by JD Hart
Veressa examined the solid point at her feet again. “But other orders possess clerical powers.”
“More precisely, other orders use the Earth elemental,” Annabelle corrected, and drew a diagonal line with her finger from left to bottom point, connecting the symbol of magical weapons to that of clerical. “Here are the Shamans, those who seek the connection between magical and clerical powers.” She drew another diagonal line from right to bottom, connecting symbols of hand-to-hand and clerical. “Here are the Paladins, those who are defenders of the pure, though they may resort to the force of the sword in that defense.” Then she drew a line straight downward from her knife to the clerical symbol. “Rangers are the only ones who draw upon the clerical power of the Earth elemental in combination with that of Air. This line”—Annabelle stuck her finger on the line she had just drawn—“is where you will learn the advanced skills of the Rangers.”
“Now I know why there are six orders ... as well as six shadow orders.” Veressa’s smile of excitement reminded Annabelle of when, as a small child, the girl waited in anticipation of her first riding lesson.
“Yes, but let us not get ahead of ourselves, Veressa. I should warn you, many would-be Rangers in the past thousand years possessed a natural talent to use missile weapons—as you do—but failed to integrate that talent with the clerical skills. They never even reached the rank of watcher within the Rangers Order.” She removed her knife from the dirt. “Those who could manipulate Fire or Water went on to become Mystics or Warriors; those who could not became Archers or other specialists in guilds dedicated to projectile weaponry. That is the fate of those not possessing the true spirit of the Ranger. Now it is time to see if you have that spirit.”
Veressa rose as her protector stepped closer, unsure what was next.
Annabelle touched her index finger to Veressa’s forehead and whispered an incantation, “Prosopo Koinota Afypsychi.”
A cascading shower of sparkling flashes erupted across Veressa’s vision. “What—” she started, but her mouth, tongue, and vocal cords refused to work. Instead, a croaking sound escaped her lips. Her head rang like a bell struck repeatedly. All her senses were raw and off balance, screaming for her attention. She could feel control slipping away, her body following her head as it pitched to the side.
Annabelle steadied her with a firm grip, but Veressa’s muscles only shook in response.
Veressa could hear Annabelle’s voice speaking soothingly. “Wait, Veressa. The disorientation will pass in a moment.” Her protector actually sounded ... pleased. There was a long pause. “You don’t feel so much like a princess now, do you?”
Veressa took a shuddered breath as she tried to laugh. Annabelle’s arms felt comforting around her, so any shock she was experiencing shifted to keen interest. Images danced before her on a patterned quilt extending to the horizon in every direction. She tested her ability to stand.
Annabelle’s arms relaxed as Veressa steadied. “Better. Tell me what you see.”
Veressa focused her thoughts as she had been taught in her basic skills. She searched for the appropriate words to describe what was there. “The objects on the range around us are outlined in a dull glow of fine sparks, like those on an Illuminary’s display.”
“Good. The glow is a manifestation of each object’s life force in the Physical plane. What else do you see?”
There was more, but Veressa struggled for words. One part of her consciousness was moving, yet another part still. The contradiction was confusing. She recalled her first experience cantering recklessly through Griffinrock’s Royal Forest, dodging leafy branches as the massive trees and grass-patched dirt moved swiftly beneath her feet. “It feels like I am riding on a patterned landscape.”
“Yes, that is a good way to describe the Harmonic Weave. This is where all Harmonic beings reside in the Mental plane. I want you to take a moment to get used to the feeling. The Harmonic Weave is your safety net when you travel to the Mental plane. Consider it your mind’s home. This is very important, Veressa. While in training, you are to never leave the Weave unless I am with you. Do you understand?”
