Heos stepped atop the grass. Nonchalant, smiling. Wishing to meet halfway with the first-born prince, who had —after ensuring his mother would not faint from shock— left his seat, still afflicted by a hiccup-like laughter.
He had been worried.
His father had forbidden him from attending the symposium; perhaps wishing for his eldest not to influence his youngest's decision. Or not… He would think it absurd for the king to not know Heos' temperament. His presence alone would not move this child, so why forbid him from making an appearance?
To be truthful, his wish to attend was, more or less, self-serving; an act to assuage his own fears about his brother's position. To defend him if the discussion became a political battle, with Heos at its center, swept away by forces and interests beyond his own means.
Even if he was not to attend, and so knowledge of the decision would be kept for him for as long as his father wished, or rather, for as long as it took for him to ask Heos, he could still argue in the child's favor to Alphonse; even if limited by hierarchy. The Gelbann Amoineau had influence, had power, even if symbolic, right?
Yet, when he went to ask for Heos, none knew where he was. He assumed that the youngest had been idling about by the swan lake. However, arriving there, he had found nothing, except for swans, gliding indolently, of course.
Then, Heos did not show at mid-day. Was he not hungry?
Worried, he asked both his father and Lady Marenisse; both did not know, and unconcerned, did not worry to find out.
If not for his father offhandedly commenting that "the child" was certainly alright —which at first he had trouble believing— and that he had stationed both royal guards and Hiéron around him, he would have gone out himself to find him.
"If he did not show for lunch then… he must be doing something else? Do not bother looking for him."
Were the king's words.
So, when he saw him, covered in dirt like he had been rolling around the forest floor for fun, his worry abated, and amused at seeing all those present at the afternoon tea shaken, he could not help but laugh.
Heos had come out the forest like a haunt…
Numerous pairs of blue, brown, green eyes watched, unnerved.
Now that he appeared nearer, and nearer, he noticed… scabbed blood, rust-copper brown, covering his gown and face.
His laughter mellowed out.
Until it stopped.
Alarmed, he sped up, and finally meeting halfway with his brother, bent down and looked him up and down, carefully.
"Heos, are you hurt…?" He asked, still checking the prince for wounds.
"No? Brother…"
Seeing no open wound, at least not external, his mind went to the next possible reason for this scabbing…
"Then, this blood…?"
No… Heos was not a cruel child… strange, unwieldy, precocious, even somewhat bizarre… but… killing some woodland creature for… for what reason?
No, his own fanciful imagination, was all.
He felt a pang of guilt, thinking his brother capable of such a thing, even when knowing the child's predilection for animals… All because of what? Because of his strange behavior?
A hidden sigh.
It was a lot of blood. Splattering, as if something had burst apart. It blended in with the dust… soot? Earth… and whatever else covered him.
"I don't know… I got lost in the forest."
A pleasant smile, transparent. That common visage on the child
"Wait… the guards around you…?" 'The Hiéron?' He thought.
"Who?"
"Are there not guards looking after you?"
"No…"
He felt anger rising.
Had the guards left him to his own devices? No… It was much more likely that the king had lied.
A shadow settled above his expression.
"I see…" His voice rose, steady, sharper. "Guard, Call for Her Majesty."
The royal guard bowed, then left trotting, to search for Marenisse.
"Heos, are you ok? Are you not hungry…? Or…?"
He laughed, the youngest prince, without warning. A strange show of emotion, seldom seen in such an impassive temperament.
"I'm very happy Brother… Do you know when my lesson will start?"
What was with this change of topic?
"Well… soon Heos, but… How did you get lost… and…"
The child tuned off his brother's concerned ramble, envisioning in his mind all the marvelous things that awaited him once he began to learn of magic.
'Flying…'
His brother kept harking back to his condition, how he had gotten lost… once or twice mentioned the dried blood on him…
It was all washed out by the brilliant shimmer of magic, waiting for him, inviting him… the world changing and twisting.
A sempiternal smile, his curved lips.
