by Pedro Urvi
Komir could not help but laugh.
“And that’s why you have us staying here, with no intention of moving somewhere more luxurious, no matter how tempting the offer. The trust you inspire in us is beyond price.”
“I’m honored by your trust,” Bandor said, taking a step back and making a quaint bow.
Komir smiled once again. The truth was that Bandor was a lovable fellow of a none-too-common kind. Rogdonians in general were reasonably honest, at least as far as Komir had been able to tell, but they were not noted for being likeable. Besides, an honest trader in a big city was something as rare as water in a desert. Komir might not know much about life yet, but in his homeland he had learnt the hard way not to trust merchants, peddlers and people of that kind.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go up to my room to rest.”
“I’ll tell Norma to fix your room right away. Well, that’s if my dear wife is in a good mood,” joked the innkeeper.
“Don’t worry, Bandor, there’s no need. What I really want now is a jug of good local wine and something to eat. Yes, I think that’s something I could really do with.”
“Of course. Norma will bring you up something hot and some wine.”
“Thank you, it’s always comforting to come back to the Flying Pony Inn. It’s like my second home.”
“It gladdens my heart that you think that of my humble establishment. Even more so now that we all need security of some kind to hold on to.”
“Why do you say that, Bandor?”
“Haven’t you heard the bad news?”
“Well no, I haven’t… I’ve been very… busy. What’s happened?”
“War, Komir! War’s what’s happened!”
“Has it been declared already? I thought it was only rumors and that it wouldn’t come to bloodshed.”
“Luckily it hasn’t yet been declared. But everyone’s saying it’s a fact. The whole city is convulsed. They fear the worst, what we prayed to the Light would never happen. War seems to be completely unavoidable now. The Norghanians have set siege to the Fortress of the Half Moon. The city is in uproar, the soldiers are arming and re-grouping. Rumors of all kinds are spreading….”
“That’s very bad news, I can see that.”
“The worst kind. Many of the customers are beginning to pack, leaving the city to go back to their families or seek refuge in the capital, in Rilentor.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Will you go back to the highlands with your tribe?”
“No, Bandor, I’m staying, war or no war. I have a quest to fulfill and I won’t go back to my homeland until I’ve seen it through. If war breaks out, it’ll just be one more difficulty in my way, nothing more than that.”
“War’s something rather more than a difficulty, Komir. If the Norghanians take the Fortress of the Half Moon and invade Rogdon, all the east of the kingdom will be razed to the ground. There’ll be nothing left of farms and villages after the army of the men of the snow has passed through, and worse still, I don’t want to think of what they’ll do to our captured women… War is the worst of beasts, lad, bloodthirsty and cruel.”
“There’s a lot in what you say, and for the good of Rogdon I hope the fortress holds and the invasion is averted.”
“Let’s hope so. Although the rumors arriving from the South are just as bad, or even worse.”
“What’s going on in the South?”
“There’s a rumor that the Nocean Empire will take advantage of the Norghanian invasion to launch an attack on Silanda. A merchant from that sweet southern city told me that less than an hour ago.”
“I’m sure they’re just unfounded rumors, the product of people’s fears.”
“Let’s hope that’s it, Komir. If not, it would mean the end of the kingdom.”
“Don’t worry. The situation is worrying, but things will get better. The Rogdonian Army is strong, and if I’m not mistaken, your King is a good leader.”
“That’s why I pray to the Light. It would be a good idea for you to pray too, to your Norriel Goddesses.”
“I will, Bandor, don’t worry, I will.”
An hour later Komir was sitting on the simple bed, finishing the delicious food which Norma with her strange sense of humor, or rather lack of it, had prepared and brought for him. It was striking to see the difference in character of the couple who ran the inn. There was truth in the old saying that opposites attract each other.
He poured himself a little wine from a jug and tasted it, letting his palate fill with the strong flavor, savoring the body of the wine. The Norriel preferred beer to wine, but Komir liked the taste of the grape and drank it whenever he could do so in peace. To savor it gave him a pleasant feeling of wellbeing and took his mind away from the troubles which haunted it. He took another long draught and leaned back, stretching his legs. He was comfortable, and even though the news of war had upset him, he saw it from a distance, as someone else’s problem. One more difficulty to deal with in the course of his quest. The war was a Rogdonian problem, and he had more than enough of his own.
As he relaxed his mind began to wander, turning over the strange things which had happened since he had left Orrio, his native village in the Norriel highlands. He recalled one particular incident: the manner in which the Ilenian King’s medallion had acted with his own energy, the curse of Igrali. If he had already been worried about carrying that curse within him, for all that it had saved his life, then this new connection between the medallion around his neck and that inner power irked him no end more.
Back in his homeland, he reflected, that arcane energy, the curse which had made him Marked and repudiated by the members of his tribe, had manifested itself on two occasions, and had saved his life in both. The power had activated by itself, without Komir being aware of what was going on. The first time, as a boy, when he was being beaten in the river where he nearly drowned. On that first traumatic occasion the power had burst out, presumably born out of the fear of drowning.
