Silvered Spell - 2. Chapter 2

The bleary cold of a passing storm twisted its way up from the Narrow Sea, spreading out across the grassy knolls and autumn-colored trees that otherwise dotted the Westerland region of Velandria.

It was unlikely that the northernmost holding of the kingdom would enjoy sunlight anytime soon. Gray clouds speckled with slate-black flirted and reveled among the loftier whites across the horizon, having spent the greatest portion of its deluge throughout the night. Though the storm’s dance was coming to an end, fragments of its being yet coalesced in protuberant ways for as far as the eye could see. Without so much as a single speck of blue dotting the sky, the lands below took to their own designs and drank freely from the intermittent rainwaters that persisted. Which was just the same to Galdrian, whose mind drifted as easily as the clouds above, idling on precarious things that were, similarly, nothing more than echoes of the past.

A little over one month had gone by since he left home. And yet somehow, Galdrian didn’t feel much better about it than before he’d departed the city of Corariel. Guilt still hung on him like a rotten smell that refused to be washed clean, even after such great lengths of travel, and no matter how hard he tried to put it all behind him. But then, maybe it was no less than what he deserved. Considering the predicament that he’d thrust himself into, it was a miracle that he was still alive at all.

Sat on a partially sodden log, Galdrian took in the ambient sounds of the sea resounding faintly from all around him. A seagull or two could be heard cawing in some arbitrary direction, contrasted sharply by the winds rustling in the yellowed grass, or the rushing of waves that lapped upon the rocky beaches just farther down along the distant shoreline. For a moment, Galdrian closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of all his troubles, letting the sounds ease him into a sense of calm. Another long day of travel awaited, after all, and he really needed to maintain his strength for the last leg of their journey.

All at once, however, a coughing fit overcame him, and he lurched for a moment just to steady himself against the strain of his lungs. Galdrian felt the slight shivering of his muscles as his body spasmed, and a wonted patch of dryness began to form in the back of his throat. Fortunately, the bout only lasted a matter of seconds. Soon enough, he was sitting upright once more, wiping latent saliva from his lips as he caught his breath. He was just thankful that there was nothing more to it… this time.

“Feeling alright?” The labored voice of his cousin, Rydel, interjected with a huff, slightly above the surrounding seaside noises. Belatedly, Galdrian flicked his gaze in her direction, which was just in time to catch her in the process of diligently working the remnants of their camping supplies into various saddlebags. She was nearly twenty years his senior but sported the same inky-black hair and sharp jawline that most of the family seemed to inherit. As wind ruffled the ends of her blue-colored robes, she heaved one final load onto the horses, before looking toward him expectantly, “Well?”

Galdrian shrugged. He could never be sure if he was dying, or merely suffering the effects of chronic illness, but responded with, “I think so.”

Rydel grunted with a wary glance, though offered a nod of her own as she resigned to rummage with her waterskin. Taking a few precious sips, she exhaled and replied with a more insistent tone of voice, “You pushed yourself too hard today. I know you’re eager, but I really don’t need you exerting any more force on the Weave than what is necessary for our lessons. Not now, and certainly not before you’ve undertaken some semblance of treatment. Understood?”

Galdrian nodded.

Even he couldn’t deny that his newfound enthusiasm for magic was getting the better of his more cautious nature. He was still very new to the arcane arts, or at least in the sense that he’d always been taught against it; to never entertain its wicked curiosities. After all, such magic was strictly frowned upon by the religious fervor that inundated Velandria, which was a sentiment that just so happened to be shared by Galdrian’s father. Thus, he had never been allowed to learn much about arcanum. And since it had never occurred to anyone in the family that he would show aptitude for magehood, the secret of possessing arcane abilities had been his to suffer alone.

But things were different now.

Everything was out in the open, at least to a certain degree, which meant there was nothing really to stop him now but his own limitations, or perhaps his reservations. Truthfully, he was so desperate to learn everything he could about the arcane because it was something different. There was a craving, almost, in his pursuit of trying to understand not just what exactly he was and what he could do, but why exactly it was so intent on killing him. Not that he didn’t have some idea as to the latter.

