Chapter 7 - Fire, Wind, and Water
Magnus stepped out from the shelter doorway and into the forest clearing. Nothing here had changed since yesterday. The pickup slumbered in its spot on the earthy plane, glazed in the rays of the freshly risen sun that trickled in through the overstory.
Drake was sitting on the ground at the clearing's edge, inattentively toying with a withered twig. He seemed disquieted, immersed in his thoughts. Magnus' approaching footsteps called him to his senses. He looked up at his brother with a halfhearted smile.
Magnus found a seat next to Drake between the serpentine roots of an old oak and bared a narrow grin in sympathy. "You've been quiet all morning," he said.
"I..." Drake pulled a grimace and rubbed his tired eyes. "I just didn't sleep well last night. I couldn't take my mind off what happened yesterday." He dropped the twig with a bleak sigh. "I hope you're not still mad at me. I'm sorry I never told you any of this...I just—"
"Please, Drake," Magnus cut short his brother's apology. "I'm the one who should be sorry. After what Cecil told me this morning, I understand now...why you kept all this from me."
Drake was silent for some time. He finally said, "It's one thing to witness so many innocent people die. It's another to see your mother murdered right before your eyes."
Magnus' lungs clenched as his veins turned to ice. "You saw it," he replied grimly. "You saw our mother get killed."
Drake bit his lip; he didn't turn to face his brother. "We were almost out of the city," he began to recall. "I was running beside Cecil, who was carrying you; you were only an infant. Our mother was falling behind. Cecil said we were being followed and told us to pick up pace, but our mother wasn't fast enough. As we turned a corner, she was shot in the back by an arrow. I heard her scream—I saw her fall dead. That was it."
Magnus couldn't bear to hear any more. He lifted his tearing eyes to the oak's thinning canopy, as if to escape his own thoughts. He wished he could still believe that their parents had merely drowned, as Drake had used to tell him.
"I never wanted anyone else to feel the way I felt that night," Drake continued. "I never wanted anyone else to have to live with those memories. That's why I never told you any of this."
"But if I hadn't found our father's book," said Magnus, "would you ever have told me about MorningStar?"
Drake seemed cautious in responding. "I can't count how many times I had the opportunity to," he said. "But I couldn't. I could never work up the nerve to admit I'd lied to you and to tell of a real past that would make me sound like I'd gone insane. When you were younger, Cecil and I both convinced ourselves that it would be best to wait until you grew up before you could handle the truth. As you got older, we feared how you'd react if you were told the truth. It was for the best that you discovered that book when you did." His last words were stolen away by a frail gust of wind that died into silence.
"What about other family?" Magnus asked. "You and Cecil always told me that we had none..."
"A few, I think." Drake shrugged. "Distant relatives. None that Cecil or I remember well. Perhaps we'd have had a chance of finding them if I hadn't stayed so secretive."
"You did all you could," Magnus commiserated. "You were only trying to protect me. It seems like this was bound to happen one way or another."
Drake gripped his brother's shoulder and attempted a smile. "Put your mind off things for now." He nodded to the opposite end of the clearing. "Cecil is waiting for you. He has something he wants to show you that might help lift your spirits."
Magnus said goodbye to his brother on a lighter note and made his way to the clearing's edge. Here, a dirt slope coursed down into a much smaller glade veiled by the trees around it. Cecil could barely be spotted at the base of the slope, seated on a fallen tree. He turned and raised a hand in greeting at the sight of the boy standing high above him.
Magnus returned the gesture and skidded down the slope into the glade, shouldering branches out of his path. It was considerably darker here than in the shelter clearing. The forest domed around this place so densely that light was scarce to filter through. But in patches where trees had already cast off their leaves or where their branches parted in windows to the sky, the sun's rays cascaded down in resplendent, celestial shafts.
"Hello, Magnus," Cecil welcomed cheerily. His back was half turned to the boy. "Glad you could join me." He was toiling at a stocky branch in his lap, whittling its end to a spear-sharp tip with the blade of a small pocketknife.
"What are you doing there?" Magnus pried, coming around the fallen tree to face his former guardian.
