The following morning, Cyrus stood in the observatory, with sweat dripping from his brow. A meter tall flower grew from the table, its blue and golden petals as large as his palm. Gritting his teeth, he severed his connection to his aether, and the flower stopped growing.
"That was much better," Sylven said. He scribbled something down in Myrel's journal, then glanced at the bronze band on Cyrus's wrist. "How's that working for you?"
Cyrus adjusted the band. "It feels like there's something pressing against my mind. Squeezing against it, almost."
"Sounds like it's working then," Sylven said. "Master Myrel will be glad to hear it."
Cyrus glanced down the corridor. The old man still sat at his desk, sorting through the books one by one. Dark circles lined the skin beneath his eyes, and a half eaten bowl of porridge sat to his left.
"Doesn't he get tired? He's been there all night," Cyrus said.
"It's difficult to get him to rest when he becomes like this. He becomes consumed by his research, drowning everything out," Sylven said. He snapped the journal shut. "Anyway, you seem comfortable enough with making plants grow, how about we try something different?"
"Like what?" Cyrus asked.
Sylven scratched his chin. "There are a few simple spells I can think of. Lighting a candle on fire. Turning water into ice. Summoning a breeze. Any of those sound interesting?"
Cyrus wiped the sweat from his brow. "I suppose a breeze would be nice. I've been feeling a bit stuffy."
Sylven straightened his back and grinned. "Great, I was hoping you'd choose that one. Watch what I do, and try following my example."
Sylven raised his hands, the air rippling in front of his palms. "Eraveil, Denete."
Cyrus covered his face as a gust swirled through the room, ruffling his tunic, and sweeping back his hair. The flower swayed, dancing like a graceful woman dressed in blue and gold petals. Then, the wind swept out the window, carrying a cloud of dust out into the street.
"There. Nothing to it," Sylven said. He sat against the table. "All you have to do is imagine a warm breeze, and let the aether do the rest."
"Simple enough," Cyrus said. He raised his hands, and closed his eyes, imagining the wind whistling through the room. "Eraveil, Denete."
A minute passed. Then two. Cyrus frowned and flipped his hands back and forth. Nothing.
"I don't feel anything," Cyrus said, furrowing his brow. He lowered his hands. "Unlike when I connected to the plants, there was nothing there. It was like I was staring out in an empty void."
"How odd," Sylven said. He glanced around the room, then grabbed two unlit candles, and set them down on the table. "Serifel."
Cyrus flinched as one of the candles wavered to life. Sylven moved the two further apart, and glanced at Cyrus.
"Here. Why don't we try this spell instead," Sylvevn said. "Just picture the warmth of a fire, rising from the candle."
Cyrus approached the table, and stared at the unlit candle. He tried gathering his aether, and stretched out his hand. "Serifel."
Once again, nothing happened, and he felt his aether slip through his grasp, disappearing. Cyrus grunted, and dropped his hand. "It's not working. I can't keep my aether from leaving."
"Alright. Well, there's still a few more things we could try," Sylven said. He arched his brow. "Do you want me to get a bowl of water?"
Cyrus shrugged. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt."
Sylven retrieved a wooden bowl, and Cyrus tried his hand at turning water into ice. When that didn't work either, they continued down a list of spells, until the minutes turned to hours, and half the day passed by.
…
By noon, they had exhausted all of Sylven's ideas, and sat slumped against the table. Its surface sat cluttered with parchments and scrolls, along with iron rods, melted candles, empty bowls, and shards of stone.
Cyrus clenched a wooden pole in his hand, the end of which thrived with living branches and leaves. "Gods above. When I learned I was a warlock, I thought I'd at least be able to cast decent spells, yet now it seems all my magic is good for is growing plants."
Sylven leaned his head back, and laughed. "At least you don't have to worry about memorizing a thousand different words, each one of which could kill you if pronounced incorrectly."
"That's true," Cyrus said. He straightened his back as the heavy footfall of Myrel echoed down the corridor. A moment later, the old man strode into the room.
"Why are the two of you sitting on the floor? I thought you were training to learn different magic," Myrel said. He scanned the room. "Did it not go well?"
"Not as well as we'd like," Sylven said. He climbed to his feet, and helped Cyrus stand. "It seems Cyrus's magic is different in more ways than one. He can only use it on plants."
"Interesting…" Myrel scratched his beard. "I suppose that makes things simpler. All we need to do is teach you how to properly use what you've been given to the best of our abilities. I already have a few ideas."
"Nothing too difficult, I hope," Cyrus said. He gave a sheepish smile.
…
Over the next three weeks, Cyrus spent his time immersed in his training, only leaving the observatory to eat or sleep. He woke before first light, and worked until dusk, determined to control his outbursts, and better guide the flow of magic. During this time, he was grateful for the limits imposed by the bronze band.
As the days passed, Sylven recorded his progress, reporting it back to Myrel, who would step in every now and then to lend a hand, or suggest a new method. Beyond that, the wizard remained at his desk, surrounded by a mountain of worn books.
'How long will it take before we figure out where I need to go?' Cyrus wondered. He sighed, and shook his head, focusing back on the writhing nest of roots before him. A small statue stood in the center, its sleek forming cracking beneath the pressure of the plants.
As a section clattered to the floor, Sylven scribbled something down in his leather journal. "You're moving a little bit slower today. Are you alright?"
"I just have a lot to think about," Cyrus said, running his hand through his hair. "It's been about a month since I woke up, but I still don't have any idea who I am, or where I came from. Our best hope lies in a hidden kingdom, with a race of people who have separated themselves from humans. I don't even know how old I am, yet I'm here, trying to learn magic."
Sylven shut his book, and tucked it beneath his arm as he studied Cyrus. "I see what you mean. It sounds difficult, not knowing who you were. I may not have any of the answers, but if I had to guess your age, I'd say you're about a year or two younger than me. So somewhere in your twenties."
"You think so, huh?" Cyrus asked. His smile faded as he slumped against the stone table. "Say, magic has quite a number of uses. You wouldn't happen to know of any incantations that can help me remember my past, would you?"
Sylven shook his head. "I'm afraid not. Magic that affects the mind is a dangerous type, and often has deadly consequences. Almost all wizards and warlocks tend to avoid it, as the risk of madness is too high."
"I feared as much," Cyrus said. He glanced out the window, towards the darkening city, and the setting sun overhead. "Are we done for today? I'm a bit worn out."
"Sure. I think you've done more than enough," Sylven said.
As the two emerged from the observatory, they paused as Myrel rushed past, his arms filled with tattered scrolls and worn parchment. As he threw them onto the desk, he snapped his fingers twice, causing a low rumble to rise from the pile of books.
Sylven grabbed Cyrus's arm and yanked him back as the pile collapsed, and the books flew out, whirling back into their spots with a cacophony of thumps. In less than a minute the desk was cleared, leaving only three books behind, and the map of the world.