Galdrian had been fighting against the manifestation of his own arcane powers for years, ever since he was twelve years old. As a result, the consequences that his actions were now having on his body seemed severe enough. It wasn’t a typical illness that he suffered, but rather one formed from the express suppression of arcanum within himself, which otherwise demanded relief but did not receive it. Years of straining and holding back his own magical energy had wreaked havoc on his physical wellbeing, and the last five months had been nothing short of misery.

Regardless, he couldn’t change the past now.

His eighteenth birthday was nearly four months away, and with it came a very serious decision to make regarding his future. There was no room to be a frightened little boy anymore, and things were far more complicated than ever before. His father loathed him, the Arcanium coveted his magic, and he was stuck playing catch up whilst battling for his very survival. Frankly, if he didn’t do something about it now, he might never get the chance again.

“It was a good lesson, anyway.” Rydel lessened her tone, and her expression softened to a smile, “You’ve been making good progress. I’d truly hate to see it all go to waste.”

“I’m trying not to let that happen.” Galdrian replied confidently, tilting his head somewhat, “Though I still think I could handle more than what you’re throwing at me.”

“I don’t doubt it. But then, what would I do if you suddenly dropped dead on account of some errant casting practice?”

“Rejoice?” Galdrian pondered aloud, “Father might even reward you for the effort.”

“…You sound like your brother.”

“Just the same.” Galdrian shrugged with a smile, reaching for his own waterskin. His throat was deathly hoarse, and so he took a long sip before saying more earnestly, “I know you’re just looking out for me, but you are still my teacher. I need all the help I can get, Rydel. Sooner rather than later, I should think.”

“I know…” She said softly, more of a murmur to herself as she looked toward him with a consoling expression, “Whether you chose to remain in your father’s house, and assume the life he desires for you, or if you would rather purse a future at the Arcanium—or anywhere else, for that matter—my promise still stands to you. I will help you learn to control your fledgling powers, to the best of my ability. But for now, your health is my primary concern. Magic scarcely matters in that context. Try to remember that, Gal.”

As ironic as it was, Rydel was a highly experienced mage herself, whose very livelihood revolved around the craft. She was the only person in the immediate family that had any formal ties with the Arcanium, or magic in general. Although she was not exactly despised by his father, the two of them did not get along very well. Afterall, Lorain’s were meant to be dutiful in life and obedient to the Godhead. In the eyes of divinity, arcanum was scarcely more than sacrilege, or so it was lectured in the Book of the Divinials.

“…Not long now.” Rydel mentioned a few minutes later, breaking the spell of silence that had grown between them. Her gaze slowly shifted down from camp to the single stretch of highway that served as their only route southwestwardly, “Half a days’ riding at most. I should think we’ll be in the city before nightfall.”

“With proper beds, I hope. And meals!” The strained, albeit lively voice of Galdrian’s older brother, Ilonan, grumbled. His curly black hair crested over the nearby hill as he returned, fumbling with his belt buckle somewhat as he announced his presence, “Reckon I slept on a rock last night, my back feels like utter shit.”

“I’m sure we can find something suitable for you.” Rydel replied, her voice underpinned with certain sarcasm, “We’ll be needing board for three horses, so what’s one more really?”

Ilonan chuckled, as he rearranged his dark-colored cloak and pulled up his hood, saying, “If that’s your way of calling me a stud, cousin, then I shan’t argue.”

Rydel simply rolled her eyes and turned back toward Galdrian, pointing her finger to say, “You then, no more spellcasting today. Make sure you’re drinking enough water too.” And without a moment’s hesitation, she hoisted herself up into the saddle of her grayish-white mare, “Come on then, boys, before this rain picks up again and floods us straight back to Rathander.”

Galdrian squinted curiously.

As weary as he was, he couldn’t help but notice that his cousin seemed to be in a hurry that morning, and almost distracted in some way. She’d cut his lesson short, for one thing, which she’d rarely done before and even though he’d felt perfectly fine to continue. Furthermore, she’d packed all the saddlebags herself, and was now rearing to get on the road. Her gaze wandered down the hill and out toward the sea more than once since he’d been awake, and he got the sense that she was looking out for something, though he wasn’t certain just yet as to what. Rydel wasn’t the kind of person to be spooked by something, but Galdrian did wonder sometimes what she was capable of as a mage.

Begrudgingly, however, Galdrian picked himself up off the log and wandered over to his horse, clambering up into the saddle of his brown stallion with no great haste. Ilonan quickly followed suit, and before long the trio of riders was getting back onto the road.

