“A wish?”
“A wish,” the witch said. “Within reason.”
“Can you turn back time?” Maziar asked.
She snorted. “I’m a witch, not a god. I said ‘within reason.’”
“Can you help me get revenge?” he ventured.
“Now we’re talking,” the witch smiled. “Is that the price of your soul?”
After a moment of hesitation, Maziar replied, “What do I call you?”
“I suppose you may call me Eudine,” the woman said, taking that as his answer.
There are many kinds of casters in the world; some are rarer than others.
The most common are sorcerers and magi—wielders of magic derived from the five base elements of nature or magic derived from the energy of the universe, respectively—which are those that, similar to Maziar, are born with a certain affinity that can be used freely without much in the way of training.
Considering that most people had to work for a living and were not in a position to have training, it wasn’t terribly uncommon for them to have ended up similar to War’s Brineggan Kreeth—who, even as a titleless Kreeth, was doing just fine on his own until he tried to use magic before he had had his daily dose of caffeine. As fate would have it, this meant that while it was more common to be born a powerful magus or sorcerer, you were far less likely to survive as one.
Given that the next most common magic ranks were entirely based on study and access to books and materials, there were next to no commoners who became magicians, alchemists, artificers, or wizards. They were, however, far more likely to survive to adulthood, and their discipline and devotion to their craft often made them far more powerful than their lazy magus and sorcerer counterparts.
The rarest ranks weren’t just rare because of stupidity or social class, but because they were hereditary. There were shamans and oracles who could see the future or speak with the voices of the dead. There were also descendants, who were the half-human children of planar creatures who were brought to Gaiuel by whatever means. Last, but not least, were the witches and warlocks whose magic was based on the shared knowledge and wisdom of their ancestors and thus have attained a universal ability in magic that is rarely seen.
Witches and warlocks were not omnipotent, though. Even they have family specialties.
In Eudine’s case, her bloodline specialized in soul magic.
The people of Gaiuel believe that every creature, human or otherwise, has a soul. Every soul has three parts, each containing a portion of a creature’s mana.
The weakest portion belongs to the body—also called physical magic. One needs a bit of magic to make their body continue moving, as how would it move otherwise? This magic is only replenishable by consuming food and drink, and the best way to improve one’s physical magic ability is to use it more often in the form of exercise.
The next—more critical piece, depending on who you ask—is the portion that belongs to the mind, often referred to as mental magic. Thinking is also magic, as is intelligence, and it must be nurtured if you don’t want to end up like Brineggan Kreeth. One can improve their mental magic in many ways, from studying to wandering the world in search of new and exciting things—but practitioners must be careful, for it is a fragile thing. If a person takes it too far, they could easily damage this portion of their soul and meet with madness or even death. The mind, you see, is a terrible thing to lose.
But when most people speak of a caster’s soul, what they are really referring to is an individual’s mana core—the very heart of their magic.
Everyone is born with a core of magic that determines what kind of caster they are and what affinity they have that will start them down the path of magic. The mana core is the base multiplier for all other magics; if one has a strong heart, one will have a strong body and mind. The magic of the core grows naturally with experience and age, and while the whims of the Universe determine its inherent size and power, it can be nurtured with love and attention.
Outside of individual use, magic cores have many useful purposes they could be harvested and used for—if you knew what those uses were and how to extract them properly.
The average person doesn't know this trick, and to most people, the whole concept of removing a person’s soul was absolutely horrifying.
But while it is often misunderstood, soul magic is actually a complex form of energy transfer. It is simply the act of taking the energy from one vessel and moving it to another. Under a well-seasoned practitioner of soul magic, the worst side effects would simply be a short duration of weakness and a life with just enough magic to live as a normal person. Their physical and mental magics ultimately work to fill in the void left after removing the soul, which leads to a compromised immune system and a far shorter life expectancy than the average person.
To summarize, despite the reputation that soul witches have gained throughout time, Eudine had no intention of killing Maziar—though she arguably offered to play a role in his inevitable death.
Which he, knowingly or otherwise, accepted, and Eudine didn’t really care if he knew or not.
Now that she had his permission as a willing participant in her ritual, she was content to busy herself with preparations.
“You haven’t asked who I want revenge against,” Maziar said, watching as she plucked a crow clean and tossed it into a massive iron cauldron along with various dried herbs and colorful liquids from glass vials.
“Doesn’t matter,” she told him. “What matters is the transaction.”
“Is that for the spell?” he asked, nodding to the brew.
“This?” she asked, pointing, then laughed. “This is dinner. And this,” she said, taking out a vial from a different shelf than she’d been taking the other ingredients from. “This is for you to drink now.”
Maziar took it and swirled it around. “Will this take my magic away?”
“No,” Eudine said with a grin. “But it will take your fever away. Can’t have you half-conscious during the ritual, now can we.”
Blinking, Maizar decided that that probably made sense, and threw his head back to down the liquid all in one shot. It was as thick as molasses and tasted like bitter dirt and pig slop with a hint of pine needles, and he resisted the urge to throw it back up. Eudine handed him a cup of water and took the vial back.
A few hours later, after they had some stew and Maziar’s fever had disappeared, Eunice, Maziar, and War gathered in a clearing not far from the witch’s hut. A magic circle had already been drawn on the ground using six tall, pointed stones as major points along the outer circle and three smaller round ones in the inner circle. Eunice instructed Maziar to sit in the center and write his wish with a piece of chalk and went about setting up five metal bowls around the middle circle, filling each with either earth, fire, water, metal, or wood.
