Wilder stared intently at her pager, willing it to remain silent for another two minutes.  Caught up on all her paperwork, and with no patients in the hospital for the first time in weeks, the only thing that stood between her and a truly free weekend was two minutes.

Two friggin’ minutes.  C’mon, you bastard, she silently harrangued her electronic leash.  Give me this one thing!

She put the pager down on the conference room table amongst the discarded textbooks and print outs of chemistry panels and pathology reports from the in-house lab.  Wilder looked away, trying to ignore the timepiece in the hopes the remaining two minutes would go by faster.  Unable to stand it, though, her eyes darted back to the digital read-out.

5:29 pm.  C’mon!

The sharp click of footsteps coming down the tiled hallway made her snap her head towards the open door of the conference room.  Jenn grabbed the door frame as she leaned into the room and locked eyes with Wilder.  “Oh, good, you’re still here,” she said, sounding relieved.  “They’re having trouble with one of the patients in ICU; you mind?”

Wilder stood, mental grumblings about getting to leave on time pushed to the back of her mind, and buttoned her white labcoat.  “Not at all.  What’s up?” she asked, falling into step beside her classmate and fellow senior student.

Jenn hurried forward, moving as fast as possible without running – running was strictly prohibited within the hospital, as the administration felt it made people nervous to see the doctors and doctors-to-be rushing up and down the halls.  “It’s Jax – the HBC from earlier?”  At Wilder’s nod of recognition, she continued.  “He’s coming off the sedative and is really aggressive.  No one can get control of him long enough to slip a muzzle on him, let alone give him his meds.”

The automatic sliding glass doors of the ICU slid open smoothly, and Wilder was momentarily off-balanced by the assault to her senses.  The sharp, chemical odor of disinfectants burned her sensitive nose, but it could not hide the more offensive odors of sickness and death to her.  The metallic scent of blood vied with the ammonia smell of urine, all of them layered on top of scents of fear, desperation, and stress from the humans flitting about the intensive care unit, taking care of their patients.

Wilder pushed through it all and turned sharply to the right, following Jenn to one of the larger open-air floor cages.  Three of her fellow classmates were standing in front of it, along with one of the ICU technicians.  The tech held a muzzle in her hands, one of the students a slip lead, another had two syringes of some medication, and the third student was there for moral support.

Wilder turned her attention to the growling dog in the open-air cage.  Jax was a huge brute of a dog, easily over 80 pounds, with a deep barrel chest and stocky legs that ended in giant paws tipped with long, black talons.  He was almost five years old and still intact, making him more than a little difficult to handle.  He was a backyard dog, used to living out on a farm and running on acres of land, and had no formal training.  He had been riding in the back of his owner’s pick-up truck when a sudden stop caused him to be violently flung to the street.  Luckily, the truck hadn’t been going very fast, or Jax’s injuries could have been much worse.  As it was, he had a broken pelvis, a broken rear leg, road rash on his legs and side, and possible lung contusions.

She studied the hit by car victim cooly, asking the student with the syringes, “What’s he supposed to get this hour?”

Trent studied the syringes he held.  “Uhh, morphine and Unasyn,” he replied.  She held out her hand, not taking her eyes off the dog, and Trent silently deposited the syringes in her open palm.

Wilder moved a step closer to the cage door; Jax’s growl increased in intensity, rattling in his throat as an unborn snarl as she placed her hand on the latch.  She lowered her head and stared directly into the dog’s eyes, her posture stiffening as she drew herself up.

Jax’s eyes went wide and he tried to lunge for her, although his injuries stopped him short.  All the others jumped backwards, but Wilder didn’t move.  “Jax,” she said, her voice dropped into a lower register, sounding almost like a growl.  “No.”

The dog seemed to shrink in upon himself.  Wilder continued to stare him down.  “Bad,” she admonished.  She held his gaze for a tense moment longer before he dropped his head and looked away.  She nodded.  “Good.”  Boldly she opeend the latch and stepped inside.  The dog didn’t move as she leaned down and gave him the two syringes of medications into his catheter, unafraid.

