Rist sat with his back against the trunk of an oak tree in one of the many gardens of the embassy – a spot that had quickly become one of his favourites. His legs were folded, his notebook open in his lap, a pen and inkwell at hand, and his parents' most recent letter beside him.
Neera sat to Rist's left, her head resting on his shoulder, her arms folded across her chest. It was something they had taken to doing quite often – sitting in the gardens talking, relaxing between their lessons and practice. Though since Garramon had revealed the Trial of Faith, Rist found it difficult to focus on anything else.
"Rist?" The touch of irritation in Neera's voice let Rist know she had asked a question, and he had not answered. Rist had never been good at reading people. Not like Calen or Dann, or anyone else, for that matter. It had gotten him in trouble on more occasions than he could count – was someone joking? Were they serious? Sarcastic? Annoyed? Rist had never understood how everyone else seemed to know these things almost instinctively. Of course, if someone was smiling, he knew they were happy. Then again, that wasn't always true either. But with Neera, he could tell. Not at first, but slowly he had learned. It was like reading a book. She had different tones of voice for the things he did wrong. If her nose didn't crinkle when she smiled, then it wasn't a real smile, and if she didn't snort when she laughed, the laughter was simply placative. If she was like a book, she was his favourite book.
"Rist?" she repeated, her tone once again changing, a smile touching her lips as she pulled away and glared at him, her nose crinkling. She was annoyed, but happy for some reason.
Rist realised he had been staring at her. Staring into those dark eyes. "Sorry, I was lost in thought. What did you say?"
Neera pursed her lips, shaking her head. "It's all that empty space in there," she said, her smile widening. "Easy to get lost with so much room. I asked what they're like – your parents."
Rist looked down at the notebook in his lap.
Mam and Dad,
I'm sorry it's been so long since I last wrote, things have been
Rist reread over the unfinished line – the only line. They'd been there for just short of an hour, and that was all Rist had been able to write. He'd tried, but his mind kept drifting to the vessel that sat in the box in the pocket of his robes that lay in a heap beside him. The Essence Vessel. The trial. Rist had barely slept in the three days since Garramon had opened that box. He spent every spare moment in that room – which Garramon had kept reserved for him – reading through every page of every book, his appetite for understanding growing more rapacious with each page. Even when training with the First Army, or practising the sword with Sister Anila, it was all he thought about. His 'daydreaming', as Brother Pirnil had called it, had earned him more than a few new scars, courtesy of the Scholar.
"Rist?" Neera's voice was back to the initial irritation. Her eyes were narrowed. She was examining him in the way that she did. "If you don't start answering me, I'm going to pull pages from your favourite books. I swear to Efialtír. I'll start with the one about druids."
"You're a monster," Rist said with a smile.
"I wasn't joking. I'll pull out the most important pages from each section so that when you read the conclusions, they won't make any sense." Neera raised her eyebrow, tilting her head slightly.
"Message received." Rist folded over the notebook, setting it beside the letter from his parents, then clasped his hands at his knees and stared up through the thick branches of the oak tree. "My dad is a firm man. He works hard – too hard most of the time. But he's a good dad. He's always been there for me. He'd do anything for me and mam. Mam's a handful. Possibly the single happiest woman in all the villages, though. She's always going, like a ball of energy. I miss her… a lot."
Rist felt tears form at the corners of his eyes. Talking about his parents only made him feel guiltier about taking so long to respond to their letters. Garramon had only given him one recently, but they had sent another a few weeks before. He'd just had so much going on. So little time.
"They sound lovely." Neera smiled, the slightest of crinkles forming on her nose. After a moment though, the smile faded, and she stared off at the grass.
She hadn't spoken of home. Not once. But Rist also hadn't asked. He always forgot. He asked a lot of questions. Well, he didn't think he did, but everyone always told him he did. As far as he was concerned, he asked the appropriate number of questions. But he knew he often didn't ask questions about emotional things. Not because he didn't care – he did, deeply – but because his mind fixated on the questions that were the most pressing. "What are your parents like?"
