Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ Fire Emblem Tellius Saga: Book 1 ❯ CHAPTER 1: THE CRONE ( Chapter 1 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

The woman who threw things at him, causing him to scamper out of the room, was not his mother.  She was old and gray, and stood with a terrible hunch. But for all her apparent frailty, she had a good arm. The boots under her musty skirt could leave deep bruises, and the cane accompanying her hunch could leave biting contusions. Her name was Galina.

She beat him less lately, because he’d learned to keep out of her way—hiding in the attic with his bug collection and his books. He loved reading, although books were rare and he was still learning the hard words. He’d begun teaching himself to read almost a year ago from whatever pages and scraps of paper he could find.

Now he could read the common tongue well enough, but he even owned a tome written in the ancient language (which he could not read but longed to understand). He’d discovered the old wind tome in Galina’s attic, and now it was his prized possession. The graceful, curving letters spelled the incantations for elemental magic. A mage could unlock this power, combine it with his own, and unleash a terrible assault on his enemies. The boy dreamed of this strength.

 

 “Soren!” came Galina’s hoarse call. Her voice easily penetrated the boards beneath his feet, reverberating into the tiny attic. Soren scurried to the east corner and lowered his eye to a crack in the boards. He saw Galina in her room, swaddled in her coverlet despite the warm day. Smoke from the lantern on her bedside table stung his eyes. 

Soren stood as far as the slanted roof would let him, wiped his eyes, and dusted his ragged knees. He gingerly returned the grasshopper he’d been examining to the tin that had become its home and flipped closed a book of insect anatomy, leaving a recently amputated grasshopper leg between the pages. Finally, he scurried down the rope ladder that led to the kitchen.  

He followed the sounds of Galina’s bitter grumbling to her room. As he’d seen from above, she was still sitting on her straw mattress, knitting with dull wool. Despite the sun shining outside, the shutters were drawn. The lantern beside her produced more darkness than light, burning cheap oil and filling the air with smoke. Soren waiting at the door.

“There you are, filthy cur,” Galina growled when she finally noticed him. She spat over the side of the bed. “You know I hate when you sneak up on my like that. You think you can crawl around my house like you own the place?”

Soren watched her carefully.

“Well don’t just stand there, ungrateful brat!” Galina pointed an accusing finger first at him and then the lantern. “Put that out, and open the damned window.”

Both the lantern and window were easily within Galina’s reach if she were only to emerge from the cocoon of blankets around her legs. Soren approached slowly, wary of some trick. His bare feet padded across the floor, stepping over the splat of saliva she’d just expelled.

“Move, half-wit!”

Soren hurried his steps. He clamped the wick to extinguish it and then pushed the ragged curtain aside and forced out the stiff shutters. He did this quickly, eager to leave Galina’s presence.

But he wasn’t quick enough. The old woman’s cane had been hidden among the blankets on her bed. She swung it around and cracked it across his cheek, sending him to the floor. “Get out,” she snarled.

Soren scampered away as fast as his hands and feet would carry him. Rather than return to the attic where he would have no choice but to listen to Galina complain and say nasty things about him, Soren escaped to the alley behind the shack.

Rain water had collected on the rim of a barrel. He laid the side of his face on it for some relief, the area under his eye burned hot. A puffy mound swelled at the bottom of his left field of vision. He tried to take his mind off the pain.

It was a late summer day, one that held the refreshing taste of autumn on its breath. Boys and girls his own age laughed and played nearby. Soren watched them, slantways. Family kids pranced boldly in the road, only to return to their mothers’ skirts if they got too close to a stranger or large bug. Soren felt no connection to them; they led different lives. Gang kids lurked in the alleys, throwing rocks at cats or tormenting their younger members until they wet their pants. But he didn’t feel connected to these children either. For his own safety, he never strayed far from Galina’s shack. Despite her rough touch, she gave him food and a place to live.

 

When the sun had set, Soren crept back into the house and up the rope ladder. In the center of the attic was a nest of old clothes, torn canvas, and burlap bags. This was where he slept and luxuriated in his isolation. There was no Galina to abuse him or townspeople to glare at him. Here he could exist in peace.

Reaching under the mound of rags, he pulled out the triangular shard of a glass mirror. It was only the size of his hand, and it was old—frosted with scratches and fogged with age. But it still reflected Soren’s face, so he took great care with it.

When he shimmied over to a spear of moonlight cast through a hole in the roof, a young boy's face appeared on the surface of the glass. The boy was scrawny, with none of the baby fat a four-year-old should still have. He was as pale as the moon whose light illuminated him, and his hair as dark as the night surrounding him. He could pass as an orphan in one of the neighborhood gangs—long, raggedly cut hair and now a good-sized welt under his eye to complete the look. Staring at his reflection, he gently prodded the wound. Then his gaze moved upward. His eyes were the earthy red of clay brick, but people rarely looked him in the eye. Instead they stared at the strange birthmark in the center of his forehead.

