by Lana Axe
The Second Symbol
Tales from Nōl’Deron
Lana Axe
Text copyright © 2016 Lana Axe
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Michael Gauss
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
With a heavy sigh, Taren scanned the yellowed page before him. Its rough surface contained thousands of tiny cracks, the ink worn and flaking. Passage after passage described ancient pairings, spells and their masters merging, an unnatural symbiosis. Sometimes the spell dominated the master, sometimes the master was able to control the spell. Unexpected side effects were often the result, the spells running dry when the sorcerer’s stores were depleted. Yet nothing described a merger with an object of magical design. Despite its promise of wisdom, this volume would be of no help. It was nothing more than a waste of his time. Disappointed, he summoned his magic to close the book, an audible thump echoing through the cavernous library. A bearded wizard seated nearby gave him a cutting glance, his own studies interrupted by Taren’s lack of etiquette.
Taren ignored him. For two years now he had been searching, with nothing to show for it. He stared up at the magelight that offered much-needed illumination to the otherwise dreary surroundings. Dust swirled toward the light, the tiniest echoes of pages that continued to disintegrate through the ages. Perhaps they were the only remnants of the information he sought, lost long ago, never to be recovered. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply the scent of aged parchment, feeding his soul. So much knowledge, yet none of it could unlock the mystery within him.
His mind drifted, remembering his beloved master Imrit. The man had taken him under his wing, nurtured his magical talents, and sent him on a life-changing journey. It was Imrit’s wish that Taren merge with the symbol—an ancient relic of immense power. It was supposed to be a gift for Imrit, one that would grant him immortality. The two should be studying together, but here Taren sat alone. By the time Taren had returned with the symbol, Imrit had fallen ill. The old master had insisted his apprentice claim the symbol for himself. Despite Taren’s protests, Imrit had refused the symbol’s power and allowed himself to die. Taren missed him dearly.
Opening his eyes, Taren looked down at the tome before him, his hand gently resting on its cover. Though worn, he could still make out a faint scaled pattern in the black leather—dragon hide, most likely. He’d lost count of how many visits he’d made to the Mage’s College, and still he hadn’t gone through every book that dwelt there. Most of them were far too new, written after the symbol had fallen out of memory. No one believed it was real. No one except Imrit. He had risked his apprentices’ lives to recover the magical artifact, and two had died in the process. Their deaths, and Imrit’s as well, were in vain until Taren could unlock the symbol’s true potential.
Taren had sensed the symbol’s power as he drew near to it, a journey that seemed so long ago. It had called to him in the darkness, urging him to find it. Lending him its power, it allowed him to teleport himself and his companion, a spell mastered only by wizards of ancient legends. No such spell existed now. None that Taren knew of, at least.
Since merging with the symbol, it had provided him with no new skills. Even the ability to teleport had been taken from him. So what good was this symbol? He had hoped to find out through research, but once again, he had failed. Imrit had searched all of these books before. He was thorough and methodical, but Taren hoped the old master had missed something. Apparently he hadn’t. Imrit’s library, which Taren inherited upon his master’s death, was far more extensive than the College’s when it came to rare texts. Taren had read them all three times yet failed to produce more information about the symbol. He needed Imrit.
The faint scraping of a wooden wheel caught Taren’s attention, and he turned to see a young woman with a cart staring down at his exposed arm. The symbol’s only gift to him: a blackened mark of swirling lines covered his right arm and hand. The markings were highly unusual, like nothing he’d ever found in any text. They drew a lot of attention to the young sorcerer, and, despite not knowing their meaning, he considered them a thing of beauty.
The woman looked away quickly as his eyes met hers. Taren could feel the heat of the symbol where it had burned itself into his hand. It remained inside him, silent. What was it waiting for? He’d already proved himself worthy. It was the only way he could have retrieved the symbol from its former owner. When he was ready to claim it, it had merged with him without hesitation. It had granted him an enormous magical reserve, far greater than a sorcerer his age could acquire naturally. But why hadn’t it granted him special abilities? Was that not the point of finding it?
It had robbed him of one ability—that of sleeping soundly through the night. Spurts of genius—or perhaps it was madness—took over when he would try to rest, forcing him to employ sleep draughts every night. Images of the symbol itself flashed in his mind, accompanied by fierce creatures and unrecognizable runic symbols. Some nights he felt that his essence had been separated from his body, floating unrestrained throughout his cottage. Luckily it had never strayed too far, always returning before dawn. He also doubted he’d been granted the immortality his master so desperately sought. He certainly didn’t feel immortal, and he wasn’t about to try killing himself to find out.
It seemed the only thing the symbol had done reliably was wreak havoc on his magical abilities. His skills with herbalism remained undiminished, but spell casting had become a bit of a gamble. Many spells went awry, the elemental magic transforming from earth to fire without explanation. All of his spells flew with greater force, which could easily result in a disaster when he never knew exactly what to expect. Somewhere there had to be more information. If he could learn to communicate with the symbol, to reach into its depths and summon the power correctly, he could bring honor to his departed master. Little else mattered.