Veressa noticed the intense pattern of colors across the landscape fabric shifting as the Weave floated past. Everywhere around these shifting patterns spun hazy columns of bright rainbows. The Weave rippled and twitched in response to the cylinders, as if the eddies were ripping energy from the very Weave itself. They reminded her of dust demons, those funnels of air appearing on the dry plains out of nothing, sucking dirt and grass upward into their columns, giving them their shape and name. She knew what these were—destructive forces of energy created by all Anarchic life. And she recoiled in disgust. They were the very source of a child’s nightmares, of constant distress within the Harmonic Realms. Dust demon was a good name, one she would use to remember what they were. Repulsed, she watched them feed off the Harmonic Weave. Yes, that was why she must never leave the Weave. Unable to speak, she nodded to her preceptor.
Annabelle was unaffected by her reaction. “You have taken your first journey into Harmonic Sight, Veressa. I say ‘journey,’ but in reality nothing has moved. Your consciousness will shift into the Mental planes each time you take Harmonic Sight, but it is important to know that some part of you is always there, just as part of you is here. What shifts is purely your awareness, your focus. It is from the Mental plane that you will learn to manipulate, combine, and control elementals.”
Veressa nodded as she listened, untying the knots that gripped her stomach.
Annabelle continued. “In time, you will learn how to take Harmonic Sight. With practice, you will do so with hardly a thought.”
“Okay, but you could have warned me what you were about to do.”
Annabelle smiled. “I am sorry if I frightened you. But there is no way to prepare a student for what they will experience with Sight—or for the possibility that nothing happens. So it is customary among all the orders for a student’s first journey to be brought on by the preceptor.”
“And if nothing had happened?”
“If you did not possess enough ability to control the Earth and Air elementals, nothing would have happened when I touched you. Your training would have been over.” Annabelle breathed deep. “That is enough for one day. I want you to become aware of your breathing. Bring your focus back to your body.”
Veressa did as she was told, but there was something different, something ... wrong. She slipped again, her muscles refusing to respond. She flashed Annabelle a perplexed look.
Annabelle smiled reassuringly. “You may feel a bit disoriented. This is normal for someone new to Sight. It will pass.”
Veressa wanted to believe Annabelle, but the ground began to quake beneath her. Her spine was ice, her nerves raw. She held her arms out, wanting to laugh as they quivered. It was not the ground that was shaking, but her legs. There was a high-pitched squeal. In slow motion, Annabelle grabbed her around the chest. Why was she hugging her? Annabelle never hugged.
Annabelle was wearing a look of surprise, not joy. She had never seen that look on the Master Ranger before. No, it did not fit her fine features at all. Annabelle was saying something, but the squeal was back, drowning out whatever Annabelle was saying. Veressa forced her mouth shut, astonished and embarrassed, and the noise was gone.
How had she fallen to the ground? Well, that was not important. She looked into Ballett’s concerned face. What was important was the unseemliness of being seen this way with dirty hands and smudged cheeks. She heard Annabelle’s voice as if receding down a long, hollow corridor. She had to listen closely to hear the fading sound. There it was.
“Veressa? Veressa, can you hear me? You will be okay. You are feeling the Calling. The sensation will pass shortly.”
But she was too far away to reply.
Bandit’s Choice
Conner had heard of Anarchic Assassins. He had, on many occasions, sat around campfires at night with Pauli and others, laughing at the same ghastly stori
es that had frightened him as a child. But some part of him had always believed Assassins were phantasms of Harmonic lore. Such men could not walk the same green fields of Gaia he worked with his hands. They were the very mythical embodiment of Anarchy, that which those of the Harmonic Realms utterly detested. No, not a myth anymore. They were as real as the fear knotting his gut. He paced his room, trying to get a grip on the terror sucking at his marrow, making his legs tremble and his heart pound like a smithy’s hammer. He had to keep moving or he would freeze from sheer fright.
Death he had seen before. He had taken life hunting with his dad or fishing with Pauli; but there had been purpose to those deaths. This was different. What he had witnessed in the burial tomb was something beyond any nightmare his subconscious could ever conjure. He had stood in terror as an Assassin murdered Hook with a cold, premeditated efficiency that made his mind reel.
