22 Praen
Praen
Vaelira sat on the floor of the old mage chamber, eyes closed and focused on her breath. Each time she thought she’d settled into stillness, burning hair flashed through her mind, the scent close on its heels. It was thick at the back of her throat, dry, acrid, and impossible to swallow.
She let herself fall back against the frigid stone. Hands resting lightly on her stomach, she stared at the ceiling, letting the quietness wash over her.
The familiar click of the hidden doorway echoed through the chamber and footsteps approached.
“You’re early this evening,” Galfri said.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
He hummed thoughtfully and walked to the small wooden bench against the far wall.
Vaelira sat up, eyeing the plain cloth bag he was carrying, the items within clunking together.
“Do you have the moonstone?” he asked, reaching into the bag.
He pulled out a smooth round stone with a deep violet hue. Amethyst.
She got to her feet, reaching into her pouch and withdrawing the moonstone.
Galfri held out his hand, and she placed it in his palm. “This,” he said, lifting it between them, “is imbued with another’s essensia. You cannot use it to focus your own. If you try, it may shatter from the conflict.”
“I think I used it once.” She hesitated. “When the demon possessed Jon. I picked it up and a wave of power came from it.” She’d played those hazy memories over time and time again, and the more she thought on it, the more certain she was that the magic had come from the moonstone, not her.
“What happened afterwards?”
“I passed out.”
“I have never read anything of being able to control another mage’s essensia.” He paused, placing the moonstone on the bench. “It sounds more like it wielded you.”
“Is that even possible?” The thought unnerved her.
“I don’t know. Whichever of your ancestors it belonged to, you must be an extremely close descendant for it to react so strongly.” His brow furrowed as he passed her the amethyst.
Vaelira felt nothing from within the cold stone, but her fingers curled around it anyway. Her gaze drifted back to the moonstone.
“You are not discarding it,” Galfri said gently, “but your manifestations are growing faster than I anticipated. You need a conduit of your own.” He paused. “What is it?”
She didn’t answer at first, but he waited. Something in his patience made the words easier to say. “Last night,” she began hesitantly, “there was a girl. She was possessed, but still just a girl.” She inhaled sharply, fighting down the nausea. “I was so angry.”
“Your essensia acted through the anger,” Galfri said quietly, as if he had already known.
“It felt like it wasn’t even mine, like I had no control. I drew too much too fast.”
Galfri nodded. “Rage is the easiest way to light the spark, but also the most volatile. In times of great danger, rage is better than fear. But uncontrolled rage,” he glanced at the amethyst, “can cost you. That is why you need a conduit. You’ll be able to hone larger amounts of power.
Amplify it, even, without such great physical toll.
” He squeezed her arm, dipping his head to bring her gaze to his.
“We will practice. Breathwork for the anger. Conduit for your developing power.”
“They’re using children,” she said. “How am I meant to stay calm when faced with that?”
Galfri’s smile was sad. “Anger is not a problem. It is an emotion, as natural and valid as joy or grief. It’s how your body handles it, and how your essensia follows, that we must train. Fear freezes it. Calm makes it easy to control. Rage makes it unpredictable.”
Vaelira turned the amethyst over in her hand. Torchlight glinted across its smooth surface.
Galfri pulled a long, jagged stick of pale crystal from the bag, and showed her how to imbue it. Any shape stone could be used, if it was structurally solid, but rounded, polished crystals made for easier handling. No manifestation was needed, only raw essensia.
Vaelira closed her eyes, letting the hum radiate over her skin. She pushed it into the stone, giving the essensia no direction other than to permeate the crystal.
The moment her power touched the amethyst, it vibrated low in her palm like a plucked string.
A single note unlike any she had heard before, as if her essensia were speaking to her, having finally found its voice.
Her chest rose, a weight finally shifting, her lungs expanding with the newfound space. She exhaled.
Galfri smiled. “What you feel,” he said, touching his own chest, “is the link. If you channel through the conduit, it will amplify and streamline your essensia. It does the heavy lifting.” He paused. “Up to a certain point, anyway.”
Vaelira nodded and called her flame. It sprung to life easily, leaping between her palm and the conduit.
The amethyst warmed, and she called more, the stone brightening before it steadied.
