Nearing the final form, he prepared himself for the moment when he went blind. For reasons he still did not understand, when he shifted, his sight did not slide from his prime form’s vision to the animal’s like the rest of his senses. Instead, after a brief moment of blindness, the world popped into view through the eyes of his new form. It was an extremely vulnerable moment.
Each animal’s vision was unique. His lynx and wolfhound forms saw everything in muted colors and he had difficulty distinguishing between reds, greens, and yellows. The Cartusian golden bear had problems seeing great distances. Nearly all of the animal forms could see well at night.
The moment of blindness came and went. The shift was complete.
He sat on his haunches, twitching his short, stubby tail, watching the three children through the eyes of a lynx. The trio remained motionless and silent, staring at him.
As was to be expected, Nikalys was only mildly surprised. He had seen the shift before, albeit in the opposite direction. Kenders eyed him guardedly, her face a mixture of worry, wonder, and a hint of curiosity. Jak simply gaped, his mouth parted slightly and eyes wide.
Broedi expected the palpable odor of fear to seep from the young man but he caught nary a whiff. He watched closely, wanting to be sure to catch the first emotion Jak experienced beyond blind astonishment. It would tell him a lot about the young man.
After a few moments, Jak’s eyes narrowed some and his mouth closed, the corners curling up ever so slightly.
It was Broedi’s turn to be taken aback. Of all the possible reactions Jak could have had, he appeared to be amused.
Broedi waited patiently. Someone had to say something and it was not going to be him. For all of the fantastic abilities he gained while in the form of an animal, he also suffered the limitations. And a lynx could not talk.
Jak finally broke the silence, muttering, “So that’s how you fought off the wolves. You’re a Shapechanger. A very big Shapechanger.”
Kenders lifted her arms, pointing to the red spots along her arm. “He helped with our injuries, too. These used to be fingerprick punctures.”
Jak glanced at her arms. His eyes were alert and wide. “How’d you get those?”
Without pause, Kenders lied, “We tried to run from the wolves, tripped and fell into the bushes.”
Nikalys frowned, but did not contradict her. Neither seemed to want Jak to know what she was. Broedi wondered how long they were going to be able to keep it from him.
After a few more moments of quiet, Jak looked back to Broedi. “Alright. You can come.”
Broedi was surprised. He had expected more discussion on the matter. A moment later, he got it.
Turning on his brother, Nikalys exclaimed, “Are you mad? He’s a blasted mage!”
Kenders glared at Nikalys, evidently taking exception to his tone.
Jak’s gaze never left Broedi, though, so he missed her consternation. In a surprisingly even tone, he said, “I don’t care right now. If the wolves show again, I’d rather have him here than not. If we send him away and they come back, what then?” He glanced at his brother. “Remember what Widow John’s husband looked like when they found him, Nik? His throat was gone. I like my throat. You?”
Frowning, Nikalys grudgingly muttered, “Fine.”
Jak looked to Kenders. “And you’re fine with this?”
Kenders nodded while staring at Broedi with clear trepidation. “I think so.”
With an air of finality, Jak said, “It’s settled, then.” He stared into the lynx’s eyes. “Broedi comes with us.” He frowned and added, “For now.”
Broedi was content. It was a start.
Chapter 16: Student
12th of the Turn of Sutri
A shaft of sunlight broke through the bulky gray clouds, shining down to illuminate the galley’s sails billowing in the stiff wind. A short, mid-morning squall had pushed through earlier, leaving a wet deck before slowly marching northwest over Outlaw Sea.
Nundle Babblebrook stood on that wet deck, staring upward, examining the masts. The main post held three wide yardarms and two sets of square sails, one of which had the blue symbol of the Academy at Immylla on it. Drafting at only thirteen feet, the galley was a coastal ship, one meant to stay within sight of shore. Nundle was grateful for that tiny blessing.
Discovering that his nausea was worse when he stared upward, Nundle pulled his gaze from the sails and tried peering down at his sandals instead. It did not help. Ship and sea were conspiring against him, refusing to hold still. His stomach lurched with each roll. He loathed boats.
