Nexus Moons: Book One of the Tales of Graal

by Ron Root

Master Verity sure had a knack for dampening one’s excitement. “Why is that?”

  “If I’m right about this, you’ll likely never cast spells with the skill of a Master.”

  It was the worst possible news, although down deep, he’d suspected it all along. “May I hear your theory?”

  “I believe you’re a Pervader, a type of magus that is most rare. In fact, there have been only a few in recorded history.”

  His comment perked Hagley’s spirit. “What, exactly, is a Pervader?”

  “Someone fluent in all facets of the arts, yet master of none—a generalist. You know enough of magic to know how rare it is to be multifaceted, right?”

  Hagley nodded. “I’d settle for simply for being proficient in one.”

  “You’d be selling yourself short if you did. You’ve seen how inept even a Master can be with spells outside of his facet. I’m fortunate in that my Gift is multifaceted, yet I’m hard pressed to preform spells out of those specialties. Take Gresham for instance. I’ve a passable Wind Blast, but I’m hopeless with most combative spells. You’ll never have that problem. Your spectrum is so broad that once you get beyond your confidence issues, there may be no such thing as a spell you can’t perform with an appreciable competency. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  Hagley flushed. “I’m not sure.” He wanted to feel elated but wasn’t sure if what he’d just heard was good or bad news. But the fact that the magus who discovered Hagley’s gift was so surprised to discover he could cast more than one rudimental, gave Jarek’s Pervader theory a ring of truth.

  Jarek kicked Hagley’s spell books. “You stole these from Master Kagen’s library, right?”

  Hagley’s face flushed. “I considered it borrowing. I always return them.”

  “Bah!” Jarek said with a dismissive hand. “Kagen told me he left them lying about on purpose, knowing you’d take them.” Jarek shook his head. “I can’t believe you never figured that out. He was trying to help you find your facet. The reason he never succeeded is because you don’t have one—you have them all.” He picked up one of the books. “Did you use any of this book’s spells?”

  “I used one to block our cave the night the marsh monster attacked Rayna.”

  “Lift that rock,” Jarek said, pointing.

  Surprisingly, Hagley managed to lift the rock from afar, even with Magus Verity watching.

  “Great.” Jarek flipped over to the book’s second spell. “Now let’s try the binding spell.” He told Goodricke to walk across the field. “Bind him; prevent him from moving.”

  Hagley tried, but failed.

  “DO IT!” Jarek shouted.

  Fearing a Royal Magus’s wrath, Hagley tried again. Goodricke froze in place, twitching nary a muscle.

  “Just as I thought. If you think your well-being is at stake, your concentration goes way up. Now release him and do it again.” Jarek kept at him until Hagley could do it every time.

  Next, he turned his attention to Gresham. “Let’s check out this ‘attunement’ of yours. I’m sure you’ll find warring spells far more useful than creating a light globe. First however, let’s teach you some control. You’re useless until you master that.”

  Hagley was surprised how quickly Jarek was able to teach Gresham control. But then, he was a Royal Magus. “Could I see the spell book Vardon gave you?”

  He thumbed through it. “Most of the spells in this book require the conjuring of a phantasmal hand—ones that appears to be real, but are not. Some attack, others defend. You control a conjured hand by moving your own.” Jarek extended his hand and flexed his fingers. “As your hand moves, so does the phantasm. Let’s give this Interposing Hand a try.”

  It took the better part of the day for Gresham to master that single spell, but since the remaining spells relied on similar principals, he mastered those more quickly.

  Their practice was interrupted when a messenger arrived. “Magus, the Elders request your presence.”

  “You two practice without me.”

  This time when Jarek arrived, the Elders offered him a seat—he hoped that boded well. Surprisingly, the day’s topic had nothing to do with Outlanders. That very morning the Elders detected a taint at their Place of Power, the site of the upcoming Nexus. Fearing it might be due to the presence of Jarek’s beast, they wanted to know more about it.

