Kastali Dun

Claire always worked with the Grand Mage after breakfast as part of her mage lessons. Marcel was a squat older man, always dressed in robes of black that belted at the waist. His attire often reminded her of medieval monks, tucked away in their monasteries, getting plump on fine wine.

Their lessons were unconventional at best. More like quests for knowledge than anything. They'd spent nearly two weeks focused on the Vodar, working to uncover information about their magical abilities, ways to destroy them, secrets that might offer protection.

Marcel's study was half library, half common room. Tables, chairs, chaise lounges, sofas, a wall of books, two fireplaces—one at each end of the room—all gave it its inviting nature. A good thing, since researching the Vodar was hardly a pleasant topic.

Marcel shuffled through several books stacked on the table before them. He looked up at her. "Found anything useful in that one?"

She frowned at the book in her hands. "Hardly. I'd have told you if I had."

Their search had been mostly fruitless. The Vodar could be banished three ways: by fire, beheading, or stabbed with their own poison blade. She had yet to test the third theory, but it was the only bit of extra information they'd gained in two weeks. Two weeks! And that certainly wouldn't help them permanently defeat the wraiths.

"It seems the only way to truly destroy them is with Sprite Fire."

Marcel chuckled. "Is that what you're calling it now?"

A wicked smile spread across her lips. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

Marcel knew all about her Sprite Fire. He'd learned of it from Talon after the Vodar had attacked the keep. They'd come in search of the Dragon Stones tucked away in Talon's study. Not exactly the best hiding place for something so valuable. Which was why Talon had left, to visit the Sprites in the forest and beg (if he had to) Queen Jade to take them back into safekeeping.

What Talon hadn't been able to explain to Marcel, was how the fire had come to her. How it had marked her. How it even worked. She certainly didn't know. Though, she had theories.

She and Marcel had spoken at great length about it, but she could never put into words the entirety of the magic. Even still, the song was a part of her now. Like a whisper of words flowing through her veins. Saturating in her very bones. Flowing into her core. An addition to her identity on a fundamental level. Untamed and unexplainable.

Marcel's magic fit neatly into a box. Hers had no such place. While Magoi magic was spoken as a command, using words of authority, hers was not. It was instinctual. It came to her with no prior knowledge, no training. Just as it had when she attacked Caterina that day that everything had changed.

It was a struggle then, for Marcel to comprehend what she'd done. Singing words she never knew. A fire powerful enough to destroy things that weren't human. Things that weren't of this world. She'd repeated the words to him, careful not to sing them—because every time she did, something burst into green flames—and what was more, he had claimed to recognize them. According to him, the words slightly resembled the old language used by the Magoi, but not enough to explain how she'd known them. Nonetheless, he'd made her practice in the fireplace until she could focus her efforts enough to set things on fire.

But surely Sprite Fire wasn't the only way...was it?

She pulled another book forward and began thumbing through it. The minuscule handwriting was difficult to read, to fit as many words as possible on a single page. It was an overzealous religious text about the ways wicked souls were tortured after death. She snorted, shutting it. "I hardly think a Vodar wraith is going to snatch me up if I pilfer an orange." She gave an audible tut, grabbing another. But it wasn't much better. "It feels useless," she said at last. "How are we supposed to help the villagers in Celenore if we can't find a way to permanently destroy them? They'll just keep coming back."

That was ultimately the reason for their study. To help the villagers from Lormont, Osbourne, and Swinston. They had come to the king's court a little over a week ago, just before Talon's departure, begging for an audience. A child's blackened body was placed before the king, shocking everyone. Her most of all. It brought back memories of Cyrus that were better left buried.

The solution? Soldiers were sent to the region for protection. An outcome that pleased everyone. But that would never be enough. Never.

"We must keep looking," said Marcel. "That is what the king has asked of us in his absence."

"What if there isn't another way?" She slumped in her chair, voicing her fear aloud.

"There is always another way, and we must find it. People are dying."

"Why not just send me?" she asked, pinning him with her gaze.

"Oh-ho! My dear girl, I admire your bravery. But I think we all know what the king would have to say about that." He returned his attention to his book. And that was that. End of discussion.

