Chapter 6: Awakening

Spirit sat on his bedroll, numb with shock. He had run straight home after the fight, and now sat, head in his hands, in his bedroom. No one had been home when he had arrived. It probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Spirit was oblivious to anything but his current circumstances, and he would’ve ignored them.

That settles it. Somehow, I’ve become a magician, he thought.

No, said another voice, one that was not his own. Not magician. Elekvon.

He ignored that voice too. But I didn’t even mean to use magic on Rixar. I was just angry! How can I cast a spell like that without even knowing what I’m doing?

The voice faded into the depths of his mind, lingering to whisper again. Elekvon…

Whatever.

After a while, the rain let up, and a hint of sunlight began to peek tentatively through the clouds. Spirit stared unseeing out the window for several minutes, steeling his nerve. Then he rose and made his way out of the house.

He stopped at the fire pit in the backyard. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply through his nose, clearing his head. This is the final test. If I can manage to summon magic… I don’t know what I’ll do. I guess just figure that out when I get there. If I get there.

He took another deep breath, then concentrated. Suddenly the world sprang back into focus. But his eyes were closed. Curious, he explored with his new “sight”.

He didn’t see so much in the sense of physical objects, rather he saw what seemed to be patches of energy, rolling and cavorting about. They were everywhere, from little balls smaller than his fingernail to large, multi-colored blobs scampering about. Most of them moved as if they were alive, but several stayed in a single spot, immobile save the rhythmic undulation of the colors rippling up and down their bodies.

One such source lay almost in front of him. It seemed to be fluctuating very little, as if it was asleep. Extending his sight towards it, he tried to decipher what it was. With a flash, the source sprang up and began to shine like the others. Then he began to feel heat rolling across his face, and he opened his eyes reflexively.

He was kneeling beside the fire pit with his face almost touching the ground. But the real shocker was the fact that the pit was filled with flames—and his head was right in the center!

With a raw yell, Spirit launched himself backward, away from the conflagration. He landed hard, scraping his elbows. Terrified, he put his hands to his face, expecting to feel a mass of burned tissue. Instead it was as smooth as it ever was. Slowly, he sat up to stare at the flames that crackled innocently at him. Tentatively, he crawled to the edge and stuck his head in the blaze. Still he did not burn.

Remembering what had happened with his bed, he quickly pulled back so that his clothing would not burn up. Already they had begun to smoke without his noticing. He sat back on his haunches and shook his head. Well that settled it. Something was definitely not right here.

A thought occurred to him. He stretched out his hand towards the flames, and with a burst of concentration, the fire was snuffed out as quickly as it had begun. A reluctant grin spread across his face. Again he concentrated. Again the fire sprung into existence. A flicker of thought and even the ashes lost their heat.

It was not until he had sat there playing with fire for quite a while longer that he noticed his muscles shaking. His attention diverted from his new abilities, he let out an inaudible groan as exhaustion flooded his limbs. I guess doing magic makes you tired, he thought.

Shrugging, he stood and made his way back into the den, grabbing a hunk of bread from the kitchen as he passed. Throwing himself down in an armchair, he began to chew on the loaf, all the while thinking about what he should do. Now that he knew he was a magician, there were several options available to him.

The first was the most obvious: not tell anyone, and maybe his aunt and cousin would forget about the whole incident. While this would certainly be the easiest, Spirit wasn’t so sure he cold keep up a deception like that forever.

Second: tell his family. Once they knew, it would only be a matter of time before the rest of the village found out, no matter what oaths Drac and aunt Laura took. Then one of two things would happen: either they would accept him, and life would go on, or they would hang him as a sorcerer. Not such a great outcome.

Or he could try the third option. This was the most uncertain of the three, seeing as Spirit had no direct proof that what he was attempting even existed. Several months ago, some Imperial soldiers had stooped in town and spent the night in the inn. Naturally, they had a few drinks and began gossiping with the other patrons. One soldier had said that, despite the common people’s fear and distrust of them, the Empire had a secret corps of magicians that answered only to the Emperor. While this was probably a load of hogwash, Spirit certainly would have a bright future as a servant of the Empire.

Spirit sighed. Even if there was a secret corps, how could he know they would accept him? He would be trusting his life to the word of a drunk. And even the thickest of dullards know not to do that.

Suddenly he sat up straight, mind working like a farm horse. The trade caravan! If they were really from Parmiea, they would know exactly what was happening and what he should do! Grinning from ear to ear, he leapt out of his chair, spun past the door, and blasted down the dirt track towards town.