"Just setting ourselves up." Cecil snapped shut the knife and sheathed it in his pocket. With the sharpened branch in hand, he trod into the center of the glade, where an identical branch had already been impaled upright in the earth. He speared the second branch into the ground a few feet away from the first, then returned to the fallen tree.
"To begin with," said Cecil, crouching to retrieve a gnarled staff from the ground beside the tree trunk, "why don't you tell me what you think this is?"
Magnus accepted the staff as it was handed to him. It was near five feet in height, carved of a profusely knotted wooden stalk and embellished with an impressive array of fine gems. On the head of the stalk, four finger-thin branches sprouted from the wood to enwrap a flame-red hunk of crystal, gripping it fast in place.
"Honestly," Magnus dragged his speech, reluctant to admit the undeniably fantastical appearance of the staff, "it looks a lot like something a sorcerer would use."
Cecil's dry smile broadened. "What if I told you that your guess wasn't far from the truth?"
"I probably wouldn't believe you," Magnus said candidly, "but after yesterday, I don't seem to have a very accurate idea of what I should or shouldn't believe in."
"That's quite understandable." Cecil gave a sharp nod. "You'll find that much of what you may have once considered fiction no longer seems so implausible. You must simply open your mind..." He reacquired the staff from Magnus and portentously extended its crystal headpiece. "...or allow me to open it."
When the crystal suddenly gleamed, Magnus thought it no more than the light of a sunray caught in its prism. Then a flame flickered to life on the surface of the gem and devoured the headpiece. As Cecil lanced out the burning crystal like an iron spear still lit by the fires of its forge, a ribbon of flames leapt from the staff, attacking the first of the branches impaled in the center of the glade. Torched, the branch shuddered and collapsed into the dirt. The blaze evaporated as abruptly as it had materialized, without a smolder left behind.
Magnus was rattled and silenced by disbelief. He couldn't even begin to fathom how Cecil could have propelled fire out of a crystal. "What—" he stammered. He raised a shivering hand toward the staff. "What exactly was that?"
"Would you believe me if I told you?" Cecil asked sternly.
Magnus took a long breath. "I've seen and heard enough to know that I can't stay a skeptic," he said eventually. "Tell me anything."
"In that case," Cecil replied, returning to his seat on the fallen tree, "what you have just seen is what one might refer to...as a magic spell."
Magnus bit his lip with painful reluctance, but quickly shrugged off the feeling. "Fine." He gestured to the staff's crystal headpiece. "Then how? How did that thing catch fire?"
"That's a simple question with a less-than-simple answer," Cecil began, admiring the crystal against the flittering sunrays. "Magic, spellcasting, call it what you wish. It's an ancient art that has existed on Arkane for millennia, and even once found users in this dimension. Through the ages, countless people, nations, tribes, and races have attempted to harness the fickle forces of nature and bend them to their will. One of the few that succeeded, as a world, was Arkane, where magic is practiced even by common folk with the use of enchanted gemstones—the basis of almost all Arkane spellcasting."
"What do you mean, 'enchanted'?" Magnus didn't hide the mockery in his tone. He dropped to a seat beside his former guardian. "How are they enchanted?"
"That, even I cannot say." Cecil smiled and shrugged. "The enchantment of gems is a different science altogether. From the little I know, it involves the use of a runic language that predates Arkane civilization. Now, the enchantment process specifies what elements of nature a gemstone can conjure. However, each variety of gem tends to have an elemental affinity that makes it apt for conjuring a specific element over another. For instance..." He rapped the bloodred crystal headpiece. "This is a ruby. It is enchanted to conjure fire, which is its natural affinity."
"This," Magnus exclaimed with widening eyes, "is a ruby? This...that staff must be worth a fortune!"
"On Earth, yes, perhaps," Cecil laughed nonchalantly. "But not on Arkane. The gems we consider rare in this world are far more abundant on Arkane."
"And these..." Magnus scrutinized the smaller gems that adorned the staff's trunk. Some were a brilliant blue; others were colorless and translucent, stirred with a rainbow spectrum as light shone through.
"Sapphires and quartz crystals," Cecil confirmed. "Water and air, respectively. The fourth and last of the basic elements, earth, is best conducted by emeralds."
