by JD Hart
They walked the remaining hundred paces in silence, neither willing to break the tranquility. Conner ached to tell her of his acceptance into the Apothecaries Guild. But he might as well inform the town crier as say one word to Pattria. After the two reached the Morelace home, Conner waited until Pattria was inside, climbing the narrow stairs to the brightly lit rooms above her father’s grocery, before turning back toward the inn.
He found Pauli impatiently waiting outside Estora’s, and the two started north with Erebus lighting the dark road before them. Once out of town, talk about the evening became banter, and soon they were playing a game they had invented years before called Name Your Bond. In this game, one declared what kind of bond the other would get based on their behavior that day.
Conner considered how Pauli had behaved that morning leaving Karlana’s home. He cringed and squeaked, “Mouse.”
This got him a scathing look. Pauli responded, “Sheep.”
Conner glared back. Pauli was not far from the mark. He could be timid when confronted with conflict. The image of Pauli pressing his barrel chest into Judston’s came to him. Like so many times before, Pauli had come to Conner’s defense. Conner couldn’t resist the reminder. “Badger.”
Pauli grunted at Conner’s futile attempt to rebuke his aggressiveness. Pauli knew his guardian tendencies infuriated Conner, but coming to his friend’s rescue was as innate as eating. Clasping his palms together, Pauli pressed the outside of his left hand to his right cheek. Then, looking skyward, he fluttered his eyes and sighed sweetly, “Turtle dove.”
The reference to Conner’s affection for Pattria was just the excuse Conner had been waiting for. He leaped upon Pauli’s back and battered the bigger boy with a series of pelts sure to leave him completely unharmed.
Untethered
The warbling chatter of a nightingale singing merrily in a pine outside the bedchamber pierced Conner’s ears long before he dared open his eyes. Tan chiffon curtains in the window fluttered in the warm breeze. Hemera’s light, having made its morning path across his bed, warmed his legs beneath the light sheets. By this time on most days, the eastern plot would have been hoed and watered. But this morning, more than a week after his first pre-bonders’ meeting, was his chance to sleep late. And he was ready to take full advantage of it—until the tantalizing aroma of fresh-baked rolls and eggs frying in butter convinced him otherwise.
Unable to take his stomach’s protests any longer, he stretched away the night’s stiffness and dressed. A quick detour to the washroom brought the gentle sounds of his father humming “Darling, I Love You, But What’s For Dinner” through the open window as he worked a hoe through the dirt behind the house. Letting his large nose lead the way, Conner stumbled downstairs to the kitchen where he found a steaming plate of food waiting on the table.
Conner used to wonder how his cunning mother always knew precisely when to have his breakfast ready. He fantasized she was a mysterious Mystic with powers of clairvoyance. But sixteen years in the Stonefield home had been long enough to acquire an understanding of her secrets. Conner pinched off a corner of a steaming roll. Ignatius, Oshan’s personal spy, bounded across the table and greedily removed the crumb from between his fingers. The chipmunk shoved the crumb into his pouch, then joyfully squeaked his appreciation.
The Calling came on to Conner without warning.
It began as a strange sensation flowing through him, as if someone were pouring cold water down his back on a hot summer’s day. He bolted upright, his spine arching forward. Every muscle in his body quivered uncontrollably to the point of convulsing.
“Do be careful, Conner, and don’t burn your mouth,” Oshan cautioned as she scrubbed the iron stove. “The rolls are fresh from the oven.”
Several moments passed before Conner could breathe. His muscles quivered. His nerves vibrated as tremors oscillated up and down his body. And beneath these tremors was a wrenching pull at his mind, as if he were being drawn toward the intense heat of a raging, distant fire. Whenever he focused on the tugging, his attention turned to the northwest. The sensation was so powerful and clear, he was certain that if he were blindfolded and spun in a circle until dizzy, he could still point to that fire.
