Summer 4978, 17 Akamoth

Shon sighed in relief as he followed his cohorts into the Church classroom. Outside, the summer was humid, making the still air feel even hotter than it was. But inside hung an orb that kept the classroom conditioned to stay pleasantly cool and dry. He had no idea how such luxuries worked, but would save his questions until after this week's lessons. They were finally learning about magic.

From the arcane devices that cooled their rooms in the summer to the divine blessings that healed their broken bones, magic was a fact of life that was all around them. Not everyone could wield it, but they didn’t have to, just like not everyone could make pottery or forge swords. Magic was an art for nobles and a chosen few. And though few, if any, of these children would ever be among them, they would at least benefit from the fruits of such labor, and, as such, were taught basic theory.

Father Branston himself stood at the head of the class with a Paladin in a crisp white uniform and a Mage in long dark robes. The Abbot smiled warmly down at them, his wide belly brushing the closest desk as he rocked on his feet, “Good morning, class.”

“Good morning, Father Branston,” the children called out in unison. Shon didn’t bother to join them. His voice wouldn't be noticed amongst the crowd anyway. 

“I would like to introduce you to Sir Jone of the Temple of Hengist and Mage Marc of the Mages Guild. Over the next week, we three will be covering your lessons on magic theory.” Father Branston explained, gesturing from the children to his companions, prompting them to say,

“Good morning Sir Jone, Mage Marc,” in a much more disjoined greeting. The Paladin’s lip twitched in a half-grin at their effort, but the Mage rolled his eyes and turned for the blackboard.

Picking up a fresh piece of chalk, Mage Marc drew two large circles on the board, overlapping them slightly. He was clearly impatient to get started, and Father Branston whispered a silent prayer, smiling at the ceiling while the children all took out their notebooks and pencils to copy the board.

The Mage had a dry bored voice that he still managed to project into the room, “There are two types of magic, arcane, and divine.” he wrote one word above each circle, “Arcane is practiced by Mages,” he wrote the word inside the arcane circle, “and divine by Clerics and Paladins.” he wrote both inside the divine circle then passed the chalk to Sir Jone, “Today you will be introduced to workings of divine magic.” he finished, taking the seat behind the instructor's desk.

Father Branston chuckled and shook his head at the Mage’s behavior, but Shon could appreciate the man getting to the point. Sir Jone cleared his throat and scrawled two more words on the board. The first inside the arcane circle read ‘Sorcerers.’ The second in the intersecting area read ‘Druids.’ To Shon’s annoyance, however, the Paladin didn’t explain his additions; instead, he tapped the divine circle and turned back to the class to start his lecture.

“Divine magic is granted by the gods to Clerics and Paladins who act as the voice and arm of their god on the material plane. Not everyone is physically capable of channeling divine magic, which is why at maturity, citizens are given the opportunity to take the 'DCT' or the 'Divine Compatibility Test.' Only if they pass are they able to pursue a calling as a Cleric of their patron or Paladin of one of the knight orders.” 

Shon took a long deep breath at that, letting it out slowly and as quietly as he could, trying to relieve sudden nerves. No matter what the adults said, if he couldn’t pass the Divine Test, he wouldn't be a Paladin. He wanted to ask if there was a way to increase your odds, but Sir Jone continued the lecture past the subject of the test,

“Those who pass are given rigorous training by their chosen order, and after five years of hard work, they present themselves to their god. If they are able to contain the god’s blessing, they are granted a piece of the divine woven by the god directly to their soul. Clerics and Paladins have their god with and within them always. We are guided by their gentle nudges and constant love.”

Shon looked down at his notes. He always felt alone… Even when he was surrounded by the other children of the Church, he felt isolated. Only Gaven spoke to him regularly, and no one was comfortable touching him. What would it be like? To have someone with him and within him… there to listen when he did want to talk, but just as happy to sit in silence when he didn’t? 

“It's our life and energy that focuses the god’s magic to heal the wounded and fight the enemies of man. The more we commune with our god, the more connected we become to the divine spark in our souls, the more it grows, granting us greater power and understanding. Lower-ranking priests might only be able to create magical light, but practiced Clerics and Paladins can heal even severe injuries and infuse our weapons with divine might.”

Shon had seen and experienced such advanced spells, but was he really capable of performing them himself? Would he ever be able to train enough to be worthy of the attention of a god?

Sir Jone passed the chalk to Father Branston, but Shon wasn’t paying attention as the Cleric began to lecture on the ten different gods and the subtle differences in their divine magic. Shon only cared about one god, and what he might do to be the best warrior he could be in Hengist's name. It was something he wanted more than the following week's worth of meals. More than any other future he could imagine for himself. Shon realized in that moment that it wasn’t just a flight of fancy that he might be a Paladin. He was going to be a Paladin, and he only had six years to figure out how to make sure he was worthy enough to even try.