From the far side of his sight he watched as a woman appeared, clad in a riding habit —riding coat and skirt— , her copper hair tied taut, as she measuredly rode a white stallion… no, some strange, pale-haired horse, as if made of waves of sunlit sand, toward him.
Besides her a guard accompanied her strut.
"Mother!" An exclamation of joy. His hand rising to wave.
The first-born prince, although unhappy with the amount of answers he had gotten, gave up on what had been, essentially, a monologue.
He would question his father later… Hounding Heos any further would be futile.
A light shadow of anger still darkened his expression.
*
Specks of dust dancing in the air…
This is what Heos entertained himself with.
Sitting in a smaller study —as "small" as a room in the palace could be.
His feet dangled off the beautiful Alexandre IX style chair. A sinuous pattern of interlocking golden arches on top of a grey-blue background for its upholstery. Its body carved out of sandalwood.
He was dressed as informally as any other day… still in an airy white gown. He refused the trimmed coats, justacorps, jabots, culottes and so on… all downsized for him, and exuberantly exquisite, and expensive. Not because he disliked them, rather, he preferred the loose comfort of gowns… and, of course, went barefoot, another of his preferences…
Anyhow, he waited. For today he began his lessons. Pestering his father had made the lesson on Mysteries the first.
Two guards lined the door, while two others waited outside.
He had been disappointed at learning he would not have his lesson the same day he returned from the "excursion"; resulting in a —never before seen— tantrum; reminding those close to Heos that he was, all in all, still a child.
He had to endure fewer days, however, as his father moved up the start date for his education.
And so, now, he waited…
And waited…
The dust danced… lit into being by sunlight. Like little snowflakes…
'Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!'
"Guard! Is he here yet?!"
He exclaimed at the soldier, who responded, unfazed.
"No, Your Majesty."
Evidently, the teacher wasn't there yet…
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."
He groaned. Burying his head in his arms, which he rested on the sandalwood table.
Those who knew the prince were quite optimistic, glad, even, as the strange, impassive, unsettling child, brilliant but taciturn, had begun showing signs of animation, and childishness, something he was, until then, apparently bereft of.
Peeking his eyes over his arms, his eyes gazed forward, uninterested.
Focused on the dancing dust.
His feet swung, expectant…
His sight lost focus, then regained it, settling on the chair ahead of him, resting at the other side of the table.
Sandalwood as well, upholstered in much the same manner.
The sun's shadow cutting it in half, as it did not manage to creep up on all its body.
And, were the sun hit, if he focused, he could spot it.
Almost imperceptible.
Lost grains of color floating, refracting, blinking in and out of being, hung in the air.
'…'
Magic? Like the light veil he had used to hide himself?
No, that was clear, shiny, unimpeded… Impossible to miss.
This was like little scars, almost invisible, on the light's surface…
Something lightly scratching glass…
His eyes narrowed.
How suspicious…
He sat up. The guards stood still.
And walking up to the chair… he felt the air tingle.
Now in front, unabashed, he stuck out his hand and grabbed at the air.
Only for his arm to be grabbed instead.
An aged hand held him in place.
It had suddenly appeared, alongside a body…
The old sage, in his tempestuous blue robes, sitting on the sandalwood chair.
The guards noticed nothing, as if pulled into a world of their own.
"You're late!" Heos complained.
"Hehe… No… I arrived at the promised time. You did not notice me is all." The sage smirked, somewhat mockingly.
The prince did not care much.
"Teach me! You promised!"
"I did? I cannot remember saying anything of the sort…" A feigned expression, as if trying to remember something imaginary.
Heos did not respond, he simply glared.
"How about you tell me of your little expedition first, before anything… I'm curious."
"No."
The sage laughed.
'I have seen it all, however…' He still wondered about the prince's own thoughts on what had happened. 'No matter.' "Well then… Let us change the scenery. Yes…?"
Eyeing the man suspiciously, the prince retorted.
