The Eighth Born: Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles

by C. Night

  “It’s simple,” said Cazing, pulling an apple from his pocket and crunching into it, “because there really isn’t anything you have to do.”

  “What?” asked Rhyen, bewildered. He had not been expecting that. “But if you don’t have to learn how to do anything, why can’t I do magic now?”

  “Oh, you have to learn how to do things, but you can learn your own way.”

  Rhyen stared at him. Cazing laughed. He finished his apple and threw the core away. “First, let’s think about what you know. How do you cast a spell?”

  “You say the words,” Rhyen answered promptly.

  “What words?” Cazing asked.

  “The words in the spell,” Rhyen said.

  “How do you know which words are in a spell?” Cazing pressed.

  Rhyen laughed uncomfortably. “I was kind of thinking you would teach me that, sir.”

  Cazing snorted. “Well, you were wrong. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Rhyen. There are no set words for individual spells.”

  Rhyen frowned. He thought about that for a moment. “So you can say anything and the spell will just work?”

  “No, not just anything. You have to say the right words. You are an instrument for the magic. You can control how you use the magic, but you need to feel the right words. That is what you have to learn.”

  Rhyen stared at him blankly. Cazing rubbed his forehead. “Alright, let me put it this way… just say what you mean. But remember to feel the magic welling up inside you. That will help you choose your words.”

  Rhyen had absolutely no idea what Cazing was talking about. He tried to feel the magic inside him. “What does magic feel like, Master?” he finally asked.

  “It feels like, well… it feels like magic, Rhyen. You’re overthinking it. Here, just try something.” Cazing reached in his pocket and pulled out an apple. He walked about ten feet from where Rhyen stood and set it on the ground. When he rejoined Rhyen, he pointed to it. “Make it fly.”

  Rhyen looked from the apple to his master. Tentatively, he asked, “Make it fly? But how?”

  “Use the right words, Rhyen!”

  Frustration bubbled up inside Rhyen. “How do I know what the right words are, Master?” he almost shouted. Why on earth had he ever thought Cazing was a good teacher? He was making no sense now, and was absolutely no help.

  Cazing narrowed his eyes. Rhyen was sure that he was going to be reprimanded for his outburst. For a second he feared Cazing would flat out refuse to teach him magic today as punishment. But Cazing just glared thoughtfully at Rhyen and chewed his lip. Finally, he spoke.

  “Alright. Let me try this again.” He took a deep breath. “Magic, Rhyen, does not require any special words. Really, the only reason we speak at all is to focus our thoughts. The right words are those that make us truly think about what we intend to do. They can be just a word, like this—” he turned towards the apple and said, “Fly!” Rhyen’s mouth fell open as he watched the apple shoot into the sky, ten, twenty, thirty feet.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed.

  “Fall,” Cazing commanded, and the apple crashed to the ground and exploded. He turned back to Rhyen. “So, it wasn’t the word ‘fly’ that caused the apple to soar. It was my will, channeling the magic through me. Saying ‘fly’ just helped me focus, get a clear image in my mind of what I wanted to make the apple do. Do you understand?”

  Rhyen nodded, still dumbstruck. “So when you say ‘the right word,’ what you really mean is the right word to help you concentrate, not a specific magic word.”

  Cazing laughed in relief. “Exactly! Good gods, Rhyen, I thought I was going to have to hit you over the head to get it through your skull!”

  Rhyen grimaced at his teacher, who laughed again.

  “Now, Rhyen, along that same thought, if I want to do something a bit more complicated, I can try using an expression or a sentence to focus my magic. Like this.” Cazing looked around him and rested his eyes on a fallen leaf. “Become Rhyen’s hat,” he said with a grin, and the leaf flew through the air and landed right on top of Rhyen’s head.

  Rhyen grabbed the leaf and threw it at Cazing, but it simply dipped through the air before coming to a halt on the grass, a few feet from his master. Cazing smiled. “See? But you can command more complicated things later. For now, I want you to focus on a simple task: Move the leaf. Make it fly into the air.”