It didn’t take him long to get to Conor’s house. Minutes later he stood pounding in the door-knocker. After several bangs, he stopped and tried to catch his breath. A dull thumping resounded from inside, and Spirit just had time to straighten before the door was thrown open. Conor stood there, his cloths rumpled and a joyful grin on his face. Spirit found himself grinning as well. His friend’s good humor was infectious.

“Hey Spirit! I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“What, you didn’t think I would?”

Conor shook his head. “Nah, I know you too well.” He laughed, then stood to the side. “Come on in.”

Spirit stepped over the threshold and Conor shut the door behind him.

Conor’s house was not very different from Spirit’s. Both had the same wooden planks on the floor and ceiling, but the walls of Conor’s house were made of rough stone blocks to better hold in heat. On a cold, rainy day like this, those walls made the house especially comfortable.

Conor’s mother and father were sitting in the den, and waved as Spirit passed.

Sophie sat in the chair closest to the fire, a pair of knitting needles clicking and flashing in her nimble fingers. The firelight made her chocolate-brown hair almost black, and her green eyes crinkled as she smiled.

Shaun stood up from his chair with all the agility of a practiced acrobat—which of course he was. Lean muscles stood out in relief against the background of his fire-lit skin.

“Hey Mr. Shaun.” Spirit nodded at him. For the first time, he noticed that as he strode into the room to greet them, the fire jumped up, and the room brightened considerably. He made a mental note of the occurrence. Must be another strange magician spell.

Sarent smiled and shook Spirit’s hand. “Hello lad!”

Sophie gave a small wave. “Hello Spirit. How are you?”

Spirit thought for a moment. Despite the fact that his entire world had been shattered basically overnight, the possibility of meeting the elves had given him hope, hope that perhaps everything would turn out right in the end. A small smile spread across his face as he replied, “Pretty good.”

“Good.”

Conor grinned at his parents, then playfully prodded Spirit in the back. “Let’s go in my room.” he whispered.

Spirit nodded, waved a good bye to the pair, and followed his friend up the stairs.

Paintings of exotic landscapes adorned the walls here, and lamps hung at regular intervals, casting a cheery light on their faces as they climbed. The second-floor landing was as well lit as the stairway, this time by large windows that stood sentinel over the golden expanse of wheat. There were only two doors on the landing. One led to Conor’s bedroom, the other to his parent’s. Spirit and Conor proceeded into his room, where the latter shut the door behind them.

The room was, for lack of a better word, untidy. Conor was not one to spend time on such trivialities as cleaning up, so the floor was littered with old clothes, pens, and assorted bits of junk. But the window had another breathtaking view of the wheat fields, and the shelves that circled around the room were artfully decorated with the best examples of Conor’s hobby: whittling. Ranging from tiny squirrels to fire breathing dragons, the small statues romped and played their way about Conor’s wall.

Spirit cleared a place for himself to sit, then leaned against the wall. “So, found out anything else?”

Conor plopped down on the edge of his bed. “Yes. Thomas has been causing quite a stir with all of his stories. People are beginning to believe some of what he says, at least enough to start pressuring the traders to let them search the wagons. Of course they refused, so now the merchants have called a council to decide what to do next. I figured now would be a pretty good time to go scout around, seeing as no one will be there, what with the weather and Thomas’s tall tales.”

Spirit nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

A mischievous twinkle alit in Conor’s eyes. “Well then. What are we waiting for?”

Spirit grinned and leapt to his feet. “You first.”

Turning, both boys sprinted across the hallway and thundered down the stairs. They yelled a hurried goodbye to Conor’s parents as they passed the sitting room, then they were out the door and into the pouring rain.

It didn’t take long to get to the marketplace, but as the duo walked, they formulated a plan for getting into the wagons. A quick trip through an alleyway and they had all the supplies they would need. Excited, they unconsciously began walking faster.

Water dripped from every roof you passed, making it seem as if it were raining again. Several people strode quietly along the slippery streets, but for the most part the villagers seemed content to stay inside their warm, dry houses.

When they were close to the square, the pair split up. Conor continued up the road and turned into the market, a large sack thrown over his shoulder. Spirit meanwhile ducked into another alley and followed it, twisting and turning. He expected to feel a rush of fear, remembering what had happened the last time he had been in an alley. Instead he felt only a grim determination. If Rixar comes back, he’ll get what he deserves.

Within minutes, he saw the end of the alley, which he knew opened up directly behind the trader’s caravan. Stooping behind some crates, he peered out into the square. What he saw made him gasp.

