'Definition of a spellcaster: someone with magical abilities that allow them to cast spells.
Some believe that spellcasters inherited their abilities from the god Pyrodynn, or because one of their ancestors may have been one of the fae.
The fae were a race of people many years ago, when magic wasn't outlawed in some countries. Necromancy parlours, healers, enchanters and alchemists were all very common, and most of these were run by the fae. The fae were, in a theoretical sense, the first generation of spellcasters. Pointed ears, toes, and unnaturally bright eyes were common throughout the race, although some weakened down through bloodlines mixed with other races did not have these features.
The History Of Magic: Introduction To The Fae
*****
"Let her go, you monster!" A shrill scream ripped through the window, a gust of wind carrying it into the Crown Prince's sleeping ears. "She never did anything wrong!"
"Move out of the way, Miss." a rough voice replied, followed with the sounds of dragging footsteps and metal moving.
Soran lay fast asleep in his bed, unmoving. He had left his bedroom window wide open, allowing for fresh air and the sounds of desperate screaming to flood into his dreams. Heavy footsteps thudded up the corridor, becoming louder and louder the closer they got; and there was a short, quick knock at his door. When the prince didn't shout for the person to come in, his door was burst wide open regardless of whether the prince wanted him to or not. He sat bolt upright at the sound, pulling up his duvet in an attempt to keep warm. His heart thudded in his ears, and the palms of his hands felt moist and sticky.
"Jarlen," he groaned, his mouth dry, and his eyes still adjusting to the daylight. "What a wonderful surprise."
Jarlen himself seemed just as awake as Soran did. His hair was brushed back and stuck up recklessly, and his face had grown rough with stubble. His white shirt was buttoned up the wrong way, missing too many buttons to register as being 'decent'. His green silk waistcoat looked as if it had just been slung over the top of his clothes, and hadn't been buttoned up properly either. He leaned against the door frame, and his face and hairline were drenched in sweat. "As much as I'd love to stick around and chat," he panted so hard that breathing looked like a burden. "This is of an urgent matter, Your Highness."
"What in the name of Amyths could be happening that is so serious before mid day?" he grumbled, before motioning for Jarlen to get out of his bedchamber so that he could actually get some proper clothes on. "Come on, if it's so serious, you're going to have to leave me to get dressed."
"Of course, Your Highness," He stepped back out of the doorway, and then looked back at the Prince. "Just meet me out in the courtyard as soon as you are ready, okay?"
"Yes, fine, whatever." He motioned for Jarlen to step out of the room again, and he did. Soran could hear his clumping footsteps on the floorboards as he ran back down the corridor towards the courtyard.
Soran got dressed into his usual attire - a simple pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a blue-grey waistcoat. He threw open his door, and ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to make it look presentable. It didn't. He paced hurriedly through the palace, and took a deep breath in before opening the doors to the courtyard. There, he was met by Jarlen, stood next to a sobbing Marazan, surrounded by gardens of wilted, dead plants. Where they once bloomed, the plants now lay heaped on top of each other. The gardens were previously made entirely from vivid colours that one could see from miles away (perhaps even as far as Silvermar, the next village over), but instead now, they were purely made of wilted colours - decaying greens, browns and yellows.
"What in the name of--" he paused, watching his friend comforting the maid, who was bawling hysterically into Jarlen's shoulder, waterfalls falling from her eyes, forming rivers off of her skin. He jogged over, pausing in front of them, and his face twisted with confusion. "What happened, Marazan?"
She moved her face out of Jarlen's shoulder, where a huge wet patch of salty tears grew. Her lips and hands trembled, and her eyes were wide open, although they were welling up with tears. "I-It's Lular... I-- She--" Her voice was quiet and shook a lot - it was evident that she struggled to even say a full sentence. Gulping, she tried to speak again. "Lular-- they think she's been using magic. I think she's-- I'm so scared that she's-- being sentenced to... I-I daren't say it."
She didn't have a chance to finish her sentence before Jarlen finished it for her: "Lular's being sentenced to death."
The Prince stared wide-eyed, completely frozen in awe. He didn't really know what to say - he'd never had to comfort a crying woman before, especially on such a matter as her friend's possible death sentence. His eyes flew wide open and his palms became moist with sweat. As it always had in tricky situations, his mind whirlpooled with thoughts, and he wasn't sure of what to do or say to comfort the pair. One thought stuck in his mind, however, and resurfaced many times. He pulled off his waistcoat and threw it towards Jarlen, who caught it as if it were a natural reflex.