"Mine?" Neera let out a sigh, running her fingers through her black hair. "They were great, actually. My mother was the guard captain in our village, just east of Holm. Fiercest woman I ever knew. She taught me how to hold a sword as soon as I was strong enough to pick one up." Neera's eyes glistened as she talked of her mother, the shell of sarcasm and wit that usually surrounded her disappearing. "My father, Heraya bless his soul, was about as strong as a malnourished chicken. He was actually kind of like you." Neera gave an exaggerated shiver, shrugging. Rist glared at her. "I suppose you're stronger than a malnourished chicken. I've seen you training, eating extra meals. Anyway, when I said he was like you, I meant that he was gentle and kind. He adored books and tinkering with small gadgets. But ultimately he was an academic. He studied the formation of metal alloys, particularly alloys formed with the iron ore mined from Mar Dorul."
Neera's use of the past tense didn't evade Rist. "How did they die?"
Even as he asked the question, he could hear Calen's voice in the back of his mind, admonishing him for his lack of sensitivity. Again, lack of sensitivity wasn't his intention. Asking the obvious question was simply the best way to get the right answer.
Neera drew back for a moment, her brow furrowing. "You really have no idea how to just ask a normal question, do you? It's not that hard, all you have to do…" Neera's voice trailed off as she looked at Rist, her expression softening. She let out a sigh. "Sorry… It was a year or so before I came here. Uraks attacked our village in the night. More than we'd ever seen at any one time. My mother tried to protect us, but… There were too many. She died on her feet, just like she'd have wanted. My father tried. He picked up her sword and stood over me. I can still see his blood spilling over the floor. That was when I touched the Spark for the first time. The Inquisitors hadn't been to our village since I was very young, and when they had come, I was with my mother and father at the mine. But when the attack ended, and the soldiers arrived, Sister Ardal was with them. Once she'd seen what I could do, she dragged me here. Didn't even give me a chance to bury them. Not even to say goodbye." Rist reached over to wipe the tears from Neera's face, but she swatted his hand away, sniffling. "Happy now?"
"Why would your tears make me happy?"
"I didn't mean…" Neera let out a sigh, wiping the sleeve of her black-striped robes across her face. "Just shut up." Neera leaned back in, resting her head against Rist's shoulder once more.
They sat there for a while, not speaking, just watching as people walked past. Rist had thought to rest his hand on Neera's, but from everything he was learning, this was not the right time. If Neera wanted his hand, she'd take it. He didn't mind sitting there in silence, though. It was actually quite nice, and it gave him time to think about the trial.
After a while, Neera left to do extra studies with Sister Ardal. Once he was alone, Rist packed his things into his satchel and set off for the library.
Gault, the librarian Garramon had asked to look after Rist, nodded as Rist entered. The man looked as though he had seen the better part of sixty summers – over twenty thousand sunrises. His hair was thinning and grey, mostly white, while his skin bore deep furrows – from years of throwing dirty looks, no doubt. Despite time's obvious wear, Gault moved like a man half his age, spry and full of life. To Rist's surprise, the man had actually been quite pleasant with him over the past few days. "Not today, Gault. I have all the materials I need. Though, if there was a spare cup of Arlen Root tea, I'd be forever grateful."
A wrinkled smile crossed Gault's face, and he nodded, his voice cracked and hushed. "I'm sure I can find some, apprentice Havel."
Rist smiled as the man scuttled away. The first day after Garramon had left Rist in the room upstairs, Rist had wandered down to see Gault and ask if he had any accounts of Blood Magic or Essence that originated in the South prior to the Liberation. But as he had asked the question, the earthy smell of Arlen Root tea wafted under his nose. That smell hadn't touched his nostrils since the last time he'd visited Calen's home. Freis had always had a fondness for Arlen Root tea. For some reason, Gault's hardness had softened when Rist explained the tea reminded him of home.
Rist made his way through the library and up the stairs, breathing in the smell of the books, that earthy, almost vanilla-like scent of time-incensed paper. It was one of his favourite smells in the entire world. As usual, he took his time, sauntering from floor to floor, lingering at bookshelves that stretched the length and breadth of the walls, admiring the craftsmanship of the bindings and the leather work. By the time he had reached his study room on the top floor, his heart was full.
He pulled open the red curtain that hid the interior of the room and stepped inside, closing the curtain behind him before dropping himself onto the couch and promptly opening Blood Magic, A Curse and a Gift, by Holdir Arthrang of Drifaien. This particular book had proven to be the most balanced opinion Rist had found amongst all the materials he had gathered.