The traders were packing up their goods and stowing them in the wagons. They were preparing to leave! “Blisterpods!” Spirit cursed under his breath. If they left now, who knows when he would get another chance like this, if he ever did again!

“Come on Conor, come on,” he muttered. His eyes danced over the crowd, struggling to locate the hunched figure of his friend. Failing that, he found the animal traders and watched their stalls like a hawk.

Suddenly a storm of caws, growls and other assorted animal noises erupted from the cages next to stalls, and next thing Spirit knew everyone was running over to investigate the ruckus, obscuring his view. Even the Parmiean traders abandoned their preparations to have a look. Not one of them noticed the small shadow darting along the wall towards the wagons.

While they had been making their way to the square, Spirit and Conor had stopped in an alleyway to grab a sack and fill it with a bunch of food scraps they scrounged from trash bins. Conor had then proceeded to scatter the scraps all over the square. After he opened the animal cages, the hungry beasts would immediately scatter to find the food, causing enough panic for Spirit and Conor to sneak into the trader’s wagons.

The second everyone’s heads turned, Spirit had leapt from his hiding place and sprinted to the closest wagon. There, he knelt behind the wheel until he was joined by the shadow, which resolved itself into the grinning form of Conor.

“Well that was fun.”

Spirit grinned back, then pointed at the next wagon. “Take that one. We’ll meet at the plaza, just like we planned.”

Conor nodded his agreement and then hustled over to the other wagon. Not waiting to see if Conor got in, Spirit hoisted himself up over the lip and into the musty interior.

It took Spirit’s eye a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but once they did, he couldn’t help but let out a small gasp as he took his first look at the inside of the carriage.

The walls were made of white silk pulled tight over a set of wooden ribs that ran from the sides, up to the top, and back down to the opposite floor line. The wood was a deep, creamy brown, and the fibers were soft underneath Spirit’s bare hands. But the wagon itself wasn’t the interesting part. It seemed as if every surface was covered in the most exotic and mystifying objects. Every tabletop was cluttered with strange glass creations, twisting and curving about, while on the shelves sat rows upon rows of jars, all filled with pickled plants and other bits and bobs. The floor was covered with piles upon piles of books and scrolls, all crammed together in stacks that looked ready to collapse at any second. A small bed was crammed into the corner, an ink bottle sitting open upon a fresh piece of parchment.

Spirit grinned to himself. Whoever these people were, they certainly weren’t traders. Still gawking, he began to shuffle along, poking through the piles he passed. Each step brought a fresh wave of new discoveries more exciting than the last. Once he picked up and examined a bird made of oak leaves that began to twitch when he held it.  He also found a goblet made completely of what felt an awful lot like ice. When he touched it, his fingers tingled and grew cold. Once his fingers started turning blue, he left that one well enough alone.

At the end of the wagon he came upon a cabinet built into the wall. The strange thing about it was it had no latch to speak of. Although he almost gave it up as a bad job, something made him linger. The problem intrigued him. Why would they have a cupboard that wouldn’t open? Even surrounded by all of the other seemingly pointless items, it didn’t seem right to Spirit. Curious, he reached out a hand and touched the wood. And without a sound, the door swung open.

Spirits’ jaw dropped as he took in his splendid new discovery.

The cupboard was filled to the brim with the more swords, bows and arrows than Spirit had seen in his life. The cold metal glittered with deadly purpose under the lantern light. As reverently as a storm elf handed the emperor’s ceremonial sword, Spirit reached in and drew out a bow.

It was truly a thing of beauty. The fittings were crafted of silver that gleamed like moonlight, and the jet black wood was hard, yet supple and springy. Spirit grasped the string and pulled back experimentally, then groaned as the unyielding wood barely moved.

These are incredible, he thought to himself. Colin could never dream of forging anything like this. The workmanship didn’t even look human. Suddenly a disturbing thought occurred to him.  What if they were sorcerers? Most people regarded sorcerers with a mixture of fear and hatred, because of their great tendency towards evil. If these “traders” were really a band of renegade sorcerers, it was highly unlikely they would teach him. Instead they would probably just kill him and Conor, now that the two boys had found out their secret.  

A jolt of fear hit Spirit like a bucket of ice water, and he suddenly saw what a bad idea it had been to come here. But before he could put the weapons back into the cupboard, the flap flew up and one of the traders stepped into the wagon. Upon seeing Spirit, bow in hand, he froze.