Prince Soran jogged quickly over to the guards that were restraining Lular, who had given up all struggle. She hung her head low, her blonde hair laying lifelessly over her pale skin. Tears began to drip off of her face and then onto the floor, creating a trail of tiny puddles as they carried her away.
"What on-- In the name of Amyths, stop there!" Soran shouted, and one of the guards turned his head over his shoulder. He bit his lip, mentally cursing himself. To his dismay, it was Orion, the captain of the guard.
"Prince Soran," Orion smiled, and then clapped for another guard to restrain Lular by the arm in his place whilst he talked to the Crown Prince. He took off his obsidian helmet to reveal his close-cropped ebony hair and grey eyes."To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"What evidence do you have that this woman - Lular - is actually using magic?" Soran inquired, looking around the courtyard.
"I have no idea, Your Highness," he sneered, throwing his arms out to the sides in a sarcastic gesture. "Look around you. The moment the witch becomes upset or hurt, the plants wilt!"
"You call that sufficient evidence to sentence a woman to death?" the prince scoffed, crossing his arms across his stomach. How dare he speak to his future king like he was some half-brained, ill-headed idiot?
"Between you and me," Orion stepped closer, whispering close to Soran's face. "You're no detective, Prince."
"Neither are you," He raised one of his eyebrows. If this pompous idiot took one more step out of line... "You're captain of the guard."
"Listen," His voice became somewhat more spiteful, and he clenched his teeth, speaking snappily through them. "I couldn't care less whether you're royalty or not. You, Your Highness, are not a clever man. You know, I'm not the Captain Of The Royal Guard for only my looks or self defence abilities. I do know a witch when I see one, and this woman is most certainly a witch."
Soran turned away, biting his lip. He then turned back, replying with just as much spite as (if not more than) Orion. He might not have shown it, but he was furious."I may have been born into my position, and you may have earned yours, but I'm as much of a human being as you are. I still expect you to show me respect - even more so, because one day I will rule this country, and I very highly doubt you would enjoy having your head on the chopping block. Understand?"
Instead of whimpering like a cowardly dog, Orion clenched his fists and then bit down on his lip so hard that it almost bled. Then, he took a few calculated steps back towards the guards restraining Lular, who had given up her struggle. Soran followed him, but when Orion walked on, he instead knealt down in front of her, despite the stones cutting into his knees.
"Lular," he murmured, but she gave no reply or acknowledgement that someone was speaking to her. "Lular." he repeated, louder this time.
This time, she looked up. Her hair still hung over her face, and her cheeks were red and puffy from crying. Her eyes were bloodshot and red, and she looked as if she had given up all hope and already accepted her death.
"Don't worry, Lular," he attempted to reassure her, speaking softly and kindly. "I believe you're innocent." She looked up at him, and her eyes opened wide, threatening to burst into tears again. "I'm going to do all I can, I promise. If I have any say in it, you will not be sentenced at all. Don't you worry, okay?"
"Thank you," She gasped for air between her unstable words. "Thank you, Prince Soran."
*****
The family sat around a table, all four people chomping down on whatever they desired - venison, rabbit, chicken, beef, and various vegetables and fruits. Some of the food, the Crown Prince and his Hounds Master had caught the day before. The King and Queen sat at one side of the table, and the two Princes on the opposite. It was silent as they ate, apart from the clinking of knives and forks, and the occasional setting down of cups, until Peyton finally spoke up.
"Have you heard about Lular yet, father?" His tone was child-like and innocent. He popped a whole roast potato in his mouth, and then looked up at his father with his large, bright green eyes.
"Lular? The gardener?" The king set down his knife and fork. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, the lights above illuminating his wrinkled face and greying hair. "Have they finally caught her?"
"It would appear so," Soran spoke up, eager to defend the helpless girl who so many seemed to be against. "But there's no definitive proof that she has been using magic."
"The guards think there is, Soran. Go talk to Orion later - he'll give you good enough evidence!" Peyton chimed.
"I don't care much for Orion, or any of the royal guard, in fact. And I've already had the pleasure of speaking to that arrogant man today." Soran copied his father's body language, and set down his cutlery as well.
"We'll talk about these petty matters later," The younger prince pushed another roast potato into his mouth, chewing loudly. He then spoke with his mouth full as he asked, "What are you going to do about her, Father?"
The king thought a while, staring off into the distance. Soran watched him intently, waiting eagerly for a reply. Knowing his father, it wasn't going to be the answer that the Crown Prince had been hoping for.
"If the evidence is clear and it can be proven, then we'll do the same thing as we do to every damn witch in this cursed country," he erupted, smashing his coiled fist onto the table. "We'll burn her at the stake the coming Monday."