Soren had seen tattoos on the bodies of foreign men who passed through Nevassa, and he once thought the red mark might be one of those. But a townsperson had once asked Galina this, and she’d vehemently rejected the idea. She’d claimed it was a birthmark and whisked Soren away. Her gait had been quick and his legs so small, he’d tripped and fallen in the dirt (where she’d then kicked him to get up).

The birthmark looked like an odd, cursive x, or perhaps an incomplete figure-eight. The red lines were crisp, as if drawn in ink by a practiced hand, and therefore didn’t really look like a birthmark at all. At the moment, it was half covered by his bangs (which Galina always carefully cut to the correct length), and he patted them to conceal it fully. Then, with one last poke at the contusion below his eye, Soren tucked the glass safely away.

 

The next day was a return to the miserably hot months of high summer. Soren would have been content to stay in the shadowy hovel (even if the attic became an oven on days like this), but Galina had other ideas.

She ordered him to join her in the day's shopping, and refusing wasn’t an option. By her awkward posture and the arm pressed tightly to her side, Soren could tell her back was hurting even worse than usual. That was probably the only reason she would tolerate his presence in public today.

 

They set out on the sunny streets of Nevassa, above which towered King Ashnard's castle. As usual Soren stared at it with wide eyes, but Galina didn't spare a passing glance. She walked at a brisk limp, her cane thumping the dusty street in tune with her steps. "Keep up, you wretch!" she called

Soren quickened his pace to match her long, stiff stride, the empty wagon trundling behind him already feeling heavy. Looking around, he saw townsfolk turned up their noses, avert their eyes, or offer Galina pitying glances.

The first stop was the vegetable stall of a woman Galina knew well. The shelves were laden with plump eggplants and squashes, the table set with leafy greens still wet with dew, and in the back were baskets spilling over with rock-like potatoes. Dried herbs were dangling above her head, and there was even a display of edible seeds and nuts in a variety of glass jars. Soren ran his hungry eyes over every pitted rind and crimped leaf. He breathed in the scents of rich dirt, old herbs, and the subtle earthiness of squashes.

“Morning, Ester,” Galina sighed.

"G’day, Galina,” the shopkeeper replied with a half-smile. “It’s nice ta see you out and about." Only then did she catch sight of Soren behind her wide skirt. “Oh…you brough’ the boy with you t’day.” She did not seem pleased by this fact (perhaps because other potential patrons were avoiding her shop now that Galina and Soren stood in front of it).

“He won’t touch anything,” Galina ensured, and Soren kept his arms at his sides. She began pointing to the specimens she wanted, and the shopkeeper filed them away in a chipped, clapboard box. Meanwhile, Soren stared at the mouthwatering food. He knew he would only be given the scraps and rinds to fill his stomach, or else he would have to wait until the fruits and vegetables Galina didn’t eat began to mold.

"What's this going to cost me?" Galina groaned.

"Twenty copper pieces," Ester answered primly.

“You’re scalping me!”

“Of course not, dear.” Her mouth was open as if aghast, but Soren detected exaggeration in her voice and face. She was overcharging them, and he had a feeling it was his fault. 

“I delivered four of your five whelps, or don’t you remember?”

“Bus’ness is bus’ness, Galina. I have grandchildren ta feed.”

“Why’s it always the farm families who never stop complaining about mouths to feed?” Galina replied bitterly.

“Now, now.” Ester never lost her pleasant shopkeeper’s voice. “That’s uncalled for.”

Giving in, Galina started counting out the little coins. The corners of Ester’s mouth twisted with satisfaction, but when her eyes accidentally slid to Soren’s, the expression died. She shuddered and looked away. When she accepted the coins from Galina, the sympathy in her voice sounded genuine: “May the Goddess Ashera bless you, dear.”

Galina just grunted and walked away. Soren knew it was his job to take the crate from the counter. He reached up, and Ester stepped back as if he might somehow hurt her. He tried to keep an impassive face, knowing from experience that Galina tended to hit him harder if he dared pout. But the shopkeeper’s disgust was nearly as painful as a beating.

 

   A half hour later, they were finally on their way home. The summer heat was searing, and this made Galina even more irritable. Soren wasn’t happy either, but as always, he hid this from her. He concentrated on the simple labor of pulling the wagon (which seemed impossibly heavy now) and avoiding piles of horse dung (the number of which indicated a platoon of cavalry soldiers must have left the castle by this road not long ago). 

His lips were cracking, but he knew better than to ask Galina for water, especially in the mood she was in. They had been overcharged or turned away almost everywhere, and she maintained an impressively endless string of complaints under her breath. Most were about the hot weather, and the aggression Soren felt radiating off her made him wonder if she blamed him for that too.

Since it was the hottest part of the day, many townsfolk were dozing under awnings or drinking cool tea behind the closed doors of their shops. Everyone else was packed into bars, drinking mead and spirits. If they had the coin, they paid extra for ice from the mountains or lemons imported from Begnion. Soren had once sucked on a lemon rind he’d found in a trash heap, and he did not understand the appeal.