The only sadness Rist had found amongst having all these books to read was that he still had not gotten any further in Druid, a Magic Lost – or any of the other books he had smuggled out of the library. So many books to read, so little time to read them; that always seemed to be the case.
Rist was only three pages in when he heard the curtain slide over. The earthy smell of Arlen Root tea wafted in the air. He was coming towards the end of the page, so he didn't lift his gaze. Instead, he simply smiled. "Thank you, Gault. I really do appreciate it."
"I'll be sure to let Gault know."
Rist's back stiffened. He'd not heard that voice before. Without lifting his gaze, he moved to fold the corner of the page, then remembered the smack Gault had given him the first day for doing so. Three hundred and fifty-two. He hadn't brought a bookmark with him. His memory would have to suffice. It often did. With the page memorized, and the awkwardness hanging thick in the air, Rist set the book on the table and turned to look at the stranger.
It was a man, no taller than six feet, his hair short and black. By the look of him, he'd seen no more than forty summers. His robes were black as night, but where Exarchs of the Battlemages wore black robes trimmed with silver, and Primarch Touran wore black robes trimmed with gold, this man's robes were trimmed with a deep red. His eyes, physically, were no stranger than Rist's, but it wasn't their appearance that made them different, it was their intensity; the man looked as though he was staring into Rist's soul. Every hair on Rist's body stood on end, and his chest tightened.
He knew this man. He'd never seen him. But he knew him. Rist leapt to his feet as gracefully as he could manage, meeting the man's inescapable stare. He bowed his head, unsure as to what the proper etiquette was. "Emperor Mortem, my deepest apologies, I—"
"Sit down, apprentice. There's no need for apologies." Fane Mortem placed the mug of Arlen Root tea down in front of Rist, then took a seat on the other side of the L-shaped couch. The more Rist looked at him, the more he saw. The emperor may not have been as tall as Haem Bryer or as grisly as Exarch Magnus, but he had an aura about him, a confidence in the way he moved, an effortless grace. Not for a second did Rist doubt that the man sitting across from him had the power to break mountains and tear open the sky. The emperor ran his fingers along the spines of the books stacked closest to him. "Garramon said you were hesitant."
Garramon talks to Fane about me? "I'm not hesitant, Emperor. I…" Was this one of those times where Rist shouldn't say what he was thinking? Most likely. But it didn't seem like this was a man to lie to. "I simply wish to learn. Where I come from, Efialtír is The Traitor. Blood Magic is the work of dark spirits. This is not a decision to be taken lightly."
To Rist's surprise, the emperor raised an eyebrow, amused, his lips twisting into a smile. "You're not afraid to speak your mind. That's something I can appreciate." Fane picked up the book at the top of the stack and thumbed through it. "Knowledge is a powerful thing, apprentice. That is an age-old adage that many people spout, but few have taken the time to truly contemplate. In my younger days, I spent countless hours in the great library of Ilnaen in the pursuit of knowledge – the pursuit of bettering myself. I see that in you. How many of these have you read?"
"All but this one," Rist said, lifting Blood Magic, A Curse and a Gift in the air.
Fane let out a suppressed laugh. "Impressive. The vessel, do you have it?"
The mention of the Essence vessel twisted a knot in Rist's stomach, but, even still, he reached into the pocket of his robes and produced the small black wooden box, setting it on the table.
Without a word, Fane picked it up. A ripple of energy swept outwards from the emperor as he reached out to the Spark and pulled in threads of Air, weaving them through the locking mechanism of the box. Rist had never felt anything like it. When others opened themselves to the Spark, Rist could sense it, a tingle at the back of his neck, a subtle disruption in the normality of things. But when Fane opened himself to the Spark, it was like a drum had been beaten, a rippling wave of power moving through the air. The box popped open, emitting a soft red glow over the emperor's face.
"Do you know why Garramon sponsored you?" Fane didn't lift his gaze from the grape-sized gemstone that sat within the box. When Rist didn't answer, Fane continued. "You have the potential to be one of the most powerful mages we have found in centuries. Have you noticed the thrum in the air of this city? The low vibration that fades to the back of your mind?"
"I… yes." Rist had sensed it from the moment he had arrived, but he hadn't been sure what exactly it was. He had dismissed it at first. Then, over time, he had forgotten about it entirely. "At least, I think I have."