  “Zakarah is a demon, an underworld creature of unimaginable evil.” Jarek recounted the events of the first Nexus. “My plan is to be there and offer him something in exchange for my friend. He covets magic of all types. If he refuses whatever I offer, I’m prepared to do battle with him. I’ll want to enlist your aid if it comes to that.”

  As usual, Bardán’s translation sparked a heated debate. “Ní féidir linn é sin a dhéanamh,” Odhran, calmly announced.

  “He says they cannot do so,” Bardán told him.

  “They must!” Jarek insisted. “Left to his own devices, this creature will wreak the same havoc here that he did in the Outland!”

  “I did not say they will not, Magus, I said they cannot.”

  “What spells do your people use when battling the Crone?”

  Bardán gave him an odd look, then translated the question. A discussion ensued, after which the embarrassed-looking translator bowed to Jarek. “Every A’rythian is born with a natural resistance to the Crone’s magic. Although limited, it has proven useful. But we have no spells we use against her. Perhaps our ancestors knew of such things, but if so, such knowledge has been lost to us. What draíocht we use is to protect us from the Crone, not do battle with her.”

  How could they survive in such a dangerous place if that were true? “Surely some of your spells inflict damage on her abominations.”

  Bardán pursed his lips. “I wish it were otherwise. It is why we have guardians.”

  This was grim news. “What magic have you?”

  “As I told you, our magic’s primary purpose is to help us persevere against the Crone. Having lived in the Outland, I would say our ability to heal surpasses all but your Clerics. We also are at one with the woodlands, attuned to any plant or creature not tainted by the Crone.” He gestured toward the cliffs. “And as you’ve seen, we also mold stone, but only during Ama de Cumhacht, and only by using ceangailte.”

  “Ceangailte?”

  “The channeling of the collective power of the group into a single individual.”

  “Tell me more of ceangailte.”

  “It is a joined circle of Lore Masters, where each channels his draíocht to a chosen person, significantly increasing that individual’s abilities.”

  “This ceangailte gives me hope. Can you demonstrate it?”

  As usual, and conference of the Elders ensued. “First,” Bardán said, “the Elders wish a demonstration of Outlander magic; of how you’d fight this demon. They ask that you show how your friend floated a rock at your Nexus.” A young man approached carrying a head-sized rock, and placed on the ground in front of Jarek.

  Jarek wasn’t sure he could do it. “In the Outland each magus has different skills. We call them facets. We are quite inept with spells outside our facets. I am not very good at doing what it is they request.”

  “That is a good thing if we are to demonstrate the power of ceangailte. Please proceed.”

  Having just practiced it with Hagley, the spell was fresh in his mind. Concentrating on the rock, he cast. The rock rose, albeit barely—a paltry effort. Judging from the looks on the Elders’ faces, they were nonetheless impressed.

  “The Elders will now channel their draíocht into you using ceangailte.”

  The Elders formed a circle and clasped hands. Jarek joined them, and one of them initiated the chant. The surge of power that rippled through the circle made Jarek’s arms tingle.

  “The Elders have channeled their power to you. Please try your spell again.”

  Jarek triggered it. The rock soared. Although not nearly as high as Lava
n had done at the Nexus. Ceangailte was amazing. With it, he might be able to meet the demon on equal terms. But how? He had a fledgling Battle Mage in his nephew, and a Pervader in Hagley. Although still untrained, with his guidance and the Elders’ ceangailte, they might just have a chance to save Lavan after all.

  “The other Outlanders have skills I do not,” he offered. “One is a warrior. The other’s gift is most unusual. If the Elders are willing to teach that one ceangailte, I believe that together, the three of us might be strong enough to confront Zakarah.”

  Another discussion ensued. “Odhran wishes to see their skills too. If they prove convincing, we will teach your magus ceangailte.”

  A messenger was sent, returning shortly with Gresham, Hagley and Goodricke.

  “What have they decided, Uncle?” Gresham whispered. “Are we being sent home, or are they going to let us try to save the headmaster?”

  “Do exactly as I say as it might just be the latter. Which of the spells in your book have you mastered?”

  “Mastered? None. The one I do best is the Gripping Hand.”

  “Then we’ll use that one.”

  “Use it how?”

