Chapter Forty-Seven: The Dawn of the Third Option

  The sensation that enveloped him could only be described as being swaddled by a giant mound of freshly tailored down.

  Or rather, that was the first thing that came to Selriph’s mind; the image of his little sister smothering him in a mass of pillowy fluffiness, much to the chagrin of the estate’s servants.

  Then came the next, nostalgic episode in his mind; Fionil Daryth beckoning him into the thick sheets during the nights of the Solhallow—the last days of the year. Selriph Daryth—eldest sibling and former heir to their family name — bent to her very whims.

  All in a bid to entertain her while Sir Harwyn and Lady Elyseine Daryth carried out their duties, bound to service even during the relative recess at year’s end.

  The next thing that registered in his mind was the distinct feeling of being pressed down, weighted by something. It didn’t bring pain to the boy, but it certainly felt much heavier than the duvet he’d wrap himself in on those frigid nights.

  His ribcage could barely rise on his inhale—the scent that came in was frosty, mixed with the briny, mineral texture of the cave.

  It was only in that moment that his stirring mind realised the obvious. Memories of yesterday’s events trickled in like sand through an hourglass.

  He wasn’t on the Daryth estate.

  He was in the rocky alcove.

  Wait… hang on, what is covering me in that case?!

  Selriph’s mind flashed to the possibility that the elf, who had all but declared her utter abhorrence for the runaway youth, had somehow located him in the cave and covered him.

  But as he took in the details in the gloom—lit by the gentle, golden-blue light penetrating the snowy windbreak—what stretched across his chest resembled the pure white linens in the Daryth estate’s various bedrooms.

  Though instead of white, it was marked with grey lines.

  Of course, in the lethargic, raw state of Selriph’s mind after effectively contemplating himself into slumber through the frigid cold last night, there was a noticeable disparity in the ailing youth’s typically sharp response. It took the passage of seconds for him to realise what was holding him in the warm, restful embrace.

  His unwanted souvenir from the forest.

  “Emmett…? What are you doing?”

  The Dire Wolf’s ears perked up as it registered the groggy inquiry of its human companion. In an instant, its weight lifted from Selriph, taking away the warmth but also the restraints that his canine companion’s weight had brought on his body.

  Then Emmett loped away, as if he were obeying the most mundane of instructions: to move from one point to another. It did not provide the boy with any reason why it rested its significant weight on him.

  Instead, the unreadable expression was the only thing that adorned its features.

  As the frost once again pricked at Selriph’s skin, he rose to his feet, bringing to life a soft, red flame that acted as a comforting barrier against the frost, pacing towards two select items from his belongings: his waterskin and metal tin.

  At the moment when leather and metal filled the silence, Selriph added his voice to it.

  The words “Thank you” were hardly audible.

  He wasn’t sure if the wolf registered that gratitude—if it could even understand such a concept. The youth’s eyes were then drawn to the snowy mound, the windbreak positioned at the alcove’s entrance, with fingers tightly holding the cold handle of the metal cup.

  The boy intended to quench the thirst that accompanied his parched and cracked lips.

  The red hue of Selriph’s flame flickered gently against the metal cup, the flames resembling soft, lazy liquid embers of a hearth fire, as opposed to the intense, yet concentrated, orange blaze he was used to conjuring. Using the latter would have likely resulted in the metal in Selriph’s mug succumbing to the same fate as the various metallic implements he had had to reduce to slag in the seven weeks he had left the templar compound.

  As Selriph’s mind delegated the act of procuring his morning hydration to his subconscious mental faculties, he moved towards more pressing matters, illustrated by his well-annotated patchwork map, illuminated by his bodily activities within the purview of his vision.

  Selriph had all but confirmed the impotent state of his terramancy when he had attempted to conjure an earthen, basin-like construct to house the snow, a more efficient manner of rendering liquid water from the infinite vastness of frost.