But something else nagged Conner. He tried to calm his nerves so he could think it through. Something about the Assassin’s hand as he gripped Hook’s convulsing body. No, not his hand, but the ring on his finger. He closed his eyes, recalling the details—a black stone with deep blue speckles embedded in a polished gold ring. Conner was certainly not of the Jewelers or Enchanters Guilds, but he was sure the ring was rare. That bothered him. He had, since arriving in Cravenrock, seen that ring before, or another like it. He would have remembered encountering the Assassin before, or would he? Conner shivered at the thought. If there were two such rings in Cravenrock? That meant the Assassin was connected to someone else in the city. In either case, a lot more was going on in Cravenrock than he cared to know.
Assassins in the very heart of Griffinrock, in Cravenrock, in the Thieves Guild, in the very chamber he had just been in! He needed to get as much distance as possible from a guild that could harbor such a creature.
Over and over, he tried to think of ways to escape the city, but nothing came to him. The underground chamber he used for his sleeping room had become his prison.
Bandit’s eyes tracked Conner’s motion back and forth across the chamber. The Eastlander mumbled to himself, eyes constantly darting to the north. He once recalled seeing an animal pace that way. A trapper had come through Cravenrock several years back, heading west with a huge brown cat he had captured in the eastern region of Narwales. Feigning concern for citizens’ safety, the city guards had turned the trapper away from the gates when he refused to pay a bribe. So the trapper was forced to camp outside the city walls. That night, Bandit slipped through the gates unseen to observe the noble beast pace the length of a cage too small for both its frame and its stature. He especially remembered the wild, haunted eyes reflecting the trapper’s campfire as the animal scanned the open plains it would never roam again.
Conner had that same caged stare about him, pacing since they had returned from the guild conclave several hours before. Apparently watching the Assassin dispatch Hook had loosened a few of Conner’s hinges. Such a gruesome event was certainly not meant for anyone even slightly squeamish, though Bandit thought the Assassin had been a bit melodramatic with his effects. He could think of no one more deserving than Hook to make a point. But Conner was an Eastland farmer. Surely he had seen death before. Unable to stand the pacing, Bandit broke the silence. “I’m glad your ankle do be feelin’ better.”
“What?” Conner looked at him, blinking as if Bandit had just appeared in the room. “Oh, my ankle,” he mumbled absently. He tested the foot, suddenly recalling he had injured it. “Yes, it is much better.” Then the Eastlander resumed his pacing, Bandit once more invisible.
Bandit sighed and let his head fall back against the wall. He thought about trying to sleep, but such relief would not come easy with the Eastlander’s incessant strides. Something about the vacant stare and sullen expression, the way Conner carried himself, reminded him of a boy who once lived in Cravenrock, someone before he had been called Bandit. How could a wild cat, an Eastland farmer, and a lost boy be connected?
He recalled the flood of emotions, frozen in helpless horror, watching the last of his parents’ death throes. He remembered how he’d stood in the rain for hours, gazing at their bodies in awkward poses, their dark blood mixing with rainwater, pooling at the end of a dirty alley. Empty, staring eyes accused him. Where were you, son, when we needed you? Why did you not help us? He squeezed his eyes closed. He had been pathetic, weak, and foolish, just as when the woman trapper left him. He had become vulnerable, laying his hopes at the feet of those who could not deliver. These were the circumstances the Cosmos had handed him. Well, he refused to end up like his parents—nameless, unclaimed corpses buried under a grassy patch of dirt on the Narwalen Plains. He did not want to experience such pain again in this life. So he had dealt with it, accepted it, to steel himself from weaknesses that would claim his soul and leave him helpless. He stole from marks, not real people with families and homes. He justified his actions by constantly reminding himself that those he used and robbed were better off than he. It was his way to balance out what the Cosmos failed to provide.
