by Zales, Dima
“I can,” Gala said, turning her attention back to the night sky. “‘Nothing’ is the best way I can describe how my mind felt in the Spell Realm, before I had that first glimpse of awareness.”
Blaise caught his breath. Sometimes he almost forgot that Gala had experienced unimaginable things. For a few moments, he tried to picture this nothingness, but then his thoughts turned back to their original discussion. “I would rather think that the universe out there is limitless,” he said. “It seems . . . more pleasant that way.”
“If it is limitless, then it would mean that, statistically, there are other worlds just like this one out there, even an infinite amount of them, with a Blaise and Gala like us,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps even with a Blaise and Gala who are having this conversation.”
That was an idea Blaise had never considered. His mind boggled at the thought. “In that case, I hope the universe is finite,” he said after pondering that radical concept for a minute. “I don’t like the idea of having other versions of me out there . . . because then there might be a version that had not made you.”
Gala smiled at him. “Well, as long as this version made me, I’m content,” she said softly. “Either way, even if the universe is finite, it’s probably unimaginably immense.” And falling silent, she looked up at the stars again.
“I am not surprised you enjoy thinking about these questions,” Blaise said after a while. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he pulled her closer. “If anyone’s mind can grasp this immensity, it would be yours.”
She leaned into his embrace. “Do you think the Spell Realm is part of this universe?”
“I don’t know,” Blaise said slowly. “The sorcerers of the Enlightenment theorized that the Spell Realm is truly different, not connected to our world in any way. That it exists independently, and that if it ceased to exist, our universe would remain untouched. We would just lose our ability to do sorcery. The way Lenard put it, it’s a dimension other than length, width, and depth—but that’s a difficult concept to grasp, just like nothingness.”
“Do you think there are planets next to the stars out there?” Gala seemed to be still focused on celestial matters. “Maybe even life, like there is here? Not copies of us on some identical world, but beings who are very different?”
“I hope so,” Blaise said earnestly. “I like the idea of intelligent beings out there—beings who are not necessarily human.”
Gala beamed at him, and he realized that his wish was already reality—such a being was sitting next to him right now. Grinning, he pressed her closer, her slender body warm against his side.
Her smile widened. “If those beings had discovered the Spell Realm, would it be the same one I was born in?” she asked curiously.
“I don’t know,” Blaise said. “Lenard the Great himself was interested in the very questions you are asking. He didn’t think there was only one Spell Realm, but an infinite number of them. To tell you the truth, my head hurts just thinking about that.”
“I like thinking about it,” Gala said. “The possibilities are fascinating—infinite Spell Realms, life on other planets . . .”
“Yes,” Blaise agreed. “It is fascinating. You know, it’s not written about often, but there is a legend among my peers that Lenard didn’t simply disappear—that he actually invented a spell that took him to explore the stars.”
Gala looked at him intently. “I’d like to believe that. If I could, I would go up there myself—”
“Come get dinner,” Esther yelled, interrupting Gala mid-sentence.
“We better go,” Blaise said ruefully, rising to his feet and pulling Gala up as well. Esther refused to accept the fact that he did not need to eat food in a conventional way. He was not sure if Gala did. She did look excited at the offer, though, so Blaise decided to join everyone for the meal.
As they consumed roast fowl and the stew that Esther prepared, the hunters told them a little bit about life in Alania. What Blaise found most extraordinary was that this fairly large village did not engage in farming of any sort. Women gathered fruits, mushrooms, and other edible plants in the forest, while younger men frequently went out hunting. Older men helped by fishing in the local lakes and rivers. Of course, this was not rigid, and there were exceptions like Ara, who hunted with the men. To Blaise, it seemed like a simple but peaceful life.
When the meal was done, Maya and Esther turned in for the night. Gala stayed a little longer, but when the hunters began talking about their expeditions and describing the animals they killed, Blaise noticed that she was getting upset. Shortly thereafter, she said good night to everyone and joined the other women in their tent. Given her attachment to the lions, he guessed that she felt bad for the animals in these stories. It seemed like his powerful creation was quite soft-hearted and felt empathy toward all manner of creatures.
“We’re going to have to set a night watch,” Kostya told him after the meal was over.
“I would be glad to take the first watch,” Blaise offered, suppressing a yawn. He was tired, but he wanted to contribute in some way, to thank these people for their hospitality.
Kostya hesitated. “We usually like to have two men on watch—”
“I’ll do it. I’ll keep watch with Blaise,” Ara volunteered, coming up to them.
Blaise gave her a smile. Out of the entire camp, the girl seemed to be the only one who didn’t mind that he was a sorcerer.
“That’ll work,” Kostya said. “Just remember, wake us up if anything happens.”
Ara nodded in agreement, and Kostya left, heading for his tent. Shram, who had been sitting by the fire and listening to the conversation, walked off as well, mumbling something under his breath about trusting a little girl and a sorcerer with their lives. Blaise noticed that he didn’t volunteer for the watch, however.
Amused, Blaise found a comfortable spot next to a tree trunk and prepared to keep watch. Ara sat down next to him, placing her bow and arrows on the ground.