Spirit recovered from his shock first. Throwing the longbow back into the cupboard, he spun and made to leap out of the other opening. This would have been a splendid idea, had he actually jumped. But an invisible force seemed to grip him, pinning him to the floor as the trader shuffled towards him. He gripped his shoulders and turned Spirit about to face him. His hood cast most of his face into shadow, save his grim line of a mouth, but the glint of fury in his eyes was easily discernable.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Spirit felt a jolt underneath him as the caravan began to move. He only had time to realize this startling development before the trader’s angry whisper filled the wagon. “What in the name of the sacred lakes are you doing in here?”

Spirit swallowed nervously. “I… um… I was just exploring sir.”

“Really. And why, may I ask, did you feel led to explore the interior of my wagon?”

“I got lost.” Spirit winced. The lie sounded bad, even to him.

The trader cocked his head slightly to the side, as if considering Spirit’s answer. The trader’s hood swayed along with the movement of the wagon, casting writhing shadows across his face. “Right. And how did you open my cabinet?”

Spirit set his face into a mask of defiance and retorted, “None of your business. Why are you carrying around enough weapons for an army anyway? You aren’t selling them, so what use do you have for them?”

The trader’s visage darkened for a heartbeat, as if remembering a bad dream. “I have plenty of uses for them. You can trust me on that.” Then his face once again grew hard, and his grip tightened on Spirit’s shoulders. “Regardless, you have seen too much. I cannot let you leave here and run the risk of telling others what you have witnessed.”

Fear began to course through his body at the implications of these words. The insane sorcerer was going to kill him! And they were definitely out of the city by now. There was nothing they could do! Some type of magic undoubtedly was what bound him to the floor, and Spirit had no idea if it was even possible to use magic to deflect another magician’s spell, much less how to go about it. But maybe he could use more conventional means. He tensed, his whole body waiting for the split-second opportunity he would use to escape.

The trader continued his line of thought. “… so there is only one solution. I’m going to have to wipe your mind.”

Spirit couldn’t help it: a small yelp of terror escaped his stiff lips. But the trader just laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to erase your whole memory! Just the ones of your being here. It’s an entirely painless process.”

Still muttering his strange words of comfort, the trader began to pull Spirit towards his desk. As they turned, the trader’s rough grip slid up Spirit’s arm, pulling the sleeve with it and revealing the livid red birthmark.

A look of shock exploded over the man’s face as he caught sight of the patch of inflamed skin. “By the suns’ rays…” he breathed. Shaking, he bent over Spirit’s arm, examining the mark. Then, he slowly raised his face to stare at Spirit.

But this time, his face was filled with wonder, not anger, and the shock on his features had been replaced by radiant joy. His hood fell back, revealing midnight black hair and strangely angular features. “What is your name?”

Spirit was thrown off by this abrupt change in attitude. It was as if a different person stood before him.  Hesitantly, he answered. “My name is Spirit, sir.”

The man’s reaction was immediate. Letting go of Spirit’s arm, he sat heavily on the bed. Smiling up at Spirit, he patted the bedspread beside him. “Please, sit down.”

When Spirit made no move to do anything of the sort, he laughed. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to wipe your memory.”

Cautiously, Spirit sat on the edge of the bed, ready to bolt at any minute.

“That’s it. Sorry about all of that unpleasantness before. I didn’t realize who you were.”

Spirit couldn’t understand why in the name of the gods this… whatever he was would care who he was. “Why does it matter who I am sir?” he asked.

“Because of your birthmark.” He stated simply. “It means something, even though you may not know it.”

“What does it mean?” Spirit asked, excitement growing in him.

The traders paused for a moment, thinking. Then he grimaced “I’m not quite sure actually.”

Spirit fumed silently. Then another question popped into his head. “Sir, I mean no disrespect, but what exactly are you?”

He chuckled. “Why I’m an elf.” He looked at Spirit concernedly. “Haven’t you ever heard of us?”

Spirit stared at him with disdain. “You really think I’m that stupid?”

The elf grinned. “No. Here, let me show you. Hold on a moment.”

The trader tucked his hair behind his perfectly normal, round ears. Taking a deep breath, he began to mutter in a strange language. Spirit’s vision blurred slightly, and he suddenly felt very dizzy. Then he was himself again, and he gasped. The trader’s ears, which only moments ago were completely ordinary, now had sharp points at the top!

Spirit stared. “How did you do that?”

The elf shrugged. “It’s a simple spell that all elves put into place before they travel. It conceals the tips of my ears by altering your perception of them. If you haven’t cast the correct counter-spell, my ears look exactly like yours.”