"No…"
"Come, it will be an instant. Proper scenery is necessary for efficient learning."
"An instant…?" His scrutinizing gaze persisted.
"Yes, an instant. It will be magic." He intoned the last word with the skill of a charlatan.
The word softened the prince's skepticism.
"Ok…"
The sage smiled, and unheard, muttered something, his lips moving almost imperceptibly.
The scene changed, just like a backdrop in theater.
A pleasant meadow, a clearing. The sounds of summer, running water, birds.
The prince, however, did not show surprise, he was accustomed to it.
"Boring…"
Another laugh from the sage.
"Even if I taught you how to do it?"
The comment roused the prince's attention.
The laughter echoed.
"The swan… it is able to hide now, I gander?"
The prince nodded.
Swan flickered in and out of existence for a moment.
'Interesting…' Now that he watched up close…
"Teach me!"
The old mage sighed.
"First, then, tell me ¿What is magic?" His gaze turned serious… or more aptly, one would say, "his expression" as heavy eyebrows covered his eyes.
'Magic…' Immediately, he remembered his mother's words. What he had seen seemed to confirm her first assertion: Magic is the impossible. Talking swans and owls, turning invisible, moving, inexplicably, from one place to another…
"Magic is the impossible." He answered, his eyes not leaving the sage.
A smile, still, on the old mage.
"Wrong. That is an eminently fîrcynn answer."
Irritated, the prince asked.
"What? What is fe- fi- firkin?"
"Fîrcynn, or simply cynn. Those unable to do magic."
Heos hummed, unimpressed.
"Since you merely parroted whatever superficial assertion your mother fed you, this is, evidently, a cynn's answer." That mocking smile…
"So what?"
"Well, it is wrong. Cynn are rarely correct in their fantasies about magic. And, of course, answering as one is shameful… in poor taste, really."
The prince said nothing. Just threw back a silent glare, quite eloquent.
"Now, think for yourself. What is magic?"
"I do not know."
"Good, it is better to admit ignorance than to… dream up meaningless answers. Unless pretending serves a purpose… in learning, however, it is usually meaningless." The sage sat, and with a comfortable exhalation, continued, signaling for the prince to sit as well. "Magic is the manipulation of Ousia so as to produce phenomena."
Now sitting, the prince quickened to ask, yet, was silenced by the sage's words.
"What is Ousia…? Who knows!" His arms rose in the air. A smirk ever-present. "This is a good moment to impart to you a principle of magic… or more or less, of Magical Epistemology and Lingua Magica: Nomen vocat, alium vocat… If called by one name, then it will surely be called by another. Words are of incomparable importance to magic; both in application and in study." He scratched his temple, pausing for a moment. "What may be called this or that in one tradition or tongue, may be called another way in some other strain of magic. Now, one would think it irrelevant, since a thing is, in itself¸ irrespective of what one calls it… however, two problems arise." His pace slowed, emphasizing the words. "First, language, in magic, is not inert, and mages are, usually, not idiots, worthwhile magi at least. Second: because the subject of study in magical disciplines is necessarily metaphysical, the object, at origin, is usually impossible to properly encapsulate in language; language itself, also, does not begin, e nihil, and proceeds from linguistic evolution, which one must break apart and observe."
Ceasing his words for a moment, the sage looked at the prince, entranced, as he listened. He would have expected him to throw a tantrum and ask for "Magic!", thinking his rambling to be irrelevant, however… This came as a pleasant surprise.
Heos, who waited for the sage to continue, was left awestruck, as the words which he did not know, or understand, appeared, definition and all, in his mind —work of magic, surely—, as he wondered… Except, of course, for that one word, Ousia… as well as, before it, fîrcynn.
Clearing his throat, the voice sprang up once more.