"That thrum is the centralised power that resonates in the fabric of this world when so many who draw from the Spark are in the same place. Few cities remain that truly hold it. Here, Berona, and Easterlock, perhaps Arginwatch, though it's been a few hundred years since I've visited. Most of us cannot emit that energy alone, not unless we open ourselves to the Spark. That is why when we send our Inquisitors to search for gifted children, they must teach the children the basic principles of touching the Spark. There are a select few whose power is so raw it bleeds through. To the untrained eye, it's nothing. A wave of heat rippling off steel. But to those who know what they are looking for, it is a sign of true strength. You are here, Rist Havel, because when we found you, Brother Garramon was insistent that you had the power to become a hero of legend – a champion of the empire. And having met you now, I'm inclined to agree."
Rist shuffled uncomfortably. This was the emperor of the Lorian Empire. Fane Mortem. Rist had heard story after story about how the man who sat before him had betrayed his own. How he had orchestrated the fall of The Order and the scouring of the elves and Jotnar from the main body of Epheria. Everything Rist had ever been told painted Fane Mortem as a monster. Yet here he was, simply a man. A man who radiated more power than Rist would ever have believed possible, but a man nonetheless.
Fane glanced towards Rist and set the box on the table. "Doubts are good, apprentice. Doubts fuel the thirst for knowledge. And I'm sure you have been told tales of my misdeeds, horror stories of how Efialtír is the father of all darkness." Rist tensed. Was the man reading his mind? "If I've learned one thing that I can pass on, it is that the truth is nothing more than the amalgamation of lies." Fane reached down and plucked the gemstone from the box, holding it in the palm of his hands, the red glow washing over his skin. "Uraks are mindless beasts, are they not?"
Rist sat forward, perplexed by the question. "I would say yes, but something tells me I would be wrong."
Fane smiled. "Very wrong indeed. Do you know what is within this stone?"
"According to what I've read, it is Life Essence. But as to what that actually is, every book seems to disagree."
"Books tend to do that," Fane said with a laugh. For a man said to have caused the deaths of hundreds of thousands, he laughed a lot. "Life Essence is the force that grants all existence. It flows in all living things. Some refer to it as the soul, but that is not true. Essence and the soul are two entirely different things. If a body is a raging fire, then the soul is the wood that burns. It grants shape and structure, uniqueness. Essence is the air that grants life to the fire. You said that Efialtír is known as The Traitor where you are from." Rist tensed at that. "Well, he was also named The Traitor when I was a child. Do you know why?"
Rist wished he knew, but of all the things he had taken an interest in growing up, the gods weren't one of them. Neither was magic. Rist had always preferred to learn about the tangible world. He believed in what he could see and feel. Time was a precious thing, and he preferred not to dedicate his to chasing half-truths spouted about gods he would never see. Though the last few months had changed that outlook considerably. He shook his head.
Fane nodded. "Apologies if I digress, but I often find without the background, a painting lacks substance. Did you know humans were not born in Epheria? We migrated here thousands of years ago from Terroncia. I've always found that fascinating. We brought our own gods with us – Kaygan, Dvalin, Bjorna, Vethnir, and Fenryr. The druidic gods. Physical beings of great power – or so the legends say. After a few centuries, our people adapted to the ways of these lands, and the old gods faded while new gods took hold.
"As the legends go, the gods of Epheria were a higher form of god, the Enkara in the Old Tongue. It was said that the Enkara made a pact that once life was given to the creatures of this world, they would leave their physical forms, bequeathing this plane of existence to their creations. But as seems to be the natural order of things, after a time, wars broke out. The elves, Jotnar, dwarves, dragons, and all the other races – many of whom no longer draw breath – destroyed each other over land, wealth, power. The dragons were Varyn's own creation. His guardians. But within them brewed a rage like no other, a fury that burned in their hearts. And so it was said that Varyn created the bond as a way to temper that fury. The calmer natures of the elves and Jotnar would balance the rage within the dragons. Hafaesir feared for the safety of his creations: the dwarves. And so he refused to allow a tether between the dwarves and the dragons. He struck a bargain with Heraya, and between them, they provided the dwarves with the means to live within the mountains where they would be safe from the winged creatures."
