by Clayton Wood
Perhaps the most important use of gravity fields was also the predominant method of magical protection in the Empire: gravity shields. Constructed of two thin gravity spheres, the outer shell pushing outward, the inner one pushing inward to prevent air from being sucked out of the sphere, a gravity shield could deflect a sword, a crossbow bolt...just about anything thrown at it. Gravity shields were actually enormously complicated, and had taken Kyle quite a while to master. Creating an impermeable sphere around yourself meant preventing any air from getting in or out...meaning you'd suffocate if you didn't find a way to let air in. This was accomplished by creating a semi-circular gravity shield, closed at the head but open at the feet. The lower part of the gravity shield couldn't touch the ground, otherwise it would push against it and make you levitate. That's why it had to be open at the bottom...which left the feet potentially vulnerable.
“Create a gravity field in front of you,” Master Owens ordered, stepping backward. Kyle complied, grabbing a thread of magic within his mind and weaving it into the gravity pattern. The pattern was more complicated than the water or fire pattern had been, but Kyle had a knack for remembering patterns, and within a few seconds a gravity-sphere was floating in front of him.
“Now, keep the gravity field there, and make some punk in the center of the field,” his teacher continued. Punk was the name of the tar-black, sticky substance Master Owens had taught him how to create out of thin air yesterday. Kyle complied, and soon a ball of the goop was floating in front of him, suspended in the center of his gravity sphere.
“Now,” Master Owens instructed, walking to stand at Kyle's side. “Use the fire pattern to set the punk on fire within the gravity field.”
Kyle nodded, concentrating harder. Making a gravity field – or any other magical construct – required him to both generate a knot of magical energy – the pattern – and to attach a continuous stream of magic to the pattern to keep it running. Without the magic stream, the pattern would work for a moment, then unravel. He'd already made one magic stream; making two at once still required a bit of concentration. But he did so, weaving the fire pattern, then throwing it out to the punk, attaching a magic stream to keep the flames burning.
The punk burst into flames, forming a fiery ball in the center of the gravity field. Because the gravity of the field pulled inward quite strongly, the flames weren't very tall.
“You don't need the magic stream for the fire pattern,” Master Owens noted. “Punk is quite flammable itself. It makes for a dangerous projectile weapon,” he added. “If thrown, it will stick to just about any surface, and it will burn until consumed.”
Kyle nodded, stopping the magic stream to the fire pattern. Sure enough, the punk continued to burn slowly, hovering within the confines of the gravity field. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead; if he accidentally dropped the punk, it'd light the grass below on fire. How was he going to extinguish those flames?
“Now, use the water pattern to snuff out the punk,” Master Owens instructed. Kyle nearly slapped himself in the forehead; of course! He threw out the water pattern, and a stream of water fell into the center of the sphere, covering the punk and dousing the flames. A small hunk of blackened punk, surrounded by a rippling sphere of water, hovered in mid-air in front of him. It reminded him suddenly of Earth...of home.
“Very good,” Master Owens stated. “You may release the gravity pattern,” he added. Kyle did so, watching as the sphere of water fell to the grass with a plop. Then he hopped backward, realizing too late that he'd just soaked his feet. Master Owens laughed good-naturedly. “I provide the patterns,” he said with a wink. “Life teaches the rest.” Kyle blushed, shaking a few droplets off of his sodden shoes. He was always doing stuff like that; getting all the details right, then missing the practical stuff. Still, he couldn't help but be proud that he'd managed to complete the lesson the first time through.
“Good morning, Master Owens,” a light, feminine voice said from behind Kyle. Kyle spun around, seeing a taller, slender girl standing behind him. She had long brown hair tied into a ponytail, with large, almond-shaped brown eyes, and was dressed in a simple black shirt and pants. Her skin was still a little pale from over a year spent underground. She looked quite fetching, as always.
“Oh, good morning, Ariana,” Master Owens replied, turning to regard the girl. “You're quite late this morning.”