It only took a matter of minutes for Rydel and Ilonan to take the lead, both of whom rode side-by-side with one another. The road ahead was less than forgiving but was made easier by decent pace-making. What amounted to little more than half-cobbled hillocks, all of which were caked in wet, sloppy earth, did not make for light traveling at all, but the going was moderate.

Galdrian did his best to keep pace, and to keep the long strands of his dark hair from streaking out behind him in the coastal breeze, having to gently push them back into the confines of his damp hood and cloak every now and again. It took nearly as much effort for him to maintain his riding posture too. He was in better shape than he had been before they’d left Corariel, but even the taut, hardworking muscles of his legs were no match for so many days’ worth of travel. Combined with sudden bouts of fatigue or coughing fits, Galdrian only hoped that once they reached the city of Westerwind, they would not be venturing out again anytime soon.

In the back of his mind, Galdrian still supposed that he was grateful to have been given the opportunity to travel at all. However, he also knew that his lord father was left with little choice in the matter. If it had been up to him, Galdrian had no doubt that he would still be lying in his own death bed, being tended to by Priory physicians who truly had no clue how to treat him. Sometimes, he wondered if his father would have preferred for him to die, believing it was from natural-born causes, more than anything that had to do with magic in his bloodline, or his refusal to accept the fact.

Somewhat unaware of himself, Galdrian inspected the overgrown ends of his left-handed fingernails, and proceeded to slowly chew them down to the tips of his fingers as he rode.

He thought about his life often, at least in those last couple of months. He thought about what things might have been like if he had never been born with magic, or if he had simply been born elsewhere—to a different family altogether, perhaps? All he knew was that for the longest time, he had denied a part of himself that was no longer physically acceptable to deny. Galdrian had already caused himself enough grief because of his refusal to seek help in years past, having feared the zeal of his father and the people he surrounded himself with, not to mention the fear of failing to meet such vast expectations.

But now that he was on a path toward hopeful recovery, Galdrian had no choice but to stay the course ahead. If that meant he must become an Arcanium mage, then so be it. Even so, a small part of him still desired to make his father proud. The intrigue of magic or the importance of heritage? He simply had no idea how to accomplish both, though he was almost certain to try if it was within his means to do so.

Despite her earlier orders, Galdrian couldn’t help himself but to twist his fingers slightly. There was a silent and hidden draw of magical energy to him, as the configuration of hand gestures began to allow his channels to the Ether—in other words, the energetic Plane of Magic—open. Before long, a sufficient amount of raw, colorless energy had begun to fill the palm of his hand. As it did, Galdrian curled his fingers around the growing cluster, shaping it from a chaotic mess of white energy into a controllable ball of gray-colored mana.

The timing was nearly perfect, and Galdrian was momentarily satisfied with the ease with which he was controlling the overall flow of his mana supply. Though there was little time to relish the small victory. Squeezing his fingers closed, Galdrian watched his chosen spell gusher out before his very eyes.

Instantly, everything around him lit up. He could see and feel the intensity of all the surrounding ley lines, themselves like a mirror into the magical plane, which were intricately connected like the veins of a living organism. Mana surged at alternating speeds and along various pathways, revealing themselves to Galdrian in a collage of ebbing and flowing veins as his spell took root.

Some ley lines meandered slowly, but were filled to the brim with magical energy, and were cast so wide that they were like veils blanketing the land. Others were meager by comparison, something akin to individual threads cut from the larger cloth at hand, though which pumped energy at rapid rates in all manner of direction, many to where the larger veils could not reach themselves. There were junctions too, places where mana did not move but coalesced into smaller pockets, or nodes. And all of these formed a complex but otherwise invisible network of arcanum across the world; the very foundation of arcane magic itself.

Rydel often called this liminal phenomenon the “Weave” of magic, and referenced it often during their lessons. She had taught him that all arcane-based mages crafted spells with mana drawn from these portions of the Weave, the ley lines, but that only a select few could make the greater construct reveal itself. These special kinds of spellcasters were known as diviners, and it was one of the very first things Rydel had taught him how to cast.