Rist leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the table. Calen had always been the one enraptured by stories of old, but now Rist understood – stories were simply books told aloud. They weren't as objective or reliable, but still. The difference here was that Rist wasn't reading a second-hand account of events cobbled together by a disgruntled historian. This was Fane Mortem. He had seen centuries. He had witnessed the fall of The Order – void, he had caused it. Fane stared at Rist as he talked.
"Of course, binding dragons to the other races did nothing. They still warred, still slaughtered each other in their hundreds, thousands. Varyn had created the dragons, Hafaesir the dwarves. Elyara and Achyron created the elves together. Heraya filled the lands with flora and fauna. Neron built the oceans and filled them. But it was Efialtír who cut a sliver of his own heart to grant life to all existence. Which was why, when the creations of the Enkara slaughtered each other and fed the soil with their blood, Efialtír was distraught, inconsolable. He had loved the denizens of this world with every fibre of his being. He had given them his heart, and they were wasting it.
"And so, one day, when the flames raged across the lands, the rivers ran red, and the earth refused to grow for the salt that had been sown, Efialtír broke his pact with the other gods. He descended from the realm of the Enkara, taking physical form in this world. And, carving another sliver from his heart, he created a tether between the two realms. Through this tether, the Essence spilled so the loss of each life could be recycled; from death could come life anew. It was for this he was cast aside from the Enkara, branded as The Traitor. A god who wished only to save his creations from their own destruction, exiled for breaking an oath that would have left the world in ruins." Fane stared into the gemstone, the red glow casting shadows across his face.
Rist sat in silence for a few moments, processing everything Fane had just told him. It was a fascinating tale, truly. But with little more than words to hold it afloat, Rist could give it no more credence than the tales Therin wove in The Gilded Dragon.
Just as Rist was about to speak, the curtain opened again, and Gault stepped through, bowing so low he almost folded his rickety body in half. In his left hand, the man held a small wooden box, no more than a foot long and a few inches wide, which he laid on the table before Fane. "As requested, Lord Emperor. Light of The Saviour upon you."
"And upon you, Gault. You have my thanks."
A smile as wide as a canyon beamed across Gault's face as he stepped backwards from the room, staying bowed the entire time.
"He's a lovely man," Fane said as he pulled the box closer. "If a little formal. Now, before you say anything, Garramon already told me you wouldn't believe me on merit. Do you?"
"No," Rist said, honestly. He narrowed his eyes at the box, wondering what was inside. "It is a fascinating story, but it is still only a story."
"Well said. You are even more like me than I had anticipated. Before I show you something that isn't simply a story, did you know that Efialtír has even more names? That he is not simply The Traitor or The Saviour?"
Rist raised an eyebrow, curious, and shook his head.
"Like all the gods, Efialtír has had many names over the years, changing with the world and the eyes through which he was seen. The Lyonin referred to him as The Blood God. The early men knew him as the Harbinger of Shadow. The old Arcanians knew him as The God Who Walks in The Light of The Moon – a little long winded, but beautiful in its own way. The Uraks, however, have a different name for him: Lifebringer. Which, after quite a tangent, brings me back to my original point – Uraks are not mindless beasts, as much as I'd wish them to be."
"Over four centuries ago, I was a Battlemage of The Order. My true calling would likely have been as a Scholar, but my prowess in combat was deemed 'wasted' on that path. Even so, I constantly pursued knowledge. My appetite for it – much like yours – was rapacious. But The Order believed that knowledge should be controlled. Anything they did not agree with or understand, they buried. So after searching and searching, I travelled to Mar Dorul, where the Naiwell Woods touched the foot of the mountains. It was there an Urak Shaman awaited me as though he had always known I would come. He did not attack me or strike me down. He welcomed me and brought me to their hold."
"Why? Why would any Urak do such a thing?"
"Our peoples had been at war for thousands of years – he wanted me to understand why. He wanted me to listen to Efialtír and see the work of The Lifebringer. It was within the walls of that mountain that I saw the true power of Essence. The Shaman explained to me that thousands of years ago, the Uraks were struck with a disease like no other. Hundreds, thousands of their children were stillborn. Their hearts beat in the womb but eventually gave out. The disease spread slowly at first, but after a time, a decade had passed since an Urak child had been born."
Despite himself, Rist found a knot twisting in his heart. The beasts he had seen were savage and cruel. Monsters by every definition of the word. But even so, he felt their loss viscerally. His own mother, Elia, had lost four children to stillbirth after Rist. The losses had almost broken her. To lose a child that way was not something he would wish on anyone. "The Essence?"
