by JD Franx
Oripar shook his head. “Blessed Cortina, Giddeon, what does this mean? He’s not a… Is he?”
Giddeon held up a finger, bidding him wait. “I understand, Zaddyk, if you don’t want to learn magic. I can get Professor Lightfoot to take you to a friend of mine when we’re done today. He can take you to meet a priest named Brother Donis. You will be happy at the Oracle’s Monastery, and you won’t have to learn magic. Does that sound good?”
“Yes, Giddeon, sir. I’d like that very much,” the boy said, smiling.
Giddeon rose and pulled Oripar aside.
“What did the boy mean about magic killing his parents?” he murmured when they were out of earshot.
“I know nothing about it, Giddeon,” the Elvehn wizard said. “He was found on the streets stealing food from the market stalls. When the guards caught him he was tested, as all children are. His affinity was high enough to bring him here—that was a week ago. I'm not sure if he will be strong enough to pass the Bonding. Today was the first time I’ve seen him smile since he arrived.”
Giddeon sighed. “We must get help for this boy. Brother Donis can give him a better life than he could ever have here. Though I doubt he will ever become a full prophet, he should become a decent seer, given time. I’m pretty sure he’s getting flashes of himself hurting people. Take him to Brother Donis after class. I’ll stop by and explain to Donis when I leave.”
Oripar bowed acquiescence.
Turning his attention back to the class, Giddeon spread his hands. “All right, students. Does anyone else have a question?” He nodded to a young girl in the front row who was the first to raise her hand for a second time.
Her face lit up. “ArchWizard, I want to know where do magics come from?”
Giddeon couldn’t help but chuckle. “Magic, little one, comes from the earth and from life. When you are a little older and stronger, you will use your strength and the little bit of magic you have to join your soul with that of the earth. When you cast a spell, this is where you will draw the power from.”
“Master Giddeon, how does we casts some spells?” a little boy asked, waving his hand back and forth in the air.
Giddeon smiled as he replied, “Most of your training while you are here will be in learning the language that will release your power. This raw power supplied by the earth is called magical essence. It is transformed into magic by speaking the words that release that power. These words are the language of magic, called VosHain. Watch… Hrinda Rida.”
A stiff breeze blew from his hands across the entire room, ruffling hair and making the children gasp and giggle.
“In the magical language of VosHain, Hrinda means ‘to push’ while Rida means ‘wind,’” he explained. “When you draw on your power and speak the words, it pushes the wind out from your hands. That is how you cast a spell. Study hard in your language classes, because the better you learn the language the more varied the spells you will be able to cast.”
“How many spells can you do, Master Giddeon?” The question came from the youngest boy in the class. He couldn’t be more than four, yet Giddeon could sense the boy’s intense magical energy.
Giddeon walked to his desk and knelt down, just as he had done with Zaddyk. “I can cast many different spells, little one. And what might your name be?”
“I’m Xallis, sir,” the boy replied without hesitation.
Now that Giddeon was close enough, he could actually feel the raw energy surrounding the boy. It hummed along every nerve in Giddeon’s body. “And how many spells can you cast, Xallis?”
He watched as the boy lifted his right hand and pulled traces of luminescent energy from the flames that lit several candles ensconced along the classroom walls. Like pulling strings on a harp, the boy’s flicking fingers played with the red and yellow streams of fire. Finally circling his index finger clockwise faster and faster, the energy transformed itself into a swirling fireball in his palm. Giddeon smiled, amazed. Without breaking his concentration, the young boy reached out again, running his fingers through Giddeon’s beard, creating sparks of static electricity. Gently teasing the blue sparks along his fingers, Xallis twisted his wrist, gesturing with his palm up. The three sparks chased each other circling his palm until forming a small electrical tornado. Xallis stared into Giddeon’s eyes, a crooked smile forming. “Just two, sir.”
Giddeon smiled, glancing back over his shoulder. “For now, Xallis, two for now. Look, Oripar. The boy can manipulate the elements. With proper training, he could become a master of elemental sorcery. Some day, he may even master the Archaic Grimoires.”
