The Bond of Blood

by Kody Boye

  “If you use a simple form, like a small bird, you can release it and let the surrounding energies feed it through its flight.”

  “It’s safer for everyone and thing involved,” Icklard said. “We don’t want to kill anything on accident.”

  “No.” Odin shook his head. “I don’t want to do that.”

  “Anyway,” Domnin continued, “with a small form, you can use a small amount of energy and keep it going. From there, you can speak and will the sound of your voice into the image. Then, after you set it free, it’ll keep the message until me or my brother release it.”

  “We won’t have to worry about someone interfering with our messages?”

  “No,” Icklard said. “If you’re worried, you can enchant it so only we can receive it. All that takes is a little extra will.”

  “Right,” Domnin said. He spread his fingers. The bird, channeled with little more than thought, remained still in the man’s hand. “We’re going to teach you how to do this. It’ll give your knight master one less thing to do.”

  “Though he will probably want to experiment anyway,” Icklard added, “just to make sure you know how to do it.”

  Domnin raised the bird to eye level, whispered something under his breath, then animated it. With the bird jumping around his hand and flapping its small wings, Domnin raised his eyes and asked, “Ready?”

  “I’m ready,” Odin said.

  After setting the bird free, the animated messenger of light flew across the room and landed directly on Odin’s shoulder—where, on contact, static began to buzz within his ears.

  “Now,” Icklard said, “all you have to do is reach up, touch the light, then ask it to reveal its message.”

  “Reveal your message,” Odin said, reaching up to touch the bird.

  Hello, Domnin’s voice said. I see you, Odin.

  He smiled and cast a glance at his friend. The man raised his thumb.

  “There,” Domnin said. “Now that you’ve touched the messenger, you can release its magic back into the air.”

  Odin willed the bird to vanish. Like his own images of light had in the past, the bird’s form gradually faded until it disappeared.

  “I’m going to send my own message,” Icklard said, “but I’m going to go one step further.”

  “How is that?”

  “If you put a little extra will into your message, you can have your face embedded into the magic.”

  Icklard whispered something to his bird, then released it.

  The moment it landed on Odin’s shoulder, he touched it. The canary flew out in front of his face, hovered before his eyes, then stretched and distorted until an image of Icklard’s face from the neck-up appeared. This is how it works, the image of his friend’s face said, lips moving, eyes blinking.

  “That’s neat,” Odin said.

  Just like Domnin’s bird before, he released Icklard’s image.

  “You try,” the older brother encouraged.

  Odin raised his hands and conjured an image of a bird. Though slightly larger than the canaries the brothers had summoned, the dove cooed and flapped its wings, turning to face Odin. Everything looked real, snow-white and albino, except for its slightly-transparent eyes and claws.

  “Do you normally add behaviors to your summons?” Icklard asked.

  “I… don’t really add them.”

  “You don’t?” Domnin frowned.

  “No. My teacher at the castle asked the same thing. I’m not sure if I do it without thinking about it or… what.”

  “Did you have early instruction when you were young?”

  “No.”

  “That could explain it.”

  “I only started to control my magic when I was fourteen.”

  “My brother knows the mechanics of magic much better than I do,” Icklard said, leaning against the desk. “I’ve tried to tell him to go teach at the castle, but he won’t have it.”

  “I’m not leaving you on this boat by yourself,” Domnin said. “You know that.”

  “Anyway,” the younger brother groaned, “send the dove to us, Odin.”

  Odin brought the bird close to his face, whispered, ‘I hope this is right,’ then channeled his facial movements into the construct. When he finished, he flung the creature into the air.

  Both Domnin and Icklard came forward to view his progress.

  A moment later, Odin managed to return his eyes to the brothers. Each had a grin on his face.

  “Very good,” Domnin said.

  “It’s quite good for a first try,” Icklard agreed. “Do you want to keep practicing?”

  “I guess,” Odin shrugged. “It’ll be weird saying meaningless things over and over though.”

  “We’ll make a game of it,” Domnin suggested. “When me and Icklard were taught how to do this, our teacher had us ask a riddle or a question in our textbook to the other using a bird. We did this back and forth, sending the magicked birds to each other each time we had solved the riddle or question.”

  “At the end,” Icklard added, “we would tally up how many points we’d each have, then decide the winner.”

  “Good times,” Domnin laughed. “Good times.”

  “It sounds like fun,” Odin smiled. “I’ll play if you want to.”

  The brothers immediately summoned their birds.

  Odin found himself summoning his own dove.

  This could be fun, he though, already thinking of an old riddle Daughtry had once told him.

  “What’re you grinning about?” Nova laughed.

  “Nothing,” Odin smiled. “I had a good time with Icklard and Domnin, that’s all.”

  “What’d you three do?”

  “We played a game using magic. Now I know how to send messages to people without even trying. I can even send my face as well.”

  Nova’s eyes brightened with interest. “Do you think you could… help me send a message to Katarina?”

  “I’m not sure,” Odin frowned, unsure as to whether or not such forces would work without Nova actually being a mage. “I… I don’t—”

  “Would you at least try, Odin?”

