Maxwell

  “It has been weeks now since I first met Sarah, and in the time since, three things have become apparent to me.

  One, she is smitten with me, to the point of infatuation. Two, I am not averse to spending time with her. In fact, I think I quite like it. And three, I mustn’t allow myself to fall for her any more than I already have.

  Because of who I am, and what I do, to be near me is to be in danger. To be close to me is to know fear, for I am ever susceptible to the hatred of many. During my long life, I have accrued an impressive list of enemies, any one of whom could come after me at the drop of a hat. As such, having a partner or a child is to have a weakness, a vulnerability for others to exploit.

  They cannot get to me when I am alone. When I have nothing to lose. And so, that is how it must be, for the alternative is endlessly terrible and frightening.” - Writings of the Sword-Saint, 2148 Post-Separation (PS).

  The silence between us was deafening as we got seated at the opposite end of the old man, who whistled up a tune as he stirred the pot with an iron ladle, clearly unbothered by the tense atmosphere his words had created. His movements were swift and precise, despite the fact that he was wearing a blindfold. He seemed to know where everything was with perfect clarity; as if he was seeing straight through the fabric wrapped over his eyes.

  It made me feel more than a little uneasy.

  There was no indecisiveness to his demeanor as he gave the pot an inquisitive sniff, before nodding his head and leaning over to retrieve three sets of wooden bowls from his overstuffed pack. How he had thought to bring more than one, I did not know. Perhaps he was used to receiving visitors, even all the way out here, far removed from the village.

  “You don’t have to be so jittery, you know,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m not going to poison you. And even if I did, you’d want it to happen after tasting my pork stew. I’ve yet to meet a man capable of eating just one bowl!”

  I shared an anxious look with Amelie, whose eyes had narrowed into slits, her posture stiff and rigid where she sat. She seemed all but ready to pounce, her hand wrapped around the hilt of her knife.

  "How do you know my name?” she asked, leveling her stare upon the old man, who was busy scooping hot stew into our bowls.

  “How indeed,” the old man said. “That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “We’ll eat first,” he continued. “Then you can ask your questions.”

  “I am not eating anything before you tell me how you know my name.”

  “How do you know that the sun will rise in the morn?” the old man asked, catching her off-guard. I saw it in the way her forehead crinkled with confusion.

  “Because… that is simply the way of things,” she said eventually, after taking some time to consider.

  “And there you have my answer,” he nodded, before offering her one of the bowls. “Here. Eat.”

  She glared at him, nostrils flared with anger, but accepted the bowl nonetheless.

  “Here’s one for you, as well,” he said, holding it out for me to take. I gave him a nod of appreciation just as the smell hit me, overpowering my senses entirely. It was sweet, spicy and rich, all at the same time. An explosion of aroma snugly fit within the confines of a wooden bowl.

  Needless to say, I did not stand a chance. I grabbed the wooden spoon he offered with gusto, and dug into the meal, much to the surprise of Amelie. I could practically feel the disapproval radiating off her as I wolfed down the stew, one mouthful after the other.

  To call it “tasty” would be an understatement of criminal proportions. “The greatest meal I had ever had” felt likewise inadequate. “Nectar of the gods” was perhaps fitting, though still short of the lived experience. The flavor was something like a mix of chicken and beef, which made little sense, given the fact that neither of those things were in the stew. It had a bold spiciness to it, complimented nicely by the sweetness of the vegetables and the saltiness of the pork. The broth was a concoction of such divine magnitude, I could scarce begin to identify what ingredients it contained. For all I knew, it had spices that were native to Alwaar in it, meaning there was a chance I was tasting something completely new to me.

  “Oh my god,” I sighed, stuffing my mouth with more of the celestial goodness. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  “See? What’d I say?” the old man grinned. “My pork stew is unrivaled.”

  Amelie looked down at her bowl with a healthy level of skepticism. Even now, she seemed hesitant to risk it, lest it contain poison of some unknown variety. In the end, though, her hunger won out over her survival instinct, and she lifted a conservative scoop of the rich broth into her mouth.

  Immediately, her eyes widened, and she went in for second helpings.

  “You need to learn to be more trusting,” the old man said, wagging a finger at her as she ate. “Not everyone is out to hurt you, you know.”

  “You do not… know the first thing… about me,” Amelie said in-between mouthfuls.

  “Oh, young one… I know more than you could ever hope to comprehend,” he smiled. “But enough of that now. Let’s enjoy our meal in silence.”

  And enjoy it, we did. I was halfway through my third bowl by the time I realized I had stuffed myself to bursting, my stomach cramping as I attempted to force down yet another spoon of the delicious stew. Eventually, I had to admit defeat, and place the half-finished bowl on the grass next to me with a groan.