They spent the remainder of their time in silent study, shuffling through texts, scanning for snippets of information until she thought her eyeballs might explode. They very nearly did.

Her next lesson was more engaging. Mage Joren was her favorite instructor at the college. Appearance wise, he was fairly young compared to the other Magoi there, though she had learned he was well over one hundred. His dark skin was smooth and youthful, his curly brown hair cropped short, and his eyes always danced. Joren came from Austar, known for its vast deserts.

Their lessons centered around Dragonwall's geography as it pertained to magic. Each day they studied different regions and the magical specialties inherent to them. Some places in Dragonwall were famous for their healing potions, others for their ability to make crops produce ten times the normal yield. Some places only boasted of magic through superstitious events, while other places oozed magic visible to the naked eye. These lessons were quickly becoming her favorite.

She took a seat at the table in his study, folding her hands in her lap, deep in thought about how little progress she'd made with the Vodar.

"You look as if bothered," Mage Joren said, eying her as he rose from his desk.

"What? Oh..." She chewed on the inside of her cheek, something that was becoming more of a habit as of late. "I suppose."

"What is on your mind?"

"I..." She hesitated, an idea coming to mind. "I know we are supposed to study Alnore today and the Woodport Rebellion, but perhaps we could focus on Celenore instead?"

Joren's dancing eyes regarded her. "Very well. If you wish." He went to his cabinet and shuffled around before removing a different map than the one already on the table. It was rolled tightly. He spread it before her. "I suppose you have something specific in mind?"

"I do. What can you tell me about Lormont, Osbourne, and Swinston?"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Ah. I had a feeling. This has to do with the recent attacks."

"I suppose I am rather predictable as far as that goes," she mused. "What can you tell me about the region and its people?"

"As far as magic?" He shrugged. "The people in those villages have little to none, especially compared to other places we have studied. There is a Mage in Lormont, but she is only of the third level."

"Oh..."

She had learned that the Magoi used levels to distinguish their abilities. Complete fluency and control over the old language merited the highest distinction: a Mage of the Tenth Level. Some of the Magoi found rarer types of magic, dabbling here and there in strange practices, and moved arguably higher, but no further distinction was earned.

She scanned the map and frowned. "What I don't understand, is why these three villages? Why haven't the Vodar moved to other settlements? What's so special about them?"

There had to be an explanation for it. Distance to the capital? Some sort of resource they needed?

"Well..." Mage Joren looked thoughtful. "The king does have ties to that region."

"Ties?" She sat up straighter. "What sort of ties?"

"Queen Ahelessa, the king's own mother, was born in Osbourne. She grew up there before King Tallek discovered their mate bond. By the time King Talon was born, whole generations of her family had already come and gone. Our king visited there once. I think."

She exhaled. Perhaps that was it. "But if his mother grew up in Osbourne, why bother with the other two?"

Joren shrugged. "As a whole, the villages are isolated, making them an ideal target. The king's mother would have visited them in her youth, perhaps making friends. Likely, it made sense to attack all three, especially given how superstitious the villagers are."

"Superstitious?" She fell quiet. "Is there a reason for their isolation? It certainly makes them harder to defend. Makes them an easier target."

"That area was never very populous. The three villages make up what is called the Three Horned Man."

"Three Horned Man?" She snorted. "Really? There must be a good story behind that!"

Dragonwall had stories for everything. Most of them were absolutely absurd, with little to no scientific proof, built on mythological creatures, magic, and superstition. It was hard to determine which were true or not. After all, Dragonwall defied most of her wildest beliefs.

"There is. It's brief, but I wouldn't say it's good. Would you like to hear it? Very well." Joren took a seat across from her. "There was once a man named Muga—"

"Muga?" She snorted.

"—who stalked the marshes on the northern shore of the Flat River. Muga killed three men who had cheated him in a game of Rue, and with—"

"What's Rue?"