Galdrian didn’t understand what it meant to be a diviner at all, only that it was his natural-born affinity, and that Rydel suggested it held a very important place in arcane pedagogy. She had also inferred through fewer words that divination magic was in short supply throughout the Kingdom, and that the Arcanium was always searching for new and talented diviners to join their ranks.

What he did know, however, was how spectacular it was to not just see the Weave of magic, but to feel it. The energy was palpable, bright like day beneath the sun but without too much heat. It made him feel somewhat warm, and the hairs on his arms stood tall with a tingle, but it was a comfortable sensation most of the time unless he got too close. He felt submerged in the arcane whenever he expended himself to cast that spell, and it was a feeling dissimilar to any other he’d ever had.

Before letting himself get too carried away, however, Galdrian quickly moved to dispel his magic, having only wanted to practice a bit more. He only had a limited amount of force to exert over the Weave in a single day, given his novice training as a mage, which meant that he could not draw magical energy for spellcasting purposes as often as he might have otherwise liked. Even though he could still feel and shape the mana around him at will, he couldn’t always shape it into spells.

Soon enough, Galdrian’s channels to the Ether grew cold, until they were closed altogether, so that the vast network of vessels—the ley lines of white-colorless energy cascading across the land—dimmed and passed beyond Galdrian’s own ability to discern. The warm, fuzzy feeling diminished, and he was immediately reminded of the cold road ahead of them.

One day, he would master the spell that gave him the means to feel such exuberance at will. Perhaps if he were lucky, it would be to such a degree that the casting itself would be no more tedious than blinking. At least, he imagined it would be that way.

The day pushed on well into the afternoon, and they were greeted by little more than drizzle thereafter. Though the clouds did not part, a steady lack of rainwater and a reduced ferocity in the wind made traveling a bit more pleasant, more so than it had been earlier that morning. Galdrian kept mostly to himself in that time, tuning into the conversations of his brother and cousin only on occasion.

“Dragon’s beard!” Ilonan shouted at some point, “You might have been right after all, cousin.” He paused to stretch his arms, yawning somewhat before adding, “I thought these storms should have kept us on the road for another day at least. We might even have some time to spare if we’re lucky.”

“To spare on what exactly?” Rydel asked cynically, though Galdrian supposed it was a somewhat entertained tone of voice, “We’re here for your brother.”

“And for the feast.” Ilonan corrected, “I’ve been assured it will be a party for the ages. Or have you so readily forgotten our invitation to dine with Lord Devres?”

Rydel grumbled, “No, I did not forget. But neither do I care much for the occasion.”

“Two days, Rydel!” Ilonan exclaimed, “Surely, you’ll come around. He’s your friend, after all.”

“Be that as it may, I won’t have you running amuck of the place before then.” Rydel chastised him, waving her finger in his direction, “So, help me, Ilonan, if you get into any trouble—”

“I won’t!” Ilonan interjected through a hearty laugh, flourishing his hand through the air as if to protest, “And just what are you on about, anyway? Do I seem the troublemaking sort to you?”

“Inextricably.” Rydel accused, “And don’t think for one second that I don’t know the kind of mischief you and that Vasoriel boy get up to whenever you’re together. Little more than thickheaded muscles, you two are, acting with your better senses nearly half as often as young men of your stations ought to.”

“Thickheaded muscles?” Ilonan gasped sarcastically, he cocked his head back towards Galdrian, “Do you hear how she mocks our dear Evindal?”

Though Galdrian wasn’t paying attention. His gaze traveled with absentminded interest across the southwestern horizon, out toward the sea, where he looked for ships pulling into the harbor. A sudden ripple in his vision caused him to squint, and he was almost certain that he’d felt some strange force pulling on him in that direction, as if it was creeping away to the west but tugging on him ever so slightly. It seemed to be moving away from him, whatever it was. Perhaps in the sea? The clouds? But just as Galdrian was about to slip deeper into his own musings, perhaps even to divine more of the weave, Ilonan snapped his fingers.

“Galdrian? Gal!”

“Hm?” Galdrian blinked several times fast, turning his head back toward the front, “What?”

“Chasing clouds, are we?” Ilonan smiled back at him. Galdrian was certain his brother didn’t realize how uncanny his question had been at that exact moment, but he then faced Rydel to say more crossly, “How’s that for thickheaded?”

“Leave your brother alone. He doesn’t want to be dragged into any of your petty quarrels.”