The second time was different, although it had also been completely involuntary. That time it was something much more instinctive, a defensive reflex which had saved his life from Alkog’s treacherous attack during the sword tournament in the Ceremony of the Bear. That incident, together with the previous one, had made him Marked before his people, a scorned witch-man. That was why he had loathed with all his heart that curse he had been punished with by the Moon Goddess. He did not understand why it had happened to him when the only thing he had ever wanted was simply to become a warrior of his tribe, to be accepted by them, by his people.
Komir had buried that power deep inside him, crushing it, hating it, ignoring Amtoko’s advice. The old Witch of the tribe had advised him to study his power and the possibilities of using it. But he had not wanted to know anything about it. He remembered painfully how the power had saved him on that fateful night when his parents were murdered by the slant-eyed foreign warriors in their tiger-skins. Then, as before, the power had surged up spontaneously, out of the desperate situation he was in. Remembering that moment brought tears to his eyes, for the pain made his heart shrivel up inside him.
But during the ambush in the streets of the city, when those mercenaries were about to end his life, everything had changed. This time Komir had looked for it on purpose, he himself had invoked the cursed power, since otherwise he knew he was going to die.
He had summoned it intentionally.
It had been the first time.
He thought about it. Something of great significance had been revealed to him, something Komir was not expecting and which had surprised him greatly. The medallion of the Ilenian King had interacted with his own energy. It was an Object of Power, a potent weapon capable of calling up spells. Komir was aware that this was deeply significant, and although he was still unable to understand the implications, he knew they were important.
So Komir asked himself openly: was this so bad? Was using the power the Goddesses had cursed him with,
to save his own life at a moment when everything was lost, really so bad? Somehow there in the city, far from the Norriel highlands, from the tribe and their superstitions, from those ancient beliefs, it did not seem so serious, rather the opposite. Did it matter at all? After all, he was already the Marked, that would never change in the eyes of the tribe. So that being the case, why not use that power for his own benefit? It might not be a curse after all.
He took another sip of wine and went on pondering. It was something he did not do often… ponder… he rather seldom did it… practically never, he admitted, smiling to himself. He was no great thinker. He was impulsive by nature, he mainly followed his heart, with the help of his mind, but always in this order, very rarely the other way round. He was aware that it was not a good quality. His beloved father Ulis had told him more than once: A good heart may kill you as fast as an enemy arrow. Komir had tried to change his behavior, putting reasoning before heart, but it had rarely worked.
His mind wandered to the most recent time when his power had manifested itself. He recalled the Dominator, Guzmik, and everything that had happened at his mansion. On that occasion he had deliberately searched for the power within him. And although he had not been able to kill Guzmik, it had helped him to get rid of one of the two acolytes of the Dominator. This time, like the one before, he had witnessed the connection between the Ilenian medallion and his own power. This connection had become sealed and the medallion had used his energy to create a powerful spell.
Something that was surely extraordinary and intriguing.
Something was changing within him, and he noticed it. Now he no longer loathed the power which had marginalized him among his people. He was beginning to realize that Amtoko had been right: Who knows what we might come to find inside you? The power you may possess, the skills this power might offer you.
Amtoko had spoken about developing unthinkable skills, of controlling the elements: Fire, Earth, Water, Air, and of creating magic based on them with crushing power. Developing skills to control other people’s minds, to connect with nature and the animals, or use the power to improve his own battle skills, perhaps even see the threads of destiny, the dangers around him. He remembered perfectly. At that moment, when the witch had told him all this, he had refused it with all his being, but he remembered what Amtoko had tried to explain to him.
He took a deep breath, aware that something was indeed changing within him.
Positive nervousness took hold of him.
And gradually he realized. What was making him feel good was accepting the fact that what was inside him and had tortured him so much was in truth something good. Not only that, it was a blessing, for the simple reason that without that power, he would now be dead.
He let out a long breath.
Now I see it clearly, I understand, I know what I have to do.
He looked into the red liquid in the jug, losing himself in it.
I must learn to use my power, my Gift.
And he felt encouraged.
He got up from the bed and a playful unrest ran through his body, concentrating itself in his stomach, rippling up and down without any control. Of course he had to learn how to use the power instead of burying it and despising it. How mistaken he had been!
I’ve been a fool. I behaved toward myself the same way my neighbors did toward me, guided by fear and superstition. Committing the same fault I always held against the others of my tribe.
He inhaled deeply.
I’m different.
I’m the Marked.
He let the air out of his lungs.
So what? I don’t care anymore. I’m what I am and I embrace it. No more denial or rejection. I’m different and I always will be.
He stretched his arms and walked around the small room with a mixture of happiness and nervousness. It was a crucial moment in his life, he knew that. New paths, new experiences, were opening up before him. And what was more important, accepting himself and his power was revealing itself little by little as deeply important for his ultimate goal: to avenge the death of his parents. That inner power, if he managed to control it, if he learnt to call upon it at will, would give him a tremendous advantage over his enemies. And the medallion could even amplify that power, as he now knew.