“I was at a Council meeting,” Ariana explained. That, Kyle knew, was true; the Council was a group of twelve men who were second only to the Grand Weaver and Grand Runic in governing Stridon, and by extension, the Empire. The meeting had been about the Death Weaver base at Crescent Lake. Kalibar had already sent his Battle-Weavers there to destroy the base, but the Council wanted as much information about the Death Weavers – and the Dead Man – as they could get. Ariana had lived among the enemy for over a year, and was therefore the foremost expert on the issue.
“Ah, of course,” Master Owens replied. “I had forgotten,” he added. “You're not one to be late.” He glanced at Kyle then, and Kyle blushed at the unspoken truth; he had a bad habit of showing up late, for a variety of reasons that always seemed out of his control. Ariana was, as always, much better at following directions.
“What lesson are we learning today, Master Owens?” Ariana inquired.
“Ah, yes,” the old Weaver replied. “Both of you, stand a bit apart...I don't want anyone getting hurt.” The two did so, standing a few feet from each other, facing Mr. Owens. “Now,” he continued, “...create a gravity field in front of you...”
Master Owens lead them both through the series of patterns he'd showed Kyle earlier, and soon a levitating hunk of burning punk was floating in front of Kyle. Ariana, on the other hand, was still struggling to create the punk inside of her own gravity sphere. She was much better than him at thinking on her feet, especially during a crisis, but he when it came to memorizing patterns, he was the quicker study. They'd been taught the punk pattern yesterday, and Kyle had rapidly memorized it...much to Ariana's dismay. He paused for a moment, watching as Ariana continued to struggle, then dropped his gravity sphere, pretending to screw up his magic stream.
“Oops,” he said, then did a double-take; the punk was still burning, and now it was setting the grass in front of him on fire! “Oh!” he exclaimed, stomping on the burning grass. The gooey punk stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and started burning that, too. He yelped, sliding his foot across the grass, trying to scrape the burning goo off. Mr. Owens just stood there, watching silently as Kyle finally extinguished the flames. When Kyle looked up, Ariana was staring at him, her expression unreadable. Kyle glanced down; there were a few scorch marks on the otherwise immaculate lawn. The blood drained from his face.
“Kyle, why don't you take a break for today,” Master Owens said, patting Ariana on the shoulder. “I'll meet you back in the Tower lobby in a bit.” Kyle nodded, bowing at Master Owens, and giving Ariana a weak smile. She just stared back at him silently...which meant that she was mad.
Kyle felt the blood rush back to his cheeks with a vengeance, and turned about, walking back to the main entrance of the Tower. Despite the warmth of the morning sun beating on his back, and the brilliant blue of the cloudless sky, his disposition was far from sunny. All he'd wanted to do was make sure Ariana wouldn't look bad in front of Master Owens. Why couldn't she understand that? She was hardly being appreciative...and after everything he'd done for her! After all, if it weren't for him, she'd still be stuck in the Dead Man's underground lair.
Kyle sighed, kicking a pebble across the path. His dad had always maintained that he didn't understand women, despite having tricked one into marrying him. Kyle had apparently inherited that deficiency.
It wasn't long before Kyle reached the massive double-doors of the Great Tower, which were perpetually open. Streams of people walked in and out of those doors on a near-constant basis. Many wore either all-white or all-black uniforms; Runic students wore white, Weavers black. There
was a rather lively rivalry between the Runic and Weaver students. As in politics, each thought their art to be vastly and obviously superior to the other, and despite centuries of argument, neither side had become convinced of the others' worth. The younger Runics and Weavers poked fun of each other constantly. Kyle had found himself immune to these debates; having an emperor for a guardian – the most powerful Battle-Weaver in the Empire – might have had something to do with it.
