Chy

by Greg Curtis

  CHY

  Greg Curtis

  Chy

  Greg Curtis

  Digital Edition

  December 2020

  Cover Art

  The cover art for this book was obtained from 123RF.com. Image ID:116054398. Copyright Serhii Bobyk

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One 4

  Chapter Two 8

  Chapter Three 21

  Chapter Four 27

  Chapter Five 34

  Chapter Six 42

  Chapter Seven 47

  Chapter Eight 59

  Chapter Nine 62

  Chapter Ten 68

  Chapter Eleven 72

  Chapter Twelve 78

  Chapter Thirteen 83

  Chapter Fourteen 88

  Chapter Fifteen 92

  Chapter Sixteen 99

  Chapter Seventeen 102

  Chapter Eighteen 110

  Chapter Nineteen 113

  Chapter Twenty 119

  Chapter Twenty One 125

  Chapter Twenty Two 133

  Chapter Twenty Three 138

  Chapter Twenty Four 142

  Chapter Twenty Five 150

  Chapter Twenty Six 157

  Chapter Twenty Seven 165

  Chapter Twenty Eight 171

  Chapter Twenty Nine 174

  Chapter Thirty 179

  Chapter Thirty One 182

  Chapter Thirty Two 188

  Chapter Thirty Three 192

  Chapter Thirty Four 202

  Chapter Thirty Five 205

  Chapter Thirty Six 211

  Chapter Thirty Seven 223

  Chapter Thirty Eight 227

  Chapter Thirty Nine 233

  Chapter Forty 238

  Chapter Forty One 247

  Chapter Forty Two 250

  Chapter Forty Three 255

  Chapter Forty Four 261

  Chapter Forty Five 267

  Chapter Forty Six 269

  Chapter Forty Seven 275

  Chapter Forty Eight 278

  Chapter Forty Nine 281

  Chapter Fifty 285

  Chapter Fifty One 290

  Chapter Fifty Two 293

  Chapter Fifty Three 301

  Chapter Fifty Four 305

  Chapter Fifty Five 309

  Chapter Fifty Six 315

  Chapter Fifty Seven 319

  Chapter Fifty Eight 324

  Chapter Fifty Nine 330

  Chapter Sixty 336

  Chapter Sixty One 339

  Chapter One

  The water was freezing. But then it always was at this time of year. It was coldest of all in the spring when the river was filled with snow melt from the distant mountains. That was also the season when the river was at its height and flowing fastest, which was why he was wading in it up to his thighs and trying to keep his footing.

  There had to be an easier way. Chy kept telling himself that. But short of using his gift to part the water and potentially being exposed as a witch if anyone saw him, there wasn't.

  So he stood his ground in the river, tried to put the biting cold of the water out of his thoughts, and swung his pick, chipping away at the riverbed while hoping his balls hadn't finally frozen off. And after a while it got easier. After all he'd done this for many years. He had built up a certain tolerance for the cold. And in another month or two he knew, the water would be warmer and not so deep or fast flowing. It would get easier.

  As he worked, chipping away at the riverbed and tossing small bits of stone to the bank, he thought of the coin his labours would bring him. Good coin. There would plenty of silver – especially if he chipped out some more jade. And that silver would bring him food and warm clothes to get him through the next winter. Some more boots too – his current ones were growing thin and the repeated soaking in the river had caused the leather to crack.

  Then when summer arrived, he could think about doing some of the other projects he'd been thinking about – like adding on to the house. The cabin was warm and sturdy – it should be, the logs were thick and well laid – but it wasn't proud. He'd been thinking for some time about extending it forwards a bit. Just enough to make it less box like and give him some extra room inside. He could put in some bigger windows with better quality glass too. And some more rugs. That way he wouldn't feel so cramped when winter returned and he ended up spending day after day inside.

  And if he had the coin, the root cellar and the tool shed could both use some attention. They were sturdy structures, built from logs like his cabin, but their roofs leaked, and water wasn't good for either steel tools or vegetables.

  Also, though it wasn't a priority, he'd been thinking for some time about putting in a fence alongside the road that ran by his property. The road wasn't really a road – more of a track really – but the steam wagons passed along it every day travelling between Stonely and Charlton, and a rude dirt path leading off the road to his house was hardly a statement that someone of importance lived nearby. He wanted to be someone of importance. Or failing that, at least someone who people respected.

  It hadn't mattered so much to him when he was younger. But ever since Sana had left him for a better prospect – a damned baker named Helmond – it had been on his mind.

  He was thirty now. He should have a wife and a family. He should walk the streets of the nearby towns with his head held high. Most of all he should have something he could not only be proud of, but which people would respect him for. Having a gift was all well and good, and he loved the things he could do with it – but he could never tell anyone about it. To do so would be either to be laughed at as a buffoon, pitied as a fool or a madman, or worse be believed, and then be hung as a witch. The only people who had magic were obviously in league with the Great Beast. So as far as anyone who saw him in the street was concerned, he was just another woodsman. A trapper or a hunter or someone else of no great concern. And that was who he had had to be. Nobody. But he could be a slightly better sort of nobody, he thought. A nobody with a proud home.