“Why do your people dislike sorcery so much?” Blaise asked Ara after a few minutes. “I understand that they don’t like sorcerers for their treatment of the peasants, but why such distrust of sorcery itself?”
“Because it’s been used against some of them,” Ara said quietly. “Shram, for instance. A group of acolytes from the Tower were passing through his village and thought it would be fun to do some experiments with Shram’s livestock. When Shram tried to object, saying that his family would go hungry if anything happened to the pigs, they paralyzed him with a spell and took the pigs anyway. Shram’s wife and son tried to stop them, so they locked them in the house, and then one of the spells they were using on the pigs went wrong . . .” She swallowed, looking down at the ground.
“What happened with the spell?” Blaise asked, getting a sick feeling in his stomach. He knew all about spells going wrong, as his own mother died in a sorcery accident. There was nothing more dangerous than a spell containing errors.
“The shed where they were experimenting with the pigs exploded, and Shram’s house went up in flames, along with his wife and son,” Ara said, her voice low and thick. “They died while Shram watched, paralyzed from the spell. A burning ember from the house fell on him, giving him that scar you see today.”
Blaise stayed silent, not knowing what to say, and after a few moments, Ara continued her story. “That’s why Shram came here, you know,” she said, staring into the darkness of the forest. “Because he ultimately found and killed the acolyte responsible for casting that spell—the only acolyte who survived that explosion.”
Blaise felt like a heavy fist was squeezing his heart. “I see,” he said softly. He couldn’t blame Shram for exacting his revenge. He would’ve done the same in his place. “And what about you, Ara? Why are you here?”
To his surprise, Ara’s lips curved in a faint smile. “Oh, my story is not nearly as tragic. I was simply fed up with Davish, Kelvin’s overseer, trying to force me into his bed. Well, that and con
stantly being hungry. So one day, I just packed up my things and decided to take my chances with the Western Woods.” She paused, then grinned at him impishly. “As you can see, it worked out.”
* * *
For the next couple of hours, Ara told Blaise more stories about Alania and its people. It seemed that everyone had different motivations for being there. Some came because they desired greater freedom, while others wanted to escape poverty and starvation. Many had run-ins of one kind or another with the authorities, and almost all of them desired a fresh start away from the oppressive structure of the territories. Hearing these stories, Blaise couldn’t help but admire these people’s stoicism and determination. These were individuals who took their fate into their own hands, rather than meekly accepting their station in life.
When everybody in the camp was finally asleep, Blaise decided to do a few spells to help himself with the responsibility he took on. “You don’t mind if I perform a little sorcery, do you?” he asked Ara, not wanting to be inconsiderate after hearing Shram’s story.
“No, I don’t mind,” she said. “I told you before, I’m not afraid. What spells are you going to do?”
“Well, I am about to make myself see in the dark and over much greater distances,” Blaise explained. “I’m also going to improve my hearing and prepare a basic fireball spell.”
“Oh.” She appeared nonplussed. “Why?”
“If I am expected to raise an alarm in case of danger, I want to be able to see and hear as well as I can. And the fireball is because I don’t have your bow and arrows.”
She grinned. “I see. Do you mind if I watch you write this?”
“Not at all.”
The next hour passed quietly. Blaise worked on his spells, while Ara sat still, seemingly content to be watching him. There was a curious look in her eyes, and Blaise realized he might have a volunteer if he ever wanted to teach the basics of magic to these people—if they ever wanted to learn it, that is.
Loading the vision and hearing spells into the Stone, Blaise felt the effects of them immediately. Despite the darkness, everything looked sharp and distinct, as though in daylight, only with the colors somewhat muted. The sounds, however, were overwhelming, and it took him a few moments to adjust. He could hear insects crawling on the forest floor and Maya lightly snoring in the tent.
“Did you do it?” Ara asked in a whisper, and he nodded, his brain starting to get used to the new stimuli.
It was at that moment that a new sound caught his attention.
It was a low growl in the distance.
Chapter 7: Barson
Barson was traveling for several hours when he stopped by a small river to let his horse drink and graze for a bit. Up ahead, he could see a small group of armed men. They looked like mercenaries—men who hadn’t been good enough to make it onto the elite force of the Sorcerer Guard, but who still made a living by hiring out their sword.
Ignoring them, he led his horse to the river, taking out a piece of cured meat to chew on the way.
“Hey, you got more of that?”
One of the strangers had approached him, stopping a few feet away with an arrogant expression on his face.
Barson frowned in annoyance. “No,” he retorted. “Just have enough for myself.” Then, remembering that he was trying to blend in and avoid attention, he added, “I passed an inn not too far back, though. They might have some food for you.”
“Well, why don’t you share anyway?” the man suggested, taking a step in Barson’s direction. “Then you can go on your merry way.”
Barson’s hackles rose. He had no intention of giving up his supplies to this idiot—not when he needed to get to Turingrad with all expediency and had no time to look for more. These men were obviously used to taking what they wanted from hapless peasants and thought Barson to be one.
“What’s going on here?” Another one of the men approached, his hand clutching the hilt of his sword.