He thought of Hook, another nameless unclaimed corpse that would appear at the end of some alley tomorrow. He examined his hands in the candlelight, hands that had only known thieving. Was he any different? If he died tomorrow, would he be any less of what he’d sworn he would not become?
Bandit could feel something at work within him, fraying at the fringe of his consciousness. Someone was beating at his fortress. The walls cracked and he looked at Conner with new eyes. For once, he saw the Eastlander, not the mark. He saw how he had used the Eastlander, as he had used everyone who stepped into his life, for personal gain, and the walls cracked again. But Conner was different. He was here pacing in physical and mental anguish because he had stuck to his promise to help Bandit, no matter the personal risk or cost. Another crack appeared. In only a few days, Conner had saved Bandit’s life several times, never once asking for anything in return. The walls cracked hard. He had overheard guildsmen speak of Vault with admiration for the night of his nearly thwarted test, taking on two guardsmen to save Bandit while Stick vanished into the night. Odd that Bandit hadn’t realized how much he too revered Conner. Yet another crack formed in the walls. And if this man died tomorrow, nameless and unclaimed? No, Conner or Vault, the name did not matter; he would be remembered for his actions. No matter where this Eastlander went, he would leave behind a wake of change. Life is not about how you die, but about how you choose to live, the trapper used to tell him. And the walls of Bandit’s fortress crumbled.
Bandit rose from the rubble of his prior self. He marked the hour to be nearly midnight. There was time, but they would have to go swiftly. Unfortunately, since their nearly disastrous heist of the magus’s scroll, the city magistrate had ordered a full lockdown until the thieves could be apprehended. Everyone leaving the city was thoroughly searched. Conner could not leave Cravenrock that way. “Is it well enough to be climbin’ the city wall again?”
Conner blinked as if Bandit had just shaken him awake. “What?”
Bandit pointed. “Is your ankle well enough to be climbin’ the city wall?”
“No, it’s not,” Conner responded with a frustrated sigh, running fingers through long, bedraggled hair. This time, instead of resuming his pacing, he stood lost in thought, absently pinching his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. Then Conner renewed his interest in Bandit’s question. “I’ve seen that look before. What are you thinking?”
Bandit answered the Eastlander with his usual knowing smile and wink. “I think it be time you be goin’ on your way, don’t you?”
Conner shrugged back. “I’ve thought all that through, Bandit. We know the southern gates are closely guarded, and my foot is not in any condition to climb the city wall. I have no choice but to—”
“Who ever said there be just two ways out of the city?” Bandit interjected, then waited until understanding seeped into Conner’s clouded mind. “Give me five coins. I can get a week’s rations of food
for that, enough to get you safely away.” Impatient, he snatched the purse from Conner’s hands as the Eastlander fumbled with the strings. Bandit reflected on the ironic familiarity of the situation. How the world had shifted beneath Bandit’s feet the past few days. He showed Conner the five coins he had removed, then they disappeared in an impressive flash of nimble fingers before he dropped the purse back in Conner’s palm. “Do be gatherin’ up all your belongings and be ready to be goin’ by the time I return. And do be quick about it. We’ll be needin’ to hurry.”
Bandit’s questioning about his ankle drew Conner from his brooding. Why had Bandit waited so long to mention another way out of the city? He pushed the thought away to consider later. The boy was formulating another fantastic plan, to be sure. But the chance to be free from the city was all he needed.
The intense pull at the back of his mind had shifted from a constant dull tingle two days ago to a painful throb, so Conner packed the gear he had acquired the last few days: a backpack, a bedroll, an extra pair of leather shoes, a pair of pants, two shirts, a light stitched jacket, knife, salve for injuries, a tin cup, and flint. Even with these purchases, he had more coins than when he’d arrived in Cravenrock. Bandit had suggested Conner pilfer the clothing to save coins for emergencies, but Conner refused. His thieving days were over. Bandit had only shrugged, letting the suggestion drop.