"Now, words, especially those used in magic, carry with themselves ineffable tradition… knowledge of predecessors who committed their lives to the same pursuit, and so, in studying the names of things, one is likely to find necessary, fundamental, transcendental knowledge, hidden behind the veil of words… The problem is, as I had stated, that magical tradition is not uniform… no, far from it." He shifted somewhat, sitting more comfortably now. "Take the word in question, Ousia, for example. This term is at the core of magic, being that which mages manipulate with the aim of practicing their art. Ousia, the word —not the object or "thing" —, signifies a primary essence, an elemental essence, as in fundamental or initial; that which composes the object in itself without the accidental addition of characteristics —this is an oversimplification, clearly, as I would never be done if I were to talk about this one thing in all its complexity… Take another name for this "thing", as an example: Aweosung, a rather old fashioned term used in almost extinct loegrian traditions; its meaning is similar, being essence, and so on… but, it includes within itself subsistence as well, so, one would think, that Ousia, or Aweosung, is a "thing" of which things subsist from, a top of being their essence or being-in-themselves…"
Raising an eyebrow, he asked.
"Follow?"
Heos nodded.
"Now, hear this term: Gesceaftsáwel; it is compound, and of similar loegrian origin. Gesceaft is all that is created, all of creation, or a created being; sáwel is the spirit, or soul: in short, The spirit or soul of creation, or, the spirit of things created; we know it not to be the soul for the second interpretation, since manipulating the soul directly is impossible, so, how could Ousia be the soul of things created, when it is the "thing" mages manipulate? There are others, boreal terms: Hugrfold and Sálfold; they seem to back up the Gesceaftsáwel interpretation, although diverge from it as well; specifically Hugrfold, another composite: Hugr being mind, or the agglomeration of thoughts which compose personality and being, and fold being the earth, as in what we stand on, but, also, the mortal realm, or the realm of being: The mind, or thoughts, of the earth, of creation; though one should not ignore the importance of "earth" as the natural world, seeing the importance this plane, nature, held for boreal magical tradition —all traditions, really…" A brief pause. "Sálfold is similar, though latter chronologically, for it means the soul of earth, of creation, or nature, as the concept of "soul" is not necessarily native to the boreal region."
He yawned.
"This handful of terms, just a handful, a smattering, leave one quite doubtful: is it the spirit of creation, of created things, the soul of the world? The mind of nature? The essence of being, and beings? Well…" The sage shrugged. "Something we can glean is that it seems to be the innermost part of something… the innermost essence; mind, soul or spirit. Beyond that… one can learn through contact with it, through application of magic. However, this knowledge, and subsequent epiphanies, are usually unintelligible, rather difficult to transcribe to written word, and, very, very rare… The best way to acquaint yourself with Ousia is to do magic." He held his beard. "Questions?"
"Hm…" Heos brought a finger to his lips. "Yes… what do you think Ou-ousia is…?"
The sage hummed, still smiling. His expression seemed pleased, nostalgic… glad.
"Totipotency. After all, mages actualize potential."
For some reason, the meaning of totipotency did not appear in his mind.
"What is To-Toto-Totipotency?"
"Endless possibility." A chuckle.
He clapped his hands.
"Now, as for mages. As I said, magic is the manipulation of Ousia so as to produce phenomena. A mage, then, a magós, a vitki, a drý, or as you prefer, is he who possesses the faculty of transforming, or manipulating Ousia into… something, whatever. This could be lighting a small flame, as this:" On his outstretched left index, the sage showed a flickering red flame floating, resting on its tip, which had appeared out of thin air "Transporting a person from one place to another, to… other more exquisite, and refined, spells." The flame disappeared, and the hand fell. "However, those who have little talent… although talent is not the word, really, and I detest it —It is preferable to use weight, or Geist, as they indicate a destined predilection for one or more disciplines—, are called hedge mages. Fools, idiots, cowards, defects, etc… whose path in magic differs little from the average cynn street performer." The sage noticed the prince's unsteadiness. "Yes…? If you wish to ask a question, raise your hand. No need to wait for me to ramble on…"
The prince's hand shot up.
"Hmm?"
"You said destined predilection… does that mean that mages are destined for what they do?"