   Neither did he understand the allure of the alcohol he saw passed back and forth behind tavern windows. Soren had once sniffed the harsh potato liquor Galina drank when her back hurt so much she couldn’t get out of bed, but he hadn’t dared steal a drop. Frankly, it smelled more like paint than anything that should be ingested.

   However, Galina clearly had a taste for it, and she now gazed longingly through the open doors of every bar they passed. Soren knew the only reason she didn’t push her way into one was because he was with her.

   They had just passed one such tavern when a sudden commotion broke out behind them. Galina twisted around eagerly, as if the sound of angry voices was a familiar tune. A man was shoved out of the tavern entrance, backpedaling to keep his footing.

   “We don’t serve your kind here!” the barkeep called. He and another burly man were the first to follow him out. Then what seemed like every other man, woman, and child inside the tavern spilled into the street. They quickly surrounded the man, and Galina joined them.

They were all hurling insults, but Soren heard Galina’s coarse shriek above all the rest. Some of her insults were familiar: “cur,” “wretch,” “vermin,” and so on. But others were new and creative (perhaps inspired by the vile things others were saying): “whoreson,” “weevil-eater,” and “lecherous rat” were ones she annunciated with particular zeal.

   His curiosity piqued, Soren squirmed through the crush of bodies. When he had a partial view of the man, the first thing he noticed was that his coat jutted behind him and he had his hand at his belt. It took Soren a moment to realize he was wearing a long sword, and another moment to realize that the sliver of steel glinting below the hilt was the only reason the crowd were not unleashing the violence contained in their taut shoulders and clenched fists. 

   However, the man did not draw the sword more than a couple inches, and neither did he respond to the insults. His chin was tucked down as if he wanted to hide behind his high collar, but his eyes were feral with rage.

Soren wondered what he had done to be hated this way. “Stranger,” people said, “Foreigner.” The word “subhuman” was circulated like a question and a curse. Soren wondered if this could be true; he certainly looked like a human to him.

Finally, the man started to move. He took a few tentative, and the crowd bent to keep its distance. After a few more steps, a path opened for him. He was coming in Soren’s direction, who made way with the rest of the townsfolk.

From this angle, Soren could see his face better. The man had dark skin and a mane of pale orange hair, but most striking was the intricate tattoo spider-webbing up the left side of his neck and onto his face. It was this that he was attempting to hide behind his coat’s high collar.

Soren’s blood ran cold despite the hot day, and he suddenly felt lightheaded. He had seen tattoos before. Travelers would ink anything in their skin: depictions of mythical beasts, the names of loved ones, symbols of good fortune, clan marks, and talismans for strength. But this was some nonsensical design—perhaps not a tattoo at all.

He stood frozen in place, where he was jostled by people stomping and shaking their fists to punctuate their words:

"Get out, filth!" "

"Unclean blood!"

"Begone, freak!"

"Stay away from us!"

"Crime against Ashera!"

"Out!"

"Animal!"

"Filth!"

"Monster!"

"Worse than a subhuman!"

Soren imagined he could see the loathing emanating from the crowd like waves of heat. He followed the sound of Galina’s voice and found her wrinkled face, her bright eyes, and the spittle flying from her mouth.

When the man was almost gone, people in the crowd began throwing fruit and vegetables from the stalls lining the street. Others flung handfuls of horse dung. The stranger was forced to duck and quicken his pace until he was running.

Soren pushed out of the crowd, returning to the wagon he had abandoned. Part of him feared the crowd would turn on him when the stranger was gone, and so he sat on the other side of the wagon, curled up his knees, and waited for the massacre of words to end.

Galina found him when the crowd dispersed. Some laughed, others grumbled, but most returned to their daily lives and habits as if nothing had happened. “Get up,” Galina barked, and Soren stood, peering up to see which category Galina fell under.

The revulsion on her face was the same she always wore when she looked at him, but there was something else too. Her eyebrow twitched, and her mouth was open so he could see the stubs of her bottom teeth. The hatred burning in her eyes crackled on new tinder.

Soren averted his gaze and stared at his fraying, mismatched shoes instead. His stomach became ice. His skin came over cold and clammy despite the hot, dry air, and he felt the overwhelming urge to pee. In this moment, Soren discovered he was afraid to die. And for the first time in his life, he thought Galina was not just capable of killing him, but more than willing.

He wanted to run, but he was rooted in place. Where would he go, even if he could move his scrawny legs? His mind raced, but he could not fathom why Galina continued to provide for him if she wanted him dead. She wasn't his mother, grandmother, or any relation he knew of. Soren had no idea how he’d come to be in her possession. (She’d never said, and he had never dared ask.)

Galina stepped closer, and Soren’s entire body flinched. But she did not strike him. “Home,” she grunted. He picked up the wagon’s handle and started walking in the direction she had pushed him. The rest of the walk passed in silence, and Soren almost missed her grumbling. At least then he knew what she was thinking.