Her manner relaxed now, she pet his head gently and began unhooking him from his IV fluids.  “You probably need to go out, huh, boy?” she asked in a different, playful voice.  She accepted a slip lead from one of the students standing nearby as well as a towel to serve as a sling for Jax’s injured back end.  Together they walked slowly out of the ICU to the astonishment of the gathered students.  Jenn shook her head.  “I wish I knew how she did that,” she said wistfully.

Outside, Wilder waited patiently for Jax to relieve himself before speaking to him.  The language of the dog was a bastardization of her own native tongue, but it was still possible for each to understand the other.  Celeste had compared it once to knowing Latin and using that knowledge to decipher the Romance languages of which Latin was a root.  Wilder liked the description.

She growled a low, questioning note:  Why mean?

Jax answered in a whine.  Hurt.  Scared.  Want home.

Wilder nodded understanding.  Humans help.  Make not hurt.  Soon better, soon go home.  But must let humans help!

The dog seemed to contemplate this.  Wolf help?

She smiled.  Wolf help.  You be good – if humans say not good … She closed her jaw in a vicious snap, locking eyes with Jax.

He shivered and wagged his tail weakly.  I be good.

They went back inside, a much calmer Jax on the end of the slip lead.  Wilder got him settled back in his ICU cage and spoke to the technician.  “If you have any more trouble with him, just page me.”  She looked at Jax one more time.  “You be good, okay, boy?”

The dog wagged his tail again and Wilder smiled.  She turned to leave, but a sharp yowl caught her attention.  Chris, another of her classmates, was having trouble with a cat.  “Hey,” he called out, half jokingly, “work your magic on this cat?”

She laughed and headed over.  “I can’t do cats, but I’ll give you a hand.”

…

An hour later, she was finally headed out the door.  She had a few fresh scratches from the cat to show for her troubles, but they were already fading fast and would be gone by morning.  Taking a deep breath of night air, she choked and coughed on the foul odor of the murder of crows that had decided to call the trees surrounding the veterinary teaching hospital’s parking lot their roosting grounds.  Bird crap liberally covered the fences, signs, sidewalks, and parking lot.  Her own car, she noted with growing annoyance, had a few new white spots on it that stood out in stark contrast to the red paint job of her SUV.

She blew out an annoyed breath, then a smile crossed her face.  She filled her lungs with air.

A loud, bowel-quaking howl split the night, causing the crows to depart the trees in a great thunder of wings.  Wilder coughed once to clear her throat, then got into her car, smiling as she drove home.

“Thanatos, stop!” she cried out, unconsciously tapping into the tenuous thread of power she had inherited from Thespa during the Fire Lord’s transferrence.

To his surprise and consternation, Thanatos obeyed, pulling back from the box as though it were a hot burner.  “Damn it, Wilder,” he growled.  “Stop doing that!”

“I’m sorry,” she said, coming to the box’s rescue.  “I don’t know what triggers that, but I really needed you to not touch this.”  She patted the box, eyes gleaming.  “It’s sperm.”

Thanatos quirked one eyebrow.  “Sperm.”

She nodded.  “International sperm.”

He shook his head.  “International sperm.”

“We can’t exactly ship male mice overseas, you know,” Wilder said, unpacking the box’s contents carefully, and on the other side of the lab from the Reaper.  “So, we have the sperm of genetically-valuable mice shipped to us.  We use IVF and make new baby mice.”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  “International sperm.”

She patted the empty box.  “This sperm has traveled more than we ever will.”

Thanatos looked at her for a long second, then disappeared.  Before Wilder even had a chance to really react to his absence, he returned.  “I’ve just traveled around the world.”

‘Oookaaay … then this sperm has traveled more than I ever will.”

There was another long pause, then he held out his hand.  She glanced at it, trepedation written upon her face, then hesitantly grasped his cold flesh.  Instantly, they were gone.  Another instant and they were back, Wilder looking green around the gills and much worse for wear.

