OoOoO
Beauty was an integral part of Hithon's life. As the crown prince of the entire world as he knew it, only the best and purest of all things were allowed to enter his sphere. The cloth from which Hithon's rose-red doublet was stitched was the finest that the northern weavers could make, his breakfast cooked by the top chefs in Amenthere from only the freshest eggs and southern fruits. The prince's companions, tutors and guards were likewise of only the highest caliber, whether their skills lay in etiquette, singing, or swordplay. Sometimes Hithon wished it were not always so.
Make no mistake; he knew that such a charmed life was both his privilege and his place. But still, Hithon remembered a time when he was very small and had had both a mother and a father that his parents had taken him north to visit his Vaelonese grandparents. Vaelona had been even more beautiful than Castle Armathain, if that were possible. What had enthralled Hithon most though had been the journey between the two.
Their carriage and escort had passed farmyards, roadside stalls and inns, none of which were perfect by any stretch of the imagination. Fence posts leant towards one another on an angle, sagging wearily from lack of straightening. Hithon remembered asking his mother why the fences were built so. Queen Gwynnis had laughed and tossed her long mane of strawberry-blonde curls, amused by her young son's naiveté. Hithon still remembered how the sunlight used to catch his mother's green eyes, making them sparkle like the waters in the castle fountains.
It was beside one of those fountains which Hithon now sat. The gardens of Castle Armathain covered not only the palace grounds, but also part of the castle walls themselves. Multiple tiers and terraces connected by ornate walkways decorated the lower walls, crawling green up the white limestone like ivy.
Hithon liked the fifth and highest garden the best. From here he had the best view of the wider city from over the palace walls. Granted, he could get an even better view from his rooms inside Castle Armathain, but being outside made it feel like he was somehow closer to that busy buzzing maze of humanity. Someday, when he was king, Hithon decided he wanted to spend all of his free time out there. He wondered what it would be like to meet and play with street urchins his age, rather than the intimidatingly poised children of Amenthere's nobles. Girls like Lady Genevierre who knew their dance steps so well always made Hithon feel somehow small, prince though he was. Would the children of the everyday folk think him intimidating too? Or perhaps, if he offered to share his vast collection of expensive books, musical instruments and games, they might like him and welcome him to join their perfectly ordinary circles.
Imaginings like this sometimes came to Hithon, prompting him to hide away from his tutors' calls for a while. It was only a matter of time before they remembered the terrace gardens; one of his favorite hiding places. Hithon took full advantage of the time to himself by going in search of the mundane.
Remembering the empty birds' nest he had found amongst the sweet mock orange shrubs, he ducked around the edge of the neatly manicured hedge and into its branches. The last remnants of early summers' white blossoms easily scattered their petals onto his head and shoulders as he brushed past them. Past the outer shell of prettiness, Hithon found the darker, tangled heart of the hedges. Here he could risk catching his clothes on a stray branch, or even encountering a spiders' web strung with cocooned insects. It was cool and crowded and earthy smelling; exactly what Hithon had been craving without knowing what to ask for.
"Prince Hithon...Your Grace?"
The voice of his economics tutor came from the castle doorway leading off the garden. So the strict old grasshopper had finally thought to look for him here. A sudden streak of mischief seized Hithon, and he turned aside his better instinct to come out and declare himself. Instead, he nestled into the scratchy heart of the mock oranges even further, taking care not to rustle the leaves around him.
"Your Grace?"
When there was no answer forthcoming from the gardens except the soft buzzing of bumblebees in the sunlight, the knobby-kneed master from The Academy sighed and turned back into the castle to continue his search. Hithon had to stuff his knuckles into his teeth to hold back a giggle. He knew he had to be well-educated if he was going to be a good king someday, but that didn't make hiding from the occasional lesson any less fun. A tiny bug landed on his neck and tickled him, which only served to make Hithon even more pleased.
The sound of quiet humming from nearby caught Hithon's interest; it didn't sound like the voices of the bees. It was strangely tuneless, more a single song-less note held under one's breath than any sort of recognizable melody. The sound made Hithon's memory prickle. He had heard that odd droning before.