 

Soren had spent countless hours watching people from the holes in the attic, a vantage point on the roof, or in any of the three alleys around Galina’s hovel. He was content with what he could experience from afar and never wandered more than a few blocks in any direction. After that day, however, Soren began straying farther from home.

He was still careful never to enter any shops and to stay away from adults. He tried to travel only through alleys unoccupied by gang kids, but he could not entirely avoid crossing their path. To get anywhere, he had to put himself at their mercy. He returned home with split lips, black eyes, and soiled clothes, but he was no real threat so they didn’t do him any serious harm. He was willing to take the risk.

The reason for his newfound courage was actually his fear. He was afraid of dying at Galina’s hand; he was afraid of his own powerlessness. He was searching for something to give him an edge.

There was an abandoned temple several streets away, and Soren knew the gang kids frequented it, fought over it, and used it as a meeting place for their games and their battles. By eavesdropping on their conversations, he’d learned that the temple’s old library was still relatively intact on the second floor. The kids used the books for kindling when they could find nothing else. The information within those texts were worthless to them, most of whom could not read. But it was not worthless to Soren, who felt a stirring of hope at the prospect of forgotten knowledge. If no one in this world would help him, then perhaps long dead authors would.

He decided to visit the temple one night when Galina was out gambling and wouldn’t notice his prolonged absence. Before leaving the attic, he retrieved his glass shard and fashioned a handle for it from a bit of cloth. It was a pathetic excuse for a knife, but Soren’s instincts told him to arm himself when wandering into gang territory.

The temple was empty when he reached it, but there was no guarantee it would stay that way. Soren crept inside and examined the structure in the moonlight. It was a ruin of charred wood and garbage swept in from the street. The steeple had fallen, and half of the roof was missing. The walls leaned precariously, and the central pillars had been gnawed thin by hungry termites.

The stairs leading to the second floor were completely gone, but the gang kids had piled boxes and barrels to make a staircase of their own. It did not look structurally sound, but the library was on the second floor so Soren had no choice but to climb. The stack wobbled under his weight, but if the older, heavier kids could do it, Soren reasoned he could do it too.

When he finally reached the top, he saw that more of the floor was missing than anticipated. But most of the beams were in place, so he walked on these, arms outstretched for balance, until he reached the part of the room that was intact.

Here were towering shelves filled with the remnants of rotten books. Some shelves leaned against each other like half-fallen dominos, while others had already fallen completely. Books spilled out of them—hardly more than a rat’s nest of lost covers and torn pages. Most of the writing was faded or illegible from years of rain and sunlight.

Soren walked only where he thought it was safest and searched through the shelves that were the most protected by the remaining roof. He hadn’t borrowed one of Galina’s lanterns for fear that she would notice the missing oil, so he read only by the light of the moon.

Hours passed, and Soren froze every time someone passed outside. At one point, a trio of young boys came into the temple to retrieve some stolen sweets they’d stored here, and Soren hardly breathed until they left again. It was getting late, and Soren was starting to give up when he finally found something promising.

It was a cluster of wrinkle pages, and according to the numbers in the margins, these were the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh pages in a set of sixteen. The pamphlet appeared to outline the pronunciation of the Ancient Language. The half-faded pages contained the common tongue as well as the ancient script, and between the blocks of text were numerous notes and diagrams.

Soren’s heart beat faster as he realized this could be the key to understanding the wind tome in Galina’s attic. He could unlock the meaning of those elegantly swirling words and maybe even the magical power they contained. If he could use wind magic, he would wield a weapon against anyone who dared hurt him again. If he was to die, he would die with words of power on his lips. He would die fighting, like a mage in the army.

Ignoring the late hour and his own safety, Soren searched desperately for the rest of the pamphlet. He wandered onto beams that moved under his weight, and he crawled under fallen shelves that could pin him with the slightest shift. He took foolish risks, but he was determined to examine every scrap of paper until he found all sixteen pages.

In the end, he grasped fourteen of them, and that would have to be enough because there was nowhere else to search. Folding them together, he slipped the pages into his pocket and descended the tower of crates that led to solid ground. Going down was more difficult, and he was concentrating so hard he didn’t notice the fact that he was no longer alone here.

When his feet finally met the cracked boards of the temple floor, he heard slow clapping and twisted around to see six kids in the gloom. Two were close to his age, but four were older—and much bigger.

“I told you I heared something up there!” said one of the younger kids proudly. “I knowed it was too big to be a rat.”

“Oh, it’s a rat alright,” sneered one of the older kids—the one who had been clapping.

Soren reached into his pocket and gripped the glass shard. He didn’t know whether to fight or run, so he waited. He was terrified of what these kids might do to him. Trespassing in one of their hideouts could cost him broken bones, lost teeth, or worse.

“Whatcha doing here, kid?” another of the older kids asked. He was flipping a knife in his hand, and it looked a lot more threatening than Soren’s mirror fragment.

Soren did not reply.