  The world unexpectedly became a little brighter as he stood there, dreaming, and he remembered the other disadvantage of having a gift of magic. He was being summoned.

  “Chy Waine Martin,” a woman addressed him in the ancient tongue as he did his best to keep his balance in the water while his heart started thumping in his chest.

  It was Elodie. Chy knew her voice, whether her words were spoken into his ears or his head. And he knew why she was calling. He'd been expecting one of the guardians from the Temple to call him any day now. Six months had passed and it was time. Again.

  “You are called to the Heartfire in seven days at twelve bells, to present your offering and receive your blessing.”

  “Is all in order?”

  Chy bowed his head to acknowledge that it was. He couldn't speak to her – the sending was only one way – but she could sense his agreement from the Temple so he understood. See him too. And he always agreed to his blessing. No matter how much it cost him.

  With that the sending was done and the light all around him faded back to its normal levels. But his heart kept beating a little too fast and he had to use his pick as a crutch to lean on. He felt sick. Weak at the knees. He wasn't sure why there was this golden yellow aura all around him whenever he received a sending. For that matter he wasn't even sure whether there was any actual light, or if that was just in his head. And the weakness he felt had nothing to do with the magic. It was entirely a matter of dread. But none of that mattered. His next appointment was in a week. Though it wouldn't be at twelve bells. The Heartfire Temple was in another world, Prima, and there – at least in the Temple – everything was always three hours ahead of time. So he would instead be expected at nine bells, local time.

  But that was a minor thing. What truly mattered was
that in a week he would sit on one of the thrones before the Heartfire, and he would receive the gift of magic once more, and he would no doubt scream himself into the next world as he suffered through it. Just thinking about it caused the acid in his guts to bubble.

  Magic hurt. It hurt in ways he couldn't even describe. But that was simply the price of it.

  It wasn't fair though. In fact the injustice of it upset him. It was so wrong! Other people, other races, could learn their magic and advance their gift without going to the Heartfire and sitting on the thrones. They could study it in academies, or learn it from a master as an apprentice. But he was human. This was the Kingdom of Ruttland, and the world of Althern. There were no academies of magic here. There were no masters of magic. And magic was a mark of the Great Beast. If he wanted to advance in the craft he had only one choice – the Heartfire Temple.

  And yet as much as magic was largely useless to him, he had to hide it from the world, and the pain was unbearable, he still wanted to advance in his craft. So his decision had been made long before Elodie had appeared before him.

  Chy felt sick at the thought of what was coming. Too sick to continue with his labours in the ice cold water. So he tossed one last chip of rock from the riverbed up to the bank and then waded out of the freezing cold water. Then he stuffed all the rocks he had chipped and tossed out onto the river bank into a waiting bucket, grabbed it and a second bucket full of river sand, and headed back up the bank to his home.

  Then when he reached the slowly spinning water wheel with its barrel of sand and rocks slowly being polished, he simply tossed it all inside.

  Normally he would do more than that. He would have gone to the top of the sluice and turned the gate wheel to cut off the flow of water so the wheel and the barrel no longer turned, and then he would have worked his way through what was already in there. Usually there would be a few stones that were ready to take out and finish polishing by hand. But he just didn't want to. Not then. Instead he wanted to sit down, drink something hot, and not have to think about his coming blessing. Or about the bitter irony of the fact that the guardians called it a blessing.

  His labours done for the day, he headed inside where it was warm, took off his wet clothes, and dried himself down while the kettle boiled on the hot plate. After that he dressed and collapsed into one of the easy chairs by the fire and felt sorry for himself.

  Why did magic have to hurt so much? That was what he didn't understand. And no one could explain it to him. The guardians couldn't – not that they ever said a lot. They were very proscribed in what they told worshippers as they called those like him. It was important to them that nothing they said interfered with the blessing. Worshippers had to either choose to accept the blessing purely of their accord, or decline it. And then it was entirely up to the worshippers as to which blessing they received. The guardians could not even offer a hint to them of what they should do. They could say nothing that might make them change their minds.

  And none of the other worshippers knew either. He had sat outside the Temple, waiting for his blessing, on a great many occasions, talking with others doing the same. But no matter who it was that he sat with on those stone benches, no matter what people they were, they didn't know. They all suffered the same fate as him, and didn't know why. It was simply what they had to endure. If they were to advance in their craft.

  Sometimes he thought their ignorance was in part at least, related to the magic they used to speak to one another. They all came from different worlds. And there had to be hundreds of different tongues spoken on them. But the very first casting a caster experienced was the one that taught them the ancient tongue they shared. And it had limits. It changed words and especially names. So as far as he was concerned, the guardians were copper elves from the world of Thiessen.

