Interlude the First II: Echoes by the Hearth

  The blur of Selriph’s consciousness muted the sensation of the cold night wind that lashed like needles against his face. Around him, the shadowy Shera Woods drifted past in a hypnotic blur, the whisper of leaves ornamented by the hooves of the black steed beneath him.

  The journey, which took half a day’s trek on foot, lasted just over an hour on horseback. To the boy, however, it felt instantaneous, like he had teleported. He hadn’t placed any conscious thought on his bearings, but his body naturally found its way to the only safe place he could think of to spend the night.

  The lodge in the woods.

  As the winding canopies made way for the star-adorned sky above, the three moons—Raclune, Threxia, and Mordaros—cast a mix of silver, gold and blue light, painting the forest in the calming assurance of their glow.

  Selriph shifted his weight, the leather of the saddle creaking dully beneath him, gently pulling the reins as the lodge filled his vision. A deep, unsettling black consumed the structure, completely devoid of light, a stark contrast to the comforting lantern light or hearth fire the boy was used to.

  The grass felt cool and springy under Selriph’s feet as he quickly surveyed the area beyond the trees, his eyes scanning for any telltale sounds of unwanted followers. The gesture—this perusing of the woods—was pointless, offering no objective assurance, and yet, it calmed the boy.

  As the faint orb of arcane light came to life in his outstretched palm, his surroundings bathed in a soft blue glow, the tingling, comforting, velvet hum of the arcane energy pressed gently against his skin.

  Selriph retrieved the rope hanging by the horse’s saddle with his free hand, attempted to form it into a knot, aiming to tie the horse to one of the wooden struts supporting the front porch, which would act as a makeshift hitching pole.

  As Selriph became engrossed in the logistics of his one-handed endeavour, brought about by maintaining the Arcane Magelight in his other hand, the lodge door creaked open, causing Selriph to jerk back. The lead falling silently to the forest floor. His hand shot towards his estoc, cupped firmly around its hilt.

  Peering from the lodge’s shadowy depths, he spotted a pair of amber eyes. Selriph’s move to draw his estoc froze mid-motion as the figure came into view, illuminated by the arcane light. The silvery-grey fur of a dire wolf, paws silent against wood. The canine eyes gave way for a visage of neutral expectancy.

  Selriph had almost forgotten there was still one more occupant in the lodge: Emmett.

  For a moment, they stood in the ethereal blue light cast by the boy’s cantrip. The dire wolf’s bestial intelligence traced the boy, then to the unexpected horse he found.

  Before it landed in the empty spot next to him.

  Despite the boy’s inexperience with animals, Selriph saw in the wolf’s gaze a question that he somehow understood.

  He could only reply with silence, the muscles tightened around his neck like a noose, and the emotions he had kept suppressed boiled up slowly. The memory of Hagan and his brutal demise at the hands of Thorne played like an indelible, painful tune in his head.

  The wolf stood there, its tail wagging, all but seized, its ears lowered, as if witnessing the same scene that played in Selriph’s mind.

  In that silence, a moment of shared grief, of understanding passed between boy and beast, for the lodge that would never again see the presence of the woodsman.

  The soft, leathery sound of Selriph’s masticating travelled into his ear, accompanied by the soft crackle of the hearth. The woodsmoke wafted into his nostrils, a welcome counterpart to the herbal scent already clinging to his skin, together washing away any semblance of the Caer Eldralis sewers.

  Beside him lay his scavenged assortment from the lodge: a small, neat stack of gold coins resting next to a bulging, well-worn leather pouch filled with his silver coins. Though he hadn’t counted, Selriph was confident it would secure him a few nights in modest lodgings on his journey.

  Beside them were several fresh bandages, loosely wrapped in gut and bundled with herbs, topped with two vials of a viscous, herbal ointment, likely for soothing wounds or easing aches. Finally, a portion of dried, cured meat wrapped in loose parchment, neatly tied up, settled next to the boy’s pack.