“There.  Now you’ve just traveled around the world,” Thanatos anounced.

Wilder swallowed.  “D’you think we could go back to Scotland?” she slurred, her face drained of color.  “I think my stomach’s there.”

Wilder lifted her head slightly from where she’d been resting it on the coference room table, pillowed on top of folded arms.  “It’s a little too early for existential questions, Thanatos,” she said wryly.  She yawned.  “I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee yet.”

“Oh, fun-ny.  Ha.  What I mean is, why am I here, with you?”

“Hell if I know.  I’ve been asking myself that same question for the past … how long have we known each other?  Six years?  Or seven?”

The Reaper sighed in frustration.  “Why am I here?  Everything’s already dead!”

She raised one eyebrow at him, head still pillowed on her arms.  “Dude, I told you that’s what necropsy means – we take already dead things and figure out how or why they died, or why they were sick.”

“But I already know how they died!”  He gestured to the three sheets of paper scattered on the conference table, the three accession forms for the cadavers eagerly awaiting them on the necropsy floor.  “Me.  Me.  And Jeff.”

“Jeff?”

“I was on vacation that day.”

“Ah.”

Outside of the office was a slab of wood nailed to a smaller post.  The slab rested at about eye height, and upon it was a sheet of parchment paper.  The sheet read, in appropriately eye-catching font:

Wanted: Hobin Roob and the Dour Five

Hobin, the leader of the ruthless bandit gang known as the Dour Five, is wanted for the heinous crimes of extortion and destruction of property. Handsome rewards will be given to those brave enough to bring this criminal and his band to justice.

Any bringing proof of their defeat will be handsomely rewarded.

By Order of Magistrate Efym

Rhian pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep, cleansing breath before the door opened.  Magistrate Efym stood on the other side of it, grinning hugely.  Once again, he looked as though he had once read a description of a magistrate’s dress and then did his best to emulate it with the materials at hand.  His shirt was silk and a horrid shade of green with a ruffle down the middle of his chest.  His waistcoat was made of a sturdier material, perhaps a heavy cotton or even burlap, and fastened over his ample belly with buttons that looked to have been made from sea shells.  A pair of glasses was tucked protectively into the breast pocket, held in place by a golden colored chain.  He, like the other men of the town, also wore breeches that had been cut off at the knees, but his were more form-fitting.  Socks, pulled up high to the half-way point of his calves, disappeared into the legs of the cut-off breeches.  A pair of black buckle shoes rounded off the outfit.

Rhian took a closer look at the man, her first good look since the disastrous encounter that had happened yesterday.  His hair was dark, and what part of it wasn’t being used to unsuccessfully cover a large bald spot on the top of his head was tightly curled to the level just past his ear lobes.  His eyes were also dark and also somewhat vapid, as though he was waiting to be told what to do next.  He had a huge, full mustache that hung down past the corners of his mouth, the ends curling up slightly.  It was impeccably groomed, and probably held in place with so much lard that even one of Meris’ storms could dislodge it.

“The Great Magus Rhian!” Efym boomed.  “Come in, come in!”  He stood aside grandly and gestured her into the office.

It was here that the image of the Town Magistrate faltered.  There were bookshelves, a desk, and even a few chairs.  But the bookshelves held only a few books, with the rest of the shelves taken up by seashells and other useless knick-knacks.  Upon closer inspection, Rhian saw that the shells were actually fashioned to look like tiny animals, complete with eyes that had been painted on.  They were all displayed proudly on a small piece of driftwood, upon which was painted various phrases like, “Life’s a Beach in Neron!” or “Neron: the Adventurer’s Paradise.”  There was even one that said, “I Defeated Meris the Sea God and All I Got was This Lousy Shell Animal!”  It was all completely ridiculous, and Rhian nearly turned around and left right then and there.

However, the thought of Yaro made her put on her best smile and push the absurdity of Magistrate Efym and his town to the back of her mind.  “Thank you, Magistrate.”  She took a seat in front of the desk and Efym followed her lead, sitting down in the large plush chair behind the desk.  “I have given much thought to the plight of Neron and her people, and I have decided that something must be done about it.”

