The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Four

We're definitely looking at six parts at least. The next scene is short (in theory). I could use a short scene.

So this is how magic works in Sathyriel. "Oma" is italicized in the original text, but I don't feel like going in and doing it for every time it appears here. I'm going to hold off on the separate explanation of magic for a while as I really don't think it's necessary.

Comments as usual.

Joren sat in the chair taking slow, deep breaths and watching Cyra’s face. He was certain by now that the scar on her cheek was what he would need to deal with. The rest of her injuries were largely calm with only brief infrequent sparks to indicate that they were not yet past the point of posing a danger. But the cheek scar crackled with a constant flow of dark energy that kept the soothing glow of the healers’ work at bay. The source of her pain was clear and Joren could have started right then. But he continued to take deep breaths and watch Cyra. He needed to calm himself and to recognize that Cyra was an individual. He had never attempted to heal someone with quite so much tied into her fate, but thinking about that would only hinder his work. Joren needed to see her not as the leader of the rebel army, not as someone who could potentially change the destiny of this land and Joren’s own life with it, but as a patient in need of his care.

Joren focused on it, trying to block out any sense of the remaining healer moving about the room or the fainter impressions of the people waiting in the next room. Anaskida shook off her feathers and stepped lightly from his shoulder onto the back of the chair. Joren took one last deep breath before he began drawing oma.

He began with himself. Some mages he had known preferred to keep their oma in reserve, but Joren chose to start by drawing on his. He felt it was more honest to ask other living things to give of their oma if he had already shown that the cause was worth draining his own. He closed his eyes, put his left hand to his chest, and sought out the source of his inner energy. It came to him with only a bit of hesitation, probably due to a little lingering nervousness. He summoned up as much as he considered safe and held it waiting for the rest he would draw.

Anaskida was next. He asked her permission first, as he always did. She had never once denied him the use of her oma, but Joren respected that she was a proud creature and that the choice was always hers. So he asked her and was answered as her oma joined with his. Anaskida’s oma was a familiar sensation, all speed and wild energy and racing winds. He added it to his own and began the search for the remaining oma he would require.

He went first to the dragon mother. The physical distance made her a little harder to reach, but Joren had seen the shimmering blue connection between them and he felt certain that the dragon would give much for her adopted child. Almost as soon as Joren’s subconscious question reached the dragon, the response came in great waves of oma. The dragon’s oma bore some similarities to Anaskida’s; Joren could feel the rushing air of flight and a deep wildness. But there were also bursts of hot flame and a persistent roar. Joren reminded himself to note his impressions of dragon oma in his journal later as her added it to the rest.

Joren worked his way back from the dragon, drawing more oma as he went. He drew from plants when he though it might be useful, but he largely asked people and animals. Plants gave their oma almost before he asked. It felt of water and warmth, like earth soaked by the rain then warmed in sunlight. People and animals took longer, but Joren found none of them unwilling. He felt calm soothing energy from the healers flecked with scents and flashes of movement from their familiars. The soldiers’ oma was more strength and courage over fear and the chaos of battle. Joren brought all of it together until he had drawn oma from every major source between the dragon and himself. The result seemed like enough for what he had to do.

Joren concentrated on the oma he had gathered, letting it flow into his left hand. He began to shape the energies. A soft blue light began to glow at the center of his palm. It slowly spread, covering his palm, spreading to his fingers, and then reaching back down to just beneath his elbow. Joren gave a silent mental command and the light became flame surrounding his forearm. Joren stared intently at the scar on Cyra’s cheek, its own energy now surging up in angry plumes towards Joren’s arm. He took one last deep breath and laid his hand against her scar.

The two energies collided. The backlash was as strong as a physical blow, but Joren held on. His blue flame and the scar’s dark surges tore at each other. The back room, the table, the healer, Anaskida, and even Cyra were swallowed by nothingness until all that remained were Joren and the two warring energies. He fought to hold his hand steady long enough for the blue flame and the dark force to attack each other one last time. The two clashed together and burst into an explosion of orange light. Tiny orange embers fell away as the explosion faded. The embers floated slowly down toward Joren’s feet and disappeared, leaving Joren completely alone.