“This peasant is being disrespectful,” the first man said, jerking his thumb in Barson’s direction. “Thinks he’s too good for us.”
“I’m just passing through,” Barson said evenly, ignoring the anger starting to curdle low in his stomach. “I don’t want any trouble, and I’m sure you don’t either.”
The two men started laughing. Using their distraction, Barson walked up to his horse and quietly unwrapped his sword, keeping it sheathed and concealed behind his back, but within easy reach. He didn’t have a good feeling about this situation.
“What territory do you belong to, serf?” The first man stopped laughing and stepped up to Barson. “Not Kelvin’s, I bet. He won’t stand for this kind of attitude. You from Blaise’s land?”
“Right, Blaise’s,” Barson gritted out, his jaw clenching tightly at the thought of Augusta’s former lover. His patience was wearing thin. How did commoners deal with this? If it hadn’t been for his need to keep a low profile, he would’ve put these lowlifes in their place a long time ago.
Like wolves scenting prey, the other mercenaries came up to them, forming a large circle around Barson. He counted eighteen of them—all armed with swords and daggers.
“What’s that you got there?” One of them had spotted Barson’s sword behind his back. “You steal a sword from some guard?” When Barson didn’t reply, the man ordered, “Show it to me.”
“You don’t want me to unsheathe this sword,” Barson said quietly, his anger beginning to boil over. “Trust me—you want to continue on your way now.”
“You insolent—”
Without waiting for the man to finish his insult, Barson unsheathed his sword. He was done with subtlety.
Before the mercenaries could react, he swung, and the man who wanted the cured meat was on his knees, clutching the gushing wound on his throat. Without waiting for anyone to understand what happened, Barson swung again, and two more mercenaries were now on the ground, their stomachs sliced open.
Seeing their comrades die had a sobering effect on the rest of Barson’s opponents. The five men nearest him had their swords ready and started to look for an opening. Barson did not provide them with one. Parrying a few weak attempts at an attack, he quickly dispatched the attackers.
The ten survivors stared at him in shock, then attacked him en masse. There was a desperate ferocity to their attacks that Barson didn’t expect, and he staggered backwards before killing two more with a practiced swing of his sword.
Now the tide of the battle turned. Four of the remaining eight soldiers began to back away, abandoning their comrades. Yet another reason why these men would never be on the Guard, Barson thought with contempt. They had no loyalty, no honor.
Switching the sword to his left hand, Barson pulled out a dagger with his right. Slicing through the chest of his leftmost attacker with his sword, he threw the dagger at one of the deserters, spearing him in the back.
Six men left—three of them now running away at full speed.
Barson doubled his efforts, unleashing a brutal attack on the three men who were still fighting him. He needed to deal with them quickly, before their cowardly comrades escaped. He couldn’t afford to leave any survivors—not if he wanted to keep a low profile.
Lifting his sword, he swung in a large arc, leaving his side exposed for a moment. It was a risk worth taking at this point—and it paid off, as his sword cut through all three of his opponents at once.
Panting, he leapt over to his horse, pulling out his bow and arrows from their hiding spot.
Three arrows later, the number of survivors was zero.
* * *
By the time Barson arrived at his sister’s house, it was close to midnight. Knocking quietly, he waited.
The door opened. Dara stood there, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Barson?” Her voice shook as she reached for him. “You’re . . . you’re alive! I knew those rumors had to be false, I just knew it!”
Laughing softly, Barson hugged her, feeling the tension in her body. “It’s all right
, sis. You know they can’t kill me that easily.” Pulling back, he looked down at her. “Larn is fine too.”
She nodded, stepping back. “I knew that—I put a locator spell on him right before he left. But I didn’t put one on you, and when the whole Tower started buzzing with the rumors about the Sorcerer Guard being dead . . .” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I was so worried—”
“You didn’t need to worry,” Barson reassured her, even though it was a lie. For the first time in his life, he had faced a worthy opponent and barely escaped with his life. “I was always going to come back to you.”
“Come inside,” she urged, pulling on his arm. “Tell me what happened. Why do you look like a peasant?”
“It’s a long story,” Barson said, following her toward the kitchen. Without asking, she poured him a glass of milk and pulled out a plate of freshly baked rolls.
Grinning, Barson sat down and started telling Dara about the battle with the strange sorceress—about her fighting skills and the incredibly powerful spells she used. His sister listened, frowning, interrupting only a few times to ask questions.
“So what now?” she asked when he was done. “The Council is up in arms about this. Augusta called an emergency meeting, scaring the entire Tower half to death, and the rumor is that she told them the Guard is dead. They’re supposed to vote on something important soon, but I don’t know the specifics. Jandison is being very closemouthed about the whole thing.”
“I can guess what they’re going to vote about,” Barson said, finishing his third roll. “If I’m right, it would be quite helpful to our cause if they make the right decision.”
“You think they’re going to go after her?”
“I’m almost certain they will. With us dead—and staying dead for now—the Council doesn’t have anyone they can rely on to fight their battles. If I know Augusta, she will convince them that this threat needs to be eliminated.”
“She thinks you’re dead. You know that, right?”