Efym nodded enthusiastically.  “Yes, yes, it is a terrible plight.  These bandits threaten every day to drain us dry, and there is naught we can do about it!” he moaned.

Rhian tried to look sympathetic; luckily, Efym was busy trying to look plagued and beleaguered that he didn’t notice her sympathetic look was more nauseated than anything else.  “But there is something we can do about it!” she hissed, drawing him in with the intensity of her words.  “We can vanquish these foes, and we can bring Neron back to its former glory, back before Hobin Roob and the Dour Five brought their evil into the world!”

She’d had to practice her speech in front of Yaro multiple times before she could get through it without rolling her eyes, laughing, or otherwise making known her disgust.  It appeared to have paid off; Efym was intrigued, and the excitement bubbling off of him was almost palpable.  “How can we do this, Magus Rhian?” he asked in a breathless whisper.

She smiled and leaned in closer.  “First, I’m going to need your help.”
…

Rhian had come up with the idea while she and Yaro had stayed up talking late into the night.  “I think calling them bandits is giving them too much credit,” Yaro had said.  “I really think they’re just taking advantage of the apparent … uh,” he snapped his fingers.

“Cowardice?” Rhian suggested with a wry smile.  Yaro had laughed, agreeing with her.  “Yes, from what you’ve told me, I think that’s the problem here,” she continued.  “However, I would like to get a look at them before we do anything rash.  It may just take something simple to drive them away, but then again, we could be underestimating them.”  She frowned, considering.  “Do you know where they are currently camped out, or when they come through Neron?”

Yaro had shaken his head.  “No one’s bothered to follow them, so no, I don’t know where they hide out.  When they started in on the town, they only came once every moon’s cycle.  Now, they’re coming every few days.”  He did some silent counting, fingers twitching.  “In fact, they should be here day after tomorrow, or possibly the day after that.”

“Hmm.”  Rhian thought for a moment.  “When they come in, do they look fresh, or do they look like they’ve been riding hard?  Do they seem to just … I don’t know, come out of nowhere?”

Yaro opened his mouth, then shut it, obviously thinking hard.  “They look fresh, I suppose,” he’d said, slowly.  “I mean, their horses aren’t lathered, and the bandits certainly have the energy to ride around town, whooping and hollering.”  He thought some more.  “They always come at first light, catching us totally by surprise.”

Rhian put this together.  “I think what’s happening is that they’re coming from wherever they’re coming from, and then camping just outside the town.  They wait for first light, then burst in.  It’s a huge intimidation factor.”

“It has certainly worked so far,” Yaro said dryly.

“Believe it or not, Master Yaro, intimidation can work both ways.”  Her eyes sparkled with mischief and she had leaned in closer, a slow smile creeping across her lips.  “And here’s how it’s going to work for us.”
…

“By order of Magistrate Efym, all able-bodied citizens are called forth to help vanquish the threat known as Hobin Roob and the Dour Five.”  Efym’s voice carried out over the crowd as he read from a scroll of parchment.  He and Rhian were standing in the town square, in front of the statue of the Heroes of Neron, an appropriate backdrop in Rhian’s opinion.

There was a slight murmur running through the crowd at his words, but no one was actively objecting.  Rhian took this as a good sign.  Efym continued, “Citizens are asked to bring forth any weaponry they are capable of using, anything from daggers and swords, to kitchen knives, to soup spoons!”

Rhian thought the ‘soup spoon’ bit was a great addition.  It had been Yaro’s idea.

Efym rolled the parchment, his speech done, and turned to regard Rhian.  The murmurs grew louder as Rhian stepped forward.  Now it was her turn to convince these people, and she had to sell it.

She raised her arms for quiet and the crowd grew silent.  “People of Neron,” she began.  “For too long you have lived under the reign of terror inspired by Hobin Roob and the Dour Five.  For too long you have suffered the injustice of this common criminal allowed to go free, to plunder and take by force what you have worked for, through blood, and sweat, and tears.”