Ilonan scoffed, though he did so light-heartedly, “True enough. But there’s no such thing as a petty quarrel in this household. I thought that would be plainly obvious to all parties present by now.”

“True enough…” Rydel mimicked in a hushed tone, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Galdrian’s cheeks flushed. He was somewhat embarrassed, knowing full well Ilonan was referring to him and his present situation. He thought about saying something in retort, but knew better than to supply his brother with anything that could be used against him later on. He’d have to swing his sword in their next practice day extra recklessly, perhaps. Regardless, the mysterious sensation was gone, as if lost on a current, and Galdrian was only somewhat disappointed.

“Mind yourselves, boys, we’re coming upon the city.” Rydel said shortly thereafter, as the final leg of their journey neared its end.

Westerwind was the size of a thimble compared to Corariel, and yet it was no less opulent, sprawling out across the northern coastline of the Narrow Sea for several miles at least. As they crested over the last gradient, Galdrian could suddenly see in the distance, endless rows of homes and oddly shaped buildings lining the many avenues and switchback alleyways, shingled with browns, yellows, and oranges of varying degree as they meandered up the wide hills upon which the city was built. The outer wall did not kiss the city limits itself, but instead skirted a wide berth of pastures from many yards away. Dozens if not hundreds of ships ranging from the smallest of skiffs to the greatest of galleys lined the piers or sat anchored throughout the bay. The faintest sheen of a white-marbled bell tower could be seen on the far southwestern side, there on a cliff facing the sea. And even the duke’s own castle sat tall in the north, overseeing all between itself and the harbor proper.

However, what made the city truly stand out on its own was the massive tree that stood in its center.

Climbing one-hundred feet or more into the air, the great oak of Westerwind nearly kissed the clouds above, and Galdrian couldn’t help but to awe in silence. The legends surrounding the Elderwood Trees were well-known throughout Velandria, but to see one for himself was a completely different experience for Galdrian, even at such a great distance away.

“Falfnor, the Foaming Tree.” Rydel mentioned at one point, extending her finger towards its distant eaves, as they drew closer on the eastern descent, “A medicinal marvel, they say. Home to the menders of the House of Healing. Supposed to effervesce a healing sap from its bark—highly sought-after substances in the Alchemy Guild, mind you. The healers of Westerwind are among the finest you’ll find anywhere. You’ll be in good hands from here on out, Gal.”

Galdrian nodded impressively, looking forward to the visit.

Steadily, the trio of riders sauntered down the gradual hill and passed through the nearest gatehouse dotting the outer wall. From there, they cut through the fields and farmsteads, passing townsfolk by the dozens. Though it wasn’t until they stepped deeper beyond the patchwork tether of buildings comprising the city outskirts, that Galdrian began to understand why Westerwind had always been considered the rival of the south.

Streets were packed with traders, merchants, craftsmen, and swindlers, broken up only by the hundreds of ordinary people otherwise moving about at their own pace and businesses. Galdrian spotted a woman selling exotic birds he’d never seen before, and two foreign men shouting at each other in completely different languages. There was a feel about Westerwind that made it seem more densely populated too. Perhaps it was the narrower roads, the shingled awnings of homes that hung over you like a forest canopy, or the twists and turns that created maze-like sensations, preventing you from ever truly knowing where you were in relation to where you hoped to be. The structures themselves felt more compact too, as if they’d all been crammed together initially and then slowly added upon over time. Even for the afternoon, it was impressively crowded, and so they dismounted their horses to proceed on foot.

Suddenly, Galdrian heard somewhere off in the distance, the recognizable bell song of the Priory’s midafternoon sermon. He recalled seeing its steely-white steeple back before they’d entered the city, far on the other side. A shiver shot up his spine momentarily, speculating if the Priory had received any initial word about their visit, though he hoped that would not be the case. He wouldn’t put it past his father to do something like that, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t have the means to do so. As a Knight Marshal in the Order of Bahamut, Galdrian’s father was effectively a finger on the Priory’s right arm. Wherever the Church held influence, it was conceivable that Lord Lorain had eyes and ears as well.

It wasn’t useful to think about such things. Thus, putting his nervous energy to rest, Galdrian turned his attention elsewhere.