“My people believe such magic is of an age long lost to us, Giddeon. There are still a few elementalists born to the Elvehn every year, but never has one so young been able to amplify so easily. He will never bond with the earth, will he?” Oripar asked.
Smiling at the young boy, Giddeon shook his head. “No, he won’t. All he needs is a trace of any element to be able to manipulate it: a drop of water, a breath of wind, a speck of dirt, a spark of static—as you saw, or flame from a candle. He is the same as your other elemental sorcerers, only a lot stronger and once he matures his spells will be limited only by his imagination.”
Giddeon smiled again. He couldn’t believe he would be alive to watch Xallis grow to become something the world hadn’t seen in so long. The Archaic Grimoires were amazing to read and described unheard of elemental power. He knew that the Elvehn would demand to take over his training, but that was fine with him. Oripar could arrange to have the boy transferred to the Eye’s elemental wing, which was run by the Elvehn.
Oripar stood and called his room to attention. “All right, children, that’s enough for today. Everyone thank the ArchWizard Zirakus for coming and showing us some magic.” The students groaned and complained about their time with the ArchWizard being over, but with a stern look from Oripar, they cheered and clapped before leaving the classroom, beaming with excitement. Even Zaddyk left with a small smile on his face.
Oripar clasped Giddeon’s shoulder before sitting behind his desk with a sigh. “So, old friend, what brings you back to the hallowed halls of the Eye?”
“Rather informative visit, don’t you think, Oripar? Both a seer and a Human elemental in one day.”
“That’s for sure, Giddeon. With so many students here now, it would’ve taken weeks, months even, for us to find them ourselves. I’ll make plans for them later today. I assume you’ll want to watch over both?”
“Yes. Absolutely. But for now, I need your help. It looks like we may have entered a foretold era. It’s possible that the Last Light Prophecy is upon us. The monks in Orier say the orrery predicts a Black Sun phenomenon is about ten weeks off and the rest of the signs have lined up. This child is going to live, Oripar, and we must deal with it. King Bale wants the best of us working together.”
“When did the last sign fall into place?” Oripar asked grimly, leaning back in his chair.
Giddeon hesitated. “We confirmed it yesterday. The High King of Kastalborg Island had the Northmen close Tyr’s Shield more than a moon and a half ago, but we don’t know why. The message sent through the sea-gate was simply that their King had ordered at least a one-year lock-down. Everything lines up. It’s here, and we need a solution. Will you help?” His worried eyes held Oripar’s.
“You needn’t even ask, Giddeon. I’ll arrange for my classes to be covered and meet you at your tower after supper.”
Giddeon nodded his thanks. The afternoon had been a relief from his duties as ArchWizard. He had to stop at the Oracle’s chapel, where his daughter would hopefully have some information for him. Ten weeks remained; not much time at all.
Chapter Two
Prophecy has never played a major role in the history of Talohna. Though it is enthusiastically studied by the followers of the oracle goddess, Cortina, seldom has it been important enough for kings and emperors to take notice—until now.
One of the prophecies Cortina’s followers have been wa
tching is what we call the Last Light Prophecy. It has been foreseen by several prophets dating back millennia and is interpreted to mean that all things light and good will come to an end.
We will do what we can to prevent this apocalyptic prophecy from coming to pass.
ARCHWIZARD GIDDEON ZIRAKUS’ PERSONAL JOURNAL
5005 PC
CASCADE WIZARD’S TOWER
Giddeon had been studying books of ancient prophecy for weeks now. His quarters on the top floor of Corynth’s only wizard’s tower, some two hundred feet above the castle, were quite spacious. Presently they were a spacious mess. The small bedchamber and the much larger work area were stacked high with very old, fragile books and piles of mouldy paper. The books gathered on the three main tables along the southern wall left room for only spent candle stubs and several plates with food scraps. The workroom itself held several artifacts of magic, along with the most advanced alchemy setup in all of Talohna. Another three tables lined the tower’s north wall, heaped with the prophetic literature that the ArchWizard would need most. Under normal conditions the circular room would be reasonably tidy, at least to a wizard’s eye. Having not slept in three days, he was quickly running out of both stamina and patience.