  He half-expected the dire wolf to growl at Selriph’s scavenging, but it lay silent, seemingly contemplating its fate after its master’s death. Its ears and face drooped.

  Selriph stared at the items that he would need for his trek beyond the lodge. His eyes flickered between his pouch and the satchels on the table, bearing extra supplies for his newly acquired mount to bear.

  All told, he garnered enough for about a week, maybe two; the coin could be used to lawfully acquire further rations for a month of travel, dependent on the monetary burdens of the coming trek.

  The natural series of follow-up questions began to sprout in Selriph’s mind, like a constellation of new ideas igniting in the night sky.

  Selriph stared at the makeshift map of the Empire, noting the various settlements where he could restock his supplies along the way.

  However, the location of settlements throughout the empire was irrelevant, for Selriph had to first decide on the most important decision:

  Where should I go…?

  Many nights of contemplation in the Templar compound were spent under the assumption that he would be on horseback and make for the closest border, south, towards the Kingdom of Venthar.

  Initially, it seemed slightly illogical; the Kingdom of Venthar held great animosity toward the Holy Empire of Eldeitia. As such, it seemed like they would be particularly unwelcoming to Eldeitians such as Selriph.

  But that hostility stemmed from the empire’s annexation of the Ironcrag Highlands; in all truth, it was likely they would welcome someone like Selriph, given their mutual disdain for the empire.

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  With that consideration in mind, that route seemed the most attractive; the border lay a two-week trek south through flat fields, the Ironcrag Highlands likely crawling with dissidents aligned with Venthar, folks who would be likely to sympathise with Selriph’s plight and perhaps may even hold the means to smuggle him across the border.

  But then, a thought passed, a voice in his mind. The woodsman’s voice echoed through his head like a haunting ghost.

  “South’s a bad idea, boy.”

  The woodsman said that during their first encounter, by the great River Veldorea.

  That wasn’t the only time he said that. Selriph’s gaze drifted to the table, and the images of the hearth-lit conversation between him and the woodsman began to play in front of his very eyes, as if brought to life by the unseen spirit of the deceased woodsman.

  [The night before setting off for Caer Eldralis.]

  “South’s a very bad idea, boy.” Hagan’s voice was firm, almost a reprimand.

  Selriph’s face twisted with puzzlement. “I understand that the border is militarised, given the hostility with Venthar, but surely there are means available to make a crossing?”

  Hagan paused as his gaze fell on the portrait lying on the table; the silence in the air only carried the crackle of the hearth and Emmett’s breathing.

  “Besides, I heard the stories. Venthar is the birthplace of the mage’s guild, no? Seems natural for me to head there…” Selriph’s voice trailed off.

  “Aye, the stories are true, but you’d be better off just learning from Vickthar. When we free him.”

  If we can even free him…

  Selriph held his protest instead, followed by a query.

  “Vick—Vickthar himself told me to find the Mage’s guild, so why not go straight to its source?”

  Hagan’s eyes landed on the boy, and a brief silence followed, his thoughts indiscernible from his expression.

  “Did he say it had to be Venthar…?” his voice pointed.

  “Excuse me…?” The boy’s voice was inflected with confusion.

  “Vickthar, when he told you to find the guild, did he say it had to be the Ventharian Guild?” his voice firm.

  “I…” Selriph’s mind flashed to the moment in the hand-carved tunnels—no doubt a result of the old man’s terramancy. The details of the conversation flashed as though it had happened a sun cycle ago.

  “No, he simply said to find the guild. Did not say it had to be Venthar,” Selriph replied, voice soft.

  “Figured as much. Tell me, boy, why did you run?” Hagan’s hands crossed, leaning back in his chair.

  Selriph’s eyes raised, taken aback by yet another unexpected query. “You mean… why did I run from the Templars?”

  “Yes, you don’t seem suicidal, at least based on how you dealt with that whispering coven goon. So tell me, why did you do something that placed a death sentence on your head?” his voice was sharp, yet mixed with genuine intrigue.

  “I…” his eyes traced down to his shirt, attempting to peer through the fabric to the myriad of scars underneath.