During his oversea journey to the Arcane Republic, he had sworn that once he reached land he would never set foot on a ship again. When he had made the seasickness-inspired oath, the semester he would need to spend studying Strands of Water had seemed a lifetime away. The time had come, though, and now the tomble was standing on the deck of another blasted ship.
Prior to leaving home, Nundle had felt confident in his decision to travel to the Arcane Republic, the nation that housed the greatest magical universities and colleges in all of Terrene. Then he had looked at a map. There were a few places throughout Terrene further from Deepwell than the Arcane Republic, but not many. Yet, he had already made up his mind
His family and friends did not understand what he was doing or know where he was going. He kept things a secret for good reason. All they knew was that Nundle was giving up more than seemed sensible. The tomble had left behind one of the most successful mercantile enterprises in the Five Boroughs.
Years ago, he had inherited his great-uncle’s thriving business and promptly went about inadvertently ruining it. In a few short years, he had managed to whittle the once great company down to a single stall in the Deepwell market.
One day—on the brink of failure—he had been negotiating with a Cartusian trader over a shipment of Sweetbush smoking-leaf. As usual, the give and take was mostly Nundle giving and the other merchant taking. Nundle had grown upset, stared at the man, silently willing him to accept his offered price.
When he saw bright, golden strings suddenly dancing before him, he thought he had gone mad. He flailed about, accidently arranging the golden threads into a pattern. Panicking, he flung the knitting of gold away and into the longleg where it disappeared. When negotiations resumed, Nundle was shocked when the longleg stopped haggling and gave Nundle his asking price.
That was the beginning of Master Merchant Nundle Babblebrook of Deepwell, one of the most respected and successful traders in the Five Boroughs. He never used what he called ‘twisting the strings’ to ruin another dealer or take advantage of anyone. Nundle just tilted the scales in his direction.
While he rebuilt and expanded his great-uncle’s trading empire with help from his secret trick, he began a discrete search for more information on what he was experiencing. Some tombles were practitioners of magic, but society treated them as outcasts. He worked at collecting old books and texts whose subjects focused on magic, gathering an impressive private collection on the details of the Strands, as they were called.
Unfortunately, the books focused on the theory behind what the Strands were. They were of little help in teaching him how to use them. The consensus seemed to be that the best place to learn the craft was the Strand Academies in the Arcane Republic. Nine different schools were spread throughout the nation, each with a singular focus on a specific type of Strand.
He sold off controlling interest in his business and traveled to the Arcane Republic, traveling through the principals of Gobberdale, Sweetbush, and Alewold before crossing into the ijulan nation of Jularrn where he stopped for a week and visited with a saeljulan friend, Lynnya.
Lynnya had tried to convince Nundle to turn around and return home, warning him of the excessive discrimination he would face in the Arcane Republic. The dual-island nation had been founded by three races—longlegs, saeljul, and divina—and had low opinions of anyone not of the nation.
Each race controlled the
ir own state, but together they were a nation dedicated to the study of magic. A government was established and run by members of academia—no kings, queens, dukes, duchesses, elder councils, bureaucrats or any other type of political structure that would get in the way of learning about the Strands.
Nundle’s desire to learn was too strong to let this new information dissuade him. When Lynnya had seen that her friend was determined, she gave him the name of an old acquaintance of hers who could help him gain entrance into the Academies. While open to all citizens of the republic, a non-citizen needed sponsorship by a preceptor or a government official.
Nundle had thanked Lynnya and continued south.
He had traveled through slate gray mountains, crossed into the nation of Yut, skirting the eastern edges of the Great Shakti Desert. Prior to leaving, Nundle had read about deserts, but before Yut, he had never seen one. After the weeks spent in the Great Shakti, he decided he did not ever want to see another.
In the port of Yusi, he secured passage on the Bhika’s Maiden, a trading ship headed to the City of the Strands. They were taking pigs and goats to sell and were going to purchase magical artifices.