"Why only those four kinds of gems? What's so unique about them?"
"Oh, other gemstones can be enchanted just as easily," said Cecil. "But they're often considerably less effective in conducting the elements as opposed to the four I just mentioned."
Magnus was caught off guard when his former guardian passed him the staff. "That's enough of my talk," Cecil declared, beaming. "Now it's time for you to try it."
"Try...?" Magnus blankly took hold of the staff.
"Of course." Cecil nodded. "Did you think spellcasting was an art reserved for only the well-trained and powerful? Get up, stand ahead of that branch, and hold the staff close to yourself."
Dazed by Cecil's abrupt instructions, Magnus staggered to his feet. He faced the remaining branch skewered upright in the dirt and took a two-handed grip on the staff. His nerves prickled with enthusiasm, in war with an obstinate part of him that would not quit condemning him for his naïvety.
"Start with something simple," said Cecil. "A gust of wind. Anything strong enough to knock back the branch."
Magnus wavered for a second before realizing that he was clueless as to how he could work the so-called enchanted gems in any way. "How?" was all he could think to ask.
"You must feel what you aim to conjure," Cecil directed. "Begin by closing your eyes. Notice the most subtle breeze even when it seems there is none."
Magnus gave a nod and shut his eyes. Without vision, he allowed the forest's splendor to reveal itself through his other senses. The fickle serenade of birdsong was joined by a chorus of rustling leaves; the wind, previously imperceptible, now fell over the glade like nature's own whispering breath.
"Clear your mind of disbelief," Cecil continued. "Pay no attention to what you are actually trying to do, but rather, concentrate on what I tell you to do. Seek out the wind. Grasp it. Concentrate on it until you feel that it is in your control."
Magnus did as he was told. At the moment that the finest blade of wind licked his skin, he seized it, arresting it to his staff like the taut string of a marionette. It was a peculiar sensation—how every movement of the staff seemed to draw the wind along with it.
"When the wind is within your grasp," said Cecil, "expel it. Open your eyes and lunge with all your strength!"
Magnus constricted his fists, relishing the eerie force that boiled inside them. He strode forward, blinked open his eyes, and thrust out his staff with his focus pinned on the upstanding branch. The wind was spurred into a rage; as it shattered against Magnus' back, it tore the branch out from the dirt and cast it flat over the earth.
The gale subsided quickly. Magnus retracted the staff as if he were, all of a sudden, wielding a dangerous instrument. He found it difficult to believe that he had actually manipulated the wind, but it could hardly have been coincidence.
"Well done," Cecil ended the uncertain silence. His lip twitched to a smile at Magnus' childlike amazement.
"This..." Magnus muttered, "...is unreal. How is this even possible? How can any of this...work?"
"Such things cannot always be explained through Earth's feeble spectacles of science," Cecil cryptically remarked. "The gems are enchanted. That may sound hopelessly absurd to anyone in this world, but what is often considered fictitious on Earth is the norm on Arkane."
"But why?" Magnus persisted. "How can it be that all the mythology we ever dreamt up in this world exists as reality someplace else?"
Cecil's smile widened. "That is because much of the mythology of this world isn't exactly dreamt up. A multitude of parallel dimensions once coexisted, trading their secrets and sharing the tales of their lands. There was once a time when spellcasting was accepted on Earth, but there also came a time when the practice was abused by those who harnessed its power for darker means. Shortly after the Middle Ages, magic was forbidden and shunned as an evil practice. As the worlds slowly diverged, their inhabitants drifted apart with them, and the reality of one world was left as the mythology of another."
"Then why did it stay that way? I mean, why doesn't anyone on Earth know about magic?"
"Because of the chaos that would result if they did." Cecil's tone saddened. "It's inconceivable, Magnus. Can you imagine what would happen if spellcasting were revealed to Earth in this day and age? Science would collapse, weapons would become obsolete, anarchy would erupt if an ordinary man were suddenly capable of wielding untold power. It became clear long ago that this world could not handle Arkane's technology—why, it can barely handle its own. Arkane has fought for centuries to protect Earth from discovering its magic and the consequences that would follow. We are lucky that they have succeeded so far."