Carefully picking his way out of the hedge, Hithon followed the sound toward the outer edge of the garden. The closer he got, the more his skin tingled, as if the air were crackling with the static of a lightning storm. He could even feel the little hairs on the back of his neck and arms rising beneath his doublet.
When Hithon found the source of the humming, he recognized it for what it was instantly, along with the person making it. After all, his tenth Birth Day really had been a memorable occasion, made even more so by the golden tree with ruby leaves now growing at the head of the Hall of Thrones.
The Green Ovate (Hithon seemed to remember his name was Roran?) sat cross-legged on the grass even though a perfectly polished bench was only a matter of strides away. The boy was almost as close to early adulthood as Hithon was to late childhood. His freckled face was slack, eyes closed with only the slightest gleam of eerie green peeking past fluttering lashes. Ankles and wrists just barely covered by his lincoln-green robes revealed even more freckles. Hithon recognized Roran, most definitely.
Following Roran's hand down from the cuffs of his robes, Hithon was startled when his gaze met not skin but grey, speckled stone. Seemingly unaware of or unconcerned with either Hithon's presence or his petrified hand, the Green Ovate continued his humming. As if the ground upon which he sat were pouring itself upwards into Roran, the stone advanced further and further. The sleeve of his robe stiffened and turned dark grey too, no longer falling loosely but turning just as hard as the skin beneath it.
At first Hithon's fascination kept him staring open-mouthed and wordless. He was no Obad, but he could feel the energy of magic almost as strongly as he had when the golden tree was being created. He watched as the tide of stone crawled up past Roran's elbow, toward his shoulder and along his collar. Only when tendrils of grey appeared on the visible skin of Roran's neck and hollow of his throat did Hithon feel a stab of alarm.
What if he doesn't realize...what if his heart turns to stone and no longer beats? What if he's in danger?! Hithon thought in a panic. Uncertain what to do, he cried out. The Green Ovate did not react, only sat peacefully even as flakes of stone began to harden the corner of his slack jaw.
Now truly frightened, Hithon abandoned all restraint and ran right up to the casting Ovate. Grasping Roran by the shoulders; one flesh and one stone, the prince called out and shook him as hard as he could.
"Ovate...Ovate...Roran! Wake up!"
Luminous green eyes suddenly flew open in front of him, startling Hithon. Almost before he had taken a full step back though, the glow had faded entirely from Roran's eyes, leaving an everyday hazel-green in its wake.
"...My prince?"
Roran sounded surprised. Perhaps he truly hadn't been aware of Hithon's presence until now. To Hithon's relief, a flush of living skin quickly faded through the stone along the Green Ovate's arm, leaving only a normal limb resting in Roran's lap.
"I...I apologize," Hithon stammered out. "Your arm...I didn't know if you were..."
Following Hithon's disjointed explanation, Roran's mouth opened in a short O of understanding. Then the older boy realized that he was sitting while the prince of Goran stood before him, and scrambled to his feet.
"Please, Your Grace, no need to apologize to me. Really, I ought to be begging your pardon for startling you. I came here to practice, and didn't think anyone would notice me back here."
Hithon shook his head, sending a stray mock orange petal fluttering off his dark curls. "Thank Amenthis you're alright though. I feared that you might turn yourself into a statue!"
To Hithon's surprise, Roran actually laughed aloud at that. Then, seeming to remember who he was talking to, he quickly sobered and replied with all seriousness.
"Actually, that was the idea, Your Grace." When Hithon gaped, he explained himself. "Although it may not look it, solid rock can be just as alive as any creature. After all, the body of Goran itself is built from stone and earth, is it not?"
"I suppose so..." Hithon said hesitantly. "But Goran has no blood, nor heart with which to make it flow."