  But they weren't copper elves. He'd asked and he'd listened carefully as they'd repeated the words. They called themselves Darisen. But the casting translated their name as copper elves in his head. In the same way, he called himself human, but the casting of the ancient tongue no doubt translated that as something else to those who spoke to him. Even the name of the tongue they all spoke – Ancient – was a translation. He heard the word as it came out of his mouth and understood the meaning, but the actual term others used had far too many syllables and hard sounds to be just one word.

  So how much else was hidden behind the limitations of that spell? How much more would he understand if he went to Thiessen and learned the tongue of the Darisen?

  But none of that mattered he realised as he heard the kettle finally boiling and went to prepare his tea. The only thing that mattered was that the date and time of his blessing had been decided just as it would be for a condemned man.

  He had one week before he had to sit on the throne.

  Chapter Two

  The hour was approaching. Chy could feel it, much as he imagined a condemned man could feel the hour of his execution drawing near. The Guardian had appeared to him and given him the day and the hour of his appointment, and now there was no denying what was coming. No delaying or postponing it. It was time.

  This was going to hurt!

  Chy knew that. And for a moment as he thought of the agony ahead he was tempted to finally say no. To give in. To simply not do it. Just stay home and do nothing. Just as he had considered it a hundred times before. There was no need to do it. He had enough magic. Useful magic.

  He could do that. It would be so easy he thought as his stomach did back flips. But if he did that his chance might never come again. He might not be called back to the Temple. And could he live with that? With the end of his hopes and dreams? With just being as he was? Limited?

  No! From deep within the answer came. No! He had to do this. He had to push himself. To grow in his gift. And pain was always the price of magic. One of them anyway. Every caster knew that. And he was a caster. He had the gift. It didn't matter if it hurt. Or if it cost him a fortune. Or if he could never tell anyone what he was or what he could do. Or even make himself a better life with it. He had magic. He should embrace it.

  Besides, what else did he have to do? Nothing. Except stay home and sit in a comfortable chair and watch the grass grow. And while he was at it, grow old and fat and eventually die – alone.

  Also it had been six months. Six good months. On his last session with the Heartfire, he had sat on the dragon throne and advanced his gift of fire. And it had bedded in properly over the following months. Over the last six months since he had sat on the dragon throne, his gift with the flames had grown in leaps and bounds. It wasn't just fireballs. It was heating stones, creating enchantments, seeing the world through distant flames and so much more. The pain had been worth it.

  It would be again. He would get through this. And he would get through it the next time as well. And the one after that. He would go on. And eventually he would become a powerful wizard, like the figures in the tales of the bards. He would be great. Be able to battle dragons and rule kingdoms and everything else.

  Of course before that there would be more sessions – blessings as the guardians called them – and more magic – some of which would no doubt hurt even more. And even if there were no dragons to fight and he could not become a ruler of some fabulous kingdom, he would grow more powerful. He would learn more casts. The magic would come more easily to him. He would be great!

  Such was the life of a caster. And as he reminded himself, he was a caster. He wasn't a farmer or a blacksmith. He was a master of magic. Pain was simply a part of that. And if he wasn't willing to endure it, then what sort of caster would he be? A failure. Someone who might as well take up farming or beating metal.

  He might as well be normal!

  It was that that decided him. Because regardless of the pain, he could not endure the thought of being normal. It wasn't so much about the greatness as it was about simply being something other than normal. He could not be like his brothers and sisters. His mother, aunts and uncles. He loved
them dearly, and he knew they were happy in what they did, but that sort of life was not for him. It could never be. He could not be just another nobody struggling to make a few copper pieces here and there to live on. Magic made him special.

  So he drained the last of his drink, got up out of his chair, put his mug on the bench, grabbed his coin purse which had his offering in it as well as plenty of silver, and headed out to the patio. There, a little way in front of front door to his house, lay the portal. A complex pattern etched into the stones. His route to the Temple.

  It was a pretty thing, he thought. When people asked him about it he told them it was just a symbol that meant good luck. A blessing. And maybe in a way it was that. It certainly saved him from the hardest part of the journey to the Temple every six months. But it was so much more than that. It was pure magic. Others couldn't see that. They saw the markings and nothing more. Maybe that it was pretty. They couldn't understand the way the various symbols flowed together into one casting. They couldn't see the magic bound within it.

  Learning that cast had cost him. Not just pain but silver. Pearls were not cheap. And it had been agony. But it had been worth it. Portal magic was one of the most useful spells of any caster. Unfortunately the mark of a portal spell was always felt most painfully on the souls of the feet, and it turned out that they were extremely sensitive. Especially to burning. Something he would never have realised until he'd felt the magic burning through them as he sat in the throne of the snake. But then again, since the snake was eating its tail, maybe that should have been a sign.