"Yes. Although the specifics of what destiny is, exactly, are disputed, it is, undoubtedly, a real force. Specifically, because it is tethered to the soul." He went back to pulling, mysteriously, on his beard. "Something many wondered was as to where the faculty for magic came from… First, it was believed to be tied to blood and heritage, although this is false, as far as I understand it. It is not biological either, as the physiology of mages, at least those who do not actively modify their own, is unremarkably similar to that of cynn, or it seems that way." A glint flickered in his sight, disappearing almost as instantly as it arrived. "Is it a property of the mind? They wondered, and well, the mind, we found, is tied to the soul, if not a subsidiary compound of it. All we know is that, in absence for a physical explanation, the burden falls on the soul. The souls of mages are different from those of cynn. How? Well… in such a way where I cannot explain it to you simply, and we would veer off course if I were to." He waved it away. "And, destiny, fate… It can be manipulated and seen through magic, so we know it real… I will say little more." His voice grew deep, serious. He drew his upper body near to the prince, his head, specifically, and spoke, measuredly, and blunt. "There are things one should not know. There are things one should not come to know… there are things you should not know, yet." He straightened his posture back. A smile once again curved among his snow beard. "Anything else?"
"No…" The prince absentmindedly answered, still possessed by those words. 'you should not know, yet… one should not know.' What was it…? What?! His curiosity burned, maddeningly…His eyes lost in the possibility… Heos trembled, unknowingly… He remained silent, after, nonetheless.
"The fact that you can understand certain animals, and have that swan following you about, is evidence of weight, of Geist, in familiars, for example…" He cleared his eyes. "This opens up the way for two things I wish to thread upon today; Finalizing what I told you before, on the origin of the faculty for magic, and the Seven Arts." He yawned, again. "Let us finish what I was saying. If you are astute, you would have noticed an incongruency in my words, before… or, better stated, an opportunity for specificity that I overlooked." He stopped, and looked at the youth, intently. "Do you know?"
The prince closed his eyes, remembering, thinking about the deluge of information he had been hit by… carefully, he thought.
His eyes brightened, as if stumbling across an epiphany.
"No." he answered, smiling, the expression falling in jest.
"Heh." The sage looked amused. "I called mages: those with the faculty for transforming Ousia; however, would it not be better to say, those born with the faculty for manipulating Ousia? After all, one is born ensouled, and so one is born with the faculty for magic."
"Uh… Maybe." The prince doubted.
"Well, this is not the definition usually given since, although one is born ensouled, the actual first manifestation of magic is…" He tapped his fingers, thinking. "conditional. The faculty for manipulating Ousia is, on average, accessed, or awoken, in adulthood, before, it is not present. This had made some claim that, that which is inscribed on the soul is not the faculty for magic¸ but the ability to access, or unlock, this faculty. Therefore, we could not call mages as those who are born with the faculty for magic, but, those who possess the faculty for magic… Understand?"
"Yes." No doubt evident in Heos' voice.
"All in all, the definition, as with anything in magic, is diffuse. Yet, one clearly recognizes a mage in their element, after all, flying or disappearing, or foretelling the future, are evident signs of magic."
The prince's hand rose.
"When did you… uh, awaken? unlock? magic?"
"Was I fifteen…? Sixteen? Around that age..." His gaze fell back on the prince, for more than a breath, scrutinizing, a thought clearly clouding his sight… then, it returned to the forest behind.
"Geist is also bothersome to define, although the word quite literally means spirit, or ghost… It is ever more confusing when one says: this mage has Geist in this thing or this other… For even the categories of magical endeavors and disciplines are unstable, overlap, or are insufficient, too particular in their own traditions, misunderstood… As so, Geist in one thing or the other is better explained by means of something else… A type of magic we will cover later on."
The prince, somewhat deflated, did not protest. Although he did level another irked gaze at the sage.