"On that point Master Tomur would disa-"
Abruptly Roran fell silent, his wince suggesting the older boy was biting his tongue. Hithon understood. Ever since that terrifying night when a dark stranger had crept into his father's bedchamber, the name of the former High Obad was treated almost as taboo. No mention was made of either Tomur or Blue Obad Margalee's names, and certainly not with any honorifics or titles. Still, Roran had seemed so animated a moment ago, about to invoke his teacher to prove a point. As scared as he had been to witness someone try to kill his father, Hithon couldn't help but pity the Magicol for their loss.
"How can Goran have a heart?" he asked kindly, deflecting from the Green Ovate's misstep.
Roran hid his expression of relief by looking down to brush blades of grass from the hem of his robes. Hithon thought the stray cuttings actually suited Roran as a Green Ovate.
"Well..." Roran spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "...I've heard Blue Obads describe the rivers and streams as the bloodlines of the world, carrying the blood of Goran from the heights and wellsprings of The Teeth out to the sea."
"And the heart?"
"That I'm not sure of, my prince. All I know is that, even if my own heart were to turn to stone, I would still live, because stone is part of Goran and so am I."
Resolving to puzzle further over the mystery of what, if anything could be the heart of a realm, Hithon smiled up at Roran.
"Well, in that case, I am truly sorry for interrupting you. I hope I don't seem foolish to you now for my ignorance."
"Not at all, Your Grace," said Roran. "Your intent was kind, and for that I thank you."
Shyly, Hithon followed through on an impulsive urge. "Do you think you could call me by name, if I asked you to? Everyone calls me 'Your Grace' and it's makes me feel like they're talking to my father instead of me."
"I...that may not be proper, especially if anyone else were to hear me being so familiar with an heir of Amenthis. The Magicol is..."
"I understand," said Hithon, more than a little disappointed. "Well, instead of 'Your Grace', how about just 'my prince' or 'Prince Hithon'? Then at least you can still use my name?"
After a brief pause, Roran nodded, tipping his ruddy-haired head forward in a bow of acquiescence. "Very well then, Prince Hithon."
They were interrupted when a servant appeared from behind a line of crabapple trees. He bowed deeply to Hithon and Roran, clearly relieved to have found them.
"Your Grace, Ovate, I've been sent by the king to request your presence at the Tower of the Elements."
"My presence?" Hithon asked, confused as to why he would be needed for business involving the Magicol.
"Yes, Your Grace. It is his wish that you be there as well."
"Very well, we will make our way to the tower straight."
Leaving the gardens for the castle halls always left Hithon feeling a bit deflated. Roran's long stride was also a little hard to keep up to while still looking dignified like a prince ought to. The Green Ovate seemed to notice this though, and shortened his step. Hithon couldn't imagine why this little courtesy would make him blush, but it did.
OoOoO
The Magicol gathered in the common room of the Tower of the Elements in apprehensive silence. The last time they had been addressed as one by the king, two of their own had been blinded and banished the very same day. Everyone's unspoken anxieties manifested themselves in little ways. Davenir fidgeted with the end of his silver belt's tassel as he sat on the couch. Bvhoros, his head-wrap a stark black and white wrapped with gold wire, chewed the edge of his mustache with a faraway expression. Brand kept trying to whisper questions to Ijireen, who seemed even less inclined to answer gently than she might otherwise have been. The Fire Ovate kept darting glances at Arzai out the corner of her red eyes, as if silently accusing Arzai of being involved with whatever the king's visit entailed.
As much as it rankled Arzai, she actually had no idea why King Mahir had summoned them together like this. She stood slightly apart from the others, one wrist clasped loosely behind her back as she watched the sun shining through the red, orange and yellow stained glass window on the southern wall of the tower. The colored panes threw deep crimson and gold light across her face, making the subtle undertones in her dark hair spark to life.
Roran finally arrived, holding the door open for Prince Hithon. Arzai thought to question the Ovate on where he'd been. She supposed though that that was a question better directed at Bvhoros, now that the Green Obad has taken over Roran's tutelage. That Roran and the prince had arrived together made Arzai decide to let the matter lie. Cultivating good relations between the royal house and the Magicol could only be a good thing, now more than ever.