***

“She is her magic. It is an insult to all our efforts to keep her power sealed.” Archmage Morndancer’s voice seeped through the heavy wood of Her door, but his words made no sense to Her.

“But what if she can’t control it? It took us months to recruit new apprentices before she was sealed. We should just tattoo her and…”

“NO!” She flinched at the Archmage’s shouted retort, “What part of my statement did you not understand? If you can not work past your foolish prejudices, I will have you transferred, Shaloon. Do you understand me?” She tilted Her head curiously at Her door. She'd thought that Archmage Morndancer and Archmage Shaloon were equals due to their shared title. Had She been wrong all these years?

Her lock clicked just as Archmage Shaloon muttered a grudging, “Yes, Archmage…” and when the door opened, it revealed only Archmage Morndancer, the rustle of Shaloon's robes signaling her exit up the stairs.

“Firewyrm,” Morndancer never gave Her a nickname like the journeymen did, addressing Her by title, he greeted,“tell me, do you know your name?”

She sighed, sliding to the edge of Her bed and staring at Her feet. The question was a ritual at this point. She answered the same way as always, “No Archmage, not yet.”

He merely nodded, “Soon. Your kind always know your own names…” Her kind… but what was Her kind? She brushed the scarlet scales on Her cheek, sighing again. It wasn’t worth arguing about. She had tried to invent names in the past, but they always seemed to know She was making them up and never approved. “Stand up, Firewyrm; I have a gift for you.”

She jumped to Her feet but hadn’t managed to stutter out Her excited question before seeing the golden collar in the Archmage's hand. Her words caught in Her throat, and She gripped the gold and ruby studded collar already around Her neck before dropping her arms and swallowing. He hadn’t missed the gesture though, and stepped into Her room, closing the distance between them.

“I think you will prefer this one,” he spoke confidently, but She still stiffened as he wrapped the solid gold around Her neck, just above Her existing collar. She could feel the magic tingle on Her skin as he chanted under his breath, the gold fusing without a seam. Nothing happened and She exhaled, but the chanting continued as the Archmage’s fingers trailed down to the ruby collar before it split, and he removed it.

A wash of heat filled Her from Her neck to the tips of Her fingers and toes and to the top of Her head. Her skin tingled and Her hair stood on end as She gasped, feeling more awake and energized than she could ever remember before. She wrapped shaking hands around Herself, clenching Her arms tight and stepping away from the Archmage as he took his own step back. The candles in their wall-mounted holders flared, their flame nearly reaching the stone ceiling. She could feel them dance just out of view as Her breath came in short gasps.

“Control it, Firewyrm, or I will have to put the sealing collar back on,” Morndancer ordered. But She could finally feel. If She'd ever known it before, then She'd forgotten what it was like to have life and energy flowing through Her.

Fingers snapped, the power vanished, and She couldn’t breathe. She panicked, trying to cough but unable to find air. “Control it, Firewyrm. Your magic is an extension of yourself, your center, like your arms and legs from your torso. And like your arms and legs, you can control it. Pull it in and hold it.” Morndancer snapped again, the collar loosened, and She struggled to do as he said as She gasped for air. Pulling the energy into Her skin with her will.

She must have succeeded because She was blinking back the stars flashing behind her eyes when the Archmage said, “Good. Now come with me.” before he turned and left Her room. She stumbled after him as he led Her to the first lab down the hall, where She found a simple table with a chair on either side and a large book open in the middle. To either side of the book were unlit candles. He waved his hand towards them, ordering, “Light them. Do not burn my book.”

She narrowed Her eyes at the nearest wick and focused. It burst into flame that danced wildly and melted the wax immediately. With a worried whimper, She pulled Her power back again. The candle flickered and nearly died before it caught of its own volition. Moving closer to the table, She decided to reach for the second candle, touching the wick with her fingers and lighting it much more carefully.

The Archmage didn’t comment. Instead, he took his seat and ordered, “Sit.” She scrambled into the chair, clenching Her hands in Her lap. Her heart pounded in Her chest, She was sure he was going to return the ruby studded collar, seal Her magic for Her loss of control. He did nothing to assuage Her worry and didn’t even address it as he ran his hand over the book, saying, “There are three planes of existence, and each has their own magic-”

She choked at the quick change of topic, and he finally looked up with just his eyes, “I am trying to explain your power. Do not interrupt me.” She rushed to nod, but he was already looking down again, tracing his fingers over three concentric circles before tapping the middle, “Divine magic originates from the heavenly planes and the gods who reside there. But the material plane, this plane, has its own magic, arcane magic.” he turned the page. She swallowed Her question about the third plane, instead, focusing on the image of five symbols inscribed in another circle on the new page.