The room fell silent in shock. Soran's heart pounded against the cage of his chest as if it were attempting to fly away. His gut instinct was correct - it was not a good answer for Lular, Marazan, or any of the palace's inhabitants, in fact.
"Good," the sound of the younger Prince's innocent voice broke the silence. "That bitch will get exactly what she deserves."
Soran stood up, leaning his hands either side of his dinner plate to support his weight. What his brother said was enough to make him snap, enough to make him want to stand up for the poor woman. For the duration of his rant, he did notice the increasing anger of his parents, and the sycophantic looks his brother gave his father; but he didn't care. "I don't get it," he began. "A woman comes to work for us years ago because she needed a job. She made everything you asked her to beautiful, outdoing her job description, and somehow that is scandalous? That's being good at what you do! I don't get it," He gritted his teeth, and shouted louder, standing up and throwing his arms out open wide. "By Amyths, I don't understand! You drove the magic-enabled's children to orphanages countries away from home after you murdered their parents in front of them. Your predecessors outlawed magic because it was dangerous?" He turned to his father, and a spark of something feral came before his eyes. "You're the danger here, father. You're the murde--"
King Everild brought his hand across the prince's face so hard that the servants came running to see what the commotion was. The sound of the slap echoed throughout the palace, and all conversation ceased, all heads turning that way."Son or not my son," It was clear that he was furious, but his anger was controlled and calm. "I still demand respect in my own palace. I am still your king. How dare you make such treasonous accusations?"
"If you weren't royalty, you'd be hung for that!" Peyton added, and then simmered down after his father shot him a sharp, menacing look.
"But why?" he demanded, mirroring the same calm anger as his father's. "Why is magic so hazardous?"
"There was an uprising of magic users, once," the king spat through gritted teeth. "Half of the palace court was wiped out over in Ershain, which is why it's such a small country. After the Great Uprising, the locals fled to the edges of the country to survive on what they could. Magic is lethal. Magic is unknown. Magic can call storms down on a world, raise the dead and kill with a single glance!"
Despite Soran's anger at his father, he did put a good point across. The Great Uprising happened over seventy-five years ago, yet the effects were still in place. Before the Great Uprising, spellcasters and the fae lived in harmony across the land, but mainly in Apren's neighbouring country, Ershain. When their way of life was threatened after the acention of King Isadore Hallevard, many of the fae and the spellcasters fled, or joined together to form an army based entirely on magic. They fought for their freedom; their rights; their homes; their children - everything they knew and loved was soon to be wiped off of the face of their world if they didn't rise up and fight for their cause.
They wiped out half of the palace's court - the majority of the guards, nobility and aristocrats killed in an instant by great fires, ice storms and other forms of magic. Despite their efforts, they were of few numbers before they even reached the king, and the brave warriors that were left were defeated by the remainder of the royal guard.
"You know what?" Soran rose, instead of leaning over on the table. "I'm not even going to bother anymore. But I swear, there will be an even bigger uprising someday if you keep giving such a closed-minded view on everything."
*****
The sounds of beaten paws and hooves rushed through the forest once again. Loud barking and claws scratching on stones echoed around the trees, sending flocks of birds away from the trees. Although it was soon to be dark, the prince and his Hounds Master had no intention of returning to the palace before it reached midnight. At that moment, the sun was setting over the horizon, and the sky had been washed with a pink, orange and white watercolour paints. To avoid attacks and suspicion, the prince had dressed more as a wealthy man than royalty - he had swapped his slate coloured waistcoat for a cotton green one, and dirtied his white shirt with mud and smeared wood ash on his face. This was an easy compromise for the young prince and the queen - he could at least go out on hunts with his Hounds Master, as long as he agreed to dress a bit more commonly. Jarlen, however, didn't need to dress differently, like the Crown Prince did - no one acknowledged him anyway, and so it was pointless to try and hide from something that wasn't even there.
A few stars twinkled above their heads like fairy dust as their horses trotted along the path, slowing to a halt, and the Hounds Master whistled for his dogs to come running back. In an instant, they did; a sea of barking mouths and wagging tails meeting them. Some had crimson blood stained on the fur around their mouths, and some of the others held a dead or barely living rabbit or hare in their mouths, and gave their catch to the Crown Prince, and then trotted away proudly as if to say 'That was mine! I caught that! I'm such a good dog'. The prince often imagined that the hounds spoke like that, as childlish as he felt his mind could be at times. He often wished that animals could speak; he'd thought they'd make far more interesting companions than humans.