Nundle wondered if his hatred for the sea came from the constant rolling and pitching he endured while on the ship, or from being cooped up on a ship full of pigs and goats for three weeks. The winds had been nearly non-existent—common for the time of year, according to the captain—resulting in both a longer voyage and a stench that had seeped into Nundle’s soul.
As Bhika’s Maiden approached the City of the Strands, Nundle had stared, flabbergasted by the nine twisting spires that stretched into the sky, reflecting the day’s sunlight, sparkling and glowing with the hues of the Strands they represented. Beneath the towers sprawled an enormous city of columned buildings topped with sweeping domes of marble and granite.
His meeting with Lynnya’s contact had been underwhelming and short. The ancient, white-haired saeljul had smirked at him and immediately named a price for sponsorship. It was a hefty sum, but Nundle had it and plenty more. He had carried a weighty purse with him on his journey without fear of robbery. As he could bend the will of those around him, brigands would find targeting him a mistake.
For the most part, Nundle enjoyed his studies. He had traveled to the longlegs’ Academy in Golden City first where he spent six turns further exploring the properties and capabilities of the Strands of Will. Nundle had excelled in his time there, actually earning praise from the preceptors, though it was begrudgingly given to a ‘mainlander.’ When he moved on to the other Academies, his studies became much more difficult.
Nundle had success working with the Strands for Life, Charge, and even Air, but Fire, Stone, and Soul were untouchable to him. Those semesters he studied a Strand to which he was deaf were terribly frustrating. He spent most of his time reading and studying while watching others excel.
A turn ago, Nundle had come to Immylla to begin his semester focusing on Strands of Water. Like every other class he had taken, this one included nine acolytes, a tradition based on the fact there were nine types of Strands. This class was made up entirely of Arcane Republic citizens, all of whom had a low opinion of their mainlander classmate.
One in particular, a female saeljuli named Landor, was making Nundle’s life difficult at every turn. The pair had studied together at Golden City when Nundle had excelled at weaving Will. Landor had been deaf to the honey-colored strings and had not hidden her frustration that a mainlander in his first semester had outshone her. She had spent the first turn here at Immylla doing her best to turn the rest of the class against Nundle.
However, even Landor was tolerable compared to the preceptor.
Nundle had decided that Preceptor Myrr was one of the most unpleasant people he had ever met. The saeljul was constantly on edge. At least thrice a day, Nundle wondered why the preceptor did not simply stop teaching. Most of the time, Preceptor Myrr’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. Often during lessons, the ijul would stand, staring at nothing for long periods in perfect silence.
Now was such a time.
Preceptor Myrr had been leaning on the deck’s railings for some time now, staring at the sea. Nundle had given up waiting for the saeljul to resume talking, hoping the preceptor might stay quiet until it was time to return to shore. Today’s lesson on Water Strands was not going well and he wanted it over with.
“Perhaps our tiny mainlander would like to try now.”
The words cut into Nundle’s quiet and caused him to look up from his sandals, nearly spraining his neck in the process. The steady breeze leftover from the squall blew his shaggy, bright red hair into his face. He reached up with his left hand and pulled back his hair, holding it in place.
Nine pairs of eyes were on him, eight of which he did not care about. Even the strange iris-less eyes of the divina.
With great reluctance, Nundle regarded his teacher.
Preceptor Myrr was a full two inches over six feet, twice as tall as Nundle himself. Like all ijul, his features seemed stretched out. His face and nose were elongated, lips and eyes much wider than longleg or tomble. Long, willowy arms hung at his sides, reaching several inches lower than seemed normal for his body. His hair was straight and blond, white in the sunlight. Most of it hung past his shoulders, but the sides were pulled back, held in place by a crimson red cord that matched his robes.
Typically, preceptors wore robes that matched the shade of the Strand taught at their academy. When Nundle had arrived at Immylla, he had been greeted by yard full of blue preceptors, gray acolytes, and a lone red-robed figure.
“So, mainlander,” muttered Preceptor Myrr. “Will you try or not?”