  Rhyen nodded and concentrated with all his might on the leaf. He tried to feel the magic welling inside of him, but he felt no difference. “Fly!” he said.

  Nothing happened. Rhyen frowned and tried again. He was concentrating so hard he felt his face turn red as he forgot to breathe. Fly, fly, fly, fly, FLY! Finally, when he was certain he was focused, he shouted it out loud. “Fly!”

  Still nothing happened. Rhyen tried again. And again. And again. After quite some time, when Rhyen was sweating from the effort yet still the leaf remained on the ground, Rhyen sighed in frustration and looked up at Cazing, half raising his hands. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Are you using the right word?” Cazing asked, unconcerned.

  “It’s the same word you used…” Rhyen said, confused.

  Cazing rolled his eyes. “Really, Rhyen? Do you actually listen to what I say, or just hear what you want to hear?”

  That stung. “Of course I listen to you!” Rhyen exclaimed indignantly.

  “Then prove it—what have I taught you about magic so far?”

  Nothing, Rhyen thought to himself. Outwardly, he dutifully recited, “It’s not the words that matter, you just use them to help you focus. It is the meaning behind the words that get the magic to do what you want it to do.”

  Rhyen let his own words sink in. “Hang on, you said that the right words help you concentrate, right?” he paused, thinking. When he said the word fly, he pictured on the canvas of his mind birds soaring through the air, their wings beating against the wind. Certainly he didn’t think of a leaf flying. No, when he pictured a leaf in the air, he saw it lazily drifting any which way the wind took it. “What word describes that?” he murmured.

  Cazing said nothing, but watched him closely. Rhyen stood there, brow furrowed for some minutes. Finally he laughed. “Of course! ‘Float’… the right word is ‘float’.”

  Cazing smiled with pride. “Is it now? Try and see.”

  Rhyen confidently looked at the leaf. He took a deep breath. Float, he thought, imagining the leaf floating in the air. He knew the word was the right one, because he felt the magic move through him. It was an indescribably pleasant feeling, very soft, as though echoing from the remote corners of his mind. He couldn’t recognize ever having felt that before, but knew instinctively that it was the magic. Bolstered by the feeling, he continued to stare at the leaf, and, with his will focused, softly commanded, “float.”

  The leaf twitched. One side lifted up, followed by the other, as though it was climbing higher and higher through the air. Rhyen started laughing. He was doing it—he was truly wielding magic. But as he thought this, the leaf shuddered and fell.

  Rhyen stared at it with dismay. He looked around at Cazing. “What happened?”

  Cazing shrugged. “You lost focus.”

  Rhyen looked determinedly back at the leaf. “I’m going to try again.”

  He tried to picture the leaf floating again, drifting through the air. The magic that had run through him earlier left him feeling charged and sure, and Rhyen was eager to do it a second time. “Float!” he said confidently.

  But the leaf remained motionless. Rhyen tilted his head, confused. “Float!” he commanded again, slightly less sure of himself. Nothing happened.

  “What the hell?” he muttered. “Float! Float! FLOAT!” he shouted. The leaf continued to sit unmoving on the grass.

  “Master, what’s going on?” Rhyen said in frustration, turning on his heel to
ward Cazing. “I know that’s the right word, so why isn’t it working?”

  Cazing put a calming hand on Rhyen’s shoulder. He sucked on his pipe for a moment, then released a stream of smoke in one deep, steady breath. Cazing took another long pull from his pipe, held it in for a second, then released the smoke as he exhaled slowly. As always, the effect was soothing to Rhyen, and he felt his frustrations dissipate somewhat.

  “Rhyen,” Cazing finally said, “In order to do magic, you need a few things. Think of it like cooking: To make stew you need ingredients, right? Well, to wield magic, you need ingredients too. The first, as you’ve already learned, is the right word or words to help you focus. Now you must learn the second ingredient.”

  Cazing paused, and returned to his pipe. He chewed on it, inhaled, held it for just a few seconds, and released the smoke in one long breath. He did it again. Rhyen watched him. After a few more breaths, Rhyen felt an overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. Or clobber his teacher over the head. He settled for prompting his master. “So what is the second ingredient?” He worked to keep the frustration out of his voice.