Giddeon’s time had been consumed with examining a mainline prophecy, an extremely rare but straightforward revelation. Straightforward, that was, for mystics with experience in the prophetic arts. In over ten thousand years a mainline had never failed; such a prophecy had always come to pass, even if not as expected. This particular prophecy was dated by experts at over five thousand years old. It was the one prophecy that made Giddeon shudder, and for close to fifty years had given him nightmares that left him both emotionally and physically drained. None of his considerable experience or power could help.
In two hundred and ten years of life, Giddeon had never been as sick with worry as he was now. The last time he had felt this apprehensive, he’d been eight years old, and no one had realized his exceptional affinity for magic. His family had never produced a wizard, and therefore the thought of magical power had never entered his young mind. Like most young farm boys, Giddeon had dreamt of becoming a knight, a warrior, even daydreaming of being chosen the First Pillar—until a chilly summer morning when an eight-year-old boy with an exceptional connection to the earth’s power could not stop thinking about how cold his hands were, causing the barn to freeze over with his sister inside. To this day he still grew sick with guilt when he thought about that dreadful morning.
Time was quickly running out for Giddeon and the contingent of magic users and prophecy masters the King had gathered to help him. With only a few hours until dawn, the others had all retired to their chambers for some much needed rest, with the exception of Saleece. She refused to sleep if he was still up and about. At his side since the night she had appeared at the castle gates, it had become clear to all that she was far more gifted with magic than most.
Four years old at the time, she’d been discovered when Giddeon and some guards had noticed the glare from a light globe she had conjured to see in the dark—a spell most could not cast until late adolescence. Giddeon still didn’t know where she’d come from. When he tried to use his inner sight on her, it had little effect.
Now she was fourteen years old and the only apprentice in the tower who was at his side all day, every day, when not in class. She stood five feet tall and had long, golden hair that some people swore had an emerald sheen if seen from the proper angle. The Cethosian Wizards’ Council was confident that she would one day attain great power and status. Most apprentices in her classes were between twenty and fifty years older than her, but even so, she always got the best grades. Though he feared it, Giddeon knew she would one day pass the tests required to attain his rank, a task very few survived.
The King’s champion and Giddeon’s good friend, Kasik, was also there, and though he too had gotten little sleep, he appeared no worse for it. Although quite young, Kasik was one of the King’s most respected warriors, so much so that commoners often whispered that he was half Northman. They were wrong. Kasik was a full-blooded Northman, and while his kind were not an everyday sight outside of Kastalborg Island, many young warriors like him left the island at sixteen years of age as part of their Bloodbourne ceremony.
During a Northman’s Bloodbourne trails, for up to twenty years he or she would travel Talohna, earning their keep by the power of their sword as a rite of passage into adulthood. Most returned home to their clan by the twentieth year, but some never did. The call to battle was all most Northmen cared about; once they found it, they would seldom leave.
Kasik Blodhjorr was an exception—thinking about it made Giddeon chuckle to himself. More concerned about his place in the world and with helping his friends, the young Northman had settled in Corynth with no obvious plans to leave, even after his Bloodbourne years had passed. At six-four and 260 pounds, Kasik was a mass of Northman fury ready to be unleashed at a second’s notice. He was every bit as skilled as the rumours floating around Corynth implied.
His blond hair was cut short on top but grew long at the back of his head, hanging in a braided ponytail. A single clan-loyalty braid, called a kreeda, was attached to the shorter hair and hung behind his left ear. A Northman’s left side was traditionally his shield side, so the left-side kreeda represented the strength and solidarity of family. A full eighteen inches in length, it showed those who knew what it meant that Kasik was no outcast. Kreeda braids that showed loyalty to other clans were normally half that length and hung from the right side, representing the loyalty of being another clan’s right hand, the sword arm, the side that does the damage.