He rose, unable to think of anything meaningful to say. The resonating sensations consumed all his attention, making rational thought elusive. He shuffled out onto the front porch. Fresh air peeled away some of the queasiness, though the tension was still there. As if for the first time, Conner noticed the tall oaks and pines growing sparsely between the house and road, swaying and creaking in the warm breeze. A few dozen blackbirds winged swiftly overhead in a bright blue sky holding but a few fluffy, white clouds. Yet despite this heightened awareness of his surroundings, Conner’s thoughts never wavered from the northwestern horizon.
Oshan appeared at his back. “Conner, what ...?” But with one glance, her expression softened. She gently patted his shoulder. “I will get your father to pack your things. You’ll want to leave straightaway.”
The next hour was a blur. Conner alternated through a series of peaks and valleys, first hot then cold, from raw intensity to numbness. He only partially recalled his mother coaxing him back inside to eat his plate of eggs. His father was there, speaking to him about the supplies he would need, then was gone. His mother appeared again, smiling as always, reassuring him that the feeling would soon pass. Later, he felt something small and soft on his forearm. He looked down. Concern darkened Notorius’s otherwise mischievous face as the raccoon lightly patted Conner’s arm, chattering something important Conner should know. At last, Conner’s smile satisfied the raccoon enough that she stopped her incessant pacing along the stone wall.
Conner leaned forward, his arms locked, head bowed to fight back his overwhelming sense of urgency. Focusing his attention on his surroundings helped clear away the fog. And though he felt edgy, the physical world was starting to shift back into focus. Soon, he was feeling his normal self—except for the constant distraction of the raging bonfire in the distance.
The next time the front door opened, his parents appeared with arms full of supplies. His father carried the deerskin pack he had made for Conner’s bonding trek. Anton clasped his hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you back. I packed you one extra set of clothing. There’s enough food and water there to last a week. I hope that will be enough.” He stepped back with a smile, hand slipping hesitantly from Conner’s shoulder.
His mother stepped closer and pressed a small leather purse into his palm. “Take this in case of an emergency.”
Conner pulled at the leather strings woven around the purse’s lip and counted forty coins inside. He started to refuse the offer, but Oshan was prepared for such a response. She placed her steady hands around his, giving him a stern look. The coins were not open for discussion.
Conner hesitated. There was something different about his parents. Since Cronoans first set foot on this land, the Calling had signified the coming of age. The trek to find one’s bond was the journey of self-discovery each must take to better understand the Cosmos and his or her place in it, a necessary rite of passage into adulthood. It was celebrated for the anticipation of what was about to be gained, not mourned for what was being lost.
He needed them to believe he was ready, that he would return to shoulder his responsibilities as a guildsman’s apprentice. He squeezed his mother’s hand, then pushed the bulging purse into his pocket.
Shouldering the heavy pack, he started toward the stone wall, leaving his parents standing arm in arm on the porch. Every beginning starts with an ending. One must be ready to let go of the old before the new can be embraced. It was one of Karlana’s fondest sayings. Whatever waited, Conner had spent his life in preparation for this moment. He stepped through the iron gate, ignoring its objecting groan. Then, with a light step and the burning fire’s relentless tug, he started north along the road.
Part II
Just as a Being’s life is but a phas
e in one’s existence, so too is life a series of many births. Lives, birthdays, sunrises, even heartbeats mark beginnings along a timeline of different scales. One’s lack of mindfulness does not make this simple truth less compelling. It only marks the Being’s loss in not seeing the Cosmic opportunities waiting with the next breath.
—The Modei Book of Fire (First Book)
Cravenrock
Conner had always heard Cravenrock to be a big, dirty, bustling city, but as he stood atop a hill to the southeast, he considered that maybe all of that had been drastically understated. His imagination of the sheer size of the city did nothing to prepare him for what he beheld. Linkenton Point was the largest community he had visited. But Cravenrock made that town look like a village. And most disconcerting of all was that he could not recall ever hearing anything good about this place.
