"Thank you, good Bastard. It may be a little egotistical of me but I do enjoy hearing compliments on my work. My friends here are kind, but not usually ones for flattery." Anuð said, before worriedly looking at him. "It might be a good idea to avoid magic for the extent of your stay here my friend. I wish to warn you many among us do not take kindly to it, they see Goldlings like you as unnatural, greedy. As soon as they smelled the gold in you and the girl they wanted you out, to leave you on the banks, and it was only the girls story that made some agree to let you stay until you regain your health. I was the only one who volunteered to have you in my wagon but I've had some words about it from some of the other townspeople."
Bastard nodded. He was used to it, and besides, "I try not to use magic anyway. I'm not very good at it to tell the truth. As you can see by my hand." He held up his upper right for the Dwarv to see blackened fingertips and a stark lack of nails. "Anytime I use the name of Flame, it harms me." He had always been a little embarrassed by this. A mage harmed by his Flame. Unheard of. To have a Name was to to have complete control over it, and for complete control you needed complete knowledge. The classical teachings of Name-Magic, or Goldling magic, depending on your politics or upbringing, tell us that despite its inherently destructive nature, it cannot be used against the One who brings it forth. The first Headmaster of the School, his name long forgotten, proclaimed that this was due to Magics loyalty to its Knower. But why, then, can a mage be slain by another with their very own magic. The first headmasters explanation was that each mages Magic was a unique force, unknown to other mages. This, as we now know from the studies of the 78th Headmaster, Dedact, is untrue. Magic is one conglomerate entity, that gathers in the presence of Gold and is repelled by Bronze, hence the name Goldling. Accurate if not a little demeaning. The magic, when first gathered into a new mage, sends out a beacon for some kind of unknown beings that attach themselves to the new 'Goldling' and lend a little of their knowledge. A Name. For that is all a Name is. Complete knowledge of one thing, small or large. And it is for that reason why a mage may not be harmed by their own magic. And it is for that reason why Names are so dangerous.
Anuð looked at his fingers with interest, studying them. "I had always heard," he spoke, "That a mage must use silver Thimbles to control Flame. I even saw a play about it once when I travelled to Belgorod. I've forgotten the name now though."
"Aver Marit, I've seen it as well. The actors were poor, but it was fun. The scene where he ate his father's gold dagger was good, even though it was all wrong." It was a common mistake for those unfamiliar with mages to make, gold must be implanted in the bones or bloodstream to stick and dispel the Fog. "I've tried thimbles before, and they always seem to break, whether it be melting or splitting down the middle. It caused Jakob no end of trouble and money to get them recast, so eventually we had to give up. He said my Flame was just too... Manevoment? I think that's what he said. I don't know what it means though. He didn't tell me" Bastard shrugged.
"Malevolent." Anuð said. "Means evil."
"Oh."
"Indeed."
What the feck Jakob, Bastard thought, you could've told me what it meant before I told Anuð that my magic was evil. Uncomfortable silence was becoming all too familiar today.
"So anyway," Bastard cleared his throat, "What did the girl say about me that convinced them."
Anuð grunted, "Ach, it was a week ago so I'll give it to you short and sweet, my memory isn't what it was 70 years ago." The man barely looked 40, thought Bastard, a little distraught. "The gist of it was that you had saved her from a gang of Willumer traffickers just south of Ardorf, may Illum hold the city in his arms. Said you rescued her right out of the slave tent and all, and burned through your clothes to melt the chains before you had to dive into the Sinse, where we fished you up. Mighty fine thing to do, good Bastard, protecting a child. Mighty fine indeed." He nodded sagely, while Bastards mind whirred and clicked like a machine, why had she lied?, it made no sense! She had to know something he didn't, those eyes had to know something he didn't. What facts did the lie change, he thought quickly, figure out if she's protecting you or not, Hangnail, use your brains! Brenns voice rang in his head. He still saved her in both stories, that much was true, they both ended up with them in the Sinse, and they both had them as Mages. What was different, think! The Willumers, for one thing, he had never saved her from Willumer traffickers, he had found her amongst giant spiders. Willumer traffickers never travelled this far north so close to winter, but she wouldnt know that. Neither would the Dwarves.
Lie. The spider's. She knows something about them.
What else. The location. You were in Ardorf, not south of it.
Lie.
This one connected to the first. She can't have you two connected to the spiders, or the town they razed. Go with the lie for now. Weasel facts, remember you're a crook Hangnail.
Brenn had always been clever. The cleverest actually, until he'd disappeared. He'd made sure to drill some of that cleverness into Bastard, if only a little.
He nodded. "A little exaggerated, but mostly true." He tried to keep an even expression. "If it helped convince your Town, I won't complain."
"The children do have a habit of embellishing their stories," Anuð said, a little laughter in his eyes, "I suppose that's true for humans and Dwarv isn't it? Just yesterday one of the girls said she saw a Boundary stone stretch. Wish I had half that girls imagination, I'd be the most sought after seamster in the continent."
A Boundary stone? Bastard thought.
"Where are we if we're seeing Boundary stones? I thought they were only near major cities and borders."
The Dwarv thought for a second, and turned his body to look at the mountain behind them. "Well... if that's the Blacksmith... perhaps 100 miles north east of the Iron City? We're headed to the border now, so that's perhaps 150 miles west. I would imagine you two are headed to the School, so you've got quite the journey ahead. That said, you can travel with us until we reach Medhaven. Beyond that I think my companions may riot. Though mine and Fenj's words hold sway, they don't hold that much."
Bastard understood. He thought it was reasonable, even. Goldlings were weapons, their magic was not like the Illum-gifted Dwarv with their Connection, or the Blessed, gifted magic by His four hands. It was meant for destruction, Flame had moulded it so when he fell, it's screams beginning and ending the song of magic.
"Medhaven then. It's been a while. But...
I don't think the School would be the best option for me. You see," he said, holding up his left hand, careful to hide the Family finger, the second, which displayed the arrow broken down the middle with scar tissue. A Willumer, if an exiled one. The scar still stung when he pressed down on, if less by the physical pain and more by the memory of Brenns cutlass. He showed Anuð his smallest finger, the Origin, which showed a small goats head, drawn on by Ardorf's priests who had made sure it hurt when it was inscribed in his flesh. "I'm an Outcast."