Magnus' attention strayed onto the toppled branch in a reverie; he returned to his senses when he saw Cecil draw beside him. "Now I want you to try an element you can see, not just feel," said Cecil, tapping the staff's bulbous ruby. He walked over to the branch that had been felled by Magnus' wind spell and restored it to an upright position. "The element of fire. Scorch the branch to a cinder!"
Magnus flinched at the command. "What am I supposed to do this time?"
"Seek the element you wish to conjure," answered Cecil, stepping back from the branch. "Embrace it, empower it, and expel it. Such is the method for all elemental spellcasting."
"But there isn't any fire around here," Magnus argued. "Or heat, for that matter."
"Then find it," Cecil replied. "The elements are ever around us. Heat can be found in the deepest cold, even if it is from within your own clenched fists. Feel the singe of flame on your palms, and the staff will guide you through the rest."
With a nod, Magnus shut his eyes a second time. He sifted through the autumn air to locate the element he desired—the sting of flame, the torrid weight of the midday sun. A warmth seemed to soak into his fists; before long, he believed he could feel the same heat emanating from the head of the staff. Opening his eyes to the sight of the ruby headpiece caught aflame, he thrust away the staff in fear of being burned by the gem's now-searing temperature. The fires bickered at his jostling, nearly dying, but endured long enough for Magnus to regain his focus and salvage the spell. Bracing himself, he thrust out the staff again and shed a broken wisp of flame toward the branch.
Unlike Cecil's earlier demonstration of the same spell, Magnus' frail blaze skimmed the branch and instantly set it alight. It was only a second later that the boy realized he was gaping at a burning wooden stake—which, of all places, stood in the middle of a forest.
"Quickly now," Cecil urged. "Put it out before it spreads. What douses fire?"
"Water, but..."
"All elements are conjured in the same manner," Cecil reminded. "The mere water vapor in the air is enough to summon a flood, if you are skilled."
Closing his eyes and renewing his focus, Magnus filled his lungs and searched out the ghost of morning dew that still laded the air of the glade. An invigorating chill washed through his veins as he exhaled. His palms around the staff grew clammy. Once he had fastened his grip on the element, he opened his eyes and lunged, unleashing a surge of icy water onto the flaming branch. With the fire extinguished, the charred stake wearily slumped aside.
Magnus lowered the staff in a stunned stupor. Cecil broke the silence with a leisurely applause. "Impressive." He smiled again. "Especially for a skeptic like you."
Magnus gave a sheepish grin. "Even though I know everything you've showed me is real," he said, "it's still no easier to believe it."
"Indeed," Cecil concurred. "Your perception of reality has been inverted in a matter of hours, but you've shown yourself to be willing. Accepting the very notion of magic is no easy task."
Cecil dipped into his trouser pocket and retrieved a miniscule, gleaming artifact. Gesturing the boy to reach out, he deposited the item in Magnus' open palm. It was a golden ring, inlaid with a jewel as clear as glass. "I want you to have this," said Cecil. "It is an enchanted diamond ring. While the gems I've just showed you can only conduct a single element, a diamond is one of the few precious stones whose unique properties allow it to conduct all four basic elements: fire, air, water, and earth."
Magnus stared awestruck at his scintillant treasure. Every tilt of the jewel spun the sunlight into opalescent spears as fine as spider silk. "Cecil, I don't know what to say but...thank you!"
"Though a diamond's power, by far, does not equate to that of, say, a ruby or emerald," said Cecil, "it's nevertheless an excellent tool for a beginner in the practice, or for one who simply wishes to use magic for everyday tasks, rather than for combat."
"Combat?" Magnus frowned at the word. "You mean, you use magic to fight with?"
"Surely you didn't think that magic's only purpose is to ignite wooden pickets," Cecil replied with dry laughter. "Spellcasting is an art that knows no bounds, nor limit of power. Taking magic as what you've seen today is as if you were to judge the sharpness of a sword by the pommel of its hilt. Some of the art's most powerful and magnificent capabilities lie in combat, a practice you might well need to learn soon." He sighed. "Where our situation stands, you never know when your skills may be called upon against the dangers that we face."