The question was a holdover from earlier in today’s lesson. One Nundle had hope he would not need to answer again. Sighing, he replied in his normal, high-pitched voice.
“No, sir. I think I’ll just wait here until class is over, thank you.”
He would venture nothing more. Things went best when the students said the least.
Preceptor Myrr eyed Nundle, sighed, and turned away. Placing both hands on the railing, the ijul stared back out over the sea. The elongated fingers—they reminded Nundle of spider’s legs—wrapped around the wood and squeezed.
The preceptor remained quiet for a long enough time that Nundle hoped that would be the end of it.
The acolytes waited patiently, silently.
After a time, the quiet got to Nundle and he began to look around, staring about the boat again. His gaze fell upon the stairs that ran up to the deck in the back of the boat. He wondered if those had a special term, too. It baffled him that everything on a ship had a different name than it did on land. Nundle did not know his fore from aft or port from starboard. Nor did he care. The ocean was for fish. Not tombles.
“Mainlander?”
Nundle turned back to find the preceptor staring at him.
“This is your last chance.”
Nundle winced inwardly, wondering what the preceptor expected from him. Asking Nundle to try to touch Strands of Water was akin to asking a trout to fly.
Today’s lesson had been a disaster up to this point. They were supposed to be working on a pattern of Water Strands that would bind liquid water together into a hard surface. When the preceptor told them to think of it as making ice without the cold, Nundle had made the mistake of asking why they just did not make ice. The resulting glare from his teacher certainly was cold enough to attempt the feat.
To demonstrate the pattern, Preceptor Myrr had ordered the gangplank lowered to the ocean’s surface, walked down, and stepped straight onto the water. Three feet around him, the sea’s undulation ceased. The little waves frozen in place looked like those in seascape paintings.
The preceptor explained how the pattern was crafted and what it looked like, describing the requisite loops and hooks necessary in the Weave. The acolytes who had an affinity for Strands of Water were able to see the Weave while those that could not—Nundle included—were l
eft standing around, staring at the ocean.
All four saeljuli in the class had easily grasped the lesson and joined the preceptor on the water. Smirking, Landor had extended the area of hard water a solid ten feet around her. Neither divina had been able to weave the pattern effectively and both fell into the sea, quickly lifting themselves back out with a Weave of Air. One of the longlegs had joined the divina in their impromptu swim while the other had made a mistake in the pattern, resulting in a geyser of water shooting him thirty feet into the air.
When it had been Nundle’s turn, he had simply refused to try. There was no point. Since arriving at Immylla, he had not sensed the tiniest flicker of blue. When it came to Strands of Water, he was deaf and mute.
It was not unusual by any means. Most mages showed proficiency with only two, sometimes three or four types of Strands. It was rare when one could effectively use five. After eight different academies, Nundle could touch four types of Strands. He was proud of that accomplishment. If he could not work with Water, so be it.
His original refusal had prompted the preceptor’s long period of quiet. Nundle hoped a second refusal would do the same even though he sorely doubted it.
“Still?” muttered Preceptor Myrr. “You still will not try?”
With the eyes of the entire class on him, Nundle answered, “No, Preceptor, I will not.”
The longleg who had shot himself into the air earlier audibly gasped at Nundle’s defiance.
“I see,” said Preceptor Myrr. Folding his arms behind him, he took a step closer to Nundle. “Have you ever heard of the needleteeth shark?”
Nundle’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
“No, sir.”
Nodding at the ocean, the preceptor said, “These shoals are infested with them. They aren’t very large, only two feet or so, but they have these long, spiny teeth with barbs at the end. When they bite you—and they will bite you—their teeth break off in your flesh. That in and of itself would be painful enough, but that is not the end of it. The teeth slowly secrete a poison, paralyzing you within a few breaths. And while you are unable to move, you remain entirely aware. That’s when the sharks start to nibble away at you. Death is a race between being eaten alive and drowning.”
Progeny (The Children of the White Lions) Page 15