Standing with some effort, Taren stretched his legs to restore the feeling. He had been sitting far too long. Gently lifting the aged tome, he cradled its hefty weight against his left arm. His feet scuffled against the floor as he headed for the shelves. Towering twenty feet high, each one stuffed full of various books, Taren felt dwarfed by his surroundings. They swallowed him up, his cloaked figure barely noticeable as he passed shelf after shelf. He saw no one but sensed the presence of more than one sorcerer lurking within the rows.
It was several minutes before he arrived at his destination, the home of the volume he carried. An empty slot, free of dust, awaited the return of its treasure. Taren slid the book in place, his fingers lingering on its rough edge. He couldn’t help but wonder about the dragon whose skin had been used for the binding. Had it suffered? Or was it simply an ancient beast whose time had come? Daring to attempt a spell, he pulled at his magical stores and focused his mind to the binding. Where his fingers still connected with the leather, he felt heat. A vision of red and orange flames leapt into his mind, the smell of smoke assaulting his nostrils. Stifling a cough, he pulled his hand away from the book, instinctively wiping it against his cloak. On hurried feet he made his way out of t
he shelves and out the door to the courtyard.
A glance at the sky assured him that no dragon was near. It had only been the memory of a dragon, long dead and gone from this world. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he drank in the fresh air of spring. A sunny sky greeted him, a few passing clouds gleaming as they made their way to parts unknown. Springtime in the land of Ky’sall was often this way. The Red Council, Ky’sall’s ruling class of wizards, saw to modifying the weather. All rainstorms were delayed until nightfall to allow the citizens to enjoy fine weather during the day.
Making his way toward the stables, Taren gave a passing glance to the College’s lush grounds. Plenty of shady trees and a pristine blue pond, complete with multicolored waterfowl, provided a sense of peace and relaxation for overburdened students. Life at the Mage’s College was no easy affair. Every year at least one student was driven mad, locked away, and never heard from again. Taren did not regret his own expulsion from such a place. His parents’ lack of funds prohibited him from studying further. That’s where Imrit came in. He saw potential in Taren and took him in when no one else would. Everything Taren was, he owed to Imrit.
As soon as he entered the stables, he locked eyes with Wort. His pale blue eyes contrasted against his sleek black coat, a white blaze running the length of his nose. The horse pawed at the ground, eager to be set free. The other horses paid more attention to their dinner. Taren signaled to a nearby stable hand, who hurriedly affixed the saddle to Wort’s back. Tossing the man a coin, Taren approached his mount. He was large and sturdy, a perfect horse for an herbalist. Though not as fast as other breeds, Wort had them all beat on endurance. Together the pair had traveled many hours, seeking out the finest and most essential ingredients for Taren’s work. Patting the horse’s neck, Taren urged him forward.
Home was just over an hour’s ride away, though Ky’sall’s well-kept roads did not lead in that direction. Instead, a worn narrow path through a shaded wood, opening into a wide prairie, would lead the sorcerer safely home. Since Imrit’s death, Taren had taken control of his master’s cottage. Having no other heir, his possessions had been willed to his favorite apprentice, allowing Taren a fine start to his life as a master sorcerer. Most had to start in the employ of a noble, but Taren had gladly skipped that step.
As an herbalist, Taren had made quite a name for himself. With no experience running a business, he had eagerly employed his master’s former servant, Vita. She proved herself a shrewd and knowledgeable businesswoman, performing the mundane tasks of bookkeeping as well as traveling to nearby markets to deliver his goods. As luck would have it, Vita’s choice in a mate had also profited Taren. Nearly a year prior, she married Myron, a skilled farmer. With a little help from Taren’s books and a touch of the sorcerer’s magic, Myron grew the finest herbs and rarest ingredients in Ky’sall. Taren lacked only a few rare plants, and he indulged himself by taking long trips into the wild to collect them. It was his escape from the madness the symbol had brought into his life.
With the help of his assistants, Taren was free to dabble with new creations, potions unheard of among his fellow sorcerers. It was a lucrative position considering how few students had the patience or desire to become herbalists. Elemental magic was far more appealing to young mages, allowing them to indulge their fantasies rather than dig in the dirt.
Taren had not slacked in his education. He had mastered earth magic, a prerequisite for becoming a master herbalist. And the demand for herbalists was always great, as all sorcerers from Ky’sall depended upon potions to replenish their magical stores along with a variety of other uses. Herbalists were also responsible for preparing draughts for the sick. The price of potions flew sky high during outbreaks. Taren enjoyed the benefits of a high salary, but even without it, he loved his work.
Arriving within sight of his cottage, Taren brought Wort to a halt. Something was wrong. The stone cottage stood at the edge of The Barrens, a curious stretch of enchanted forest. No one ever crossed it—the danger was far too great. Only those of magical knowledge could survive there, and Taren had seldom entered there himself. Looking upon the impossibly tall trees, Taren felt himself shudder. Memories of death and fear came into his mind, a curious sensation of fire chasing the thoughts away.
