July 10 / Hierschtan 18

  “Do you not understand the difference between ahna and etere, Arnulf?” Brigid asked her guide. Alboim was sitting in his library, perusing his father’s old books. This scene was about a third of the way through the first book, where the summoned hero, Mom, was explaining to Dad and the rest of the Hero’s Party her world’s magical theory. It made for a nice change of pace from the etiquette book he’s been reading earlier, and a lot of the background information he’d glazed over was very useful now that he was in his father’s world. An open spiral notebook lay on the table before him, next to a now-cold mug of herbal tea that tasted like orange, ginger, and clove. ‘Christmas in a cup’ he’d dubbed it.

  “Surely you know enough to understand arwa at the very least.” the buxom woman sighed, cupping her face in her hands. “Ahna is an invisible force that is all around us. It is in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the earth we walk upon.” The companions nodded.

  Drax the Elven bowman answered. “Of course we know this, Lady Hero.” He looked around at his fellow champions selected to accompany the hero. He was not happy to be the lone elf. Even the dwarven kingdoms had sent two, and the humans numbered ten in total. “Else we could not manipulate our magics. Would you not agree?”

  “Then, elf, are you saying that even magical beasts understand this?” King Elaboim mocked him. There was nothing he wanted to do more than send one of his arrows through the man’s chest. It was only two hundred years ago that that man’s ancestors had grievously wronged his wife’s family. The human Arnulf quietly laid a shoulder on the young elf lord’s shoulder. He shook his head slightly. He alone had made an effort to get to know the non-humans in the party.

  In his re-readings, Alboim was becoming more critical of this Elaboim guy, who was still ruling Barugala from the capital of Rolnburg. From hints dropped by Aunt Elspith, Oswalt, and Moara, the now-aged ruler was slowly dying and becoming more and more unstable. “And this is the guy I have to ask permission to go back to Earth? Sonofabitch should’ve left well enough alone.” he muttered to himself. From the sound of things, this realm was a near-absolute monarchy. He would have to suck it up and butter up the king, proverbially speaking, to get the man to agree. That or find his own way back home. Mom had managed it alone. With the proper training, he could too.

  Brigid snorted, a surprisingly unladylike sound as she tossed her blonde locks over her shoulder. Arwa allows us to manipulate ahna and etere. The difference is that our bodies naturally take in ahna when we breathe, eat, and drink. It is then processed, like we digest food, into a purified form called etere.

  He quickly scribbled a few notes on the relationship between arwa, ahna, and etere. “So, ahna is the raw material, etere the refined fuel, and arwa the funnel to get it to do… whatever you want.” Out of curiosity, he tried to feel or sense his arwa. It should be possible, he reasoned, if I have to manipulate it. Breathing slowly, he closed his eyes in meditation. With his mind’s eye, he searched inward for something, anything different, but found nothing. But wait, others could see this arwa. Maybe it was external? He shifted focus to his surroundings. Were those momentary flashes, almost like the Northern Lights arwa, or just a figment of his imagination, or random brain cells firing off? He didn’t know, but opened his eyes to continue reading.

  “This tracks with our knowledge,” Emorous the dwarf stated. He stroked his massive wiry beard, “though the terms are different. This still does not explain the power of your spellwork.

  “It is simple. I use words to visualize and assist in the shaping of my arwa, which is much quicker than your drawing-based system. I can simply manipulate my etere more quickly and efficiently than you can. At the same time, Grandpatter taught me meditation techniques to more rapidly replenish my reserves with the surrounding etere. Simple enough, in theory at least.” she stated. “It is not necessarily that I am more powerful but that my system allows for quicker, more targeted and focused attacks plus quicker recovery. How much time would it take you to draw a fireball spell designed to target the dragon’s eye?”

  “Probably half a chime.” Elaboim admitted.

  “I could do that in a minute or two, which means I can get ten or fifteen fireballs launched in the time it takes you to make one. Your talismans are useful in cutting down that time, but by necessity they must be more generalized as you don’t know the exact situation beforehand.”

  The scene went on for some time, verging on an info dump, which Alboim scoured for clues. “Basically, meditate until you can feel and manipulate your arwa, then, use words or circles to, what? Guide your ahna? Or influence it? Is it necessary, like circuits on a computer chip, or is the method more like using an image or candle flame to aid in meditation? If it's just an aid, can I eventually get rid of it and manipulate the ahna directly? Damnit, Dad!” he shouted in frustration. “Why couldn’t you have just written that damned info-dump and explained all this?” he asked the empty room. He had theories, but needed to test them.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Finally, he stood. His body ached from the long inactivity. For the past few days, he’d done little but read. Harralt and Oswalt did not agree with Aunt Elspith on the futility of magical transfer of knowledge. They had transferred the knowledge of the Barugalan script, then told him to read constantly to make the temporary application permanent. The two kidnappers were surprisingly friendly, and he got along with them well.