  Should I…? No, I’d best keep it brief.

  “Let’s just say... divine devotion wasn’t for me. Let’s also say my experience there was far from… conducive.”

  Hagan stared blankly at the boy, his posture suggesting a mix of budding rebuttal and anticipation of further details from the boy.

  Selriph broke the silence. “Why..? Are you proposing I head back and seek the Divine’s forgiveness?” His voice ended on an upward note, a rhetorical flourish.

  Despite the lack of humorous intent, the statement was met by a chuckle from the woodsman, a smile playing at his lips. “Ha, not in a thousand cycles, lad. What I mean is, do you have a problem with devotion?”

  Devotion? What does he mean by this?

  Hagan read the boy’s silent query with the unmistakable clarity of a public declaration. “It’s simple. Did you run because you wanted to be free of devotion? To order? To serve a higher power?”

  “If that is your question? Yes,” the boy’s reply came as fast as his blade.

  “Then Venthar is not the place for you.” His reply was curt.

  “I don’t—”

  “You are a smart one. What do you think Venthar would do if they found out about your origins, if you somehow made it across in one piece?” Hagan rested his elbows on the old wood, his face on his interlaced fingers.

  “Given their hostility? They’d want information, but I’d have nothing much to offer.” A subtle shrug escaped Selriph’s shoulders.

  “Most don’t, but you can offer something else. Something far more than the folks they smuggle across,” as Hagan pointed to the tome that lay on the table

  “My magic…? I don’t see…”

  Selriph paused, trying to understand the implication of Hagan’s words. It was true that any non-Eldeitian-aligned state he ended up in would likely see value in his prodigious magic potential—if Vick’s assessment were indicative of anything resembling the truth.

  If that’s the case, with everything he’s said. Then, the thing he is implying is…

  “I suppose… given the fact that the Ventharians have no love for Eldeitia, if they stumbled upon someone like me… they’d want me to work for them, against Eldeitia?”

  “You catch on quick; no wonder Vickthar found you interesting enough to give you that,” gesturing to the tome.

  His hands fell, now clenched into two fists on the wooden surface. “The way I see it, with those skills with the blade? Instead of becoming a Knight Templar, you’d likely be a Ventharian Knight, devoted to protecting their realm from Eldeitia.”

  Selriph’s eyes furrowed, taken aback by the unexpected piece of information.

  “So tell me, lad, is that what you want?”

  The query hung in the air as Hagan rose from his seat, hand poised over the lantern.

  “It’s late. We have a big day tomorrow. Besides, Vickthar isn’t so bad. If the winds of nature are with us, I am sure we can find a better place for you and him to play around with rocks all day.”

  The voice—the memory slowly fading from Selriph’s consciousness, replaced with the sounds of charcoal on parchment.

  The answer to Hagan’s query lay written in charcoal scribbles on the makeshift map before him.

  A cross marked over the southern reaches of the empire—the direction to Venthar, while the closest, would not lead to the peaceful life of magical study he desired.

  The reason? While his gifts would no doubt receive the nurturing care he longed for, it would eventually lead him down a path of servitude, his magical abilities procured for militaristic means to defend the Ventharian Crown—a non-distant possibility given their previous state of war.

  Any chance of removing himself from the shadow that Eldeitia cast on his past would simply be replaced by the shackles of animosity between the two rival states.

  To the left of the large symbol indicating Caer Eldralis, another unviable option, the cause being obvious: satellite states, the Duchy of Fodran, and the Principality of Erdgon.

  Eldeitian in all but name.

  The north was nothing but ocean, rendered impassable not from the lack of seaworthy vessels, but the inability for the boy to find legal, or rather, a low-risk, undetected means onto a ship—a result of his fugitive status.

  Only one option was available.

  East, the longest route by far. The border was almost three times the distance to Venthar.

  But it wasn’t the distance that rendered the greatest complication.

  It was the massive obstacle in the way, the source of the river where he had his fateful encounter with the woodsman.

  The Greyspire Mountain Range.