He put his hand on his chest, where the medallion was hanging, and stroked it. That medallion made magic, he had witnessed it at first hand. The matter now was to understand the mechanism by which the power was activated and the way the artifact worked. This was a problem which completely eluded him. He could only think of one way to learn, and that was by trial and error. Holding the medallion in his right hand, he closed his eyes and focused on finding his inner energy so as to summon it. But nothing happened, he did not feel anything, either from within himself or from the medallion. He went on doing it several times more, without success. He began to feel disappointed. He was no mage, he had not received any training in the magical arts, he had no idea of how to invoke or control his own energy, much less cast spells. He felt foolish. Trying to do this without the least knowledge seemed absolutely vain.
Upset by his failure and by the feeling that he was being silly, he poured himself another glass of wine. It doesn’t matter, he said to himself. He had decided to learn to use his power and use it he would, whatever it took. That was another of his most notable qualities: he was as stubborn as a mule. When an idea came into his mind he would not let go of it. He had to admit he was full of virtues. He smiled. You have to laugh at yourself, at your qualities and defects, or else you’re lost. Humor returned to his spirit. At least he could recognize his weak points. He shrugged and tried to think of a strategy that would allow him to learn to use his Gift. He could not go to a real mage, since he had heard in the city that the only Rogdonian mages were in Rilentor, at the King’s Court. He would have to fend for himself.
What had the common theme been each and every time the medallion had activated itself? He lay back on the bed and pondered about this as he stared at the wooden ceiling.
Think, Komir… think…
In every one of those cases he had found himself in imminent danger of death. That was what all the incidents had in common. His power appeared in extreme situations, where it was a matter of life or death. The first thing that came to mind was to force one of those situations and see if the power was truly activated.
How stupid I am… the ideas I have sometimes! he chided himself. Really… in the end I’ll kill myself with my own foolishness…how can I take such a risk? It must be the wine affecting my judgment.
The idea, though, was not so farfetched. Going to the extreme of putting his life in danger was definitely not acceptable. But it might not be necessary to go as far as that in order to kindle the spark of power. If desperation and anguish were capable of summoning the power, perhaps other feelings might do it too.
What could it be? Mmmmm… pain, perhaps? That’s it! Pain should be capable of calling upon the power. It’s the closest to anguish, isn’t it? It’s practically a physical representation of it! It might work. Why not? In any case I lose nothing by trying, surely?
For a moment he had doubts, he was on the point of causing himself pain on purpose. Had he had too much of the inebriating red liquid, so that his mind was not thinking straight? Maybe. But he would do it anyway. He looked at the candle burning on the bedside table, and with a mixture of fear and excitement held the palm of his hand over the flame. He closed his eyes. The burning sensation turned to pain almost at once and Komir bore it, and bore it, suffering the torture, waiting for something to happen inside him.
It burnt, it hurt…
A lot!
But nothing happened.
With a cry of pain he withdrew his hand and began to curse, at the same time shaking it energetically, trying to dissipate the pain, but without success.
I must be a moron! Who else would think of something like that! Only me! I’m losing my wits, I’m worse than Hartz!
The ex
periment had left him with a bad taste in his mouth and he did not know what else to do. He took a draught which helped mitigate the pain in his hand slightly. Yet the more he thought of it, the more he believed he was on the right track. There was nothing else he could think of. It had to work! He drank some more, and with renewed courage faced the candle again. It seemed to be waiting for him, defiant, stiff, burning.
I don’t fear you, I’ll beat you, you’ll see.
He made a fist with the unhurt hand and placed it over the candle flame. Once again, he bore the pain, clenching his fist, suffering the agonizing torture. He shut his eyes, as if by doing so he could make the pain less. But nothing could stop the agony, his flesh was burning and the smell was disgusting. Still Komir held his hand over the flame out of sheer stubbornness. A tear of mingled pain and rage ran down his cheek. He had to stop the pain, put out the candle, by whatever means.
And then it happened. A flash came out of his chest, a blue gleam.
And he discovered it, his magical energy, accumulated in his chest, resting as though in a peaceful lake of sky-blue water. He could clearly see it inside himself. He had done it, and there it was! A feeling of triumph replaced the intense pain for a brief instant. But... now what? How could he make that energy cast a spell? He had not the slightest clue. He put his other hand on the medallion and wished with all his might for the pain to cease and the flame to go out. He begged the medallion to stop the torture, like a chastised child weeping at the blows inflicted on it.
Suddenly, as if the medallion had heard him, he felt the great Ilenian jewel fill with his energy and begin to shine with a dull whitish gleam. Arcane symbols, golden signs, began to shape words in his mind. The symbols seemed to flow from the jewel itself towards his brain, dancing and reorganizing themselves until finally they formed an incomprehensible phrase. The medallion, that Object of Power, seemed to have a mind of its own, casting a spell without his being able to understand it.
From the hand which had been wounded over the flame there came an icy gust of the purest winter cold, which put out the candle.