  “A clear head,” Cazing replied, breathing in his tobacco and closing his eyes. “Or an empty mind, if you like.”

  “But I thought you had to focus on the words?”

  “You have been listening,” said Cazing dryly. “But that should be the only thing you focus on. If you fill your mind with other matters, it will be too cluttered to direct the magic.”

  He breathed in again, and after a moment he exhaled. “See?”

  Rhyen thought. “Is that why you’re making such a show over your pipe, sir?”

  Cazing laughed. “You’ve caught on, then?”

  “You’re kind of obvious.”

  “Really?” Cazing asked, amused, his eyebrows raised. “I’m glad nothing escapes you.”

  “So that’s how you do it,” Rhyen said, working it out. “You do something that calms you down, like smoking, and once your mind is clear, you concentrate on the words?”

  Cazing rolled his eyes. Rhyen corrected himself. “Sorry. After you clear your mind, you concentrate on the meaning, or the action, that you want the magic to do. You just use the words to help focus. Right?”

  Cazing nodded, and rummaged in his satchel for some more pipe weed. He filled his bowl and relit. Rhyen was deep in thought. What thoughts would clear his head? It seemed like even the smallest thoughts he had led to more and more still. And the more he tried to clear his head, the harder it became, as thoughts flooded him. He tossed his head, as though he could shake the thoughts away. When they lingered, he concentrated all the harder, and the result was an explosive headache creeping in from his temple. He pressed a few fingers against it and stared murderously at Cazing, who ignored him. Why wasn’t he offering any help?

  “So, what? Should I take up smoking?” Rhyen eventually hissed. He had never been so irritated in all his life. He wanted to learn wielding more than anything, yet here he was, thwarted by his own mind’s lack of discipline. And his teacher was idly puffing away to his heart’s content, offering no help at all. Rhyen discovered he was angry.

  Cazing’s expression indicated that he knew exactly what Rhyen was thinking. But in a light voice he replied, “I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m pretty sure I consume all the tobacco we can get from Avernade all by myself anyway, and I’m not planning on sharing any with you.”

  Rhyen clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. Empty, empty, empty, he recited to himself, trying to push away all the pesky thoughts that were crowding his mind and preventing his wielding. His anger rose. Rhyen surprised himself by the strength of his anger. Usually he was a calm sort of person, and a compassionate one, yet here he was, madder than a hornet. The rage was nipping at his mind, frothing to a boil, and despite the chill of the winter day, he began to sweat with the effort of keeping it at bay. He tried to ignore his emotions and clear his head.

  “Do you feel the madness?” Cazing quietly asked him. Rhyen opened his eyes in surprise. His master was watching him closely.

  “Yes,” he breathed, shocked. Madness. That is exactly what it was—he had thought it was anger, but now hearing the word he could feel the unbalanced lunacy of his emotions. Rhyen was shaking from suppressing the emotions that were threatening to overtake and unbalance him.

  Cazing nodded sadly. “That’s the magic. It is the Opposite of you, and, if you are not careful, it will unbalance you. That is why so many wielders go bad. What do you feel, Rhyen?”

  “I... I feel… rage. Anger.” Rhyen closed his eyes again. “Hatred.”

  “I thought as much,” Cazing quietly confirmed. “What you feel is your Opposite. Everything, Rhyen, is balanced—in life, in death, in your mind—and magic is the pinnacle, but also the undoing, of that balance. It is the Opposite of you. If you let it overtake you, it will change you. You will not be the same.” His face looked drawn with worry. “Don’t let it consume you, Rhyen.”

  Rhyen wrenched his eyes open and stared mutinously at his teacher. “Consume me?” He laughed. His voice sounded foreign, like it belonged to a stranger. “How could I possibly stop it? It’s all I feel.”

  His master shook his head vigorously. “No! It’s all you feel now, but it’s not all you’ll ever feel. It is always worse when you can’t focus.”

  Rhyen tilted his head. “Why?” he asked through clenched teeth. Rage was still boiling within him, but with all his might he tried to push it aside.

