Kyle smiled back; despite everything, he felt rather proud of himself.
“Again,” The Dead Man ordered.
Kyle nodded, closing his eyes and weaving the pattern again. He grabbed another strand of magic – it was a bit easier this time – and pushed it to the pattern. Then he threw the pattern outward, and pushed magic to it through the stream. This time, he managed to keep the light going for a few seconds before he lost control of it.
“Again,” the Dead Man ordered. “Longer this time.”
“It's hard to do two things at once,” Kyle protested. He thought he was doing pretty good, after all; Kalibar would have been amazed with his progress.
The Dead Man said nothing, staring down at Kyle for a long moment. Suddenly a globe of light appeared above the Dead Man's head. Then a second, and a third. More and more lights appeared, until there were a few dozen globes shining above him, illuminating the bridge.
Then they all vanished.
“Again,” the Dead Man commanded.
* * *
Kyle stretched his arms up over his head, twisting his aching back left, then right. He glanced up at the Dead Man, waiting for more instructions. The ghoulish Weaver had made Kyle practice streaming magic to the light pattern dozens of times, until he had proven that he could hold the magic stream for as long as he wanted. His stomach grumbled loudly; he was practically starving. The Dead Man put a chilly hand on Kyle's shoulder, patting it gently.
“That's enough practice for this morning,” he declared. “You still have a great deal to learn, but you're r
eady to join your peers in class today.” He raised his hand from Kyle's shoulder, snapping his fingers loudly. Within moments, Kyle saw Jayce sprinting towards them. The older boy reached them at the center of the bridge, bowing to the Dead Man. The Dead Man nodded at Jayce. “Take Kyle to Mr. Maywind's class,” he ordered.
“Yes sir.”
Jayce turned around immediately, walking back toward the leftmost building. Kyle followed after the older boy, sprinting down the arched surface of the bridge to the street below. They made their way to the entrance to the building, walking inside. Jayce led Kyle through a maze of hallways, then up a flight of stairs, eventually stopping at an open door. Kyle peeked beyond the doorway; the room beyond appeared to be a classroom, with desks organized in rows facing a chalkboard. Every one of the desks was already taken by someone – girls and boys that looked to be about Kyle's age – except for one at the front of the class.
“Sit,” Jayce ordered, shoving Kyle through the doorway toward the empty desk. Kyle obeyed, walking up to the desk and sitting down. Two dozen eyeballs followed him as he sat. Kyle glanced to his right, seeing a short, black-haired boy to his right. The boy glared at him, then turned away.
Okay, Kyle thought.
Kyle turned to his left, spotting a girl sitting next to him. She was a little taller than him, and slender, with dark brown hair in a long ponytail. She had big, almond-shaped brown eyes...and it wasn't until she glanced over at him that he realized he was staring. He turned away quickly, his eyes on his desk.
Idiot, he muttered to himself.
A man strode through the doorway into the room, walking up to a long wooden desk at the front of the classroom. He sat down, staring at the students in front of him. He was a Death Weaver, dressed in the familiar blood-red uniform. He had long black hair and beard, with a pale white scar running down his left cheek.
“Good morning Mr. Maywind,” the class greeted in unison.
“Good morning, class,” Mr. Maywind replied. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his desk, and turned to Kyle, gesturing with one hand. “We have a new student today,” he announced. “Stand and introduce yourself.”
Kyle hesitated, then stood, twisting around to face the class. The whole class stared back at him, each student looking as excited to see him as the boy to his right had been.
“I'm Kyle,” he mumbled.
“Louder,” Mr. Maywind ordered.
“I'm Kyle,” he stated.
“Sit,” Mr. Maywind commanded. Kyle did so, slouching in his seat. He could feel the other students' eyes on him.
“This,” Mr. Maywind stated, standing up from his chair and pacing in front of the class, “...is Introductory Magic Theory.” He stopped in front of Kyle's desk, looking down at him. “In this class, you will learn what magic is, how it works, and what you can do with it.”
“Yes sir,” Kyle mumbled.
Mr. Maywind turned away from him, pacing once again.
“Today we will continue talking about magic production,” he lectured. “Yesterday we learned that magic is generated in the brain, and that some Weavers can naturally make more magic than others. Some make a large amount,” he stated, glancing at Kyle as he strode by, “...while others make hardly any at all.” He paused for a moment, a smirk curling his lips. “And these people become magic teachers.”
Kyle heard nervous laughter from the back of the room.
“Luckily,” Mr. Maywind continued, “...many of us who have little talent for producing magic can train ourselves, over time, to produce more. Now, how do we make our muscles grow?”
The dark-haired boy to Kyle's right raised his hand, and Mr. Maywind nodded at him.
“You lift weights,” the boy answered. Mr. Maywind nodded again.
“Correct, Pipkin,” he replied. He turned to Kyle. “And how do you produce more magic?” he pressed. Kyle stared back at the man, his mind going blank. Suddenly he didn't even remember the question. He heard more snickering coming from the back of the room...and from Pipkin, who smirked at him.
“By using magic,” a feminine voice called out. Kyle turned to his left, seeing the pretty brunette sitting there. She glanced at him, smiling faintly. Unlike Pipkin's smirk, her smile seemed genuine...apologetic, even. He found himself smiling back, and blushed, turning away.