  “Did you like it?” the man asked, a humorous edge to his voice.

  “Oh yeah,” I breathed, closing my eyes in blissful contentment. “I loved it.”

  “That’s good,” the man said. “Though I’d be lying if I told you I expected anything less. I know the quality of my cooking, and now, so do you.”

  “You seem to know a lot about many things,” I said.

  “Suppose I do,” he shrugged. “If there’s one thing I have in abundance, it’s knowledge. Though that’s not always such a good thing.”

  “You have yet to tell me how you know my name,” Amelie pressed whilst scraping up the last bits of stew from her bowl. The old man turned his scrutiny upon her pale features.

  “Do you know the saying “to be cursed with knowledge”? Well, I’m more cursed than most,” he said.

  “And how is that?” Amelie asked, not backing down.

  “When a man wanders into the woods at night, his mind will inevitably start to conjure up images of horrible daemons and shadowy figures lurking in the dark,” the man breathed. “It’s called fear of the unknown. Your mind fears that which it does not understand. And because you don’t know what’s out there amongst the trees, your mind begins to fear it, triggering your fight-or-flight reflexes.”

  As he spoke, I slowly began to wonder how any of this connected to Amelie’s question. Yet, despite this confusion, I found myself captivated by his words all the same.

  “So, let’s just say… I know exactly what’s out there,” he concluded with a sigh. “Which means nothing scares me anymore.”

  “What a pointless explanation,” Amelie scoffed. “That is not an answer, and you know it.”

  “I know things, Amelie Harthway. It’s what I do,” he shrugged. “I’ve always been an inquisitive sort of man. And one day, I delved a little too deep in my search for answers. So deep, in fact, I haven’t quite been the same since.”

  “Is that why you wear that blindfold?” I asked, making a strange connection in my mind. “Because you saw something?”

  “In a way, yes,” he nodded. “And also to prevent others from looking me in the eye.”

  “Looking you in the-… Why would you want to do that?” I frowned.

  “Because they’d go insane if they did.”

  A deathly silence filled the space between us. Not so much as a hint of a smile lingered on his features. However unbelievable the statement, he meant it with all his heart.

  “That is ridiculous,” Amelie started, though her voice betrayed her hesitation.

  “Would you like me to prove it to you?” he asked.

  “W-Well…”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  The silence stretched on for a while longer, before the old man clapped his hands together, and leaned over to grab our used bowls.

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  “Either way, enough with the sad talk,” he said. “There’s no point in dwelling on such things right before bedtime. It’ll only give you nightmares, and Stonefather knows the world’s got enough of those as is.”

  Much to my surprise, I found that I was grateful for the diversion. The way he had looked at Amelie at the end there… It had left a sour taste in my mouth, for some reason I could not quite explain. Despite his efforts to change the topic, however, I had one last question I needed answered.

  “Why did you call me a bearer earlier?” I blurted out, without much tact or subtlety. “And what’s a Universal Sigil?”

  He froze for a grand total of three heartbeats, before an impish smile pasted itself onto his lips.

  “Oh, now there’s a twist,” he said. “You haven’t told him yet?”

  The question was addressed to Amelie, not me.

  “I-… I was going to, but… Well, other matters came in the way,” she frowned, diverting her eyes a bit.

  “Told me what?” I asked, sensing the existence of some secret that I had not been made privy to.

  “If you’re not going to tell him, then I will,” the old man continued. When Amelie made no move to stop him, he clicked his tongue and turned to face me. “How much do you know about Wielding, boy?”

  “U-Uhh… Not much,” I admitted, casting my mind back to my conversation with Rachel in Galwen. “I know the basics, I guess. That Wielding is the art of taking energy from one thing and using it to fuel another. That you need an… alchemical sigil?… in order to do it. And that alchemical sigils are hereditary.”

  “That would be the general idea, yes,” the man said. “But do you know what makes it possible? What it involves? The limitations, the possibilities?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ahh. Well then,” he sighed. “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

  He spent a long moment pondering upon how best to explain it, his jaw working tirelessly as he thought. Meanwhile, Amelie busied herself with taking stock of our supplies - emptying out our pack on the grass and tallying up the food and items.

  It was a pointless effort. She already knew precisely what we carried, but I held my tongue on the matter all the same, seeing no harm in the distraction. I waited in silence for some time, before the old man gave a sudden cough to get my attention.

  “Alright then; first things first… in order to even begin thinking about Wielding, you need to have an alchemical sigil. It’s what allows you to channel Astra through your body, to interweave the energy with your flesh,” he said, folding his hands in front of him.

  “What’s Astra?” I asked, already feeling confused by the explanation.