Then the light surged outward in a narrow beam, shooting towards the opposite wall.
A clean line of fire struck the stone and vanished.
A long breath escaped her. She flexed her fingers and blinked, clearing the lingering glow. It had been so controlled, so precise. Such power with so little a cost. A slight ache radiated up her arm, but her head was clear, her feet still solidly planted.
Galfri laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Gods be good. Imagine what you’ll be able to do with practice.”
Vaelira crossed to the wall where a hole had been carved straight into the rock. She lit a small flame in her palm and leaned closer.
“I wonder how deep it went,” she said, peering through the gap. She brought her hand closer to the cooling stone and her eyes widened. “There’s something back here.”
Galfri approached. “What do you see?”
She squinted, trying to get a clear view past the flame. She raised her hand, ready to carve the rest of the stone away, but Galfri placed a cautionary hand on her shoulder.
“Slowly,” he warned. “You might destroy what you’re about to discover.”
Together, they chipped away at the stone, using careful bursts of power, wary of damaging what lay beyond. The task was good practice, allowing Vaelira to get used to her essensia flowing through the conduit before being released. Piece by piece, a rough doorway took shape.
The chamber beyond was thick with dust, the air stale and heavy.
Low ceilings pressed in overhead, and wooden shelves stood in rows, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls.
Towards the back sat an oak table with carved twisted legs and four chairs, all pulled out as if the occupants had left in a hurry.
A single sheet of parchment lay in the centre, one corner covered by a long-dried spill of ink.
Vaelira brushed away the dust as she leaned in.
The words were faded, but enough remained to read.
“Year four hundred and twenty,” Vaelira said aloud.
Galfri’s breath caught. “That was right before the fire,” he breathed. “After the Great Fire consumed most of the continent, we reset the calendar. We live in the year one hundred and twenty-four.”
Vaelira nodded and then continued to read.
“We have done as the Seven commanded. This chamber holds our history, our truth, and our hope that one day we will be welcomed home.
Though naught can be done here, Rhelisar still values our skill.
Its people call us to rise, to fight the darkness now spilling from the earth's fire, and the one who wields it. These records will not survive the journey. We will leave them hidden, sealed away for our kin to find. Let them know we did not flee but chose to stand. To the kin who follow, forgive us if we failed, but remember…”
The ink spill covered the final words. She turned the parchment over, but it was blank.
“It’s been here all this time,” Galfri whispered, gazing the chamber as if seeing the First Three themselves. “If I had known…” When his eyes finally found hers again, they were bright with unshed tears.
“Rhelisar,” she murmured. “Is that a place?” She sat heavily in one of the chairs, her legs suddenly too feeble to hold her upright.
Galfri nodded. “It is the ancient name of the Wastelands. People called it the Heartlands before the Great Fire.” There was a slight quaver to his voice.
Vaelira’s eyes drifted across the room. The mages who’d built this chamber had left to fight Veyrakh. By the looks of things, they’d left in a hurry. “They must have died in the Great Fire,” she said, her heart aching at the thought.
“Most likely, yes.”
They’d left with hope, only to meet a tragic end.
She stood, and moved to the nearest shelf, tilting her head to read the spines.
She pulled down a volume: Basic Essensia Casting and Spells.
She opened it, skimmed a few pages, and frowned.
She’d read this. There was a copy in the Royal Library.
She returned it and pulled down another.
A History of Mages. She’d seen this title before too, but this binding was older, the cover embossed with a flame encasing a seven-pointed star.
Inside, the first page bore a poem, one she’d never seen before.
A Rhelisar Lullaby
Crows take wing to where pale flames gleam,
Soft petals curl contented to dream,
Lanterns hum keeping talons at bay,
Blushroses guiding to those who stray.
Light cannot thread the shadows to quilt,
Deep pools too shallow to stop the wilt,
They carry no song, whisper no call,
But needles and thorns cut same to all.
Called once then twice our darlings we name,
Mirror and mask to shield and to claim,
Earth and moss, to the roots they hold close,
Forever lost by those who cared most.
Petals hold tight to full blooms of day,
Stalks root in deep and never do sway,
Mirror and mask to cradle and keep,
Take not a third for darlings will weep.