Everything changed after the Graysoul attack. Absolutely everything. Mags didn't mind most of the changes, though she found a few troubling. Gorb and its companions simultaneously treated her with a greater degree of respect and paid her less attention. After Marek's great unveiling, she couldn't blame them.

  Ashurai treated Marek with equal parts respect and wary distrust. Among the caravanners, he knew the least about the fabled Remnant Mages. It wasn't as if the Class hadn't impacted his country as greatly as the other kingdoms, yet he was only human. From what Mags had gathered, a man of thirty or thirty-five years. His memory didn't span as far as that of Niamh and Gorb, both of whom had seen the passage of centuries, and during that span of time, the rise and fall of many Remnant Mages.

  Ever since the attack on the hillside, Mags and Marek's duties had been altered as well. They were given guard shifts during the night, and more often trusted with taking point or rear position while the caravan traveled ever westward.

  Most concerning to Mags were the shifts in Marek's personality. Summoning that thing had left a mark on her childhood friend. He spoke less and observed more. Marek’s eyes were haunted, as if two minds peered out at the world around him. She hoped it was only her imagination.

  Marek practiced his Remnant Mage Abilities openly now. When riding near the carriage, Marek would leave Ember to trail behind Cinnabar while he went on foot. Wraith Step made no sound when activated, yet it caused a tangible disturbance. Time and again, he practiced the Ability until he'd expended his ether. Another change irked her to the bone: Ashurai began inviting Marek to attend his nightly practice with the sword. Mags practically boiled with envy, but she'd refrained from saying anything at all. Marek could use the training, she knew, though it was she who was drawn to Ashurai.

  Something about the stoic warrior intrigued her. Annoying at times, and usually rude in his bluntness, Ashurai reminded her of the swordmaster she'd trained with while serving in the Ardean army. She only wished she could dance alongside him. Not once did he ask her to join.

  A full week had passed since the Graysoul attack. Niamh seemed to know the most about the monsters, and yet she refused to tell them all she knew. Gorb filled in a few details, thankfully. For instance, the curse known as gray-touched was apparently rare. None of their party members were stricken during the attack, for apparently it required one of the creatures to sacrifice its life to inflict the curse. Even rare as it was, the gray-touched curse was feared, for those that survived a day or so would grow enraged and attack anyone or anything in sight. A single bite from one of these unfortunate souls was enough to pass the curse to another. If left unchecked, a plague could spread across the land.

  Despite this explanation, they never learned more about where the Graysouls had come from. Niamh refused to answer any questions, and Gorb only said its knowledge was incomplete. This bothered Ashurai the most, yet Mags too was frustrated. If they encountered the monsters again, she wanted to know as much as she could about them.

  The caravan stopped earlier than usual that day. Mags was put to the task of making a fire, a duty she often enjoyed. Unfortunately, Marek decided to practice his most disturbing Ability while she did so. Mags grimaced as she watched Marek drawing out the viscous substance from his chest. She tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t an easy task. We’re all supposed to believe that’s his soul? If that’s true, why is it so damn ugly? She arranged the logs in the fire pit Gorb had dug before giving up and watching Marek study the gleaming purple blob in his hand.

  He extended it outward a full three feet and, brow creased in concentration, caused it to spread out in a circular disc. As Marek shifted his footing, the shield rotated along his arm and across the back of his shoulders.

  Well, it’s certainly impressive—and it’ll come in handy if we're attacked again, she told herself for the hundredth time. Marek's still Marek. He's still kind and considerate. I have to remember that. But damn, if I don't miss the old version that talked endlessly about history and crafting. Will he ever be so naive and sweet again? Will I, for that matter?

  That afternoon, the caravan came across a deep canyon filled with ancient trees. Gorb seemed happier than ever as it led them away from the Quartz Road to a clearing surrounded by boulders taller than the golemite. It hadn't explained why the site pleased it so much, but Mags suspected Gorb might fill them in during the evening meal.

  Sure enough, as the light faded in the vaulted sky and her stew cooled in the wooden bowl in her hands, Gorb spoke of a time long past. "My people were many in those days," it rumbled. "The feylings too traveled abroad and openly, even visiting the newly formed eastern realm of Ardea. Niamh was young then, and I little more than a shardling." The golemite made the logs in the fire shift as its laughter shook the air. One collapsed and sent a pillar of sparks into the air that reflected in the golemite’s gaze. "How bright our eyes, Niamh Ilris Althenea. How empty our heads when we first met."

  This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

  The feyling buzzed excitedly and landed on the tip of Gorb's foot. "Young, young!" she replied. "You were so ambitious. Your clastkeeper was so angry with you, always grumbling how you put action before thought."

  "Mmm, and Krrgosh was right! I thought it would be a boon for all who traveled the Old Highway to have a place to meet and eat and sleep among these very old rocks." Again, the golemite laughed, its thrumming tones stretching for nearly a full minute. "My labor lasted three of the human months, and when I finished, I still wasn’t satisfied." Gorb's great eyes flickered with an inner light. "Perhaps I should have taken more time in choosing. These stones are old only by the standards of a young and foolish shardling."