Hithon stood to one side, looking a bit awkward in the midst of a gathering of Obads, while Roran went to Bvhoros' side. The boy had little of his father's commanding presence, Arzai noted. Hopefully that would change with age. Ijireen must have been anxious; ordinarily Arzai wouldn't have put it past the girl to start making her presence known the moment the prince walked in, six years younger Hithon may have been. Ijireen's only reaction however was a quick glance at the doe-eyed child before returning to worrying at her lip and dandling her yellow slipper off her foot in midair.
The boys hadn't arrived a moment too soon. Less than five minutes later, the sound of armor clanking on the stairs outside put everyone's nerves on edge. The Ovates' colorful eyes all went wide, and Davenir looked up sharply. Arzai turned to the tower door, lifting her pointed chin in a gesture of assurance. Among the remaining Obads, she didn't imagine any of them would be so bold or so stupid as to do something to endanger the Magicol and land them in the king's ill favor. The fact that Prince Hithon was here too hardly implied that there would be any sort of confrontation.
When the door opened and King Mahir breezed into the Tower of the Elements, Arzai was set even further at ease. Although the king did not smile, there was a certain lightness to his step that implied he was not displeased. Immediately the entire Magicol rose to their feet before bowing.
"Your Grace," they murmured, deferring to the man in their midst.
"Rise, my friends."
Mahir was quick to wave them all up, moving to stand in the center of the common room. Arzai noted the guards posted outside the door, but they made no move to come in and so she disregarded them...for now.
"Your Grace, how may we be of service?" Arzai spoke for the Magicol, curious but trying not to make it too evident.
Now Mahir did smile; a slow, satisfied expression. Lifting his hand, he showed the Magicol a tiny scroll of paper, no doubt off the leg of a messenger bird.
"It may please you all to know that I have had word from your colleague, Red Obad Frandel." It did not particularly please Arzai, but she raised her eyebrows to signal interest regardless. "He wrote as soon as he returned to the western side of The Teeth to report on his assignment in the east. I think you'll find what has to say highly illuminating."
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," said Bvhoros "but I am afraid I'm not sure what you mean. Frandel sailed east to Derbesh seeking new potential for Ovates. Surely this is nothing so very extraordinary?"
Mahir smiled as one might when humoring the uninitiated. Unfurling the tiny scroll, he held it up where it caught shards of yellow light from the eastern window. "Then I fear I must yet again dispel any notions that may remain of Tomur's trustworthiness. You see, Green Obad, your former High Obad was keeping more secrets than you know from you."
That got everyone's attention. Even the Ovates stood rigid with attention, staring at the king. Still not knowing what Mahir was implying, Arzai dared to approach a step closer.
"Your Grace?"
Turning to her, Mahir held out the scroll toward Arzai. "Here, High Obad. You may read Frandel's words for yourself, and learn the answer. Afterwards, I will explain the question itself."
Arzai took the paper from the king, unfurling it and scanning it quickly. What she read there was brief and confusing. Perplexed, she read it again before finally ending the others' suffering and reading the message aloud.
Fourth Company returning to Geristan with new recruits. Factionists encountered at Trosk and routed. Casting successful, great potential for use in battle.
"Returning to Geristan with new recruits?" Bvhoros echoed. "Why in Anders' name would potential Ovates be brought to Geristan?"
"Frandel was not in the east to seek out potential Ovates, Bvhoros," Mahir declared. "I sent him east with the Fourth Company to draft for the royal army, and to field-test waking magic."
Waking magic. A pin falling on plush carpet could have been heard in the Tower of the Elements. It wasn't something any among them had ever imagined as a possibility. All of their lessons, right from Bvhoros to Brand's, had always stressed that the traditional trance of the Obads was essential for casting. Coming even part-way out of a trance while performing a spell was framed as a sure-fire trigger for disaster. To Arzai, even imagining using magic without a trance felt like trying to speak without a tongue or walk without legs. The others felt the same way, if their expressions were anything to go by.
"Is...can such a thing even be possible?" Arzai gasped, nearly tearing the scroll in half from holding it so tightly taut.