Joren sighed. "Rue is a card game. Hardly important. As I was saying, the three deaths weighed on his soul. As a result, Muga grew a horn of evil for each kill. These horns made him ugly. He knew none would wish to associate with him after that, so Muga decided to establish three villages named after the three men he killed, all in hopes of redeeming himself. With each village built, a horn was shed from his head, making him easier to look at, but he always remained beastly. Anyway, that is how the villages came to be, according to the story. Muga was forever known as the Three Horned Man. The only problem is, no one has seen him." Joren smiled. "Anyway, the stories remain. The people of that region are very superstitious of Muga. That is why the region is known accordingly."

She smiled wide. "You're right, not exactly a good story. What about the Mage in Lormont?"

"Ah, Mage Sidra." He frowned. "Not sure she is qualified to do much, I'm afraid. Not with the Vodar."

"Then Marcel was right, we really are the only ones who can help."

Joren fixed her with a solemn gaze. "Let us hope we uncover the answers we need—and quickly." She wanted to tell him she didn't have much confidence on the matter, but held her tongue.

Her final lesson of the morning found Mage Sepia in good spirits. The woman was aging. Her smooth olive complexion was developing small wrinkles in all the places that crinkled when she smiled. Her hair, once raven black, had several strands of silver. She was calm in nature, always relaxed and easy to be around. "Today, I think, we shall move to healing brews," she said after their greeting.

"Thank the gods!" she said, covering her mouth. Mage Sepia's eyes sparkled in response. She knew of Claire's desire to move on.

After spending weeks learning how to properly chop herbs, crush beans and seeds, and turn various roots into powders, they were finally going to do something with it all. Mage Sepia led her into the workroom. Its walls were lined with shelves of bottles, ingredients, books, and all sorts of trinkets of magical qualities. The tables were covered with glass beakers and other instruments. It looked more like a scientific lab than a potion brewing workroom. Then again, after filling her head with so many books growing up, she had preconceived notions about what a witch's potion room ought to look like. A dungeon filled with cobwebs and dust—a messy place, shelves overflowing with strange ingredients. A direct opposite to Mage Sepia's tidy space.

Mage Sepia removed a book and they began working through a list of ingredients. The hardest part was getting the techniques correct. "Ginger essence can be tricky if not done properly," Mage Sepia warned. "For this brew in particular, see how it recommends adding the ginger powder in small batches? If you add it all together, it will not mix correctly."

Ginger essence was a popular remedy for upset bowels, sold in apothecaries throughout Dragonwall. This particular brew seemed more like a home remedy than anything. But she didn't complain; it was still better than chopping and dicing.

She continued to stir the small cauldron over the flames, making sure it did not boil too vigorously. "Just a slight bubbling around the edges," Mage Sepia advised. "Nothing heavier. No rolling boil. That will harm some of the ingredients."

The mixture looked mostly clear and only clouded when the contents were stirred. The smell reminded her of ginger tea.

"There now, the last and most crucial step. You must stir it in a counterclockwise direction while you speak the words of healing. This will allow you to imbue the brew with the ability to heal beyond the ingredients we have used." So there was magic after all. "By way of test, and without looking at the recipe, what incant might you use?"

"Um..." She wracked her brain. "Ender mein, I suppose?"

It's what Jovari and Koldis usually used to heal her bruises. Talon had used it once, too.

"Close, but no. You cannot use the basic cantrip here. You are not healing the brew, you are healing the person who will drink it. You will need an incant, at minimum, perhaps even an incantation, if you wish."

She fell silent, considering all the words she knew. "How about, Vetal eiga afla ender mein?"

"Hmm. It's crude, but it will do. There now, as I have instructed."

She followed Mage Sepia's instructions, stirring counterclockwise while speaking. As the words flowed from her mouth, she felt the same uneasy prickling sensation paired with exhaustion. She clenched her teeth and hid the feeling.

The cauldron glowed light blue, just like Saffra's Aegan did when mixed with water. Mage Sepia bent over it, inhaling, examining the result. The color faded. "That is how you know if you have succeeded," Sepia advised. "When it cools, it will be mostly clear again. Very well done. Let's bottle it, and you can take some with you, if ever you have need of it."

It wasn't the most exciting lesson, but it was a lot better than chopping and dicing.

She met Desaree for the midday meal, relieved to be more than halfway through her lessons. Her eyes immediately scanned the dining hall, but she didn't find what she wanted. "She's not here." Disappointment riddled her voice.