“You like old books, do ya?” another asked, glancing up at the second level. “Or were you just spyin’?” He stepped forward, and Soren took an equal step back. The boy glared.

“It could be he’s spyin’,” said the last older kid and only girl in the group. “I know that kid; he’s that freak—the one the scary old knitting lady looks after.”

Soren took another step back, but the one with the knife was coming after him now, grinning widely. “Hey I want to see it.” Stopping in front of Soren, he lifted the knife and used the tip to part his bangs. He made a low, appreciative whistle when the mark was revealed. “That sure is spooky, isn’t it?”

Soren didn’t dare move. He gripped the glass in his pocket even tighter, fighting the urge to plunge it into the kid’s neck. If he did that, he would not make it far before the others caught him.

“Careful, Rafe,” one of the other kids said. He didn’t sound nearly as interested in Soren’s birthmark. “You know what they say about him.”

“Ah, that’s all hooey,” returned another in the group.

“No, it’s not!” cried one of the younger kids self-importantly. “Ambrose and his guys beat on this kid last week, and ever since then, Ambrose’s been sick with the flu. His voice is all hoarse, and he keep coughing up this really gross stuff!”

“It’s true,” the girl’s voice backed up the young one’s. “He’s sick as a dog.”

“Well, Ambrose also eats bugs, so I’m not convinced,” someone shot back.

“Shut up, all of you,” the boy with the knife called back to them. He stared into Soren’s eyes, and appeared to be making up his mind. “Whatever this little freak is, we can’t let him go without teaching him a lesson. Otherwise everyone’ll be getting weird tattoos just to slip through our fingers.”

“But, Rafe, my gran says just touching him can give you a blood curse!”

“Your gran is nuts, Clive,” said one of the others.

“Yeah, she’s nuts!” parroted one of the little ones.

They were all silent for a moment, until the girl observed. “He don’t say much, do he?”

“Maybe he’s a mute?”

“Hey, Rafe, see if he’s got a tongue!”

“You can have a tongue and still be mute, dumbass.”

“Ooh, maybe it’s forked!”

The boy with the knife—Rafe—grinned at these suggestions, and before Soren knew it, he was forcing the blade between his lips. Soren opened his mouth immediately so he wouldn’t be cut. Rafe depressed his tongue with the cold, flat metal, and Soren tried not to gag. He was trembling with fear now, and he felt tears collecting at the corners of his eyes. “Not forked!” Rafe called back, and this was met with a few moans of disappointment. He pulled the knife out and laughed.

Soren hadn’t intended to run, but the instant the knife was clear of his mouth, something inside him had snapped. He hardly remembered turning away, but a moment later, he was running blindly. His fists were pumping, and he had taken his hand out of his pocket with the glass shard still firmly in his fist. He hadn’t used it; he’d just run.

He heard hooting and laughing behind him, and because the laughter continued after the temple was far behind him, he knew he was being pursued. And yet no one grabbed him or struck him, and eventually the laughter faded as the gang kids gave up.

“Go on home!” one of them called.

“We know where you live, kid!” said another.

But their voices were gleeful, not angry; they’d let him go on purpose. Even realizing this, Soren didn’t stop running until he arrived safely at the house. He could see the glow of firelight in the windows and knew Galina was already home. Chest heaving and blood pumping in his ears, he tried to compose himself before going inside.

But he didn’t have the chance. Galina must have heard him, because the door burst open. “You ungrateful brat,” she snarled, holding her cane in both hands and twisting it through her palms. “After all I do for you…”

Soren stepped toward her, and it was like walking up to a fire. She edged to the side to let him enter, and he did, knowing he was stepping toward certain punishment. The first blow him in the back, and he was sprawled on the floor before the door even closed behind them.

 

Soren did not leave the house for several days, which was just as well because the annual autumn rains and winds were taking their first pass at the city. While he recuperated from the bruises and stiff joints Galina had given him, he obeyed her orders and boarded up the leaks in the roof.

In his spare time, however, he pored over the pages he’d salvaged from the temple and compared them to the spells written in the old wind tome. As he learned how to read and pronounce the ancient script, he quickly discovered that several of the sounds were not made in the modern tongue. Fortunately, the pamphlet described how to approximate them, including diagrams depicting tongue and lip position.

He began whispering—and kept whispering for days. Coughing in the dust of the attic, he tasted the sounds, the syllables, the words, the rhythms. He was determined to master them, and soon he could read the ancient script as quickly as the modern tongue, even if he had no idea what most of the words meant. The pamphlet described the basic grammar and offered a few sample words, but Soren did not think knowing the ancient word for ‘fish’ (“*fish*”) was going to help him become a powerful mage. Soren just hoped he would not have to understand the words for them to work. After all, a soldier didn’t need to understand the structure and components of his blade; they needed only to know it was sharp and to have enough strength to plunge it into their enemy’s heart.