Kyle strolled through the double-doors, nodding politely at people who greeted him as he passed. He walked to one of the many plush couches in the Tower lobby, his black boots clip-clopping on the polished granite floor, then plopped himself down on an empty seat, staring up idly at the ceiling. Crowds of people milled about upside-down a few stories up, held in place by powerful gravitational fields generated by runes embedded into the ceiling. Upside-down fountains spewed water downward, the water arcing back upward to land in upside-down pools. No matter how much time Kyle had spent staring up at that ceiling, he still marveled at the sight. Nothing on Earth rivaled it.
Earth, he thought, picturing his mother's house perched on its hill, his mom waving to him as he ran up the driveway from the bus stop. It'd been weeks since he'd seen his mom and dad, and he missed them terribly. The homesickness had become almost unbearable of late. He'd spent the last few nights imagining his parents searching frantically for him, losing hope as the days and weeks passed. He'd pictured them standing over his casket at his funeral, weeping over their lost son. What he wouldn't give to be with them again...to hug his mom and dad, to tell them how much he loved them.
Kyle sighed. To be honest, he'd expected to be sent back to Earth after defeating Xanos a week ago, but it hadn't happened. In fact, Ampir – the man who had almost certainly brought him to this world in the first place – hadn't paid Kyle a visit since Xanos's defeat.
Ampir, the mystery man. A black-armored Runic who'd lived in Ancient times, who'd been so powerful that entire armies had surrendered at the sight of him showing up on the battlefield. A man who had somehow sent his memories to Kyle through Kyle's dreams, and had brought him to this strange land. And for what?
Kyle glanced down at the ring on his left thumb, realizing that he'd forgotten to leave it in his room that morning. He was supposed to leave it in his room's magical safe so that Erasmus's research team could study it during the day. Light glimmered off of the yellow crystal embedded on top. It had been Ampir's long ago, of that there was little doubt. So how had it ended up in Kyle's hands? He'd gotten the ring for his birthday...a lousy gift from his dad, or so he'd thought at the time. Sometimes he wished he'd never gotten it, never been taken from his family and friends back home. Then he remembered Kalibar, Ariana, and even Darius, and knew that he had to be thankful for having met them. They were the most extraordinary people Kyle had ever met, brave and loyal beyond measure.
“Kyle,” a kindly voice said from behind. Kyle turned about, and saw Master Owens standing behind the couch. The Weaver gestured to the empty seat on the couch beside Kyle. “May I sit?”
“Sure,” Kyle mumbled. Master Owens sat down, smoothing the wrinkles out of his black robes. He hesitated for a moment.
“Kyle, I've been thinking,” he stated, his tone suddenly solemn. Kyle felt a creeping dread twist his guts. When an adult mentioned that they'd been thinking, it was almost always about something bad.
“What?” Kyle asked.
“Well...to be blunt, I've been thinking that perhaps Weaving isn't the best fit for you.”
Kyle's mouth fell open. He sat there in stunned silence, waiting for Master Owens to laugh, to say he was just kidding. But Owens just sighed.
“I've been talking it over with Grand Weaver Kalibar,” he continued. “We both agree on this,” he added. Kyle shook his head, righteous indignation rising up in his breast.
“What do you mean?” he protested. “I'm good at weaving,” he added hotly. “I learned the patterns a lot faster than Ariana,” he added. “If anything, she should be the one...”
“Stop,” Master Owens ordered, his tone ice-cold. Kyle's jaw snapped shut, and he felt his cheeks turning hot with anger and shame. “I will not have you disparaging your friend,” Master Owens added, his tone uncharacteristically harsh. “You're better than that, Kyle,” he admonished. Kyle felt sudden, hot tears well up in his eyes, and he turned away in shame.
“I just don't understand,” he protested, shaking his head, then wiping the tears away with one sleeve. “I thought I was doing so well,” he added. He felt Master Owen's hand on his shoulder.
“You are doing well,” his teacher replied gently. “Incredibly so.”
“Then why...?” he asked. Master Owens patted Kyle on the knee
“Your ability to memorize patterns is remarkable,” he explained. “I've never met someone that had such a knack for learning them. But you...” he paused then, an apologetic look on his face.