As they pushed further into the city, Galdrian couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t sensing much in the way of magical energy, even with passive sense. Not that he had been trying to pry or expend too much of himself, but it had been lingering in the back of his mind as to what he might find. The northern reaches of the kingdom were well-known for their adamant distrust of magic, and rightfully so given its strained history. Not even the Arcanium had an outfit in Westerwind anymore, which was saying something. Regardless, he might have felt just a bit better were they to see some other mages along their way. Rydel stuck out like a sore thumb, and Galdrian was beginning to suspect that wasn’t such a good thing.

“Ah, there it is!” Ilonan celebrated momentarily, nodding his head in the direction of a rather large building off to their right, “The Bottle on Dunford. That’s the inn Evin was recommending.”

It was a three-story, somewhat rectangular shaped building, which stood out like a behemoth among the smaller buildings around it. The frame was built from a sturdy selection of oak wood planks, and boasted a slanting, tiled roof that wrapped around the entire structure. A small path led off the one side towards an attached stable, but otherwise gave way to an open courtyard. An assortment of patrons lingered on the patio just ahead, and the sounds of a musician could be heard echoing faintly from the tavern just inside.

“This place?” Rydel furrowed her brow skeptically, eyeing up the inn as if she already hated it, “Are you certain?”

“Quite.” Ilonan yipped excitedly, who was no doubt just as eager to make merry as Galdrian was to finally sit down in a chair, “Come on! Let’s head inside.”

It wasn’t before much longer that the board for their horses was arranged with the stable hand, and their rooms for the evening were acquired. The attending innkeeper was an old, silent sort of fellow that didn’t ask many questions. He took payment upfront, kindly showed them the basic amenities available to them, and left having said little more than a dozen words in total.

Not long after they parted ways with the old man, Galdrian and his brother got to piling their things into the small, relatively quaint room that they’d be sharing for the night. Their two beds were little more than hay-stuffed mattresses, blanketed by various furs and one feathery pillow each. A small table bisected the two beds, and a little window looked out onto a side street below.

“Don’t unpack anything.” Rydel said disgustedly, as she stopped in the threshold of their, “We’ll be taking up Lord Devres’ offer for lodging by tomorrow evening.” Her eyes shifted to where Galdrian sat on the edge of his bed, “Are you certain you want to stay here tonight? Ilonan clearly has plans, so he can suffer here if he wants. But we might find you better arrangements?”

Galdrian shook his head, “I’m alright. It’s nice to be around people again.”

Rydel furrowed her brow unexpectedly.

“And I’m gutted.” Ilonan spun around and glared at her, his tone mocking, more or less, “Truly. I thought you’d be leaping with joy at the opportunity to spend an evening in Westerwind’s oldest inn. Think of the history here, cousin?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Rydel groaned, “The latrine is an abomination, I found a one-eyed cat sleeping on my bed just now, and by the way, I know you’re only interested because there’s a pub downstairs.”

“Well…” Ilonan shrugged, his long-winded effort yet to yield an appropriate response. Galdrian was interested in hearing more about the cat, but Ilonan finally relented, “Historic doesn’t have to mean boring, Rydel. There’s culture to experience here. I can’t help that it just so happens to come in the form of ale.”

“Idiot…” Rydel rolled her eyes, but said more plainly, “A word, Ilonan? If you’re quite finished spraying yourself with that gods’ awful perfume.”

Galdrian thought he’d smelled a familiar woody fragrance, and Ilonan winked at him on the way out the door. For his part, Galdrian merely chuckled as he watched the two of them squabble and exit into the narrow corridor.

He was glad that they were finally somewhere all of them could relax, and in which rest might come more easily for him. The trip had been long and arduous, but Galdrian was truly looking forward to whatever came next. There was a growing thought that once he was healthy again, things might start to work in his favor. For starters, he could recover his strength and resume the full capacity of both physical and martial training, something he had sorely missed since becoming ill before the summer. More importantly though, he might even get to indulge more rigorous practice in magecraft. Assuming Rydel let him.

There was still the matter of appeasing his father, of course, but who knew? Perhaps he was never meant to follow in the footsteps of his brother and father, and their forebears before them. The Order of the Platinum Dragon would always have knights and men-at-arms to call upon, but the Arcanium seemed like it could really use him. There was somewhere he was desirable, in fact. That was worth considering, wasn’t it? Rydel had turned out fine, anyway, and she had joined the mages at an even younger age than he was.