Situated in the rugged northern region of the Narwalen Plains, Cravenrock was the hub of life for three types of people. The first, and by far the greatest in number, were the transients. These included a boundless variety of adventurers, mountainmen, trappers, miners, drifters, gypsies, and explorers who visited the city to trade their goods and stories for food, supplies, and, on occasion, a good time. Transients stayed in the city until they tired of the crowds—not because the city was crowded, which it was, but because inevitably crowds made communities, communities made Realms, Realms made laws, and laws were too confining. Most discovered quickly that overstaying their welcome resulted in being imprisoned ... or worse. The second were the settlers, mostly merchants and traders, who made their living, directly and indirectly, off the transients, though few willingly admitted to this. And the third were those stuck in limbo somewhere between the transients and valued members of the community—namely charlatans, cutthroats, thieves, and marauders. Yet, while this type kept a considerable number of city folk employed as guardsmen, the criminals were not what most transients and settlers had on their minds when it came to safety. Most were concerned that the northern Borderlands ran east to west seventy miles north of the city.
Cravenrock had thrived for six hundred years because of a number of defenses against Anarchist attack. First, the massive Dragon’s Back Mountain Range ran from the northeast to the southwest between the city and the Borderlands, forming a natural barrier for the entire region. Next were four hills surrounding the city, creating an impediment to attacking forces. Watchtowers rose high atop every hill, manned by city guardsmen who scanned the plains for potential threats. Then, there was the dark stone wall ten paces high surrounding the city. And if an invading force were successful in fording the massive mountain range with their war machines, braving a long charge up the hills under a hail of arrows, and scaling the city walls, it would still have to contend with Cravenrock Keep.
The keep was a tall, single tower constructed against the eastern city walls. Built by masters of the Masons Guild shortly after the city wall was completed, the keep had walls similar to those of the city. Griffinrock maintained a full garrison of forces in the keep, including a strong contingent of ordermen, mostly Warriors, and Queen’s Defenders who patrolled the northeast plains, providing safe passage for travelers through the region.
Conner turned and scanned the wide dirt road winding down the sloping hill behind him and across the plains to the southeast. It beckoned him to return. Two days out and already he missed the comforts of home.
But the subtle, relentless tugging at his mind brought him back. His eyes darted to the northwest, and to the formidable dark city sprawled before him. The heat was already building, and the early morning shadow of the southeast watchtower offered little relief. Conner had tarried long enough. He would purchase a few supplies in the city and maybe get a decent meal before moving on. He dug deep to find the courage to take his first step along the last mile to Cravenrock’s southern gate.
As Conner walked, a line of heavy covered wagons, each pulled by a team of four horses, appeared through massive gates along the southern wall. The lead wagon came to a split in the road then rolled west, ambling away along the only other route out of the valley. By the time Conner reached the city gates, the wagons had disappeared over the ridge that split the western watchtowers, along with a small company of Queen’s Defenders.
Dust from the wagons hung in the air as Conner walked through the gates. Several city guardsmen stood at ease with their bonds inside the entrance, out of Hemera’s heat. A dozen more strolled along the top of the wall, occasionally glancing through embrasures at those passing below. None seemed interested in him, nor anyone else for that matter, so he stepped into the cool shadow of the gate. A sudden rush of excitement flowed through him as he gazed at his first city.
Conner dawdled near an open dirt courtyard extending fifty paces to the north of the gates and nearly half that distance east and west. Except for a few city folk, their bonds, and an occasional patch of hardy grass, the courtyard was barren, so Conner assumed the space had been designed as a staging area to organize large fighting forces before taking to the plains for battle. On the other side of the courtyard was a well, where Conner found a bucket of fresh water. After splashing water over his neck, he surveyed the busy city farther to the north.
Tall, old buildings leaned precariously into narrow cobblestone streets filled with frowning people jostling in every direction. At one time, the buildings had been painted white to reflect the heat like those in Linkenton Point, but here the worn paint had flaked away, exposing the dirty clay bricks beneath. All the roofs were poorly thatched in dried brown straw bundled tight with hemp. Many of the cobblestones were loose or worn with gaps, making walking difficult. Two deep depressions ran along each street, worn from centuries of heavy wagons squeezing between the buildings. Since all the streets looked the same, Conner chose the narrow one directly ahead. After a brief pause, he lurched forward in search of supplies.