“Arcane magic is the manifestation of the five primal elements native to this plane: fire, water, earth, air, and ice. Everything in the world has an element or mix of elements,” reaching out he pinched the wick of one of the candles, snuffing out the fire and casting half the room in darkness as he continued, “every physical object, or material component...” he reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out a pinch of something She couldn’t see but could definitely smell. Like rotten eggs, “every line, angle, or gesture...” with his free hand, he formed some complex twist and fold of his fingers, “every symbol drawn, syllable, note, or tone spoken…” he stopped his lecture for only a moment to chant words she couldn’t understand as he sprinkled the foul-smelling substance over the candle before continuing as though uninterrupted, “represents an element of magic. A Mage studies these elements, masters and manipulates them, and then empowers them with their energy to create change…” with one last whispered word the candle flared to life again, with no flickering as her own clumsy attempt had caused.

“Theoretically, anyone can cast arcane magic in this way. In practice, very few have the intelligence or mental fortitude required to study the intricacies of the art. A Mage will spend years studying theory and formulas before ever casting their first simple spell.”

“But-” She started then stopped when Morndancer raised his hand, afraid he was about to snap his fingers and choke Her again.

“You want to ask about your own power to light the candles?” he prompted kindly. She nodded again, unsure of this shift in his personality. “You are a…” he hesitated, then smiled, “a sorcerer. You were born with elemental magic as part of your very being. Fire, to be exact. Sorcerers are very rare but not unheard of. They embody their element and can manipulate it with their willpower. You are fire, Firewyrm, and you can control this power as easily as you control your limbs. With practice.” he actually chuckled, and Her eyes widened at the alien sound, “But just like an infant trying to walk, your control isn’t as inherent as the power itself. I have given you this new collar so you can practice without burning anything of value.” he held up a finger as if to stall a question, though She was still too afraid to ask any of the dozens spinning in Her mind, “But if you cannot control it enough at this point I will have to seal it again, perhaps permanently. Do you understand, Firewyrm?”

She nodded fervently and added for good measure, “Yes, Archmage.” She didn’t want her magic taken again. She didn’t want to feel numb, smothered, and empty ever again. She would master Her fire and prove Herself to Her caretakers. Perhaps if She could do that, they might even allow Her outside again. 

*** 

 It wasn’t often the children were taken out of the Church for lessons. Only the oldest, nearing maturity, were regularly brought into the city proper to visit the varying guilds in the hopes of finding a profession once they came of age. As such, the gaggle of young kids, ranging from age seven to nine, were almost too excited to properly herd through the streets of Smilnda. They had started out in two orderly lines, but hadn’t so much as left the Church courtyard before they were either bunching up with their friends or wandering off only to be ushered back to the group by flustered nursemaids and priests.

Shon found their antics confusing. It wasn’t like the children weren’t allowed outside the Church. They could run the streets as much as any other child of the city in their free time. Yet, for some reason, the fact that they were being taken as a group as part of their lessons had his fellow classmates acting like overly excited idiots.

He walked in the back, only the Abbot behind him, making sure no one was left behind. The young boy glanced over his shoulder at the head of the Church, curious why he would choose to join them on this little venture. Father Branston smiled, and Shon looked quickly forward again. Only to stop dead in his tracks, eyes wide in awe.

Shon had to lean back to see all of the dome of the Grand Chapel high above. Desperately he patted his shirt and pants as if he expected to find his journal hidden somewhere there. But they'd been instructed to leave their belongings. So Shon was forced to merely study the structure as best he could in the hope of remembering enough for after.

The dome consisted of twelve pieces that looked like flower petals waiting to bloom. Each one was stained glass, too far away for Shon to make out the fine details of the designs. He found himself wanting to climb the pillared walls to get a closer look, only to be distracted by those walls and pillars as well. Two open doors took up the width of the two closest of the dome pieces at the ground level, but to either side of them, the pillars and walls were carved with depictions of men, women, and beasts from legends and lore.

On the side left of the doors was the carved relief of a woman in ancient but obviously fine clothing, carrying a small bag in one hand and a scale in the other. Beside her, Shon could make out the side of man around the curve of the building, holding a hammer and working hard at an anvil. A merchant and craftsman of Saint Tzibus. On the right side of the doors was another relief of a man in long stone robes carved with constellations, holding a book in one hand and a staff in the other. A Mage of Saint Bede.