It was at that moment that Galdrian turned his attention outward and noticed something peculiar. Try as they might have, Ilonan and Rydel were not being particularly quiet, and so he couldn’t help but to overhear part of their conversation.

“—I don’t know.” Rydel’s voice murmured snappishly, “And keep your voice down, for heavens’ sake.”

“What’s the problem?” Ilonan asked coldly, in a hushed tone, “You asked me to come along, and I did. Is it so wrong that I want Galdrian to start enjoying his life again? Clearly you don’t have the first clue as to what things were like back home—”

“Don’t start with me.” Rydel interjected, practically hissing, “I have a very keen memory as to what kind of man my uncle was—is, and it’s precisely my reason for being here. So no, I will not tolerate another generation of our family being degraded for things outside of their control. It happened to me, and it will not happen to him.”

“We’re in full agreement on that, but don’t you think my father is just—I don’t know, misunderstood? Tradition means everything to him, Rydel. This has all hurt him much more than you think.”

“Misunderstood? He was prepared to lose your brother in his delusions of legacy! Walter is a craven, insipid bull, who hides behind his rank, his coat of arms, and his faith. In simpler terms, a buffoon.”

“…Harsh, but supposing I see your point, what’s the plan after this great escape of yours? There are certain things at stake here, cousin. My father will not let this go simply because your institution has deigned to intervene, and neither will the Priory. Such is their right, but make no mistake, this is a losing battle for you. For all of us, truth be told.”

“Ilonan…” Rydel sighed, “I’m not having this argument, and I really need to step out for the remainder of the evening.”

“What? Why? I thought we might finally get to share a drink—”

“Business, Ilonan.” Rydel interjected, “Something unexpected. Just—look after your brother. Please?”

“I always do.” Ilonan replied, in a far more wistful tone of voice, as if he was somewhat hurt by the remark, “You know that.”

“Doubly sure, then. And don’t let him stay up too long. I want to get him in to see the menders first thing tomorrow. And no getting drunk, so help me!”

“Knight’s honor. But Rydel… take care of yourself too, alright? Galdrian isn’t the only one who stands to get hurt in all this. You work yourself to death, don’t think we don’t notice.”

“Bah.” Rydel moaned in a fluster, and in a few moments, she appeared in Galdrian’s room, saying, “I’m off to visit Frederick, and perhaps tend to some other things. Early night for you, yes?”

Galdrian nodded, wondering if her energy had anything to do with the things he’d been curious about earlier. Regardless, he made himself appear to have been doing anything else but eavesdropping.

“Excellent. Don’t venture far from the inn you two. If that will be all, then I’m off!” She blurted out, offering something that resembled a smile, and hurriedly made her way down the corridor, her blue ropes dithering behind her as she went.

Ilonan appeared in the threshold of their room a few moments later. He looked somewhat pensive as he leaned on the frame of the door, though he glanced at Galdrian curiously, saying in a softer voice, “You heard all that, I presume?”

Galdrian opened his mouth to argue, but shrugged instead, “Most of it.”

Ilonan nodded slowly, followed by several seconds of silence. Just as Galdrian thought it might be kind to thank his brother for coming all this way with him, Ilonan beat him to it, saying instead, “Just so we’re clear on this, I won’t let anything happen to you. Alright? I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”

Galdrian cocked his head to the side with a slight grin, “I can take care of myself, just so we’re clear. You don’t have to watch over me like some sentry.”

“Oh? Well, excuse me. Though you might have mentioned something before I packed it across the kingdom for you.” Ilonan joked lightheartedly, who then plopped down on the end of his own rickety bed with a heavy groan, adding more plainly, “Look, Gal, I know what you’re capable of. You impress me every day. But you’re my little brother. So, you know… I’m worried about you, is all. I’m worried about how all of this plays out… in the end.”

“You’re worried?” Galdrian eyed him even more curiously.

It wasn’t often that his brother shared vulnerability like this. In fact, Galdrian was almost certain that Ilonan was adverse to it. Their father piled so much pressure and expectation on him too, and yet he always rose to the challenge. In some ways, Galdrian imagined that there was no other way to bear such a burden than to become some self-possessed carapace, unrelenting in the face of uncertainty. It suited Ilonan well.