"What was all that row at the dinner table earlier, Your Highness?" Jarlen asked, reaching down off of his horse - Fleethoof - to take a rabbit from one of the hounds.
"Nothing," Soran sighed, and shook his head slowly, looking down at the rocky path beneath him and his horse. "It was just a petty row I had with my father."
"By the Martyr," Jarlen shot him a sympathising glance. "I bet that went down well. What was it over?"
Before Soran replied, the Hounds Master whistled another tone, this one lower than the last, and pointed at a deer in the distance. The hounds instantly ran at the creature, leaping, yapping and jumping to get to it first. Although Soran wasn't quite in the mood for narrow-minded chatter, he saw no harm in telling his most trusted friend everything that had happened at the dinner table - and who would hear them anyway in the middle of a forest at sundown?
"It was over Lular." He watched Jarlen's face, but immediatley regretted saying it, seeing the pained look on his Hounds Master's face. Jarlen turned away quickly to the side and bit his lip, but then looked back at his friend. Jarlen and Soran both knew that the poor gardener was innocent. King Everild had always had a grudge for women, thinking that they were more likely to be witches or magic users than men, but especially disapproved of ones that looked like they might have a fae ancestor. It wasn't confirmed that Lular did have fae blood, but her ears were slightly pointed, and her eyes were unnaturally bright, which caused many suspicions between the royal guards and family.
"By Amyths," the Hounds Master huffed, and looked away into the distance, at the sun dipping below the horizon. "How did it start - the argument, I mean?"
"Peyton brought it up." Soran replied bluntly. He didn't really have to say much more than the fact that his younger brother brought it up, but described in detail how his father had become so furious so easily, and how he had sentenced Lular to death without a court hearing, proper evidence, or any empathy at all. Whilst he regurgitated each and every detail of the night, right up to how he stormed out of the room in anger, he couldn't help but wonder if his father could actually feel any emotion at all.
It wasn't even fair, and he didn't even understand how magic could be seen as something so deadly. Whilst magic did have the ability to kill with a single word, raise the dead and call on a storm, it also had the ability to do some amazing things. It could heal wounds, cure the worst of diseases, conjure food, water, a ball of light. But it wasn't everyone that could learn it - some people had a natural talent for it, again perhaps because of their fae ancestors or because of a gift from the god of talentsm Pyrodynn; some had studied magic for years on end, and through their hard work and dedication had found that they could use simple to adept level spells. Magic was endless and unstoppable. Magic was deadly; but it was also extremely beneficial.
Once he had finished throwing up each of the events over the past few days, Jarlen continued to stare in wonder at the prince. Had he really stuck up for a simple, peasant gardener like that?
"I don't understand it, either," Jarlen agreed. "The use of magic should be reinstated." He smiled before adding, "But I never told you that, did I, Your Highness?"
"Of course you didn't," The prince laughed. "You'd be hung from the gallows, or burned at the stake if my father heard you say that."
"It's a mighty good thing that he didn't, then."
Although Soran was born into a royal bloodline and Jarlen was not, he couldn't help but feel as if he identified more with his Hounds Master than with anyone else in the palace. His mother urged him to marry; his father was nothing better than a murderer; and his brother was a stuck up, narcisisstic twelve year old child. Of course, his servants were all beautifully kind - Marazan being the kindest, even if she did seem nervous around the prince. Jarlen felt like family to him, or if not family, then the closest and only true friend he'd ever had.
"I found a book on my desk the other night," Soran blurted out, and then quickly realised what he was saying.
"You read often, Your Highness." Jarlen brushed his brashness off. "It wouldn't be much of a surprise to me if you did."
"No," he interrupted. "This one is... it's different."
"I've told you to lay off of the 'Busty Maid' books, haven't I? Good grief, Soran." His only friend was clearly in a state of illogical thinking, and in the mood to make a joke and laugh at everything he said.
"Will you listen to me for a minute, please?" he snapped, but his voice seemed to whimper. As much as he loved to speak and joke with his friend, there was something he felt he needed to get off of his chest. "I found a book underneath the one I was reading - called 'The History Of Magic'."
"What?" Jarlen's smile dropped, and he stared straight at the prince. "By the Martyr... where on Earth did you find that?"
"It must have been an accident," he said, trying to cover up his mistakes. "I asked Myrtice to bring me some books to read - she must have accidentally brought it up along with the others."
"Well-" He brought Fleethoof closer towards the prince and his horse, Darkbrand. "-Have you read any of it yet?"