Giddeon knew that Kasik’s lone kreeda was a reflection of his age and nothing more. His twenty-five years had already tempered him and made him a feared warrior throughout Talohna. His lack of battle scars attested to both his prowess and his youth. Nobody trained better warriors than the fabled Krigare—Tigers from the North.
As Giddeon stared down at the ages-old pile of deteriorating papers, he decided to re-read the full prophecy once more before trying to rest, hoping against hope to glean some clue that would help them. But with no power of prophecy, it read as it always had:
As Tyr slams his shield upon brother Aegeus’s back and rushes to Mylla’s rock, three moons invite the Bloods’ blackest-born bonds. Revulsion accounts one lost while Dathac reaps the willing. The impending approach will guide reprisal toward both crua, as capacity for mercy fades. All last offers live in the dreams of those kept by Dathac. The Bloods’ blackest dawns the light’s last, and will see Black’s poured blood, returned to times past.
King Joran Bale had demanded a solution by midday. One of the few fair and honourable kings left, he would brook no threat to his people. The rest of the specialists agreed with Giddeon conclusively in their interpretation of the prophecy. They had written it out for the King earlier in the evening:
Three moons after the Northmen close their ocean gate, another of Talohna’s Kai’Sar, a DeathWizard, will be born. If the child is reaped by Dathac, the god of the underworld, because of the revulsion it causes, the child will return in the future for revenge against both good and evil as its compassion fades. By this time the realm’s only hope will lie with the dreams of the dead in Dathac’s underworld, meaning that all hope will be gone. The Kingdoms’ worst Kai’Sar will herald the end of light.
The last sentence we interpret to mean that the Black, the Kai’Sar, will spill enough blood to return this world to the chaos experienced during the time of Jasala Vyshaan.
Giddeon had explained to the King days earlier that a DeathWizard was not like a normal wizard. The Wizards’ Council knew that normal wizards created their earth-bond, called a cruus, when they had grown strong enough. It was called the Bonding, but DeathWizards were born with the cruus already in place—like an arm or a leg it was part of their whole self. Worse, they had a second bond to the underworld, giving them unknown powers from the realm of the af
terlife. They came into this world endowed with both crua, granting them immense power. With no time to develop a sense of morals, the power corrupted the child to its very core, leaving no conscience, no sense of morality.
“Then kill it, Giddeon,” King Bale had said. “We cannot risk all of Talohna on the life of one child. It is your duty. See it done. You have my permission to bring in any resources you feel you may need.”
Giddeon made no secret about being relieved that the prophecy translated as it did. Killing a newborn child was to travel down a road that wouldn’t end well, regardless of their purpose. Having to face the King and his adviser in a couple of hours, he told Saleece to tidy up as he headed for his chambers.
As he turned to walk away, Kasik asked, “Will you want to talk to the others before you see the King?”
The ArchWizard wiped his face with the palm of his hand and tugged at his long, braided beard. “There’s not much sense. We’ve all agreed. Anyway, the only decision to be made is with His Majesty’s consent.”
Kasik walked away muttering. “Magic,” he huffed. “Never does anyone any good.” It was no secret that Northmen hated any kind of magic.
“Sometimes, Kasik,” Giddeon whispered to himself, “I know exactly what you mean.” He turned and headed for his bedroom. He was exhausted, and wizards without sleep made mistakes. For people who could wield the power of magic, mistakes meant lost lives.
Rubbing eyes that felt like they were full of sand, Giddeon didn’t get far before he stumbled and nearly fell. Looking down, he gasped and felt most of his consciousness scatter like leaves on a volatile wind. Even though he was no prophet, it wasn’t difficult for a wizard of Giddeon’s calibre to foresee what was about to happen. He dropped to his knees and braced for the pain he knew was imminent. Celestial torment crashed through his mind as the oracle goddess rent open the part of his consciousness needed for the telepathic link to her sister, Aleace, the goddess of time.