Spirit fought hard to keep from grinning. So the traders were elves! That explained a lot. Maybe they would be able to teach him about magic.

The elf started, then shook his head ruefully. “So sorry. Never even thought to introduce myself.” He placed a smooth, tapered hand over his heart. “I’m Bellirn.”

Spirit clumsily mimicked Bellirn’s movement. “Nice to meet you.” He looked down at his feet, then said sheepishly, “I have another question.”

Bellirn laughed. “Ask away. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Why were you so happy to meet me?”

Bellirn grew serious. “Many years ago, I visited an oracle deep in the forests of my homeland. The prophetess there told me that one day, I would meet a person that would change the fate of the world, and lead them back to the oracle. And that person,” his eyes flicked down to Spirit’s birthmark, “would have a mark exactly like yours.”

Spirit sat back against a rib in the wall, stunned. An oracle had prophesied about him? It was too incredible to believe. But here he sat, talking with an elf, surrounded by myriads of magical objects, on his way to heaven knows where! And Bellirn didn’t look like he was lying. Rather, he was as serious as if it had been the emperor himself who had spoken that prophecy to him.

“So, do you have any more questions?”

Bellirn’s request yanked Spirit out of his meandering thoughts, and he searched his head for anything else.

“Not really,” he said slowly. “Just two.”

“Only two. At least that’s better than before.”

Spirit grinned at the sarcasm. “Well, the first requires a demonstration.”

A look of interest grew on Bellirn’s face. “Be my guest.”

Spirit stood and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he could do this, but he wouldn’t know unless he tried. Holding out his hand, Spirit concentrated. At first, nothing happened. Then the candle flame on Bellirn’s desk flew directly into Spirit’s outstretched palm, leaving a thin line of smoke writhing up from the extinguished wick.

Bellirn gasped and shot to his feet. “You’re an elekvon!”

Spirit looked at him in surprise. That was what the strange voice in his head had called him, but he had paid it no heed. Evidently that had been the wrong choice. “What do you mean? What’s an elekvon?”

Bellirn shook his head. “It’s a person gifted with control over an element. In the human tongue it means ‘elemental’” He gestured at the dancing flame in Spirit’s palm. “Obviously, yours is fire.”

Spirit grinned sheepishly. “I thought I was a sorcerer or something.”

Bellirn shook his head firmly. “No, that’s not magic. Elemental control is instinctual: magic is almost an art form. Magic is something you have to learn. I’ve never heard of a human elekvon though.” He sat heavily back on the bed, his features stormy with concentration. “That answers quite a few questions, but how did you manage to open my cabinet?

Spirit quenched the fire with a thought and sat down beside him. “Why shouldn’t I have been able to?”

Bellirn frowned. “I charmed it so that only the touch of an elf can open the door. Otherwise the only way to get inside it is to break the wood. But you are a human, so how…” he lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Spirit thought for a moment. “Could it be because I’m an elekvon?”

Bellirn nodded slightly. “That could be a reason.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Bellirn thinking, Spirit debating. Hesitatnly, he asked, “Can I ask my final question?

Slowly Bellirn returned his attention to Spirit. “Hm? Yes, of course.”

Hope and doubt wrestled in Spirit’s mind. Should he trust this elf, whom he had barely even met? Part of him burned to say yes, but the other half wanted to jump out of the wagon, find Conor, and try to work out his own problems.

But deep inside, he knew there was only one choice. He closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them they were filled with determination. “Can I come with you, to where ever you’re going? And can you teach me how to use my…ability?”

Bellirn smiled. “To the first one: emphatic yes. I was actually hoping you would say that. But I’m afraid I can’t teach you.”

Spirit slumped with a disappointment that almost surprised him. “Why not?”

“Simple.” He spread his hands apologetically. “I’m not an elemental, nor is anyone else in my group.” Spirit lowered his head, but Bellirn held up a hand. “But,” and a mischievous glint shone in his eyes. “I can take you to someone who will.”

Spirit jumped up. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“Yes!” Spirit punched a fist into the air, elation and excitement pouring from him in waves. He was to have a teacher! “Where are we going?” he asked eagerly.

Bellirn grinned almost as wide as Spirit. “Parmiea of course! The only place where the elves still reside.”

Spirit nearly fell over he was so thrilled. “Thank you! Thank you so much Bellirn!”

Bellirn shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.” He looked around as the wagon slowed to a halt beneath them. Standing, he motioned to Spirit. “Come on, let’s go meet the rest of the group.”