When he felt he’d practiced long enough and knew the words of the first incantation by heart, Soren took the spell book to the alley on the left side of the house (which was the widest). The corners were still soaked with puddles from yesterday’s storm, and the shadows were cool despite the warm, sunny day. Soren enjoyed the feeling of the air on his skin. Today was the perfect day to finally try magic.

The only drawback was the two dogs chained behind the neighbor’s house. As usual, they were barking incessantly and pulling against their tethers. Their jowls flapped at Soren, spattering froth into their own eyes. He did his best to ignore them.

Standing with the tome open in both hands, he widened his stance and squaring his shoulders. It was rare that he stood fully straight like this, but it seemed like the right position to be in if he was going actually going to command wind spirits.

The incantations for novices were written in the beginning of the book. They were short and supposedly easy, and it was these that Soren had memorized. According to the annotations written in the margins, the spell would create a small rotational current—if successful, that is.

Some of the spells were blurry and faded, as if rubbed out, so Soren directly his gaze to the first entry with legible script. Then he shuffled through the loose pages of his precious guide to be absolutely certain he knew the right sounds. Finally he opened his mouth, and in a voice louder than a whisper, he uttered the ancient words: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Nothing happened, but Soren did not give up yet. If magic was conducted by communing with unseen elemental spirits, then he would plead with those spirits until they obeyed him willingly. I need to become powerful, he thought, So no one can hurt me again. He incanted a second time: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Still there was not even the slightest disturbance in the air. I want to become something more, he thought, I am nothing on my own. Again he said the ancient words: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

But still nothing happened, and he was starting to despair. Perhaps he did not have talent for magic after all. Gritting his teeth, he rotated in place, looking not at the walls surrounding him but the air itself. You cannot ignore me, he thought, I exist, and I am as worthy to command you as anyone. This time he tore the words from his own lips, and they dripped with spite: “*Dance spirits of wind*!”

Three things happened in a single moment. First, the meaning of the words shot through his mind like the zap of static electricity. It really was a command: a simple one ordering wind spirits to ‘dance’ before him. Second, a breeze started to churn around him, gently tossing his hair and raising bumps on his forearms and the back of his neck. The breeze intensified, narrowed, and turned into a small, meandering twister. It was visible only by the dust and dirt it picked up, but that was enough to see that the spell had been a success.

The final thing that happened was that Soren laughed for the first time in his young life. As soon as he did, the winds dissipated and the dust settled. He leaned against the wall of Galina’s house. He could hardly believe it had worked. The neighbor’s hounds had also fallen silent, as if they were equally surprised by what they had just seen.

After a few moments, Soren’s pride had run its course and he discovered a new ambition. He wanted to try something more advanced; he wanted to use the winds as a real mage would use them.

Returning his attention to the spell book, he noticed the line he’d read was now blurred out like the ones before it and so realized each rendition of the spell could only be used once. Flipping through the frail pages, he saw many blurred spells and realized there was not much left in this tome at all. This could be a problem, but not one he had to solve now.

Finding the simplest attack spells, which were listed a little deeper in the book, Soren set about practicing the sounds for this new incantation. It was slightly longer but still easy enough to pronounce. Few of these spells remained, but he did find a legible line. Before reading it aloud, he realized he would need a target. He could not attack the walls of either Galina’s or her neighbor’s house, for fear of them hearing on the other side. There was a trash heap in one corner of the alley, and an old rotten box in another, but attacking either was likely to make a mess. That only left the dogs, and Soren approached them carefully.

The spell was designed to injure or kill one’s opponent. In order to truly test it, he would need a living subject. He selected one of the dogs at random and remained just beyond the reach of its chain. At his approach, both had started baying again, and now they snapped at the air.

Soren stood firmly, raising the tome in both hands again. "*Spirits of wind, slash the flesh before me*."

Once again, the meaning of the words was unlocked for him as soon as the last syllable fell from his lips. His hair and clothes waved in the tiny breezes branching off of the main spell. But instead of a simple twister, the winds created a gale in a single direction.

It blew into the dog’s face, causing it to narrow its eyes and pull back its ears. The creature whined and curved its body, half-exposing its belly in submission, but Soren did not accept this surrender. He concentrated on what he wanted the spell to do. The winds strengthened and grew sharp.

The creature’s flank became raw, the skin and fur ripped away as if the wind were scrambling against it with hundreds of tiny claws. With a yelp, the dog turned and ran as far as in the other direction as the chain would allow.

Soren let the spell fade, and the other dog sniffed the ground where the flakes of skin, fur, and drops of blood had settled. It was over; he had drawn his first blood as a wind mage. It wasn’t a kill, or even a mortal injury. Bar any serious infection, the hound would live to bark and slobber for years to come.

Soren suddenly wondered if the flank would scar; he wondered what its owners would think. Would they blame the strange raw patch on a rash or rough play with the other dog? Soren told himself it was impossible they’d guess wind magic, let alone suspect him of conjuring it. And yet fear coursed into his brain like a faucet he couldn’t turn off.