  “I don’t know who your wife is, Nova. Icklard and Domnin said I had to know the person to send the message.”

  “Please!”

  Nova stood and advanced toward him, the mere look in his eyes enough to sink Odin’s heart. Regardless of how much he wanted to send the message to the man’s wife, he did not know if it would work. Trying to magick a spell to someone he’d never met could possibly have bad affects. What if, for some reason, he failed in connecting the magic to Nova while the man was giving his message, or what if it was sent to the wrong person? Any number of things could go wrong, especially considering the circumstance. In looking into Nova’s eyes, however, a tremble began in his conscience, one which threatened to force him into doing just about anything to sober his friend’s emotions.

  “All right,” Odin said. “We have to try something first, just to make sure I don’t screw up.”

  “All right.” Nova stepped back, reaching up to wipe the tears off his face. When Odin chose not to speak, the man sniffled and coughed. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I want to send a message to Miko asking him to send a message back if he gets ours.”

  “All right.”

  Summoning the dove that had been flying around the brothers’ room no more than a few moments ago, Odin connected the magic to Nova, his thoughts of will and tendrils that would bind the two of them together. The man’s eyes went wide in what Odin assumed was surprise. Though energy had never really bothered him when he used it, it must have felt unsettling to Nova. It wasn’t often a non-gifted man was able to experience magic.

  “Okay,” Odin said, balancing the bird in his hands as though it would suddenly jump and take flight. “Tell the bird that we’re trying to see if you can send messages to people with my magic, then tell Miko to send one back to us if he gets this.”

  “Miko,” Nova said,
leaning forward. “We’re trying to see if I can send messages with Odin’s magic. If you get this, please—send a message back to us like this.”

  Odin fixed Nova’s face into the bird before releasing it into the air. He grimaced, unsure if the form could pass and sustain itself through physical objects, but sighed when the dove slid through the wall as if it were a ghost.

  “Do you think it’ll work?” Nova asked.

  “I don’t know. If I can’t get it to work, I’m sure Miko can.”

  “I want to be able to talk with my wife, Odin. She doesn’t deserve not to see my face for so long.”

  “I know,” Odin sighed. “Don’t worry.”

  An intruding presence brought his eyes to the door. A bird of prey, shrouded in purple light and resembling what could have been any number of eagle species, flapped its wings no more than a few feet from them, its metaphorical wingspan enough to disarm him.

  “That’s Miko’s magic,” Nova said.

  Yeah, Odin thought. But why use such a large form?

  “This means it must’ve worked!” Nova laughed. “Fuck yes!”

  Odin smiled and held an arm out so the bird would have a place to settle.

  The initial contact, like a fist striking his face, jarred his head and sent his vision in all directions. He would have slipped and fallen had Nova not caught him.

  “What’s wrong?” the man asked.

  “Dizzy,” he said, blinking, trying to clear the stars from his eyes. “Listen.”

  After touching the bird, it flew off his arm and hovered in the air between them. Gradually, it morphed into an image of the Elf’s handsome, finely-structured face, his hair falling down onto where his neck would have ended and sparkling as if it bore diamonds within its surfaces.

  Yes, the construct of Miko’s face said, it worked. I’m glad to see you’ve learned how to do this, Odin, and I’m more than sure Nova will want to contact his wife now that you’re aware that he is able to use his own thoughts and will to send messages.

  Nova shook his head in feverish agreement. It was as if Miko had predicted their friend’s gesture, as soon after he smiled, flashing white teeth.

  I do want to warn you though, Odin—if you send Katarina a message, be sure to will it to materialize into Nova’s face when she lays eyes on it, then have it disappear soon after. If you don’t instruct the magic to do this, it’ll continue on until another mage touches it—which, in the long run, is highly unlikely, given how sparse they are in the human kingdoms. Such magic can kill you outright if you’re not careful.

  “Yes sir,” Odin nodded.

  The image of the Elf’s head bowed until it disappeared into the air.

  “It’ll work then,” Nova said, turning to look back at Odin. “Will you help me?”

  “You know I will.”

  “Do you… have to hear what I say?”

  “No. You can whisper what you’re saying and she’ll be able to hear it just fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Icklard and Domnin whispered what they wanted their birds to say, and so did I. We could all hear each other’s messages like we’d spoken in our normal voices.”

  Settling himself on the bed, Nova set his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.

  When Odin thought his friend ready, he stepped forward and summoned the dove into his hands. “Okay,” he said. “Take your time. Say whatever you like.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Odin nodded.

  Such a moment was not to be wasted.

  Leaning forward, Nova took a deep breath and began whispering to the magic the first words Katarina had heard from her husband in over two years.

  “You sent Nova his message?”

  Odin looked up from his place on the floor. He’d been going through the chest below his bed, rearranging his clothing and traveling supplies, when his knight master had spoken. He nodded in response, then almost went back to sorting his clothes before he realized such a gesture would be rude. “Yes,” he said, rising, but keeping the chest open. “I did.”

  “Have you felt drained since you sent it?”

  “Drained?”