Fane nodded. "In their hour of need, with the Blood Moon high in the sky, Efialtír whispered in the ears of each of their monarchs from Mar Dorul, to Kolmir, to Aonar. He could not watch more of his children suffer. Once more, he offered the world a gift. The gift of life from death. He showed the Uraks where to find gemstones capable of storing Essence and how to use them. Through Essence, he allowed them to save their kind, and thus children were born."
"Efialtír can bring life back to the dead?"
"Not quite. That is a gift he has never bestowed. But through Essence, each child is cured of the disease symptoms in the womb. However, the disease itself persists, lying dormant until it is carried to the next generation. But through Essence, each generation can give their children the gift of life."
"And the Uraks are also tethered to Efialtír," Rist whispered, nodding. "They are chained to him, beholden to his gift."
"They are. Without Essence, the children remain still at birth. Though chained is a rather harsh term."
"Even so," Rist said, contemplating everything Fane had said, and thinking of what he'd read over the past few days, "to fill the vessels with Essence and save the lives of their children, they must first take life." Slowly, it was all coming together. "That is why they fight. That is why they are so savage. For every life they take, they can save one of their own children."
"Precisely." Fane sat back, placing the gemstone back into the box.
"But… It's not right… Why would a god push the Uraks to commit such atrocities… to kill…"
"Your thought process is exactly as mine was when I first learned the truth, but it is ultimately flawed. You consider everything in isolation, when in reality not a single concept or idea exists in such a state. The world itself is an uncountable myriad of moving pieces, each influencing each other at any given time." Fane must have seen the look of confusion on Rist's face. He folded his arms across his chest and pressed himself back into the couch. "Do you remember the Varsund war in the South?"
"I wasn't born when the Varsund war broke out."
"But you know of it? You've heard of the tens of thousands that died? Of how the River Almellon ran red with blood? How corpses littered the streets of Oberwall?"
Rist nodded, unsure where Fane was going with this.
"The Varsund war was only one of many such wars. Wars that claimed the lives of thousands upon thousands, and for what? So a king could have a little more land? We kill each other by the hundreds every day — humans, elves, dwarves. Is our cause for killing any more noble than the Uraks, who seek only to give life to their children? Like I said, all truths are nothing more than the amalgamation of lies. Stories twisted and changed by the teller to suit a narrative of their choosing."
"Could the same not be said of this tale now?" As soon as the words left Rist's mouth, he regretted them. Not for a lack of sensitivity, but because upon immediate reflection it didn't seem like a wise thing to say to a man who could crush him into the ground with the stroke of a hand.
"It could," Fane said with the upturn of his lip. "But what do I have to gain in making you sympathetic towards the Uraks? I bear no love for those creatures. I simply think it best to understand. Understanding is everything. But instead, let me show you."
Rist furrowed his brow, watching as Fane slid the top off the wooden box, then dipped his hand inside, pulled out something obscured by his grasp, and set it on the table. He moved his hand away to reveal the body of a small bird.
The creature was no more than a few inches long. Its body was short and stubby, its bill long and black. The tiny, scale-like feathers of its body were a shimmering sea-blue, the hue changing with the flickering candlelight, while the feathers that lined its head were a blend of pink, orange, and red, glistening with the metallic qualities of steel or silver. The creature's chest rose and fell in long, slow sweeps, shuddering with each exhale.
"It's dying," Rist said, leaning closer, his gaze moving over the creature. Rist noticed that one of its wings was broken, feathers ruffled and plucked, blood dappling its metallic colouring.
"It is." Fane's gaze moved from Rist to the small creature. "Healing with the Spark has limits – a mage's power, but also their knowledge and understanding of anatomy. A powerful mage would stand no chance at stopping infection without the knowledge to do so. And a knowledgeable mage could not bring a man back from the brink of death if they were not powerful enough to do so, lest they give their own life in the trying."