“Partially correct, Ariana,” Mr. Maywind replied. “Using magic already stored in one's body does little to improve production,” he added. “And using magic stored in a crystal does nothing to improve it. But if you use up enough of the magic stored in your body, you'll force your mind to produce more to replace it.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Only by taxing one's ability to generate magic can one improve that ability. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Maywind,” the class stated in unison.
“Good,” Mr. Maywind replied. “Now, unlike muscle, with magic there is no known upper limit as to how much a Weaver can make.” He turned to another student in the front row. “Where is magic stored?”
The student stared at Mr. Maywind blankly.
“Perhaps our slower students would benefit from a hint,” Mr. Maywind stated. “Magic is stored in the largest repository of crystals in your body. Which is?”
“Our bones,” the girl to Kyle's left – Ariana – answered. Mr. Maywind nodded, clearly pleased.
“Correct,” he replied. “Magic is generated in the mind, and if not used, it flows through the skeleton.” He pressed the fingers of both hands to his temples. “It flows to the closest bones to the brain first, the bones of the skull. When those bones are filled, magic flows from them to the bones of the spine, and then the rest of the skeleton. Understood?”
“Yes Mr. Maywind,” the class replied. Kyle found himself answering along with the rest of the students.
“Now, the larger the bone, the more magic it can hold,” Mr. Maywind continued. He gestured at a girl sitting a few seats to Kyle's right. “If I were to break your arm, what would happen?”
The girl said nothing, but turned very pale, no doubt worried that her teacher would resort to a demonstration.
“An intelligent student,” Mr. Maywind stated, “...would deduce that breaking a bone would prevent a Weaver from accessing the magic stored in the bone past the break. In battle, you can use this to your advantage. Removing or breaking limbs will weaken your opponent significantly.”
Kyle found himself glancing furtively to his left, at Ariana. She was writing something down on a small notepad, a few strands of hair falling in front of her face. She brushed them away, tucking them behind her ears, which were a little small. She looked to be as old as Desiree back home, but without the curves he'd found so utterly fascinating. She was almost the opposite of his blue-eyed, blonde-haired crush on Earth. Still, he found himself having a hard time looking away.
“Now,” Mr. Maywind said, forcing Kyle out of his reverie. “We've all learned the simplest pattern of all – how to make light. But how does one make the light larger or smaller?”
The sound of shuffling feet echoed through the small classroom. No one answered.
“To make the light bigger, put more magic into the light pattern itself,” he said. “The less magic you use while weaving, the smaller it will become. Understood?”
“Yes Mr. Maywind.”
“And how do you make the light brighter?” he asked. There was silence, and then Ariana raised her hand again. “Ariana?”
“Put more magic into the magic stream,” she answered. Mr. Maywind nodded.
“Precisely,” he agreed. “I'm glad at least one of my students possesses the ability to think.” Kyle found himself staring at Ariana again, and turned to look down at his desk. He thought about Ariana's answer; it made sense, in a way. It was like a flashlight...the bigger the light bulb, the bigger the light. The more electricity going to the light bulb, the brighter it would become.
“Now, don't try it here,” Mr. Maywind said as lights popped up all around the room. The lights winked out almos
t immediately. “This is a class about magic theory, not application.” He smirked then. “Mr. Tenson will be more than happy to have you practice during his class.”
There were a few groans around the room.
“We've run out of time,” Mr. Maywind declared, walking back to his desk and sitting down. “Never forget that Xanos is with all of you, watching you through His Chosen. Make Him proud.”
“Yes Mr. Maywind,” the class droned.
“Class dismissed,” Mr. Maywind stated, waving them away.
The students rose up out of their seats around Kyle, bowing at Mr. Maywind, then filing toward the exit. Kyle stood, bowing awkwardly at his teacher, then following the line out of the classroom. He stepped out into the hallway, which was packed with students in gray uniforms. They were all walking down the hallway in the same direction, and Kyle followed the crowd, having no idea where he was going...or what was to come next.
Suddenly he felt someone elbow him in the ribs, and he doubled over, his breath catching in his throat. He turned, spotting a taller boy glaring at him. He stared back, rubbing his side. The boy disappeared into the crowd.
What was that for?
Someone smacked him in the back of the head...hard.
Kyle spun around, looking behind him. He saw a sea of faces staring beyond him, none of them paying him any mind.
The hell?
Kyle turned forward...and felt someone shove him to the side. He lost his balance, slamming his right shoulder into the wall. Two boys grabbed his arms, pinning them to the wall. A third boy stepped out of the crowd, cocking his fist back, and punched Kyle square in the belly.
Kyle doubled over, the breath exploding from his lungs. Bitter fluid rushed up into his mouth, and he nearly vomited. The hands holding his arms let go, and he sank to the floor, clutching his aching belly.
The boy who'd punched him leaned down, his lips at Kyle's ear.
“That's for my father,” he growled.
The boy straightened up, then gestured for the other two to follow him. They rejoined the crowd, leaving Kyle sitting on the floor, his head between his knees.
Kyle grimaced, feeling moisture welling up in his eyes. He wiped it away with his sleeves, pushing himself up to his feet. He braced himself against the wall, holding his belly with one hand. The crowd moved past him, nobody so much as looking at him.