Nudging Wort forward, the pair approached the cottage at a snail’s pace. Taren’s senses were on high alert. Wort felt his master’s apprehension but seemed entirely unbothered. The barn and fresh hay were near. That was all that mattered to the horse.
Pulling at the reins, Taren quickly hopped from his mount. A small figure moved beside the house. The marks on his arm tingled, a curious sensation traveling the length of the blackened lines left behind by the symbol. His heart pounded, his mind racing with possibilities. Was this someone come to challenge him for the symbol? What creature could possibly know of it? Taren had told no one, save for the few people he trusted completely. Whoever this intruder was, Taren was ready to face him. With a silent incantation, he summoned a ball of white fire in his palm. The magic hissed and crackled in his hand as he slowly approached the unknown visitor. The figure stooped low as Taren lifted his hand.
“There you are,” a female voice sounded. Dressed in a blue cotton gown, her blond hair pinned high on her head, Vita appeared in the doorway. “There’s a messenger here,” she announced, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the magic in Taren’s hand. “Is there a problem?”
Taren allowed the fire to sputter out. “Messenger?” he asked. Apparently he was overreacting. It wasn’t the first time the symbol had driven him to paranoia. Some days it felt like every wizard in Ky’sall was planning to take the symbol from him. With the fire extinguished, he wiped his hand on his robe.
“Yes, a young man brought a message, but he wouldn’t leave it with me,” she explained. “He insisted on placing it in your hands. He’s hiding there behind the marigold.” She pointed a delicate finger toward the flowers.
Amused, Taren approached the young man and extended a hand. “It’s safe,” he said. “You can come out now.”
“I thought you’d set me alight,” the young man said, nearly out of breath. “My master sent this invitation.” He thrust a sealed bit of parchment toward the wizard. “He hopes you will accept and come to visit him at your earliest convenience.”
Taking the note with little interest, Taren shoved it inside a pocket. “Thank you, young man,” he said, offering the boy a coin.
“No payment, sir,” the boy replied, waving both hands in refusal. “My master wouldn’t hear of it.” Without another word, the boy ran off, skirting along the edge of The Barrens. To Taren’s relief, the boy did not pass the border, instead continuing on away from the danger.
“Are you all right?” Vita asked, tilting her head to the side.
Taking a quick glance down at his hand, Taren replied, “Never better.”
“There’s stew in the kitchen,” she told him. “I think the new cook you hired is worth keeping.” She flashed a smile, but it was wasted. Taren was a million miles away. “You sure you’re all right?” she asked again.
He nodded.
“Well, let me know if you need anything.” Making her way across the gardens, she paused more than once to look back at him.
Taren waited for her to disappear inside her own cabin before stepping inside the cottage. Retrieving the note from his pocket, he tossed it on his desk and took a seat. With a snap of his fingers, the flame of a small candle came to life, illuminating the area enough to allow him to read. His mind, however, would not budge from contemplating the events that had just passed.
Would he have killed that boy as he hid in the gardens? What had made him react in such a manner? Conjuring fire before calling out to the visitor was completely out of character for Taren. He had always been a gentle soul, one who respected all life. He wouldn’t harm a plant, let alone a person. He came to the conclusion that it was the symbol’s reaction, not his own. Staring down at the marks on his arm, he yearned for a method
to control the power inside him. He could lose himself to its will, and the thought was terrifying.
A book of herb lore lay open on the desk before him, but he had no interest in reading. Instead, he stared into the candle’s flame, contemplating the different colors of orange and yellow as they flickered against the darkness. Carelessly, he raised his hand, placing his palm above the flame. Slowly he lowered his hand, allowing the fire to touch his skin. He felt no pain, not even the slightest bit of heat. Removing his hand from the flame, he inspected it. Only a small patch of black soot tarnished his skin. The flesh was neither burned nor reddened. Wiping the soot away, he wondered why he had desired to touch the flame. His next thought was how to explain why the candle did not burn him. He had no active spells about his person, and he’d ingested no potions.
Exhaustion. That must be it, he decided. This day had lasted far too long, and it was barely sunset now. Shuffling through the cottage, he climbed the staircase and entered his laboratory. Vials, flasks, and bottles containing various potions lined the shelves. Each held a specific purpose, all crafted by Taren’s own hands. His equipment was kept in immaculate condition, as always. Pipets and tubing had been scrubbed to a shine, the alembic and retorts showed no smudges or heat spots, and the mortar and pestle contained no hints of powder. Cleanliness was essential to maintain the purity of his potions. Taren took pride in cleaning every item in the room himself. Servants were barred from entry.
Scanning the shelves, he selected a blue tincture. Squeezing it in his hand, he followed the hallway to his bedroom. To his delight, a servant had already lit the fireplace, driving out the evening chill. The window was cracked open only an inch, as he preferred it, even on the coldest nights. There was something about the strange sounds of The Barrens that made him feel at home, despite the fact that few pleasant sounds ever came from the place. Most of them were unidentifiable. He could not guess what sort of creature made them. Tonight he heard only the sound of a single cricket, likely a resident of his own gardens. The Barrens were silent.