Mahir seemed pleased with their reactions. What a strange thing, Arzai mused, to have a non-Obad presenting revelations to a Magicol.
"I assure you, wise Obads, it is. Tomur knew it was possible too, but chose to hide that knowledge from you...the knowledge of your true purpose. You all know the legend; how First King Amenthis founded our nation by defeating the beastly creatures that inhabited this land before us. As skillful and brave a warrior as Amenthis was, and as much support as Lady Aryna and Lord Anders gave him, they did not act alone. It was the Obads, acting for the good of all humanity and in service to their king, who truly freed Goran. And, they did so by fighting the monsters of old...with waking magic."
Arzai felt chills run up and down her spine, stoking the fire which always burned in her spirit and stirring her pride as an Obad. Of course, it made so much sense. The Magicol and house of Amenthis had always been the twin pillars of the realm, and not simply because the Obads could channel the elements. Her magical ancestors had freed Goran, wrestled it away from the demons that would have destroyed humankind! The very thought made her weak in the knees. Backing into the arm of the couch, Arzai stealthily leant her weight against it while trying to collect herself.
"You understand then what this means, High Obad," Mahir was speaking to her, a knowing smile playing about his whiskered mouth.
It took a second try before Arzai could find her voice again. "Yes...I understand, Your Grace. This...this could change the future of the Magicol as we know it. But, I must ask...how did Frandel learn of waking magic?"
"By being nosy," Mahir answered wryly. "He spied on Tomur while the old liar was teaching himself to cast out of trance. Tomur caught him and swore him to secrecy, but I granted Frandel the protection he needed to keep learning regardless. The time for secrets is past now though, I promise you. When Frandel returns to Amenthere, he will pass on all that he knows of this magic to the entire Magicol. For now though, there exists a document retrieved from the Saurivic archives of Vaelona that will give you some place to start, High Obad Arzai."
"A document? Where?"
Mahir reached for an inner pocket of his single-shoulder cloak. "Here it is, rescued from Tomur's desk by Frandel before it could be destroyed. It was first transcribed by Taebor Saurivic, illegitimate son of King Amenthis himself after observing his father's armies in battle. I entrust it now to you, to restore the Obads to their true power."
Accepting the weathered, age-darkened envelope from Mahir with shaking fingers, Arzai was keenly aware of the gravity of this moment. The king was trusting the Magicol...trusting her, with enormous power. If they were able to use their magic like a warrior wields a sword, not even the Knights of Amenthis would be able to stop so much as an Ovate from doing practically anything they pleased. After what had happened with Tomur and Margalee, Arzai could scarcely believe that the king would put so much faith in them.
As if hearing her whirling thoughts, Mahir laid his hand across Arzai's as she took the letter from him. He met her ruby eyes with a no less piercing gaze.
"I have faith that this power will be used to serve the greater good of Goran, as it had done before in the days of our ancestors. I pray that you will use this as a tool for good, Arzai."
"I will. I swear by my life, Your Grace."
"Good. Then in that case, may I also now inform you all that I have made arrangements for your training in the use of basic weapons from the lieutenants of the Knights of Amenthis. I trust that you will be able to accommodate this addition to your no-doubt busy schedules, High Obad?"
Arzai nodded. "We will make ourselves available at your behest, of course."
With a smile, Mahir released her hand and the letter. "I suspected you had the makings of a great High Obad. It appears thus far that I was correct."
OoOoO
The very minute Mahir, Hithon and their guard had left the Tower of the Elements, chaos broke loose. Brand was tugging incessantly at Davenir's sleeve, trying to pepper the older Grey Obad with questions. Roran tried to see the note from Frandel, Ijireen tried to fight him for it, and Bvhoros was pacing frantically like a caged leopard.
"Give it here Roran, I had it first!"
"You won't give it back once you have it. Be patient and let me read!"
"Davenir..."
"Frandel went off with the army...and did what? What havoc has he been wreaking, 'testing' waking magic without guidance out in the east? For all we know, that loose arrow could have killed someone, playing with fire like that!"