Saffra was absent, yet again. The king's prophetess had been through a lot. So who could blame her for hiding away? With Commander Daxton's memory damaged, he no longer remembered anything, not even his betrothal. That alone had hurt Saffra the deepest.

"She just needs time," said Desaree, also scanning the hall as they sat down to a full table.

They did their best to ignore the absence, chatting about everything Claire had learned that morning. As usual, it was difficult to work up an appetite, despite the rich bowl of creamy potato soup and hot bread before her.

All too soon, it was time for her final lesson, the one she usually dreaded. Lessons with Mage Targa were always a trial—not just because he was insufferable, but because his little pet, Lady Caterina, was an absolute witch. Caterina had it in her head that she and King Talon had once been all but betrothed. An arrangement made by her traitor father. As if King Talon would ever marry her! But it was what Caterina had done to Desaree and Lady Kendall, that hung thick in the air. And until Lord Verath could gather evidence to prove it, they were forced to put up with her.

Mage Targa's lessons were meant to teach the old language, where she would perform simple cantrips, incants, and incantations. There were five students, two male and three female, including herself. The only two she liked were Devmont and Jaycel, both much younger than her. Renna, the other, was almost as bad as Caterina.

She managed, though, today better than most. Likely because of King Talon's letter, all but burning a hole in her pocket. She could have, and should have, locked it in her writing desk. Yet, she couldn't seem to relinquish it.

As soon as the lesson was over, she rushed back to her quarters, greeting Desaree on the way to her desk. There she unfurled the letter, eyes devouring the words.

Dear Claire,

After three days, we have reached the forest's edge. With few rests, we still took longer than I had hoped. It is well past dark, making the trees more ominous than ever. Dare I say, I am almost uncomfortable. Me! Scared by a bunch of trees. You will never allow me to live that down, will you?

The queen's envoys await, so I must hurry. I do not wish to say more on that matter—in case this letter is intercepted.

I cannot help but wish you were here with us. Perhaps we would feel less out of place. Still, it is hard to fathom what you see in it.

As for all else, the past few days have been...trying. B claims that I am unpleasant—that my temper is short. Me? A short temper? But he is right. And nearly all our traveling companions avoid me. I cannot blame them. I am irritable and eager to be rid of my burden.

Surely you know what I mean. I do not envy you those weeks you traveled across the kingdom. I understand, finally, what it must have taken for you.

I digress.

Hopefully we will be no more than a week here. I am looking forward to the tournament ball more than I realized. The sky can be a lonely place at times...as much as I love flying.

How are your lessons progressing? I hope you are working hard in my absence? And behaving yourself?

The Sprites here in Ellia said that they would be happy to deliver your response, should you be inclined to send one. I look forward to hearing all that transpires in my absence. Please be discreet.

Yours truly,

T

The T was a calligraphic flourish, likely to disguise who had written it, in case it fell into the wrong hands. She smiled, reading the letter twice more, lingering over certain words. She was hesitant to admit to it, but she also looked forward to the upcoming tournament and ball.

She pulled out her writing things and got to work on a reply. As advised, she left out everything sensitive. Once the ink was blotted and dry, she addressed and sealed it. Then she set it neatly on the desk, with instructions to Desaree to send it off tomorrow.

A loud knock startled her. Both she and Desaree immediately stood—out of habit, more than anything. "Enter," Desaree called.

A messenger boy burst in, breathless as if he'd run straight here. "Pardon, my ladies." He glanced between them and held out a bit of parchment. "Lord Verath sent this—to be read immediately."

The parchment was a mere scrap, and simply folded in half. The contents were brief.

Lady Claire, please come to the king's tower at once. More attacks in Celenore. Burn this.

—Lord V

Claire's stomach dropped. "More attacks?" she whispered, glancing up from the parchment to meet Desaree's gaze. She went to the grate and tossed it into the flames.

More attacks could mean one thing. The soldiers were not enough to save the villagers. They needed more help—a lot more help. And King Talon wasn't around to do anything about it. But she was. Squaring her shoulders, she and Desaree followed the boy to the tower to face the fire that waited.

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