  “It’s not perfect,” Oswalt had stated, “but it sure beats months of memorizing the alphabet, then the spelling, grammar, and syntax.” They’d left him with a stack of books on Barugala’s history, politics, mythology and the like. Even this reading was more of a break from his assigned reading, but now, Dad’s books had given him some insights on how magic worked.

  Alboim stretched, raising his hands high into the air, then bending to touch his toes. It was no use; he had to do something physical before he succumbed to cabin fever. He would, he decided, try to piece together the clues for his mother’s magic. Alboim left the library and walked into the workroom designed for magic practice. It was time to put his theories to the test.

  “Learning magic will not be easy, and at your age, will be dangerous and may be impossible.” Aunt Elspith’s warning came to mind.

  He shut the door behind him. The practice room was completely empty, a square space twenty feet by twenty, devoid of windows and decorated only by mage circles carved deeply into the walls. According to Oswalt, the circles were still running. Hopefully, they would work with Mom’s magic. “Nah, how dangerous can just sensing your arwa be?”

  Standing in the center of the room, he looked inward with his eyes closed, concentrating on his breathing and meditation. Several minutes passed before he was once again able to see the flashes of light dancing around a ball he somehow knew was the center of him. This time, he could see colors, Purples, reds, orange, and lavender. Here and there, a hint of blue. Already, he was tired, as if he had sprinted a mile. Now, let's see if this works.

  “Narvolja!” he intoned, thrusting his arm out from his body, palm pointing to a blank spot on the wall. He’d chosen Mom’s fireball spell simply because it was cool. After all, who doesn’t want to be able to throw fire at their enemies? It hit him like a wet bag of sand, and he staggered forward a few steps before catching himself.

  But nothing had happened; no fireballs from his fist, no scorch marks on the walls. Only a damp shirt and a feeling of exhaustion. He frowned and scrolled quickly through the book. He found Emorous’s death scene and the detailed description of Mom’s fireball there. Was the posture important? He widened his stance and made a fist with his arm. In his mind, he visualized the purple-and-red lights bending to his will as he punched forward, imagining a flame bursting out of his fist. “Narvolja!”

  The reaction was like that one time he’d been skiing and hit a tree. Alboim collapsed on the floor, struggling to breathe, as his chest muscles refused to work. He could feel his heart racing, sounding more like a newborn’s than a nearly grown man’s. Breathe. He willed himself to start his breathing again. After too many seconds for comfort, his lungs remembered how to work; he’d never been so thankful to breathe in the sweet, fetid air of a Barugalan afternoon.

  “I think,” he panted, “Aunt Elspith was right. I definitely need a guide for this.” Alboim had to crawl to the wall to lever himself up. “Maybe I’ll try again after I learn Dad’s magic system.” Sweat was dripping from his face, and his shirt was sticking to his back. His legs trembled as he opened the door, and sank into a chair. Suzsise, who was back from wherever she’d gone, gasped in shock. “Master, you mustn’t overwork yourself!” She quickly got him a drink and a snack of dried fruit and a hard cheese, then, grabbing a towel, began wiping the sweat off him. Alboim was much too drained to protest.

  Faced with a situation she knew how to deal with, the cat-girl was much more assertive than he had initially thought she was. Alboim felt his weariness down to his bones. She was quickly done, but said. “You should clean off, Master. I will send for a bath to be brought up.”

  “OK, but I can wash myself.” There were limits after all.

  “Yes, Master. Please excuse me.” She curtsied and hurried out of the room.

  Bennit entered his bedroom as he was bathing. “My lord, Suzsise informs me you were attempting magic earlier today.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t get anything to work.”

  “It is my duty to tell you that experimenting alone is very dangerous.” His butler sounded extremely serious. Alboim sat up in the tub. “You will need an experienced mage to guide you. My understanding is that initially, manipulating your ahna can have unexpected results. In one case I know of, a promising young lord managed to burn himself to a crisp when he touched the power for the first time. He was practicing alone. Had another mage been present, he could have been saved when his arwa went haywire.”

  Alboim nodded. “I did not know that it was so dangerous. I’d figured that the wards in the practice room would prevent serious injury.”

  “Yes, and no. It's certainly much harder to kill yourself in there, but it is still possible to overwhelm the wards. There’s a fail-safe, a designed weak spot to target the excess ahna up and away from the castle, but that does nothing for whatever is inside the chamber, including the caster. Please, do not try again, not without guidance from your tutors.”