  “Astra is the essence of creation,” he said. “The spark from which all things came to be. The building-blocks of the world.”

  Ahaa… So kind of like atoms, then.

  I did not give voice to the thought. I doubted the people here even knew what an atom was.

  “As such, when you’re using your alchemical sigil to wield, you’re calling upon the Astra that’s inherent to the things around you,” he said, making a claw-like motion with his hand to illustrate. “You’re sucking the energy out of something and storing it inside of your own body, like… like wine in a barrel.”

  “… Okay, I think I’m following,” I nodded.

  “Now, obviously, much like the barrel can only store so much wine, your body can only store so much Astra before it starts to overflow,” he said, his face taking on a decidedly somber expression. “So it’s important to only absorb as much Astra as you’re certain your body can handle.”

  “And… what happens if you absorb too much?”

  “You’ll die,” he said. “Or you’ll wish you were dead, depending on the amount.”

  “It is not a pleasant experience,” Amelie chimed in, listening to our conversation as she worked. “I have… had it happen to me before.”

  “It’s the worst kind of pain imaginable,” the old man nodded. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “It is,” Amelie said drily, not willing to elaborate any further on the topic.

  “Either way, you don’t want it to happen,” the man continued. “So now you know the absolute basics. Alchemical sigils lets you channel Astra, Astra lets you perform supernatural feats. But there’s more.”

  I listened with rapt attention, eager to soak up as much information as I could.

  “Not all alchemical sigils are created equal. In fact, all of the core sigils are different, each one granting a particular affinity for a certain type of elemental manipulation. And each Great Noble House in Alwaar has one such variation.”

  Both me and the old man turned to look at Amelie then, who appeared unbothered by the sudden scrutiny.

  “My family’s sigil grants us an affinity for fire,” she said, not looking up from the pack.

  I made an o-shaped form with my mouth, as the memories of the Umbral encounter back in Galwen came into sudden focus. Amelie had cast some kind of fire-spell back then, drowning the creatures beneath a wave of flame. Had her control over the inferno come from her alchemical sigil?

  “Precisely so,” the old man nodded. “The Harthways have an alchemical sigil that grants them mastery over the flames. The Tarwens are in possession of one that gives power over the storm, and the forces of thunder. The Grimsworths’ got earth and stone. And the Balders have water. There’s also the Elshers, who have an affinity for plants and things that grow, but they’re an elusive bunch that tend to stay out of the public eye, so you hardly hear much from them these days.”

  “They dislike the political games we play, and thus choose to stay out of them,” Amelie added. “An inclination I just so happen to share.”

  “Now, with all of this in mind, you might be starting to guess at what the so-called ‘Universal Sigil’ alludes to…” the old man said, raising a pointed eyebrow in my direction.

  He was right. I understood it now. The clue was in the name, really.

  “The Universal Sigil grants the wielder access to all schools of elemental manipulation,” I said, feeling slightly numb at the revelation. “It’s the ultimate alchemical sigil. The final variation.”

  “Right you are, boy,” the man smiled, though it was not a particularly warm or inviting smile. “Only rumored to exist, the Empyrean Sigil - to give it its rightful name - makes one the master of all elements. It’s the stuff of children’s fairytales. It’s not truly supposed to exist.”

  “That was, until you showed up, with the sigil carved into your back,” Amelie finished, the end of the statement carrying an immense weight of accusation. As if by simply being here, I was somehow breaking an unwritten rule, my very existence a violation of the natural order.

  “I sensed it as soon as you came riding towards me on that horse,” the old man said. “The presence of something… truly extraordinary. A sliver of the divine. An impossibility given form.”

  I did not know what to say. It was not as if I had wished for this to happen. The only real desire I had was to be back home with my friends and family again. But something told me that was not likely to happen anytime soon… if ever.

  “However, by spending some time in your company, I’ve also come to a second realization,” the man grinned. “You might be the bearer of the Empyrean Sigil, but you don’t know the first thing about Wielding, or how to use it. If anything, you’re more likely to kill yourself in the process than cast a successful spell, which means you’re not much of a threat to anyone other than yourself at the moment.”

  “Uhh… Thanks?” I blinked. “And also, ouch?”

  “The fact that he is not dangerous does not change anything,” Amelie scoffed. “They will still want him for other reasons. He is never going to be truly safe, no matter where he goes.”

  “What?” I asked, my eyebrows shooting up towards my hairline. “What do you mean, not safe?”

  “You’ve got the Empyrean Sigil on your back, son,” the old man sighed, shaking his head. “So congratulations; you just became the single most sought-after individual in all of Alwaar. And also my condolences, because you just became the single most sought-after individual in all of Alwaar. Everyone’s going to want a piece of you for all kinds of reasons. Do you know what that means?”