"So as to alleviate this problem —the categorization of magical disciplines—, seven arts were instituted, or rather, declared —by whom?" He chuckled. "Later— which compose much of, if not all of classical magical tradition in their vague expanse." His hand settled on his mustache, which he straightened, again and again, with his index and thumb. "If you read —which you do not, of course—, you would know that in cynn folklore mages are know for certain recurring feats of magic; being there, roughly, seven:" His hands rose at his front, fists closed, and, with the mention of every feat, he began to lift each finger, as if the weight of his words was what woke them upright. "The manipulation of natural elements, the transformation of bodies and objects, the capacity to dictate prophecy or foretell the future, the capacity to produce strange effects with words —sung, written, rhymed or otherwise—, the ability to brew wondrous concoctions and manipulate metals and herbs, the ability to command familiars and the ability to summon spirits, creatures or the dead. These are the seven arts of classical magical tradition."
His hands fell back onto his beard, as he hummed and took in the forest's sounds, close eyed and meditative.
"I will briefly explain each one, then, I will ask you a question."
Heos nodded.
The sage's voice had become scholarly, and serious, much unlike his usual smirking disinterest.
"Very well… Ars Metamorphotica, vulgarly called shape-changing or shapeshifting; It is referred to, alluded to, and studied quite shallowly by chaff magi —as in most magi— because of its misrepresentation with historical feats of transition from anthropic forms to therian forms or vice versa. This is, of course, a problem with the attempt of integration of the different traditions of magic into a unified Art —an impossible goal, really. Alternate names do bring forth this problem quite clearly, as they are used interchangeably with Ars Metamorphotica, while being subsets of it. Take for example Hamrammr, the boreal term. It refers, quite notably, to human mages shapeshifting into animals, with very specific, and superior means I might add; while not to the general Art of shape transformation, like, for example… something as Regesceap would, somewhat: which, if taken literally, means "reshape"." He took a breath. "So, while Ars Metamorphotica includes this commonly known form of shapeshifting, it houses within itself all metamorphotic disciplines —or attempts to, at least. Flesh-crafting, for example, as would it house individual spells, those which shape, or transform non-living matter. As well as include nonphysical transformation…"
He adjusted the sleeves of his robe while resting for a moment.
Heos made not a sound. His eyes misty, unnerving, waiting…
"Ars Elementalis. The complexity, and tragedy, in this art is related to a topic which I will monologue on… later. For now, understand that this is the magical discipline par excellence of these times, for many reasons. This is what they —from hedge-mages to the greatest sages of this continent—, all possess even a drop of knowledge on, and it is what fledgling mages are taught most initially. The manipulation of elements; fire, earth, wind, water… more… Æryeþ, it is usually called. As for what it means… This is one of the few titles there is no veritable knowledge on. Another, beautiful name, before used, was Byndynge… I will not speak further on it for now."
A cough, then, the sage clearing his throat.
"Ars Divinatoria. Perhaps the oldest magic… there are… numerous names to this discipline, or rather, endless mediums through which the future is divined, or prophecy acquired, and near-endless branches. Although, of course —with that certain poetic irony, so natural to magic—, most of this Art is reserved to those with Geist in it: exceedingly rare." A regretful sigh, out of place in the summer meadow. "Each tradition has its name, for not only varying branches but for "it" as a realm of magic as well. Seiðr is the one I am most familiar with… the boreal tradition. Forewyrde: a beautiful composite, I also know. Cynn used it to mean a pact; wyrd meaning fate… or well, other things; fore is, evidently, a before. Before fate." An ephemeral smile grazed him. "Wiġlung is a generally analogous title; for it means to divine… There are also tragedies, which have affected this art…"
Another breath long rest. A yellow butterfly posed itself on the sage's hand.
