The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  He knew inside that one way would be best for finesse and the other for quick action. He logged that away for use later.

  By the end of the day, Kyra was making him walk the feather around the room, going up and down, over the timbers and around the beams, through the hoops, and pegs that lined the building

  He had a raging headache when she finally let him stop.

  “Excellent job!” she said, smiling broadly. “You have made great progress today. I think we should try one more beginner exercise.”

  Grit slowly nodded his head, wincing against the pain.

  Kyra pulled out another bigger box and set it on the table. She opened it and showed Grit the small pinecone. She placed the pinecone into the small box and instructed him to repeat the same path as he had with the feather, but now with the bigger and heavier pinecone.

  At first, he couldn’t seem to lift it. It sat on the table and wobbled in the box. He kept adding streams. But it didn’t help. Then he remembered something she said about size. He had forgotten that. He thickened up the streams and the pinecone slowly wobbled up. It was extremely difficult for him to keep it steady. He was constantly adding and removing streams as fast as he could as the air wound past the porous cone.

  “Remember,” Kyra said. “All the streams can be different. Different sizes, different directions, different numbers of each.”

  It dawned on Grit how simplistic his weave was and he decided that since this was his last try, he would go all out. He wove large and small threads, as well as threads that pushed from all directions. Soon he had over twenty threads he was juggling and the pinecone was dead steady.

  He was sweating now, the effort of using so much magic was quite exhausting, not to mention that he wasn’t aware that his contact with the Zylliac through the Querd Medallion was weaker than normal. He struggled to maintain his focus while slowly walked the pinecone around the room. When he finally returned it to the box, he collapsed in a heavy sigh.

  “Outstanding job!” Your weaves are really improving,” Kyra said, giving him a big hug and a wet kiss. “We should go celebrate in the Gathering room and have our evening meal.”

  They picked up the box and the porcelain elf and placed them in their boxes. They walked down the trail toward the Gathering room. Grit’s legs were stiff from sitting most of the day, but by the time they had gotten to their destination, he had worked out all the kinks, and the headache that was bothering him was also gone.

  They entered the room and took up places next to Shar’ran. Kyra whispered in his ear, “Grit is a fast learner. He held the pinecone up and passed the testing of the verg’ren, first year students.”

  Shar’ran face couldn’t hide his pleasure at the news. Inside, he knew that Grit was far more than he seemed. What exactly that was, he wasn’t sure, but the signs were there. Until he was positive, he would keep his opinions to himself. He would observe and listen.

  Shar’ran toasted his accomplishment and his pronouncement raised an enthusiastic cascade of accolades from around the room. It seemed to Grit as though the elves were far more excited about his achievement than he was. It made him wonder why. Was it just such an insignificant thing to him that he wasn’t giving himself enough credit, or was his accomplishment really something unusual to be celebrated?

  Grit didn’t spend much time contemplating the answer; he was famished and reached eagerly, grabbing copious amounts of venison and roots for his plate. He took it a little easy on the elven wine though, having learned his lesson the day before.

  By the time dinner was done, Grit was bone weary. His day had been marked with all kinds of new experiences and his body and his mind were both dog-tired. He made it back to his room and collapsed on the bed. He was so exhausted, he didn’t even notice when he was joined by two of the young elven maids who had been flirting with him at dinner.

  The next day, when Grit awoke, he was in good spirits and enjoyed the company of the two maidens before the call to exercise. He couldn’t remember the last time he had woken up in the presence of a female, let alone two, or enjoyed kissing that much. Grit made sure that he remembered his bakree.

  He worked his way through the morning exercises and thoroughly enjoyed working with the dense oak staff. Today’s workout was different from the previous day and the addition of the staff brought him understanding of some of the previous day’s movements. The staff felt good in his hands, like it belonged there. His hands were big, and his fingers strong. He found that he could easily grip and twirl the staff with precision.

  Shar’ran watched Grit practice. He smiled to himself. Grit was using the staff in ways that weren’t learned or taught until after many years of training. He just seemed to come by the movements naturally. Shar’ran rubbed his chin. He carefully assessed the quality and force of the motions of the dance. His circle and jab were fair, but his downward block was excellent. He didn’t extend as far on his jab, but over extended in his counter and spin.

  Although Grit was not perfectly balanced and his form was slightly off, he found ways to compensate and to follow through. Shar’ran made a mental note to try adding in other fighting methods to the mix of the morning ritual. He wondered if Grit would do equally well with those. He was betting that he would.

  Grit thought he was getting healthier; at least he had a little color now. He could see the sun’s soft red burn on his skin. His body ached less, and he even imagined he was getting a little stronger. He wondered if it was being outdoors, the exercises, the food or just the overall environment that was helping. He smiled. It really didn’t matter. Although he was aching, he felt great. He was happy. Why look a gift horse in the mouth?

  He was reasonably pleased with his toil on the thin rice paper. He was no longer tearing it and felt he was nearly ready to be trained on the next lesson, which was learning proper balance and movement between the morning fighting poses. Kyra was tougher on him now, poking him with her staff and manhandling his knees and feet into their correct position. He had to acknowledge that she was a great teacher. The positions that she put him in no longer seemed foreign and he could actually sense the difference in his weight and balance when he got it right.