He could get into trouble; Galina could take his tome away and burn it. He would not be able to defend himself without the spell book, and yet to carry it around with him was impossible. Galina would never allow him to keep it if she realized the truth. Soren suddenly felt exposed in the alley. Had anyone been looking out their windows? Had anyone been looking in from the street?

At first, he saw no one and began to calm down. But then he realized there was an old man in a green cloak standing on the opposite side of the street. He remained motionless as the rest of the townsfolk moved around him, and it was very possible he was staring in Soren’s direction. He looked affluent and out of place on the dusty street, but Nevassa was the capital of Daein and had many visitors, even to the poor districts like this one.

Soren did not want to linger here and see if the man really was staring at him. Tucking the tome under his arm, he walked backward until he rounded the corner of Galina’s house. Then he twisted on the spot, dashed through the back door, and scurried up the rope ladder into the attic. He collapsed onto the rag nest with the heavy tome on his chest, breathing hard in both fear and exhilaration.

 

Soren did not leave the house the next day, for fear of angering Galina, running into the gang kids, or, he would admit, seeing that strange man in the green cloak. He wanted to try wind magic again, but he didn’t dare do it inside the house where Galina could hear him. He ripped out a half-empty page of attack spells to keep in his pocket, and that made him feel safer. The neighbors never came to the door accusing Soren of injuring their dog, and that also helped to settle his nerves.

However, that evening there was a knock on the door, and Soren dropped the ladle he was cleaning in surprise. It fell into the basin with a plop and a dull thump. Galina narrowed her eyes at him. Although she was generally well-known, Galina didn't have many friends. She rarely had visitors, but when she did, Soren knew to make himself scarce. She jerked her thumb, and he climbed the rope ladder with soap still on his hands.

In the attic, he was hidden but still able to see and hear everything. He heard Galina hobble to the door, unlatching all four locks. "What do you want?" she demanded. 

"Good evening. Are you the woman called Galina?" came a man’s voice in an unfamiliar accent.

"Who wants to know?" Galina growled.

"My name is Guthrie Sileas, and I have a proposition for you. May I come in?"

Soren did not recognize the man's name or voice, but only rich people had two names. Soren did not know why a nobleman would visit someone as poor and unpleasant as Galina, but he had a bad feeling about it. As silently as he could, Soren crawled over to a crack through which he could see the door and the visitor. His worst fears were confirmed when he recognized the green cloak. 

“Not interested in buying anything. Get out.” She made to close the door, but the man stopped it with his arm. They struggled over the old wooden slab for a few awkward moments, until Galina gave up. “What kind of proposition?” She didn’t move out of the doorframe.

The man smiled like a cat. "A transaction of sorts. Won’t you allow me inside so we may discuss it?”

“I said I’m not interested in buying anything,” she repeated. “And there’s nothing I’m willing to sell.”

Irritation flashed across his face, but then Sileas changed the topic. “I hear you care for a young boy on the premises. Is that correct?” He peered beyond Galina’s shoulder and surveyed the shack. Soren was glad he was hidden.

“There’re no kids here. Now leave,” Galina insisted. Soren was surprised she would lie. Then again, he didn’t really understand why she did anything. 

Sileas frowned. “I’ve asked around. He is no child of yours, so why do you protect him?”

Galina just crossed her arms.

“Hmmm,” Sileas hummed under his breath. “I see.” He smiled kindly. “I think we got off the wrong foot, ma’am.”

“Don’t ma’am me,” she grumbled. 

Undeterred, the man swept his cloak aside and untied a large purse from his belt. “In speaking with your neighbors, I discovered they resent you for your money. Gold is your motivation, isn’t it?” He massaged the sack of coins with his fingers. “Perhaps this would persuade you to speak with me?”

Galina finally stepped aside and waved him in. She glanced both ways in the street before closing the door. Sileas, meanwhile, was glancing around the house as if looking for something. Looking for me, Soren realized.

“What do you want with the brat?” Galina growled, gesturing that the man should sit in the chair opposite her at the little table.

The man sat daintily. “I should like to see him, if that would be possible.”

Galina narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“You guard him well.” He disguised his irritation with praise. “It is because he is under the Spirit’s Protection?”

Galina’s body, wary and guarded a moment ago, suddenly relaxed, bending under the force of her sudden laughter. It took a few moments to quiet her guffaws and a few coughs to clear her throat. “Idiot,” she finally spat, even though she was smiling. “You actually think he is a Spirit Charmer.”

Sileas pressed his back against the chair and raised his chin, clearly offended. “Your ward possesses rare magical skill. I saw him conducting a wind spell with ease. How old is he? Five? Six?"

"Impossible," Galina snorted, but she didn’t sound quite as certain as before. She paused a moment, realizing Sileas was waiting for an answer. "Uh, four, I think."

“Only four!” the man exclaimed excitedly. “He must be a Spirit Charmer, then. How can you deny it? Did his parents enter him into the pact? I am assuming you did not.”

Galina shook her head. “His parents never knew him long enough for that.”