  “We’re about to demonstrate to the Elders what a powerful Battle Mage you are.”

  “But…”

  Jarek interrupted him with, “No buts! I want you to prepare yourself for a huge influx of power. You’re no good to any of us if you faint.”

  He had Goodricke stand fifteen or so yards in front of Gresham. “Now lift him off the ground—and don’t fail.”

  Gresham’s unease was obvious, but Jarek hoped the Elders wouldn’t notice. Gresham closed his eyes, his mind churning. Jarek could almost hear him reciting the spell. His eyes popped open—his former nervousness displaced by intense concentration. He reached an arm forward. The Elders gasped as the monstrous hand and fingers appeared out of nowhere to encircle Goodricke. When Gresham raised his arm, Goodricke lifted off the ground. The stunned Elders applauded.

  “The Elders are impressed, Magus,” Bardán confided. “Show them which man they are to teach ceangailte to.”

  “This one,” he said, turning to Hagley. “It’s time to show off your Pervader skills. The Elders are about to teach you a spell unlike any I’ve seen before. Your headmaster’s life rests in your ability to master it, so pay attention.”

  Hagley’s mouth opened, but before he could utter a sound. “Hush! Act like you’ve been doing this your whole life.”

  Praise the gods that Hagley’s nimble mind was able to comprehend what was being told through a translator. A nervous glance Jarek’s way was followed by a nod.

  The Elders reformed their circle and channeled ceangailte into Hagley. Shock registered on his face as he felt their power. Next, they tried having him initiate it. He failed the first couple of tries, but the nods of the Elders made it clear he’d been successful on his third try. They practiced it two more times for good measure, after which Gresham was asked to join the circle.

  Gresham repeated his spell under ceangailte, causing Goodricke to yelp. He’d gripped him too tightly.

  “Toss him into the air,” Jarek ordered.

  Goodricke gave him an incredulous look that turned to surprise when he flew fifteen or so feet into the air. Gresham opened his palm and the giant hand caught the poor man, and gently lowered him back down. More applause.

  “What of him?” Bardán asked, nodding toward Goodricke. “The Elders wish to see his draíocht.”

  “He has none. He is what Caitlyn called gan draíocht, but his weapon has draíocht.”

  Odhran asked to see the weapon. “All we know of it is that it glows when evil is near.”

  Odhran’s hands roamed the sword’s surface. After a long silence, he said something to Bardán, but raised his hands before the man could translate. Odhran looked closely at the sword’s pommel. He nodded and smiled. Gripping hard, he twisted it. The pommel came off. He tipped it and a vial slipped out. He opened it and sniffed its contents, then handed it to the Elder beside him, who examined it and passed it down the line. A discussion ensued.

  When they were done, Odhran replaced the vial and reattached the pommel. He motioned Goodricke over and handed him the weapon, saying something in A’rythian. Bardán translated. “Your sword resists the effects of ill draíocht much as our city’s archways do. Whoever holds this weapon gains that protection. They believe the potion inside can reverse the effect of an evil enchantment.”

  Jarek now understood why Odhran was first among the Lore Masters. He bowed to the man. “Please thank him for sharing his wisdom.” He smiled at Goodricke. “Now we know. Use your gift wisely.”

  “Odhran says the four of you may attend Oíche na Cumhachta. Until then, you are to remain outside our city. A runner will be sent when you are needed. Bardán cleared his throat, after Oíche na Cumhachta, you are to leave our city and never return.”

  Gresham was surprised when a young woman arrived to escort them back to their field. She so resembled Caitlyn’s she could pass for her younger sister. “I am Brin. I am seeker student,” she looked up at him. “I am to study you and learn Outlander ways. Caitlyn says you study to become Lore Master, yes?”

  “Yes, I’m training to become a magus; that’s the Outlander name for a Lore Master.”

  “You shall be of much interest to me.”

  She led them back to their field. Once there, Magus Verity recounted what went on at his meeting with the Lore Masters before the rest of them were summoned. “Unlike us, A’rythian magic doesn’t vary from person to person. Everyone’s Gift is identical. Its facets include the ability to mold stone; commune with the natural world, and an aptitude for healing. They’re also born with some innate resistance to magic. That’s the limit of their arts, none of which is useful against Zakarah. I’m afraid that means I’m going to have to rely on you two to help rescue Lavan.”