A large hand landed gently on his head, and Shon flinched away at the same time that the Abbot pulled his hand back. Father Branston looked down at his fingers then quickly placed his hands behind his back, obviously trying to smile warmly down at Shon, “Don’t worry, m'boy, I’m sure you'll find plenty of opportunities to return. No need to memorize everything in a day.” Shon could only nod, looking away. He tried not to glance at the older man's hands. Had he pulled back because he felt the same cold that bothered everyone else, or because Shon had flinched? In the end, it didn’t matter. No one liked touching him for long.

Shon hurried away from Father Branston to follow the other children and their caretakers into the Grand Chapel. The students all huddled in the middle, turning in circles to try and see everything, from the altars in their ten niches, to the stained glass roof that sent light of countless colors to dance across their awed faces.

The Abbot -still by the exit- made a sweeping gesture with both arms to take in the wonder of the single-roomed Chapel, “Welcome to the Grand Chapel, children! You have already learned about the gods that are all honored here as equals.” he moved around the outside of the walls starting to the right of the doors and stopping at each altar to bow as he went.

“Saint Tzibus, patron to merchants and crafters. Saint Domhnall, patron of Bards and Rogues.” he chuckled but still bowed his head to the altar of Saint Domhnall before continuing on, “Hengist of noble knights, valiant defense, and keeper of justice. Soleil, of the sun, mercy, life, and healing.” he took a long while to pray at his own patron god’s altar before moving on, “Saint Giorgos, keeper of law and order, slayer of evil and uniter of mankind. Cathbad, of nature and the wildlands, animals, plants, and the earth itself. Lune, of the moon, mystery, and secrets. Horsa…” he paused again in front of Horsa’s dark altar and sighed, “... of powerful knights and the iron fist of order.” he moved on after only a brief -though still respectful- bow, “Saint Bjarki, patron of brave warriors, gladiators, and berserkers. And Saint Bede, patron of the arcane arts, knowledge, and Mages.”

Completing his circle of the Grand Chapel, Father Branston smiled down at the children once more, “Each god holds their own virtues and values. You are not required to agree with all of them,” his eyes flickered towards Horsa’s altar again but only for a moment, “look into your own hearts to see what you truly hold dear, there you will find the god of your soul and your true patron. It is a personal and private exercise, and you will not be expected to share your findings. Still, you should know that you are not alone!” he swept his arms out again to encompass the room, “The gods that created us, nurture us, and hold us dear are all around. They will be your guides to leading your best, most fulfilling life. Some of you may even feel called to serve your god as a priest, priestess, even a Cleric, or Paladin.” His eyes landed on Shon and the boy glanced towards the altar of Hengist.

The children were permitted to walk around the Grand Chapel but were instructed not to touch anything. Shon made to step towards Hengist’s altar but hesitated and instead turned around to the other side of the Chapel towards Horsa’s niche.

As far away from his nemesis Hengist as it was possible to be, Horsa’s altar was carved of black stone with red accents. The god himself was depicted above the stone altar, a handsome man in spiked platemail, wielding a wicked-looking flail dangling from a long chain. Shon nose crinkled in disgust at the sight. Horsa was the god of tyranny. He used his strength to subjugate the weak and maintain order in those five of the ten provinces he ruled. Like Hengist and Saint Giorgos, he abhorred chaos and lawlessness, but that was the only thing Shon could ever agree with the god on. He turned his back on the altar and walked towards Hengist.

The Temple of Hengist ruled this province, Clearhelm, and his teachings of order, justice, and right action fit most closely with Shon’s personal world view. His Paladin knights were self-sacrificing and noble, their laws and punishments just. To Hengist, all were innocent until proven guilty. To Horsa, they were all guilty until proven innocent.

Shon looked up at Hengist's raised sword -white stone with blue accents- and felt a strange pulling in his chest. An emptiness that longed to be filled. As they'd studied the gods' values and teachings, Shon had found that each of Hengist’s rang so true that he thought they should've been obvious to anyone who just listened.

Glancing towards Soleil's altar to his right, he thought about the sun god’s mercy and healing but shook his head. Soleil would heal the injured and bring life-giving light to the land but did very little in the way of preventing those injuries. He looked towards the altars of Saint Domhnall and Saint Tzibus to his left, gods of art, beauty, and creation, but shook his head again. The Saint gods were merely ascended mortals, humans that had become gods through the greatness of their deeds in helping Saint Giorgos destroy the ancient evil that had plagued mankind since the dawn of time. He turned further to his right, to the altar of Saint Giorgos, the dragon slayer, and felt himself shudder. No. Shon returned his blue eyes to those of the statue of Hengist, a knight of battle and nobility.

The god of his heart.