"Davenir."
"Roraaaaan, give it to me!"
"And weapons training, to what end?! Does the king imagine us actually fighting, like soldiers? Surely the Factionists have not become such a threat as to merit that kind of drastic action?"
"Davenir."
"RORAN!"
"Amenthis' beard, will you all BE QUIET?!"
Finally Arzai lost her already frayed grasp on serenity and shouted, her voice ringing sharply off the rounded walls of the common room. Thank the stars, the Magicol actually listened for once and fell silent. All eyes were on Arzai though, which did little to help her think. The Vaelonese document burned like a brand in her grasp, and all Arzai wanted was to retreat to her study and pour over every word contained within. First though, the Magicol would have to be dealt with.
"Now then...you all heard exactly the same things I did," she spoke firmly, in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "Casting without a trance is possible, Tomur hid that from us, and Frandel has now proven it can be done beyond shade of doubt. I am going to study this..." she held up the envelope "...thoroughly and carefully. When I am done, Bvhoros, Davenir and I will go over its contents again, and then the three of us will start work on teaching ourselves waking magic. Only when we are confident that we can pass on the skill without leveling half of Amenthere will we begin to teach you Ovates. Is that clear to everyone?"
"Arzai." Bvhoros approached her, a troubled look contorting his stately face. "Consider this very carefully. The Obads have ever been scholars, studying the ways of nature for the sake of knowledge, not power. For the king to ask us to do this...it goes against everything that both Mistress Lirien and Master Tomur taught any of us."
"I should think that anything Tomur taught us in the arena of politics ought to be treated with a healthy measure of skepticism," Arzai replied coolly.
Davenir cleared his throat. "If the Obads used waking magic before, I see no clear reason why we cannot do so again. I wonder though..."
"Yes?" Arzai prompted him.
"It's just, I wonder if it is wise to teach the Ovates how to cast out-of-trance. A technique like that can only be meant for use in combat, and the Ovates are only children."
Immediately Ijireen and Roran began to protest. Bvhoros was nodding vehemently though, making it harder for the Green Ovate to argue as loudly as his fiery counterpart. Seeing that she had no back-up, Ijireen crossed her arms and flounced.
"The king said that Frandel was to teach all of us when he returned," she exclaimed. "Honestly, I don't know why Frandel wouldn't have been the better choice for High Obad, seeing as he evidently knows more about magic than anyone else here."
"Ijireen!" Davenir gasped.
"That's enough!" snapped Arzai. The golden ring of the High Obad squeezed her fingers painfully as she clenched her fists. "I have already told you all how we are going to approach this. Bvhoros, Davenir, I'll call you upstairs to the study when I'm done reading. Until then, resume your lessons with the Ovates."
"What about me?" asked Ijireen with a distinctly snide note in her voice.
Arzai, who already had one foot on the bottom of the stairs at this point, had to close her eyes and take a long, steadying breath before she trusted herself enough to answer the Fire Ovate.
"I want you to practice fire-gazing, as we covered yesterday. I expect you to be able to interpret one clear message at the least before the sun sets this evening."
Ijireen's groaning was at least a little satisfying as Arzai climbed the tower steps. Fire-gazing was tedious and hard on the eyes, as well as requiring major amounts of mental discipline. Right now, Arzai thought that the willful teenage girl could do with a bit of discipline. At least it would keep Ijireen occupied while Arzai set to work on her own new project.
OoOoO
As soon as the hem of Arzai's red robes disappeared around the stairwell Bvhoros sagged, holding his wrapped head in his hands. Concerned, Roran touched his teacher's elbow.
"Bvhoros? What's wrong?"
Straightening himself up to his formidable full height once more, Bvhoros looked gravely down at Roran.
"I fear that this day marks a fateful turning point, Roran...one which this Magicol may come to rue. The battlefield is no place for the curious of heart and mind."
"What do you mean?" Roran asked, not quite understanding.
Bvhoros sighed. "I dearly hope you need never know, sprout. Now come...show me how far you've progressed with your transformations."
OoOoO