  He spent the rest of the day learning to control water. As it turns out, water is far more difficult than air. There was an additional component to water, which was its shape, be it ball, drop, or mist. Also, it wasn’t a solid, so the weaves needed to be tight or the water flowed out. He learned how to make big weaves that were very thin but would hold the water in place. He learned how to wrap the object in a weave. He was getting better at seeing the weaves and was quite proud that he could now copy some of Kyra’s more simple weaves.

  He looked forward to his lessons. Kyra had told him he was ready to learn to tie off a weave so that the spell would hold without interference. He had already imagined all kinds of ways that would prove useful.

  Later that day, Grit stepped through the elven attack form of Tou’laroudee, an intricate defense and counter against two attackers named after Shar’ran’s youngest son.

  His staff snapped into a position called ‘Climbing Tree’ as he leapt up in a sidekick, using the staff for added height and balance. He landed softly, and rotated on the ball of his foot before crouching and sweeping his other foot out wide under an imaginary foe, at the same time, he tucked his shaft under his arm in one fluid motion.

  He then sprung upright, into a ‘Cat’s Pounce,’ with a forward kick on completion of the turn. Quickly he retracted his leg to his knee, and he then threw the staff out in ‘Snake’s Bite’ almost without hesitation. The staff spun quickly around completely counter to his movement and momentum. He finished with an imaginary chest thrust and a spin-kick to an opponent’s knee, before a killing downward ‘Tiger’s Paw’ form garnished with a ‘Hook Fish’ and ‘Small Hoop’, both delicate staff movements that were designed to snap necks and crush skulls.

  When he finished, he looked for the approving nods from his teachers, Kyra and
X’all, who turned out to be the weapons master of the clan. Grit remembered meeting him when he was fished out of the lake and wondered how the diminutive man could have single-handedly dragged him from the water, let alone lifted him onto the high bank. Now, after fighting him in combat, he not only understood, but also was in full awe of the strength and power he wielded.

  Kyra was down on her knees examining the fine rice paper and X’all was deep in reflection on his execution of the form.

  “You did better this time,” Kyra said, smiling. “The paper is hardly torn and only the rotation spots and your staff plant show.”

  It had been two weeks since X’all had pulled him out of the lake, and Kyra was shocked at the progress he had made. He was routinely executing forms and weapons prowess of elves that had practiced for years. She grinned to herself. It seemed that Grit was a natural!

  She looked at him. He had been packing on lean muscle each day. It seemed to her that his body was responding to the food and work in ways she had not expected. She had heard him say that he actually felt healthier and his joints hadn’t been bothering him for at least two days.

  Grit was pleased with his performance. He examined the paper and listened to the criticism of X’all. With each critique, he became better. It seemed to him as if he had missed his calling in life. The words that X’all and Kyra said to him seemed to sink in and become part of his being. It was as if they were reminding him of things he had once known, but had somehow forgotten.

  “Your spin should have been faster, and your eyes gave away your movement’s intentions. You need to take care not to let your enemy know in advance what you intend to do,” he said, demonstrating the famous elven stare.

  “I will try to be half the elf that you are,” Grit replied, bowing deeply. This was a customary reply to make in respect for the weapons master offering corrections.

  X’all grunted, “We’ll see ...”

  Grit noticed that he was not winded even though this had been the seventh time in a row that he had done the form.

  “Again?” he asked.

  “Just the finish ...” X’all demanded.

  Grit jumped into the last part of the routine, beginning with the spin kick to the knee. He steeled his face and stared icily straight ahead as he finished the attack, relying on muscle memory and intuition to tell him where to be and how to move.

  X’all watched Grit repeat the movements. Grit knew he was grinning. “Better!” he shouted, as Grit finished.

  X’all was amazed at his new student’s aptitude. He had been less than enthused when Shar’ran had pulled him from some of his classes to teach the young mage full time. He had argued that his time would be better spent with some of the best warrior elves, but Shar’ran had refused to budge.

  He reluctantly accepted his assignment, and expected to be frustrated and impatient with the human’s clumsy ways. Although Grit had been a disaster on his first few days, X’all was shocked to see how quickly Grit improved. Before long, he had mastered the basics and was now well on his way to being a full-fledged elven warrior.

  What really befuddled him were the delicate flourishes and creative ways in which Grit improved the movements. Some of them showed a far-advanced understanding of the form’s objectives and a blending of fighting techniques that X’all would have attributed to one of the ancient great masters who lived off in Ra’ul, not a two-week human novice.

  He had many discussions with Shar’ran about Grit, and he always came away with the same impression, that Shar’ran knew something he didn’t. It seemed to him that Shar’ran was not surprised at all with Grit’s ability. Rather, he fully expected Grit to make this kind of progress or better. X’all rubbed his head wondering how could that possibly be. Some of his warriors had been practicing the same moves for centuries and they still didn’t fully comprehend the nuances. Grit seemed to have an innate ability. That is the only thing that made any sense.

