The soldiers are singing drinking songs and dancing around the fire. From where I am sitting they remind me of my goblin tribe. What a strange couple of years that had been.
A figure, silhouetted by the bonfires, toddles toward us with a bounce in his step. The ornate staff identifies him as Val Maxis from quite a ways off. I am able to work magic myself, but it has been entirely self-taught. I fantasize about the library he must have, all the arcane secrets held within, and all the artifacts he has touched. No doubt a marvel to behold. I cannot fool myself into denying that I covet such a collection and reminisce briefly about my own attempt to amass such a thing in my thirties. Quashed by circumstances beyond my control; robbed of nearly a decade of hard work and study. I never was able to reclaim my collection, but at least my aptitude with magic grew as a result. That part remains with me, though I am no master of magic as the man walking toward me is. I am measurably beyond the apprentices he has brought to the front, however.
I had contemplated a life of professional wizardry in my youth. Had circumstances been different I might have taken up that yoke. Early on, I learned to keep my magic use to myself and I still refuse to rely on it. Magic is a tool like any other: to be used by those capable enough to wield it. But, just as a man might lord over another to do his bidding, there will be a time when the servant is either unable—or unwilling—to serve. If a man has grown soft as a result of his reliance, even base peons, then he will suffer the consequences. I will never allow myself to be such a man. I disallow such dependence upon magic that I cannot survive in its absence. Still, I cannot deny that I desire to know the breadth and depth of the arcanum, and wield its full power with a mind and body forged to be its equal. I’d almost forgotten.
Like a cold dawn, my mind is alight. What fugue has come over me? I have been in Nodkis for a decade and in Elysium for a total of thirteen years now. I spent those first three on my own, away from civilization. Over time I picked up the language—a melodic tongue with a dull, rounded shape. I can still recall that urge I’d had to feel a warm hearth and dry bed every night. Even though I consider myself a scholar first and foremost, I had seen there was no place for such a thing in a provincial destination like Nodkis. So, I established my apothecary shop, despite having no formal training in it. Had fleeing to Elysium been such a blow to my pride that I had been numb enough to settle here, of all places?
My mind ignites with anger as I grasp where I have sunk to during my time in this impotent nation. I am destined for greatness—marked by divinity!—and yet have been somehow relegated to making laxatives and household cleaners for people who do not even have the good sense to fear me truly!
No sooner than I think it, I realize that I deserve my station. Though I hadn’t become reliant on my magic, I see that I had still become soft in other ways. I had stopped striving after the series of ordeals now in my wake. I used to push myself and take great risks in pursuit of knowledge. I know deeply that knowledge is the key that unlocks any door, and I want nothing to be denied me. Oh yes, I still read whatever books I can find, but I had taken to simply buying them off a caravan master instead of infiltrating secret orders, stealing from churches, or consorting with depraved nobles for knowledge of real consequence.
I had once put my body and mind to conquering the world; to be the master in the darkness directing the hands of kings who are subservient to my every whim! Wars would happen when and where I say. Worship would be directed to the gods of my choosing. Arcana would flow from my fingertips to encircle the globe in my shadow, and I would deliver it at last to the Apocalypse. Ner Ngal had chosen me that day so long ago, when I had been slain only to be delivered back into the world by His own hand. I was chosen for a reason. How had I become so defeated?
I’m so disgusted with myself that I miss what Val Maxis says to me.
“What?” I say with venom in my voice, though it is not directed at him.
He stamps his staff on the ground. “That’s no way to greet an old man who’s made his way through these uproarious congeries with intent to find you. I may just have to rethink my offer.” He does not really appear too upset but he grumps about as an old man should.
An offer from a great wizard? It has me intrigued enough to swallow my pride. I can be disappointed in myself later. “The last few weeks have been trying. Tomorrow I will see what is left of my shop. My hopes are not high.”
That should smooth it over. People are generally understanding to a person who has lost something. Even though the shop has just become a bitter memory—a temple to my private shame—no one else needs to know that.
I wait to see if that is enough to assuage him. If not, I am prepared to actually apologize. Personally, I don’t see the allure in hearing whether or not a person is sorry—I would rather they focus on demonstrating it. Yet most people, I’ve observed, treat the words as something sacred. In that way, saying it can have an impact even though it has no substance.
Val Maxis gives me an appraising look, “You are a magic user, I take it. Where did you learn it?”
I don’t recall using any magic when he was around, but the triage tent was frequently very busy and I had not really made any attempts to hide its use while tending to the injured. Perhaps he’d seen me. Does he want to know who trained me because he is impressed or appalled? I decide to answer neutrally to prompt him to reveal more before I commit to anything, “I acquired the ability spontaneously as a youth.”
“Tsch! Your technique is strange and unsophisticated. Any fool can see your promise though. If I take you on as a pupil I want to know whose gaffe I am cleaning up. You’re about twenty years the senior of a usual neophyte, but I’m willing to make an exception.”
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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