“Then the spirit chose to make the pack with him! Truly remarkable,” the man insisted.

Even from above, Soren could tell Galina’s face was skeptical. “How can you be so sure he is a Spirit Charmer at all?”

“Well I would have to inspect him up close to be sure. But I am a wind sage—” he tapped the shoulder of his velvet cloak “—and I do know about these things.”

“Soren!” Galina shrilled, suddenly turning her face to the ceiling. Soren jumped involuntarily and sent a cloud of dust raining on them. “Get down here.”

“The boy is in the ceiling?”

“He hides up there like vermin,” Galina replied.

Soren slid down the rope ladder. He was nervous and confused, but he was also irresistibly curious.

"There he is," the man murmured, when Soren’s feet hit the floor. His eyes looked hungry, and Soren almost considered climbing back up the ladder.

But Galina stopped him. “Come over here,” she ordered, pointing to the floor beside Sileas. Soren obeyed, but Sileas leapt from his seat in an instant and met Soren before he could take another step. The man’s left hand encircled Soren’s upper arm in a vice-like grip. The right swept away his bangs to reveal the mark.

“I knew I saw it,” Sileas murmured under his breath, right into Soren’s face. “I knew I had seen the Spirit’s Protection.”

Galina groaned and extracted herself from her chair. She hobbled over and looked at Soren with reluctance. “He's had the mark since he was days old, if that's what you mean.”

Sileas smiled, nodding. "The spirit really did initiate the pack. Spectacular indeed."

Galina shook her head. “I can think of a more likely explanation.”

Sileas turned his eyes to Galina, but his hand still gripped Soren tightly. “I asked many people about you, Galina—you and this boy. I know what they say about him. You believe it too?”

 Galina shrugged. “There’s something not right about him. He’s cursed.” Her eyes were filled with disgust.

The man shook his head in disappointment. “It is a mistake many would make. If I had not found him, perhaps his talent would never have been discovered.” He sighed. “But I am here now. Please, allow me to take the boy as my apprentice.”

“You’re not from around here…” Galina trailed off. It was not a question. She seemed to be wrestling with some mental dilemma.

“True,” Sileas admitted. “I live far from here. I would take the boy with me and train him there.” Galina didn’t seem convinced. “The stigma of living with him would be lifted from you. Your neighbors’ misconceptions will matter no more. Perhaps then, you will see that you have never been cursed.”

She snorted. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what my neighbors think.” She paused a moment as if choosing her next words carefully. “It is my job to care for the boy.”

Sileas seemed to understand. He offered three sincere nods. “Of course. If it is a matter of gold, I would pay you for your trouble.” With his free hand, he dropped the coin purse on the table.

Galina’s eyes lit up. “You really want him?” she said, as if finally believing it. “You’d really take him away?”

"Yes indeed.” 

Galina blinked. A tear sprang to her eye. She let out a wild peal of laughter. She stuffed the money purse into her skirt pocket, where Soren heard it thump against her leg. “One thing first,” she laughed, “I need his hair.” She hobbled to the counter and seized a pair of sheers.

“Very well,” Sileas agreed, gripping Soren’s shoulders as if to stop him from moving. “I will not ask about your arrangement.”

To Soren’s bewilderment, Galina sheered him nearly bald, carefully collecting the strands and folding them into a towel. She put this next to the gold in her skirt pocket while Soren patted the tufts of hair sticking out of his suddenly lighter head. Sileas was still holding him, so he couldn’t feel much. Then, suddenly, Galina was steering both Sileas and Soren out of the house. “Free at last…” she breathed, “Thank you, Ashera!” When they reached the door, Galina pushed it open with gusto. “Goodbye, you rotten cur!” she growled, almost affectionately. “You're someone else's problem now!"

Soren knew he should feel saddened by her behavior (and he did), but this feeling was overwhelmed by stronger sensations of fear and excitement. He was finally free of Galina. He was leaving Nevassa. He was going to live with this old sage. He was going to learn wind magic.

Sileas moved his grip to the back of Soren’s neck, steering him toward a large horse tethered by the road. With the other hand, he was waving farewell to Galina. Soren tried to look behind him, but Sileas’s hand forced his head forward.  Soren heard the door close, and Galina’s gleeful laughter became muffled.

"Let's get going, kid." Sileas picked Soren up (which Soren was certainly not prepared for) and threw him onto the saddle. The horse was a tall, sturdy mare with a wide back and long legs. Soren clung to the saddle as tightly as possible. "Now none of that, child,” Sileas scolded as he untied the horse. “Scoot back. Sit up. That's right. You won't be allowed such luxuries as fear from now on.” He mounted in front of Soren. “You will embark on a course of backbreaking and rigorous training."

Soren gripped the man’s cloak in his fists and plunged his bare feet between the saddlebags and the horse’s flank on either side. This gave him some feeling of security, but it was small.

"Hyup," Sileas barked with a flick of the reins. The horse started plodding forward, and Soren thought he was about to faint.