  “Tired, lightheaded—anything at all?”

  “I’ve been a little tired, but I haven’t felt all that lightheaded.”

  “Have you felt anything else?”

  “No sir. I haven’t.”

  Miko nodded. He crossed his legs and set an elbow on his knee, then leaned forward. Odin thought he would say something, but after a moment realized the Elf was only interested in his previous activities, as his eyes flickered toward the clothes that lay on the floor and around the chest.

  “I was rearranging my clothes,” Odin said, kneeling back down by his bed.

  “How come?”

  “I guess I’m bored.”

  “We’ll be there soon, Odin. I promise.”

  “How soon?”

  “A few days.”

  “You said that—”

  “A few days ago,” the Elf smiled. Odin turned his head down to avoid the stare that followed. “You’re very patient, you know?”

  “I thought I was being impatient.”

  “Quite the opposite, actually. You’re doing far better than Nova is.”

  “Nova is… Nova,” Odin laughed. “I don’t blame him though. He’s the kind of man that wants to get there that instance.”

  “You seem to be that kind of person too.”

  “I do?”

  “Sometimes, but not often.”

  Though Odin continued to sort, fold and arrange the clothes within the chest before him, he kept his eyes on his knight master, making sure the Elf knew he had his full attention. Throughout this, Miko watched silently, keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself.

  I’m not nervous anymore, he thought, smiling.

  Back when he’d been within the castle, he’d been afraid of the Elf’s attentive, watchful stare, his lingering gazes, his subtle and almost-unnoticeable habits. It had always made him feel as though each and every movement was being calculated. In hindsight, that seemed completely ignorant, for surely the Elf could not watch everything he did. That would have been far too much work.

  “Are you all right?” Miko asked, blinking, as though suddenly aware that Odin had stopped his pursuits to look at him.

  “I’m all right, sir. I was just remembering how nervous I was when I first met you.”

  “You’ve been more open since we’ve met,” the Elf agreed. “I’m glad.”

  “Were you afraid I wouldn’t be open with you?”

  “I was afraid that you would shy away from me.”

  “Have others done that in the past?”

  “My own kind.”

  Odin frowned. He knew how that felt, to a degree—how, as a child, he’d been shunned for his eyes, his looks, his nervous habits, and how, in the tower, he’d been locked away because of misunderstanding. To be shunned because of the color of one’s eyes or alienated due to the ignorance of their minds was comparable to delicately torturing someone over a long period of time—it would surely go unnoticed, especially if the methods were subtle, but over the course of days, weeks, even years, it would eventually bubble into something more obvious. Only when the flames did explode would people realize just how wrong something had been.

  “I’m sorry,” Odin sighed, setting the last piece of clothing into his chest.

  “Why are you telling me you’re sorry?”

  “It must be sad,” he said, turning and crawling toward the Elf. “To feel alone all the time.”

  “I don’t feel alone.”

  “You don’t have to say you don’t.”

  “Odin, I…” Sighing, the Elf turned his head down.

  Odin settled down beside his master and set his hand on the creature’s back. The muscles, tense beneath his touch, flexed, as though attempting to repel a creature dangerous away from a cluster of eggs.

  “You can tell me what’s wrong,” Odin said.


  “You wouldn’t understand my problems.”

  “If you let me hear them I might.”

  Miko bowed his head. Odin, in response, began to rub the Elf’s back in circular motions, hoping the action would loosen him up and therefore prompt a dialogue between them, but after several long moments of achieving nothing, he stopped and scooted over until both his and his master’s sides touched.

  “Just because I’m your squire doesn’t mean I don’t care about you,” Odin whispered.

  “I know. The fact that you care about the people you love so much is a weakness that even I seem to have.”

  “A weakness? What are you—”

  “I’m immortal, Odin.”

  Slowly, a star—falling across the horizon, sailing toward the earth, blooming into a brilliant display of light and showering the world before it in fire: some might have seen it as beautiful, an act of God or the Gods so brilliantly displayed across the sky that it merited the sacrifice of some if not even all, while others may have viewed such a thing as an omen, a terror upon which the whole world would be based. Like that star, and like those men or creatures which would have lifted their heads to view such an event in terror, Odin began to think of the very thing his master had spoken and came to an understanding that shook his core and made him regret ever attempting to bring about such a conversation.

  Immortality—eternal life free of death due to age. The concept alone was almost unfathomable—impossible, it seemed, for the very definition seemed too unreal to be true. To exist in an aging world without the fear of dying, to walk across a land teeming with expendable life, to realize that all around you the things you loved and the people you cherished could die—as much of a gift as it seemed when one truly contemplated that life was precious and meant to be saved, Odin couldn’t help but also see it as a curse.

  Eternal life, eternal happiness, to never die; to always suffer, to always remember, to always breathe, to always believe; to always persist, to ultimately resist, and to succumb to the thing that lay in the sky as though it were a diamond unto itself—these were the things mortals dreamed of, the things men went to war for and the reason people killed the innocent in hopes of making it a reality. It need not matter what their purpose or goal was—it need only be in the minds of some in order to make it a concrete reality.