Ilonan pursed his lips into a grin, relenting a snort, “I am, yes… as any good brother ought to be. Besides, you’re a fucking mage now? That alone is reason enough, surely. Who knows what kind of pious morons we’ll encounter in this far northern wasteland. Better to be safe, than sorry. And you’ll be glad I’m here, before all is said and done. Just you wait.”

After his cousin’s own heart, Galdrian couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, but smiled back to say sincerely, “I am glad you’re here.”

“…So am I.” Ilonan simply murmured, who looked like he might have wanted to say more but closed his mouth before letting anything else slip. He was back on his feet in a matter of moments, resuming his familiar tone to say, “Alright, enough of this soppy shit, it’s making me sick.” He paused to stare at Galdrian, before adding, “I intend to meet with Evindal tonight. Downstairs. Actually, I already sent a message ahead of time. I expect he’ll be receiving it soon, if he hasn’t already.”

“How did you manage that?” Galdrian asked skeptically. Ilonan merely shrugged, and Galdrian said, “How do you even know he’s in the city right now?”

“Because he told me he would be?” Ilonan shook his head, fitting himself back into his cloak, saying, “Lord Devres’ party is in what? Three days? Well, Evin told me they would have made port around a week ahead of time. I doubt he’s gotten off to anywhere else…”

Galdrian simply shook his head back, baffled by how meticulous his older brother and his brother’s best friend were at keeping up correspondence. Even though Ilonan had been on the road with them for the past month, he and Evindal never seemed to lose track of where the other was in the world.

“Anyhow, I slipped that stable hand a message and some coin, asked him to find a courier, and to get my message to Vasoriel posthaste. Now the only question is, do you want to come along?”

Galdrian thought long and hard about the proposition for a moment. He did want to see Evindal, but he was also feeling particularly weary. Knowing those two, they were likely to drink well into the evening hour. Galdrian wasn’t sure showing up to the healers hungover was a good look for him, or Rydel, but maybe they were used to it? Regardless, he was far too exhausted to entertain much of anything else tonight.

“I think I’ll pass.” Galdrian relented at last, somewhat regrettably, “If Rydel finds out, she’ll kill me.”

“Too true, I’m afraid.” Ilonan agreed, but was swiftly on his way out the door, stopping just to say, “She does make a good point though. Try to get some rest, alright? I’ll come up to check on you now and again, so don’t think about complaining. And… don’t leave the room if you can help it. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Galdrian nodded, and before long he was finally alone.

But in that solitude, he was suddenly aware of how much he loved being with his brother and cousin all those weeks on the road. Both had gone out of their way to help him, risking all manners of things in their lives by doing so.

He couldn’t claim to know how the Arcanium worked, only that it was the largest and most prolific institution of magic throughout the Kingdom, and perhaps the entire continent. What would happen if he failed her? If he couldn’t get well again? Would they blame her? Would they be vindictive? And what of Ilonan? He was set to officially take his vows to the Order of Bahamut next spring, and yet he’d abandoned his duties for a whole month already. Worse, he was aiding a mage in turning a prospective knight away from the Order, to pursue magecraft no less. That would not go unnoticed.

It seemed that no matter what, the people closest to Galdrian were destined to suffer because of him. He was weak, and he was powerless, not like them. Ilonan was brave—foolhardy, but strong on his own. As for Rydel, she was clever, and sharp as a knife’s edge in a pinch. What did Galdrian command except for everyone’s pity? He brought nothing of value to anyone.

“Not for long.” Galdrian murmured coldly, silently promising to himself that he would not be a burden to anyone ever again after today.

Casting himself down into the bed with a groan, Galdrian stared at the ceiling for what felt like ages. The silence and isolation were familiar, but welcome to his restless mind. Soon enough, however, it was apparent that he didn’t have enough energy to think about much of anything else, beyond what he hoped would be a productive day tomorrow. Perhaps if he was feeling alright then, he would even ask Rydel to continue with their lesson from earlier that morning. It was important that he continued his training, regardless of his condition.

Thus, with his eyes growing heavier by the second, Galdrian simply resigned himself to closing them. Sleep was what he sorely needed right now. And by some good fortune, it was his in a matter of moments.