Shortly, Conner entered into an open cobblestone courtyard with a thriving marketplace similar to the one in Creeg’s Point. He moved nimbly about the carts until he came upon a stocky fellow with thinning blond hair that reminded him of Pauli’s dad. The merchant seemed too busy to answer questions about the city, so Conner settled with purchasing several bread rolls, strips of dried beef, and hard-boiled eggs. Cradling his prizes, he moved on past the busy market until he came to a short brick wall. In the shade of a great oak, Conner sat on the wall and ate his food ravenously, watching the merchants barter their wares.
Marcantos’s Code
Long before Hemera rose, Grandmaster Warrior Marcantos Evinfaire was pacing the halls and corridors high in Cravenrock’s keep. He had awakened especially testy that morning. And breakfast had made him all the more irritable. Whenever Marcantos questioned his long-time preceptor, Grandmaster Blake Friarwood, as to why he had brought him to this Cosmos-forsaken armpit of the Harmonic Realms, Blake would reward him with dismissive grunts and cryptic comments such as, “We shall see.” Well, it had been more than a week, and his patience was wearing thin.
Piercing hazel eyes gazed at the large mass near his bed. Though unsettled thoughts had kept sleep away, his bond slept happily in the warm bedchamber. Nothing fazed the beast when it came to sleep.
Unable to stand the anxious tension, Marcantos went into the keep’s ward to practice a long series of Warrior forms called Fangs. “Ponther energi epithodigos,” he began by incanting the spell that would guide his blades in the forms’ intricate patterns of attack. In his mid-thirties, his sleek body glided through the forms, crisscrossing the empty ward in soft shoes and trousers, his upper body bare.
He liked the simplicity of this set of forms—the fluid shift from symmetric to asymmetric movements and back again as he drew upon the Water elemental, circular motion changing from thrusts to retreats as he directed the Air elemental. The forms forced him to focus on the basics—footwork, balance, breathing, relaxation. His twin blades whirled rhythmically. He had refused to learn Fangs using the normal, duller practice blades, so he bore sev
eral deep scars as reminders of his momentary mental lapses.
He finished the dozen forms just as the sky began to brighten. Using the new light, he inspected his arms for cuts, gratified to find none. He swiftly climbed the stairs from the ward to the keep’s eastern parapet, where Hemera was breaking through a few thin clouds along the horizon. Here, everything was basic, simple like Fangs, when the rest of his life was filled with senseless politics and the petty dealings of others. This was where he felt closest to his Harmonic existence—Hemera’s rise, the sounds of birds taking to the skies for their morning feast, life in an ever-flowing balance about him. The fireball rose a brilliant red, turning orange, then yellow. He closed his watery eyes, feeling Hemera’s rays warm his face.
Later that morning, Marcantos stared down from a west balcony of the keep’s tower, scraps of his forgotten morning meal on a table next to him. His dark hair, pulled back in typical Warrior style, was still damp from his ritual workout.
Heat boiled from the ward of Cravenrock Keep, making cheerful souls edgy, the optimistic depressed, and the disciplined inattentive to their work. The shadow of the eastern wall slowly descended the western wall, Hemera heating the keep’s dark stone to the temperature of an armorer’s forge. Guardsmen pacing the parapet shimmered in the dusty air. Occasionally, they paused to wipe sweat from brows, the scene playing out below a welcome distraction.
There, as on every morning for five hundred years, master Warriors instructed their apprentices in their order’s basic fighting style, as well as the other skills they would have to master before they could advance in rank and be entrusted with the wisdom of how to combine Air and Water, the elemental forces of the Warriors Order. Men had long since stripped to their waists; women down to tight, light colored tops so their shoulders and stomachs could breathe.