"Ars Incantatoria. Incantations… understand this as enchantment, as well, written and spoken, sung, rhymed… Most pervasive in all disciplines, a discipline of disciplines. An art of arts…" Melancholic pride in his hidden eyes. "To bend Ousia to the shape of words… You may hear incantators and enchanters referred to as Galdr; a terrible mistake. Galdr is the magic itself, boreal incantation precisely. Galdramaðr, that is the name of the mage who practices this art. Northern continental tradition usually shares in a nearer origin of titles, marking a… clear hereditary line of birth for Galdr. The loegrian tradition is called Galangealdor: Singing magic… to sing magic, to sing incantations… it is almost synonymous to magic itself. Singan, also… To sing…"
The last words had been muttered, almost hummed. While the sage, close eyed, seemed lost, his mind dancing in some vista too far, ancient and forlorn. Only his body remained, for a brief moment, in that summer meadow.
"Ars Smaragdina. Alchemy." He was back to his scholarly voice. "Fundamentally encroached on by Ars Metamorphotica. However, vast enough in its functioning and realm to be considered separate… although the fundamental goal of alchemy is metamorphosis. It is very… tome-bound magic, exceedingly complex, as well, even more than the mean for the Arts. A sort of composite of most disciplines, in very singular praxis. Very eccentric, but elucidating, and universal. As so it has little more than its name as an Art, and a common name: Alchemy, or Alchemia, if you wish. It devoured in its consolidation the discipline of potion-making."
A pale alabaster hand shot upward, impatient.
"What does it do?"
"What does it do…? It searches… and makes brews… Concern yourself with little more for now."
The prince, although unhappy, made do with only an irritated expression.
"Now… Oh, yes! Ars Regendi. Familiars… it is not as simple as it would seem… You possess a Fylgja… Hm…" Patting down his beard with his free hand, the sage wondered… "Hm…" He eyed the prince, carefully. "Nevermind… to call it a Fylgja, well… The particulars of the "follower" vary… spiritual, or flesh and bone, symbolic or tamed… And certain traditions focus on some or others… Nonetheless, the term for this discipline in most tongues, you will find, is a simple term for servant, some retainer or outright familiar… if the notion exists in the particular language… Þeġn, for one, is often a warrior, or retainer… Fylgja has more obtuse connotations… and, an ancient term, Gandoz, is perhaps analogous to a witch's servants…"
Heos shot up his arm, half hopping while sitting.
"Swan is not my servant! He's my friend!"
The old mage chuckled.
"You are right…" The butterfly had finally left the sage´s hand. "This discipline includes, not only the lording-over of spirits and animals in its tradition, but of cynn as well. Thus, another name: Servitoricks." Now, his arms rested on his lap, still as pillars of marble, drowned over by the ocean of his robe. "Many mages cultivate families of servitors; rearing lineages of cynn servants for many a purpose… and, in hope that from them worthy apprentices may spring up. Some even directly dominate their cynn as hapless slaves."
Summer lit silence…
"Questions?" One of the mage's eyebrows rose.
"No…?"
"Then, finally… for Ars Invocatoria… Invocation, summoning… Gebannend in loegrian tradition… To call, to summon…" His voice turned languid; pained, even…? If one were to focus on the color of its tone. "It is a dead art. I will speak on it another time."
"Huh?" Heos did not believe it. "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?!" He almost stood, gravity taking him back down to the medow's grass. "Dead? What do you mean?"
"As I said, I will speak on it later. It is a dead art…" The sage did not show emotion, nor surprise at the prince's outburst… only the depth of his tone revealed some… unknown longing, so hidden it seemed transparent. "The question…" His fingers tapped. "I lied… I will ask you two things… Heh…".
"Hmph!" The prince did not say much.
"First… I wish for you to choose one of these Arts… which would you wish to learn?"
Heos' disinterested mask vanished, his mind turning, clattering, thinking of what he would wish to possess, to color the world with.
"And… consider, deeply…" The sage grew motionless, as still as an unfeeling stone, leaden and serene. "What is it that a mage wishes for? What is the purpose of magic?"
Shaken by the questions, Heos put on a serious, discerning face… yet his only thought was…
'Waaaah… What a liar. Those are three things, aren't they?'
Even if solemm, he swore he could hear the old mage laugh.