Maziar wrote the words, ‘Vengeance on Prince Rhaltz of Varsal.’ He didn’t care how. At the time, he didn’t even care when. He just wanted it to happen.
“What will you do with my soul after you take it?” Maziar asked.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“It can’t be worse than what I’ve done with it.”
Eudine paused, then said, “There is something I must do. Someone I hope to save. Your magic may be enough.”
Maziar nodded. “That’s good then. That’s good…” At least his magic might have some positive use for the world. “Will it hurt?”
“A little.”
“A lot, then.”
“You’re a very pessimistic boy, aren’t you?”
“What else should I be?”
“Happy.”
“I was happy when I was ignorant.”
“You’re a bit young for those words,” Eudine told him, but Maziar just sat in silence. “Let us begin.”
Eudine began to chant in a strange language and dance around the circle. Maziar watched, enthralled, for he had never seen such magic—and then the pain came.
Clutching his chest, he doubled over. It burned as if a hot iron poker was being thrust into his ribcage, melting the flesh and bone with a searing, white heat. He screamed and cried out, and for a moment, he regretted his choice.
As he was about to start begging for it to stop, though, the image of his sister with Rhaltz kept him silent, and instead, he chose to embrace the pain. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself back up and fixed his posture so he was sitting cross legged and upright, his hands gripping his knees.
Eudine had never seen the like. She’d taken many a soul in her life, but no man or woman had ever just sat in the circle and let their soul be ripped from them. By now, most would have at least started regretting their choice or lost consciousness, succumbing to the pain.
This man, young as he was, had more than just a powerful core; he had a powerful will.
Pleased, Eudine pressed on. The best way to return his conviction was to resolve the ritual as efficiently as she could.
When it was done, few words were spoken between them. Eudine gave him a small package with potions, pills, and crystals to help him recover, along with a note detailing the consequences of having no core left–no soul. She also gave him a small green and gold pendant.
“If you ever need to use a larger amount of magic than what your void can contain, you can use this stone to pull from your physical or mental magics to make do,” she said, then warned him. “Only do this when you absolutely must—else you’ll cut your life shorter than you already have.”
Nodding, Maziar mounted War and, without another word, took off toward home.
While she had no words of comfort for the boy about how hard his life would be from then on, Eudine still offered him a wish of luck from her heart and then set about her next task. She had gotten what she wanted—and his was a powerful soul, indeed.
Maziar’s family was less than happy about his disappearance, but seeing how weak he was upon his return, they quickly forgave him. Mira, in particular, took to looking after him as he recovered from his unknown illness. Over and over, she apologized to him—for so many things. For not being able to take better care of him. For the things he saw with Rhaltz. For letting things get so out of hand—but after listening to that, Maziar just shook his head and smiled at her.
“It’s all right,” he told her. “Everything will be alright from now on.”
“But look at you!” she whispered. “You’ve never been sick a day in your life, and now…”
“That’s not your fault,” Maziar said, looking up at the wooden beamed ceiling above them as he lay under layers of furs. “I’m going to go to the Tower,” he said.
“The Tower? The Northern Tower?” Mira said, surprised. Maziar nodded. “Why there? Didn’t you say you’d never go because of Mother?”
The Kreeth children rarely saw their mother. Their parents had separated long ago before even Maziar’s magic had become a well-known fact. Their father and the king had quashed many of the rumors that the real reason Maziar was so powerful was because of mother’s blood, and not his Kreeth blood—but the fact remained that their mother was not some ‘caster tower’s lackey.’ She was the Grand Magician of the Northern Tower, and a well-known name throughout caster circles.
Young Maziar knew very little of this until he was older, and by then, he was far less interested in the woman and what she could and could not offer them. He needed nothing to do with a woman who wanted nothing to do with them.
But things were different now.
Maziar took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. Eudine’s note told him that although the natural base of his magic was all but gone, if he wanted to try, he could attempt to re-establish it as a magician, cultivating it from nothing over time. This, she wrote him, might at least ease the burden of the body and strengthen his lifespan enough to live normally. Most would be unable to do this, but if his will were strong enough, he could do anything he pleased—
—so please, she wrote, continue to live.
She also told him he would be safest around other casters, and with the current situation, his mother would be his best—if not only—bet.
“Maybe it’s time for me to stop playing around with my magic and look for a path all my own,” he said, too tired to come up with a real excuse. “Yeah. Maybe it’s time… to get away.”
Holding his hand with warm, tear-filled brown eyes, Mira asked, “Is it my fault?”
“No,” Maziar answered. “It’s mine.”
He didn’t bother asking for permission from his father or anyone else. His mind was set, and there would be no changing it. Even if his mother wanted nothing to do with him, perhaps he could guilt her or threaten her reputation enough to get accepted to the Tower.
His father had very few words of praise for her; he liked to pretend she didn’t exist. When he did speak of her, however, he always acknowledged she was the smartest woman he’d ever known—a comment that was usually followed up with how women shouldn’t be too smart, or men will never come to like them, and they’ll never have a successful marriage—please take notes, Mira, and go back to your sewing.
Once Maziar had recovered enough to walk on his own, he packed what parts of his life he meant to keep on War’s back. Mira saw him off—or tried to. Maziar, for what it was worth, was too ashamed to face his sister. He was ashamed of his friend’s actions. He was ashamed of his own weakness. And, while he regretted nothing, he knew that if Mira had ever found out what he had done that day in the woods, she would never forgive herself.
So, for the third time, Maziar ran. Gripping War’s reins, he urged him right into a gallop, and they headed straight for the Tower without looking back.
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