  Niamh giggled. Her body grew larger suddenly, so that she stood nearly two feet tall. Her slender frame sprouted a conjured coat of rough stone that glowed the pale blue of pure mana. Waggling her finger at Gorb, she said in a gruff voice, "My young Gorbrashganvore! You make a mess of this fine canyon! Holes here and holes there! And these fine stones exposed for no good reason at all! I should make you roll all the way to Domhan Morga!"

  The feyling and golemite laughed as they traded stories of a time so old that Mags' great-grandfather hadn’t been alive to experience it. It was a humbling experience to say the least.

  When their merriment died down, Mags said, "I want to know more about the golemite people if that's okay. You've used the word shardling many times, and I take it to mean a young golemite by context. And what is a clastkeeper?"

  "Each shardling is born from a triune," Gorb said after a brief pause. “One invests. One dedicates themselves to the holding. And the third golemite stands guard. Their essences blend to make a seed of stone. It can take decades for shardlings to spring forth." The creature sighed deeply. "So much to explain and so many words that cannot be translated. Niamh, will you aid my explanation?"

  The feyling returned to her usual shape and size. Jumping off Gorb's foot, she hovered above the fire. "Gorb will make it way too complicated. In human terms, golemite babies are called shardlings. They’re born from seeds created by a joining of three mature golemites. One invests their lifeforce, which I think is kind of sad. It expires during the creation of the seed. Another holds the seed and feeds it lots of mana. The one that stands guard buries the holder and stands atop the mound for a long time! There, I think that's enough."

  "How many shardlings are born from each seed?" Marek asked. "If a golemite dies each time life is created, surely it’s more than one."

  Gorb's answer was stoic, not betraying even a thread of sadness. "From one to many," it said simply. "My shard brood numbered three."

  Niamh didn't allow for more discussion on the matter. She instead dove into a story of when she'd found Gorb sitting amid its special ring of stones, crying after being rebuked by its clastkeeper. "There's nothing sadder yet funnier than a golemite crying," she said, tittering. "I couldn't help myself. Gorb was so silly and cute I just had to bond with him. I sat on top of Gorb's big head and cried as well. When it finally stopped crying, we'd become best, best friends!"

  Deep as bedrock and high as a brass bell, Gorb and Niamh laughed together until both were satisfied.

  Afterward, the humans ate, Niamh dressing herself as Hamin in order to spin her wooden spoon around an empty bowl and pretend to join in.

  Ashurai finished his meal quickly, as usual, and focused on Marek. "I am wondering why you spend no time searching for herbs in the forest. If your quest into Shirgrim is to seek medicine to heal a sick uncle, why is it only she who searches?"

  Mags eyed her friend, interested to know his answer. She too had wondered the same. So far, she'd gathered plenty of two of the required reagents. Whiskers of Yalfan grew prolifically in the peaks, and after crossing into Shirgrim proper, she'd had no trouble locating and harvesting Quickleaf. Still, Marek hadn't once taken the time to scour the woods after stopping for the evening.

  Marek's brows knit tightly. A darkness settled in his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he might become angry. "I'll admit it hasn't been on my mind as much as it should." He sighed, glancing at Mags briefly. "My abilities need to be honed. I... I'm changing, and there is something else I must achieve in the mountains. If I fail, I won't be returning to Ardea."

  Ashurai grunted and stirred the fire with a stick. "What, then? We can all see how you change, but what other task are you keeping to yourself?"

  "Ironwood," he said flatly. Marek's eyes flickered again, that darkness returning for an instant. "I must find the ironwood trees if I'm to survive. I can't say more, for I don't even know what I'm to do when I find them." The young mage shrugged. He looked so very lost in that moment that Mags wanted to reach out and hold him. "I thought maybe I could find an answer in Domhan Morga when we get there... Then again, I have been distracted. I suppose I should have asked Gorb first."

  The golemite hummed and shifted its weight so its eyes could more easily see Marek. "Few ironwood trees have survived. Some grow to the south of Domhan Morga, and perhaps I could take you there. What do you need from those twisted trees?"

  Suddenly the old man stood, spilling half the contents of his bowl into the fire. The stew sizzled and popped, but Mags hardly noticed. The stranger's arms and legs trembled, and his hands rose to the soiled bindings covering his eyes. Slowly, he removed them and blinked.

  His eyes were bright and intelligent. A vibrant amber in color, they were so lively that Mags was shocked to see he didn't at all appear aged like she'd assumed. He can't be more than forty, she thought. And he isn't blind? Then why would he wear that—

  "Ironwoods!" the man shouted ecstatically. "I know much of ironwood trees. More than some and less than few. Trust Yuze! He will not let you down!"