  Hagley jumped to his feet. “Us? You jest! We’re beginners.”

  Gresham felt equally ill at ease.

  “There’s logic to my request. Let me explain.” Jarek paused, gathering his thoughts. “We have to assume Zakarah will come to this Nexus too. The taint the Elders found at the Nexus site suggests his touch. If they’re wrong, whatever we plan is moot. If he shows, my plan to free Lavan is to bind him to our world and not free him until Zakarah releases Lavan. Unfortunately, there’s only one magus in A’ryth capable of casting such a binding.” He looked at Hagley.

  Hagley pointed at himself. “Me, bind a demon?! You said he’s the most powerful sorcerer you’ve ever encountered. I couldn’t even earn my robes!” He traipsed back and forth, his face a darkened red. “How could you even think such a thing?”

  Jarek didn’t relent. “Yesterday you proved yourself capable of casting a binding, something I can’t do. Nor can Gresham or any of the Lore Masters. That leaves only you.”

  “There’s no way I can do what you ask.”

  “Sit!” Jarek barked.

  Hagley flinched, and sat back down, looking pale.

  “Let’s form a circle.” Done, he had Hagley invoke the ceangailte spell. “We need to get used casting under it.” He looked up at their escort. “Brin?”

  “Yes, Lore Master?”

  “You said you wanted to help. Please walk across the field and don’t let Hagley stop you.”

  As she left, Jarek turned to Hagley. “Initiate ceangailte and bind her.”

  Hagley nodded. Seconds later Brin stood frozen in her tracks.

  “Outstanding!”

  Jarek’s praise did little to bolster Hagley’s spirits. He looked so pale Gresham thought his friend would faint. It was obvious to Jarek, too. “Remember how disappointed you were when you learned a Pervader could never achieve advanced proficiency with any spell?”

  Hagley looked up at him but said nothing. “This is your one chance to gainsay that prediction. Tonight, you’ll be drawing upon a score of magi, not just two. You�
�ll most likely be more powerful than any magus since the Great Age.”

  That had Hagley’s attention. “What if Zakarah tries to harm me while I’m binding him?”

  “One of my facets is Protection. I’ll be guarding you. Not only that,” he nodded at Gresham, “our friend here is a Battle Mage. Who better to have at your side?”

  It was Gresham’s turned to be stunned. “But Sir, I only just learned the few spells I know. How could I contest the likes of Zakarah?”

  “Like Hagley, you’ll be part of a circle, calling on its collective strength. As I said, all you have to do is initiate a spell and let the circle do the rest. Let’s rehearse.”

  They continued working under ceangailte for the better part of the afternoon. The difference ceangailte made was astounding. Under it, Gresham cast all of his book’s spells with relative ease—at least those he could remember. Jarek had won him over—he’d willingly help. He only hoped the same was true for Hagley.

  “Who’s your friend?” Rayna asked, spotting Sully with a strange-looking fellow no taller than him.

  “This be Dzojek. He speaks our talk!”

  “You speak Common? Excellent,” she said, offering her hand. “A pleasure, Dzojek. I’m Rayna.”

  The little man bowed. “It is my pleasure, I am sure.”

  His accent was thick, differing from the other A’rythians. “Do you live here?”

  Dzojek frowned. “Dzojek does not live with máistirs. Dzojek is Jacaí. He’s here because his bultúr was killed. With a bultúr, Dzojek would fly home. Without a bultúr, I cannot.”

  The little man’s strange references baffled her. Fortunately, Sully came to the rescue. “A bultúr be some sort of bird; a really big one. Dzojek flies on it. Máistirs be his name for the people who live here. Jacaí is the name of Dzojek’s people. I don’t think the two folks be getting on real well. Leastwise, Dzojek don’t fancy them all that much.”

  How odd, Rayna thought. She’d ask her grandmother about it. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dzojek. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”