“I what?” Kyle pressed, his dread returning. Master Owens sighed.
“Well, you're just not as strong at applying those patterns on the fly,” he replied. Kyle's eyebrows knit together, and he opened his mouth to defend himself, but Master Owens stopped him with one hand. “You are better than Ariana at learning patterns,” he conceded. “But you can't deny that, once she's learned them, she's better at thinking on her feet...using her patterns strategically, in real time,” he added. Kyle said nothing, lowering his gaze to his knees. Now it was his turn to smooth the wrinkles out of his pants, running his fingers over the coarse black fabric. He couldn't deny what Master Owens was saying; after all, he'd had the very same thought earlier that day. How often had Ariana burst into action during their last adventure, acting decisively while Kyle had frozen? Heck, everyone had been braver and more decisive than him. He'd just tagged along, a nobody surrounded by heroes. He'd hoped that becoming a Weaver would change that.
“So you're saying I can't learn magic?” Kyle asked. Master Owens chuckled.
“No, nothing as bad as that,” he countered. “In fact, I think you've got an amazing career ahead of you,” he added. “One that might be more suited to your strengths.” Kyle felt his hopes rise.
“As what?” he asked. Master Owens smiled.
“As a Runic.”
“A Runic?” Kyle almost spat. Master Owens chuckled again.
“Now, now,” he said, patting Kyle on the shoulder. “You make it sound like it's a bad thing.”
“It is,” Kyle countered, pulling his shoulder away. “Runics are boring,” he added vehemently. It was true; all of the Weaver students said it. Runics were all loners, hunchbacked nerds wasting their lives making little trinkets for other people to use. Weavers, on the other hand, led exciting lives, filled with action and adventure. While Runics stayed safely behind enemy lines making swords sharper and armor stronger, Weavers led the way, flying through the air and blasting enemies left and right. “All they do is draw runes all day,” Kyle complained, “...while Weavers go out to battle and get all the glory.”
“You should ask Grand Weaver Kalibar who saved him from dying in battle a dozen times over,” Master Owens retorted gently. “Or did you think he did everything himself?”
“He did,” Kyle shot back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Kalibar was, after all, the greatest Battle-Weaver the Empire had ever produced.
“He most certainly did not,” Master Owens countered. “Now, I'll admit that he certainly held his own later in life...and that now there are few who could stand against him – with or without runics. But in his earlier days, Kalibar was every bit as dependent on his Runic as any other Battle-Weaver...or soldier, or citizen of the Empire.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask Grand Runic Erasmus,” Master Owens replied. “He's the one who made Kalibar's weaving glasses, his warding staff, the wards for his carriages, the rings he always wears on his fingers, that crisp black uniform with those rows of runic medals...need I go on?”
“Oh,”
Kyle replied, grudgingly realizing that Master Owens was right. Kalibar had accumulated a vast collection of runic items, all of which he'd used to make himself a more effective Weaver. And of course, as a Weaver, Kalibar couldn't have made any of it himself.
“The dawn breaks,” Master Owens said with a grin. “By the way, those 'boring' old Runics built everything you see around you,” he added, gesturing up at the upside-down lobby above their heads. “This Tower was entirely built by Runics,” he explained. “The levitating carriages on the streets? All made by Runics. Every sword, every scrap of armor each of our soldiers and guards wear?”
“Made by Runics,” Kyle answered. “I get it,” he added glumly.
“The point is that, well, you're really good with patterns.” Master Owens stated. “Memorizing them, understanding them, understanding how one pattern can affect another...these are your strengths. Not to mention your unheard-of ability to produce magic. These are the talents of someone who is better suited to learn the art of rune-linking.”
“Rune-linking?” Kyle asked. He'd never heard of the term.
“Linking sensor and effector runes together in novel ways,” Master Owens explained. “It's a process that requires a great deal of creativity, Kyle...and frankly, it can be a lot of fun.”