Fane looked down at the glowing red gemstone that sat in the black box Garramon had given Rist, then pulled back the sleeve of his right arm to reveal a golden bracelet that held six glowing gemstones, each half the size of the stone in the box. His hand hovered over the dying bird. "Essence is not Blood Magic, Rist. It is Life Magic. Both the Spark and Essence require a pool of power to work. The Spark takes its strength from the user, draining them; it has very hard limits. Essence, on the other hand, takes its strength from the life of the world and passes it on, completing the circle, wasting nothing. Acts of unfathomable power can be performed when enough Essence is gathered in one place. Of course, just as the Spark can be used for destructive means, so too can Essence. It can conjure waves of fire, bolts of lightning. It can bring down walls, crush stone. But it can also take death and use it to breathe life. This hummingbird was attacked by a hawk in the palace gardens this afternoon while I was eating. As you can see, it stood little chance. One of the guards decided to use the hawk as target practice, and stuck it with an arrow, but not before the hummingbird was gravely injured. This vessel here—" Fane tapped the pulsating red gemstone that sat at the top of the bracelet "—contains the Essence of that hawk, which I captured as it was passing from this world. And so, death breathes life anew."
With Fane's words, the gemstone at the top of the bracelet glowed, its light washing over the emperor's face and hand. Moments passed, and Rist could feel and sense nothing. He wasn't sure what he had expected, a sensation similar to the Spark, perhaps? Is this what I've been told to call 'Blood Magic'? This feels like… "What in the gods…"
The small bird twitched. Its long bill darted side to side. Its breaths, once drawn out and ragged, grew sharper, its lungs filling. The bird chirped, more life pouring into its body. With a jarring snap, the broken wing pulled back into place, and the hummingbird lifted from the table, its shimmering blue wings moving in a blur, faster than anything Rist had ever seen.
The creature hovered above the table, the low hum resonating from its wings clearly the origin of its name.
Rist reached out a hand, but the creature flitted away, moving near Fane's shoulder, chirping. Even the Healers in the embassy could do nothing like this with the Spark – not with such little effort. Despite the bird's size, it would have taken quite some energy to fix its wounds and bring it back from the brink of death. From what Rist understood about healing, along with the medical understanding required to tend the specific wound being healed, the energy taken from the healer was twice what was given to the patient, and the closer the patient was to death, the more energy they required. Rist looked from the hovering bird to Fane, who sat with his arms crossed, a satisfied look on his face.
"How is this possible?"
"Not only is it possible, but with the remaining five gemstones on this bracelet, I could do it five more times without tiring. Do you see now? Do you see how the truth you were raised on is no more or less true than the truth you resist? The only truth in this world is the truth you believe."
Rist stared at the bird, watching it zip back and forth, its wings a blur of motion. He nodded slowly. Rist turned his gaze from the bird back to Fane. He was under no illusions that most apprentices – sponsored or no – ever received a personal visit from the emperor of Loria to convince them to proceed with their Trial of Faith. "Emperor Mortem?"
"Yes, apprentice?" The emperor looked up towards the hummingbird, holding out his hand. Much to Rist's surprise, the bird came to him almost immediately, alighting on his extended finger.
"Is it truly still a trial of 'faith' if you have explained so much to me?"
The emperor laughed. "You ask the right questions, apprentice Havel." Fane drew in a breath then rose to his feet. He pulled on a thread of Air, using it to open the red curtain, then extended his arm. The hummingbird hesitated for only a moment before flitting through the opening. As the emperor made to leave, he turned. "The journey is yours, apprentice. All I have done is provide you with the tools you will need to walk the path. Every step you take will require faith. This is simply the first."
The emperor stepped from the room, his red-trimmed cloak drifting behind him.
Rist let the tension seep from his body, his shoulders drooping as he leaned into the soft leather of the couch. Had that truly been Emperor Fane Mortem? The man who struck down The Order, chased the elves into Lynalion, and drove the dwarves back into the mountains. The man who was feared from one end of the continent to the other. Rist knew it was. From the second Fane had stepped into the room, it had been clear who he was. But he had been nothing like what Rist had expected. Nothing at all.
From the stories Rist had been told as a child, he'd expected a broad-chested behemoth with dark eyes that drank in the light of souls. He'd expected Fane to be ruthless, primal. But the man had been none of those things. He had been thoughtful, inquisitive, and open. He had radiated power and authority, but not through thick armour and sharp steel, or righteous anger and fury, but through the simple surety of who he was.
Rist sighed, then reached forward and pulled the wooden box with the red gemstone closer, the light pulsating. He bit the corner of his lip, then closed the lid.