  As such, his first option–to navigate through the mines–was well and truly unviable. He would have to conjure a solution to the intrusive image that was stifling his earth magic, something which he’d hoped would come as the passage of time eroded the final memories of the two elves.

  The mines were a long shot anyway…

  Selriph, convinced by his half-hearted rationalised dismissal of this option, moved on to the next possible course of action, signified by the charcoal-inscribed circle around the Greyspire Mountain pass.

  Selriph’s eyes locked onto Emmett, the biggest hurdle. The casual exchange of information in the past nights had brought forward the existence of arcane means to morph the dire wolf’s appearance. This would possibly allow it to pass off as a normal, albeit oversized, canine.

  This operated on the same principle as the use of Arcane energy to disguise one’s appearance, one that Selriph had applied to himself the day before he arrived in Fallbrook.

  In theory, it would be a simple matter; all he had to do was to maintain his own disguise using the magical energies channelled in one hand. With the other, he had to alter Emmett’s likeness into one that resembled domestication as opposed to bestial savagery.

  However, this required the boy to juggle the concentration required to dual-cast the spell with the mental acrobatics of passing himself off as a mere travelling merchant with a harmless, albeit large dog in tow.

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  Moreover, there were two crucial elements beyond his control; the first was Emmett’s response to the mystical forces he would be subjected to—something Selriph hadn’t attempted.

  Assuming the wolf didn’t enter a frenzy, would it understand what he asked of it as they approached the pass? Or would he see fit to attempt to make a meal out of the various humanoids on mundane duties there?

  Even if that could be resolved, the second element lay completely out of Selriph’s influence—at the whims of the questionable rapport he had with the forces of fate.

  It would not be a stretch to assume that an individual, or at least some mechanism, existed at the mountain pass to detect magical activity.

  In such a case, this plan would shatter at the seams; a dawning murmur would ripple through the outpost as they became aware of his magical nature, followed by a roaring chorus of commands and drawing of steel.

  He had no chance of overcoming such an overwhelming force.

  He was not a mithril golem, just a runaway boy who wielded blade and sorcery.

  Alone.

  His mistakes robbed him of the nascent bonds that would have made that alternative a reality.

  Selriph sighed softly as he savoured the cold, refreshing sensation of the freshly melted snow on his tongue and lips, a welcome respite from his disheartening thoughts.

  Blue, magical energy danced across his hand as he conjured an arcane hand. This spectral manus, still wispy, wrapped around the metal mug’s handle and levitated it, fingers forming to carry the mug toward the windbreak for more raw materials for hydration.

  His free hand sifted through the pile of parchments, his fingers finding a sheet that was a deep, mottled yellow. Its aged appearance was a stark contrast to the fresh, crisp papers around it.

  Oagat’s notes, or rather, the only thing that remained of them.

  The topographical map of the surrounding section of the GreySpire mountain range.

  For the first time since this unfortunate series of events, the information on the map gave Selriph the briefest taste of optimism. While no landmarks were inscribed—their locations likely committed to memory by the map’s owner — there was, however, an unmistakable path of traversable inclines that traced directly from where the boy sat.

  That assumed that the boy’s keen mind had accurately deduced where he currently sat, although that could be confirmed by cross-referencing the surrounding terrain with the ink on the parchment once he emerged from the cavern.

  If I follow the gorge and take this path, just north of the tallest peak… I might make it to the other side of the mountain range…

  Selriph looked up. The faint blue glow of the arcane mage hand mixed with the deep red flames as his gaze traced up to his steed and canine companion, as if he sought their approval.

  Of course, for all their uncanny wit, they could not read the boy’s thoughts; they remained in their restful states, content until their human patron riled them into the next leg of their trek.

  Is that even possible? This will take at least three… no, five days.

  Selriph darted between the rations that lay in his pack as well as those that hung on Nightwind. With hydration a non-issue, the rations—which were enough for a few days—could be stretched for the duration required.

  If it were used only on the boy, Nightwind would not have anything to graze on. Splitting any carnivorous portions with the wolf would likely make the rations last for twenty-four or thirty-six hours at most.