"Yes, but not much." He paused, and then looked over at his friend, who was becoming increasingly intrigued. "It's not said about much - but it seems like a recent book. It says about the uses and the origins of magic, or that's all I've seen so far anyway."
"Oh my..." The Hounds Master sighed. "What if your father was to find it?"
The Crown Prince looked up at the sky, and saw that the pink sky was darkening into shades of greys and blues. A few more stars had appeared now that it was darker, and he couldn't help but think that the sky looked as beautiful as when the sunlight caught the water, its rays twinkling upon the surface.
"I'd better not wait around to find out," he said, and his heart beat hard against his chest. What if his father did find the book? "You might want to whistle for the hounds - speaking of the animals, where are they?"
Jarlen whistled again, and the hounds trotted back obidiently, no sign of any dear in their mouths. "Just there, Your Highness."
"I do wish you'd stop saying that,"
"Saying what, Your Highness?"
"That, 'Your Highness'." he mimicked his friend's polite tone. "I'm your friend, am I not?" Jarlen nodded as a reply. "Then just call me Soran. None of this 'Your Highness' malarky."
"If you so wish, Your-- I mean, Soran." He smiled up at his friend, who smiled gleefully back.
*****
The villiage of Silvermar was eerily quiet as they passed through. During the daytime, the town was alive, filled with the sounds of laughter, and drunken music being played. It wasn't a sullen town - there were far too many inns, brothels and taverns to be so depressive. But just between Silvermar and the captial city of Apren, named Eplora, Apren Palace stood, glimmering as if it were in fact made of glass. Of course, it wasn't - it was a thinned version of steel that very few people in the entire continent knew how to craft.
Few people stood outside their houses or inns - it was much too chilly to be standing outside. However, on the corner of the street stood three women clustered together in scandalously short dresses that showed far too much cleavage. They smiled and waved politely as the Crown Prince and Jarlen trotted past on their horses. It was only until they had walked far away from the women that one of them recognised Soran, and only one of them had even dared to shout at them with a courteous "Good evening, Your Highness!".
"Damn," he cursed under his breath before turning to his friend. "I do need to get better at my disguises, don't I?" Jarlen didn't reply, for he was too busy staring at the women they had passed. "Jarlen!" he shouted. "Jarlen, you damn pig," he laughed, finally catching his friend's attention. "You almost fell off of your horse staring at those poor ladies!"
"Hey, it's not my fault," he sulked. "They shouldn't dress so provocatively!"
"You were staring at them like the hounds stare at a hare, Jarlen." The Crown Prince rolled his eyes dissapprovingly at his friend.
"Yes, and I may be nothing more than a dog, but it's not my teeth I'd like to sink into those beautiful women." His face suddenly flushed with red, and his eyes became wide, realising what he had just said.
"By the Martyr, Jarlen!" Soran exclaimed, laughing. "You're a dirty, rotten man at times. Besides, those are women from a brothel. At least sink your teeth into a woman that is clean."
As they passed over the next few streets, the Hounds Master kept quiet. Although he was rather friendly towards Soran, he should have remembered who exactly he was talking to. He was the Crown Prince Of Necia, fated one day to rule an entire continent.
At the end of the next street, however, a woman stood packing boxes one on top of the other, and stopped to watch as the prince and the Hounds Master walked past; and Soran couldn't take his eyes off of her. Her hair was a cascade of crimson curls which matched the paint on her heart-shaped lips exactly. Her face was freckled lightly, and her bright blue eyes stood out the most of any asset she had. Hugging her body was a brown leather corset, which pinched at her waist tightly before expanding out to her hips again, where her green dress fell down around her ankles, an inch above the dirtied floor. She straightened her body, and waved at the prince, who seemed to be transfixed on the woman. Who was she?
"Soran!" Jarlen shouted. "Amyths almighty, now I know how you felt a moment ago!"
"Huh?" he replied, still captivated by this woman.
"Oh, I saw you," he mocked his friend, tilting his head and grinning mischeviously. "It seems like a cardinal sin for me to stare at a group of women - but when you see an undoubtably beautiful woman like the one you just stared at - it's perfectly fine?"
"Yeah," he returned.
"By the Martyr, did she put something over you?" He clicked his fingers in an attempt to grab Soran's attention. To his dismay, he didn't snap out of his gaze. Could his friend have really fallen in love so easily?
He sighed, and then carried on directing the hounds towards the palace. The Crown Prince didn't even bother to flick Darkbrand's reigns and speed towards the palace as he always did. Jarlen huffed again, and gave up. It was definitley hopeless to try and take his friend's attention, and so they continued the rest of the ride back in silence as Soran stared into the distance.