  Cazing blinked. “Because it’s frustrating to know you can do something and be unable to do it.”

  “No! I meant, why does this madness accompany magic wielding?”

  “Ah,” Cazing threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I can only guess.”

  “And what is your guess?” Rhyen felt very strange. Most of him was enraged, and from an anger that welled deep inside of him, but it was as though the anger did not belong to him. It was ever so slightly better now that he was trying to ignore it, but still more terrible than anything Rhyen could have imagined. It was like the anger—his Opposite, as Cazing had called it—had a mind of it’s own, sinister and separate from Rhyen.

  Cazing ran a hand threw his hair, thinking. His hand strayed to his tobacco tin seemingly of it’s own accord. Rhyen thought it must be a habit so deeply ingrained that Cazing’s body filled and lit his pipe before his brain even thought about smoking. Finally Cazing spoke.

  “My guess is that, since magic was a gift given by the gods, humans really aren’t strong enough to carry it. Carry the magic, I mean. Humans were created without magic. It isn’t inherent to us, like it is to elves or dwarves. But, without it, humans were almost killed, because they were not strong enough to defend themselves. Which is why the gods gave magic to the select few humans, so they could even the odds between us and the other races and bring balance to the world before they left it. And it is passed down over tens of thousands of years, in their blood, in our blood. It balanced the world, but if we are not careful, magic can unbalance us.”

  Cazing frowned. “The madness, as we’re describing it, only feels crazy to you because it is your Opposite, the exact reverse of your true nature. Your Opposite is the magic’s way of balancing you—you are special by blood, a wielder, and the price of that is your Opposite. But if it is not contained, it will unhinge you.” He sighed sadly. “I’m sorry, Rhyen. I am. But you’ve purposely done magic now, and you’ve opened that channel. The madness will always be there, from now on. It is your Opposite, and it will ever shadow you.”

  Rhyen looked down. Cazing surveyed him with pity in his face. “It does get better. I promise you that.” He grasped Rhyen’s shoulder for a brief moment. His apprentice nodded.

  “Do you feel anger?” Rhyen asked in a low, carefully controlled voice. His hands were balled into fists, and he was still working to master his emotions.

  Cazing was quiet for a long momen
t. At last he said, “I feel my Opposite.”

  Rhyen exhaled sharply. “That is not what I asked.” The rage had flared up again.

  “I know.” Cazing admitted slowly, as though he was choosing his words carefully. “But I do not wish to say what I feel. Not now. Someday, perhaps, but not now.” Rhyen looked away, his jaw clenched.

  “I’m going home now,” Cazing said gently. “When you’ve cleared your head and conquered your emotions, float the leaf again. Then you come home too.”

  Rhyen looked up at Cazing, eyes distant and far away. The madness—his Opposite—was itching him, seething just below the surface. Rhyen felt miserable and frightened. His home, Yla, seemed a million miles away. The future, and seemingly an endless one, stretched before Rhyen like a bleak storm. He’d had no idea that having magic would be such a burden, such a terrible weight. He’d felt so elated when he was able to purposefully fly the leaf earlier, but now the feeling of anger, so disconnected to him, ached inside him, and with the knowledge that he would outlive all his friends and loved ones, Rhyen understood what Cazing had said about magic being a curse. Yla was so far in the past that Rhyen could hardly recall such a place even existed, and the faces of his family were blurred in his memory and unrecognizable. Perhaps it was better that way, better to forget them now, before they died and left him alone. He had no home now. Rhyen was painfully aware of just how few people could ever understand what he was going through—it really was just him, him and Cazing, apart from the rest of the world. His fears, his weakness, his trepidation, and his wrath shone in his eyes as he fixed them upon his master, but he saw understanding reflected in Cazing’s. “Home?” Rhyen whispered.

  “Home,” Cazing repeated. “The Tower. I’ll be waiting for you, Rhyen. You come home.” He was holding Rhyen’s shoulder so tightly it stung. Cazing continued to stare intently at his apprentice. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Okay,” Rhyen said finally. His voice didn’t sound like his own.