Calmly, Joren sat down and looked out into the great expanse of nothing. He began to do what he always did when he found himself in this place. He reached inside of his shirt and pulled out the little silver medallion he wore on a cord around his neck. He ran his finger along the simple glyph that was carved on it. He though of his first teacher: the scent of the strange herbs he would grind and heat to call up trance inducing vapors, the light crunch his worn boots made as they had walked together down dusty roads, the slow movements of his hands as they gestured in the air when he cast a spell, and that odd, distinctly human saying he was so fond of.

“True as the clear blue sky.”

Truth is a clear blue sky.

The light came slowly and without any clear source, like a sunless dawn. Joren watched as the void above him grew light and took on a blue color. The light began to illuminate the ground beneath him, shaping into a grass-covered field that stretched out as far as the now brilliant blue sky.

As always, Joren allowed himself one deep breath to simply enjoy this place for what it was. Then he began to scan the cloudless sky for anything other than a vast expanse of blue. He listened for the slightest sound, sniffed the air for any scent, and held as still as he could to take note of any new sensation. Slowly, the blue-sky world began to change. He began to see hints of clouds in the sky, forming themselves into vague shapes. He heard faint distant sounds, some like voices and others like music. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of fish told him Anaskida was wondering if they would be able to eat soon.

Joren scanned each sight and sound and smell, waiting for something to strike him as familiar in the right way. He looked over ever cloud, trying to make sense of its shape. He listened careful to the sounds and considered possible origins for them. He in the midst of trying to decide whether one cloud was meant to be a snail or a rowboat when something else caught his attention. At first he thought it was another cloud, but as he continued to look he realized that it was a moon. It seemed nearly the same color as the surrounding clouds, but as Joren gazed at it more intently he realized that it was actually rather grey. The little wispy cloud shapes continued to move around and change from one thing to another. But the moon remained still and constant and solid. The more Joren looked at it, the more the moon seemed unlike the natural moons he had seen. Despite the bright daytime sky, its crescent shape stood out starkly against the blue, almost like a scar.

Aha.

Joren smiled to himself and fixed his full attentions on the moon. He stared at it intently, blocking the clouds from his sight, ignoring the fading sounds. Soon, the faint voices and noises fell silent. From the very corner of his eye, Joren could see the remaining clouds disappearing. Even Anaskida’s pungent breeze gave up and left him alone. Joren kept his focus on the moon until he could have seen it with his eyes shut.

The sky around the moon grew dark. The darkness began to spread and Joren let his gaze wander from the moon. In mere moments, the entire sky was black. If not for the moon, it would have been as dark as it was before Joren had called forth the sky. As Joren’s eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, tiny stars began to appear. Joren watched as each one twinkled into existence. They seemed to appear as randomly as they would on any natural night and Joren could not see any pattern to their placement. Then suddenly, a group of stars disappeared. Joren blinked in surprise. Stars above and to the sides of the ones that had vanished began disappearing as well. Joren watched, wondering what meaning the vanishing stars might have. Moonlight fell across an odd shape in the sky and Joren understood what was happening. The earth was rising, spiraling up into the sky and blocking out the stars. The moon was now illuminating the side of the newly formed peak. Joren watched as the ground continued to twist silently upward. Higher and higher it climbed until at last, in came to a stop and Joren heard a soft grind of settling stone.

Joren looked down at his feet and saw that he now stood at the base of the mountain. He turned to look around. There was nothing else as far as he could see. Looking back up at the mountain, all he saw was the remaining stars and the moon shining down on the steep rocky slope. Squinting, Joren could just make out something he didn’t quite recognize at the top of the mountain. The very top of the mountain.

Joren chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“Not going to make it easy for me, are you?” he said as he grabbed onto a handhold and began to climb.