  “You will be ready to start using the sword,” X’all said. “As soon as you master the last two forms and learn to use your magic to help you in battle.”

  “Can you explain what magic you want me to use? Grit asked excitedly, rubbing more of the mysterious white powder on his staff.

  The powder helped keep his hands from slipping when he sweated and he was told that warriors carried small pouches tied to their belts when they went off to do battle.

  “It’s probably not what you expect,” X’all said, in his own cryptic way. “Magic in battle is very subtle. Your opponent should not realize that you are using it. Your blade moves a little faster in the thrust or block, you stay in the air longer during a kick, your punches pack a little more power. It is by varying your attack, fast to slow, that you keep your opponent off balance. You keep them guessing. That gives you an advantage.”

  Grit nodded, understanding fully what X’all was saying. It was almost as if he could picture everything that was just said in his mind. He had been learning his spells all along and had mastered the simple use of fire, water, air and earth. Kyra had been showing him how to combine those basic elements to create more complicated and useful incantations. They taught almost the same skills when he had been a lad on the docks. They called it hand-battles, but the same principles applied. You took the measure of a man, but never let him see everything you knew. You faked having a slow side, or a bad leg. He grinned to himself. He had earned many riggens in those tussles.

  “That’s all for today, X’all said. “You should go and have your magic lessons with Kyra.”

  Grit nodded deeply to his teacher, and thanked him for the day’s instruction.

  X’all watched as his student stepped through his forms one last time, repeating flourishes and the harder sections multiple times, each with improvement. He stepped down the path toward the village. He turned and looked back over his shoulder, just hidden by the trees and was amazed at the movements that Grit was executing. His staff spun and jabbed as Grit dashed, rolled and jumped at a group of imaginary foes. One thing was for sure, Shar’ran was right in his assessment of the lad. He was truly gifted in battle. X’all smiled to himself and wondered how he would fare against a real combatant.

  Grit was more excited today than he had been any other day since he reached the elf encampment, but for an entirely unexpected reason. Tomorrow he was to begin learning the spell to maintain his age without the use of the Zylliac. He could hardly wait to begin. Once he mastered the spell, he would no longer be bound to open realms, using totem passages, and he would be able to sever his connection to the ethereal being once and for all time.

  It wasn’t that held a grudge or wished ill against the Zylliac, but the more he talked to Shar’ran, the more he realized how vulnerable his position was. If the totems were to close, he would be without any magic at all. He would die, plain and simple. Besides, he relished the idea of being able to go where he wanted using whatever path he desired. That was real freedom!

  Glamour

  Ja’tar felt much better the next day. Taking the day off had done him a world of good. He sat staring into the flames of the flickering fire, his goblet of spiced mulberry wine nestled securely in his lap. He wasn’t confident what steps to take next. The troubles they faced were practically insurmountable, far greater than even he had previously imagined, and he was a self-confessed pessimist by nature.

  He thought through what strategies he might employ and how they could play out. This, in turn, forced him to admit that he wasn’t very good at politics or strategy. Actually, he despised the games one had to play to be successful. Every time he thought he was clever…well, let’s just say that the gods have a keen sense of humor! He sighed, the realization setting in that if he hoped to bring the Keep through this dark hour, if he hoped to live, he was going to have to play the best game of his life

  Ja’tar stood and paced around the turret, swirling the wine in his glass while he stared out his windows across the Keep and to the northeast, the Winseer mountains. A giant sprin
g storm filled the northwestern skies and lightning flashes could be seen pummeling the slopes above the town. He stood there watching for a while, trying to conceive a plan.

  The sun was well up and yet he still felt fatigue from the prior night’s activity. Although he could only remember snippets, his journal notes let him know he had made progress. In fact, his journal not only had his words written in his code, it now had visions. When he opened it for the first time after returning, an apparition sprang from the pages, causing him to throw the book across the room and raise his wards. He was greatly relieved that nobody saw his foolishness, especially Zedd’aki!

  He had thought that the journals of the Keeper were only special in that they could record thoughts and feelings in the Keeper’s code, much like the Book of Records, but he was wrong. Something had changed out there in the realms. He had changed, if even for only a few minutes. Opening the journal, he watched another scene in which he made a memorial to his sister. He felt his eyes well up with tears, but pushed them aside.

  He tried putting another entry into the journal, trying to replicate the visions, but could not. Obviously, something was different about him when he was out in the realms. His entries alluded to the fact that he used to command magic like the gods. He grunted to himself. The gods didn’t care about him or the realms. Not anymore.

  He contemplated going downstairs and grabbing an early lunch. Surely, Zedd’aki would have already been up for hours and he almost certainly was beginning to wonder where he was, as it was not normal for him to rise so late, not normal at all. He hesitated, not yet ready to subject himself to the tongue-lashing he knew was coming.

  He opened his journal while standing in the sun-bathed room and read his last entry again. Strain as he might to remember the events he had referenced, they wouldn’t come to him. The reality that he was under a glamour greatly annoyed him. The fact that even though he knew he was under a glamour and he still could not seem to dispel it, flustered him even more.