  Selriph’s mind rummaged through the knowledge that he had acquired in the studies of the Daryth estate and the grand library. A simple fact inscribed in ink: his animal companions would likely last the trek without food. The only protest to contend with was the possible hunger-induced frenzy Emmett would enter if he withheld his entitled share.

  Selriph looked at Emmett, his ocean blue eyes reflecting the assurance of his unspoken words.

  Either way, we will keep a lookout for something to feed you, friend. For now…

  Selriph gazed back at Oagat’s map.

  He glanced outside through the indentation in the snow mound just as the Arcane hand returned with his next batch of snow. The sight beyond was stark, a blanket of white from the snowstorm, and light precipitation persisted.

  Then, his eyes scanned the map once more. Their route, traversable, yet no less hostile.

  Not good. It looks like there are various sheer cliffs overhead, about halfway through. If we get caught in an untimely avalanche, or we get bogged down by the snow…

  Once more, the ruffling of parchment rang through the cavern, this time signalling the youth’s navigation towards the basic spell forms for cryomancy in the arcane tome.

  So it did. The basic instructions on how to mould ice revealed themselves, a technique that could transform the loose, almost powdery snow into something that resembled solid, traversable ice.

  And so, when Selriph’s conjured assistant returned with yet another cup of loose snow, Selriph extinguished the flame in his hand. A cyan-blue hue glowed where the fire had been, and he focused his mind on the snow’s crystalline structure—willed it into something more solid, almost stone-like.

  He had half expected the connotation of terramancy to stifle even this attempt. Thankfully, the unfamiliar yet comforting cool blanket of cryomancy kept him in focus—sufficiently removed from the images surrounding earth magic.

  The cryomantic energy touched the snow, and it slowly compacted into an almost cube-like mass within the iron cup.

  Great… so I can harden the snow. I can create shelters out of these cubes during the trek. That will keep us safe from the elements…

  With a nod filled with conviction, he formed the first convincing gesture he had allowed himself in days. The depth of the complications he had to contend with for a safe trek through the mountains still wasn’t lost on the boy. He still had to account for any hostile entities he might encounter—likely wildlife.

  His magic could despatch them, but he would have to do so in a manner that did not cause overt destructive force, lest the snow under him or above him give way.

  Even with cautious consideration, such a thing could occur on the whim of nature. The solution lay in the very element that threatened to kill him in such a case; ice, or rather snow. Selriph had to conjure a snow-formed barrier that could cocoon not just himself, but Nightwind and Emmett in such an event.

  Only by equipping himself with the appropriate tools for these lethal hurdles would a budding confidence finally spark in the boy.

  The alcove’s opening perfectly framed the sun, casting a brilliant circle of light on the cavern floor.

  Selriph paced out, towards the snow-covered mountain scape with one goal in mind;

  To refine the new third element, he had his call.

  All to safely execute his third and remaining option to traverse the Greyspire Mountains.

  Thus, by morning’s end, the ground resembled the chaotic grounds of the estate he once called home—the result of the three-way snowball fight between Selriph, Fionil and Astraen Daryth, the last time the three siblings shared any lighthearted fun.

  Before Astraen became spurred by Sir Harywn’s expectations, turning the younger brother’s cordial view of Selriph into one of frosty animosity.

  From then on, those playful bouts became tainted by a competitive spirit. Now, a twisted opportunity for Astraen to prove his worthiness over the heir by birth order—something that Selriph saw no drive to engage in.

  Fionil distanced herself soon after, something which Selriph attributed to her sharing their family’s view of him: a failure, a disappointment.

  It didn’t matter, at least that is what he told himself; it set the estate’s eyes away from him, giving Selriph the room to engage in his magical escapades—as he was doing so now.

  And so, it was inevitable that six years from that point, he would be long dead to his family, now forced to cross a frigid gauntlet to his freedom.

  Towards a life worth living.