  I felt the color drain from my face as the implications behind his words revealed themselves to me.

  “I can’t let anyone know that I have it,” I said, finally grasping just how bad things could get if people were to find out what I was in possession of.

  “They’ll chase you to the ends of the world and back for what you’ve got carved into your skin,” he said, offering me a bitter smile of sympathy. “They’ll stop at nothing to claim your power for themselves. And that’s something you’re just going to have to live with, I’m afraid.”

  I took a moment to digest the fact that my life was essentially forfeit. Every which way I looked at it, I was screwed. Utterly, royally screwed. And that was not to mention my toddler-like level of knowledge about the world itself. I was an oblivious tourist from a different reality, with no understanding of the local customs and history, that was stuck in a country where everyone would either be out to use me, kill me, or worse.

  If the biblical God was real, and this was his idea of a practical joke, then I had to admit; he had a terrible sense of humor.

  “However, all is not lost,” the old man said, holding up a finger. “You have one card to play to your advantage, and that is the fact that… nobody knows who you are. And they also don’t know what it is you carry on your back. Now, if you appreciate your ability to draw breath, you’ll keep that information to yourself, no matter what.”

  “How do you know that nobody knows me?” I asked, frowning slightly at the mouth twisting turn of phrase.

  “You’re not from a Great Noble House, are you?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Uhh... No?”

  “Nor are you a legendary hero whose life and times are celebrated in countless books and songs?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then nobody knows who you are,” he smiled. “Nothing personal, that’s just the way it is.”

  He had a point. Less than three days ago, I had not even existed in this world. I had no family, friends, associates or acquaintances here that could recognize me, nor did I have a place of residence that could be tracked or a record to be uncovered. I was, for all intents and purposes, a blank slate. I could even use my real name as opposed to a fake one, because here, in Alwaar, they were virtually one and the same.

  “He cannot keep a secret like that hidden forever,” Amelie grimaced. “And besides, people will figure out who, and more precisely what, he is once I take him to my father.”

  “Ahh yes, Lord Escanor,” the old man smiled. “Ever a man of grandiosity and fanfare, that one.”

  “You speak as if you know him,” Amelie said.

  “We’ve met,” he shrugged. “Anyway, that is of no concern right now. What you should be worried about, is how you’re going to train our little bearer here.”

  “What?” She shook her head. “Who said anything about training him?”

  “Well, he’s going to have to learn how to use his power from someone, right? And based on what I’ve heard, you’re quite the Wielder yourself. How else could you have survived six separate delves into the Darkenlands, all in the past three years?”

  Amelie went rigid as a pole at his words, her eyes coming alight with a mixture of reluctance and fury.

  “Being good at something does not make you a good teacher,” she forced out through gritted teeth. “And I know for certain that I have better things to do than waste my time trying to teach an amnesiac who barely remembers his own name how to Wield.”

  The old man turned to me then, his mouth pressed into a thin line. I did not need to see his eyes to know what he was trying to tell me.

  You’re no amnesiac. And I know the truth.

  The fact that he was able to see through me so easily was more than a little concerning. How he even knew in the first place was a mystery. But he could tell. That much was painfully obvious to me.

  “I’d say give it a shot,” he said, his face remaining neutral. “Who knows? He might have a knack for it.”

  Amelie looked between the two of us, suspicion evident in her glare. It was clear to her that she was missing something, some piece of information she had not been made privy to, and it was driving her insane. I did not allow her to brood on it for long, however, as a new question had formed in my mind, one I decided to give voice to.

  “Actually, what’s this about the Darkenlands, and you going on… delves?” I said.

  The diversion worked. Her expression shifted to one of vague irritation rather than abject skepticism, and I counted my lucky stars for the quick thinking.

  “That is... a long story,” she said.

  “Aye, I suspect it is,” the old man nodded. “And so it is my proposal that we settle in for the night now, as the sun has long since left us. Amelie can tell you her story some other time.”

  I tore my eyes away from the person in question to take a quick look around me. The man was right. Nighttime had crept up on us during our conversation, and I had not even noticed. Everything beyond the small area illuminated by the campfire was now plunged in utter darkness.

  “You know, I just realized…” Amelie said, twirling a loose strand of raven-black hair around her finger. “You never told us your name.”

  The old man grinned.

  “Well then, allow me to remedy that mistake right now. My name is Regulus van Cornelius, fabled traveling companion of the Sword-Saint and wielder of the Khethian Eyes.”

  I saw Amelie’s jaw slacken and her eyes grow wide at his statement. His smile only deepened at the sight of it.

  “You might have heard of me.”

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