There were murmurs of agreement in the crowd that grew louder as she continued in that vein for a few more sentences.  When she felt she had them eating out of her hand, she changed tactics.

“Well I say, enough!  I say it’s high time Hobin Roob paid for his crimes!  I say it’s time for Neron to take back what rightfully belongs to its citizens!”

“But how, Magus Rhian?” shouted a voice from the back.  “We are but humble folk, mere fishermen.  How can we take on such desperate criminals?”

Rhian was unable to hide a smile, but she was able to turn it into a fierce grin.  Nice work, Yaro, she thought.  Right on time.  “I disagree with you, sir.  You are not mere fishermen.  You have within you the souls of warriors!  I have heard tales of the brave ancestors of Neron, and I see their children before me now!  Do your ancestors proud,” she cried out, whipping the crowd into a frenzy.  “Banish Hobin Roob and his men back to the abyss from whence they came!”

They roared in response, a swelling of pride and ferocity that made Rhian stagger back a pace.  Perfect.

She let them continue like this for a few more seconds, then raised her hands for silence once again.  “Hobin Roob and his men will strike soon,” she said.  “Bring unto me such weapons of your choosing and I will enchant them with such magics worthy of the proud people you are.  Now go!  Go forth and bring me your weapons!”

As one the townspeople scattered, disappearing into their homes and returning a short while later with all manner of weaponry.  Rhian had them line up in front of her, then rubbed her hands together.  “Good.  Now let’s get to work.”

Yaro looked confused for a moment, then smiled, nodding.  “Of course.”

Rhian disappeared to her room upstairs, then returned a short while later, carrying several loose sheafs of parchment, an ink well, and a quill.  She sat back down at the table and placed the sheets of parchment in a neat pile in front of her.  She took the quill and the bottle of ink, and put the quill across the sheets of parchment.  The ink well was placed above the pile of paper.

Reaching for the strands of magic, she weaved them into a simple tapestry that encompassed the quill, ink well, and parchment.  Next, she took a strand and attached one end to her forehead; the other was attached to the tapestry surrounding the three objects.

Yaro watched with interest as she completed her task.  Then, satisfied, she looked up at the older man and smiled.  “Please,” she said, gesturing across the paper.

“Let me tell you a story,” he began again.  The quill immediately leapt to life, dipping itself in the ink well and writing his words across the first page of parchment.  He stopped and stared at it, dumbfounded.  “What—”

“It is writing down the words you say as I hear them.”  The quill recorded those words as well, but in a slightly different script.  “It’s rather more efficient than trying to listen and scribe at the same time.”

“Oh.”  He swallowed.  “I see.”

She laughed.  “I apologize, I forget that not everyone has grown up like I did.  Here — this might make things a little bit easier for you.”  She moved the entire ensemble to a table behind Yaro, where he could not see it, yet it was still in her line of sight.

He nodded gratefully.  “Thank you, Rhian.”

“You’re welcome.  Please, continue.”

Yaro began once again, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as he fell into the story and became less aware of the scratching of the magical scribe behind him.

“Let me tell you a story.  It is a true telling, as it was told to my father by his father before him, and his father before him, by his father before him, who witnessed it.”

His voice had the cadence of a true storyteller, his tone rich and soft without being sonorous.  Rhian felt herself becoming lost in his words as he continued.

“In the time of my ancestor, Neron was not as large as it is today.  We were a humble fishing village, living in the shadow of the great sea god, Meris.  It was Meris’ benevolence that gave us life, he who called forth the great schools of fish that fed our villages.

“It was also Meris who brought forth the terrible storms that threatened us with destruction every season.  We knew, though, that in this there was balance.  Just as we took life from the sea when we threw our nets, Meris took life from our village when he cast his waves.  While we mourned the loss of life, we knew it was Meris’ due.

“We lived in harmony with Meris and his creatures, taking no more than what we required, and in return, only a small population of our village died each year in the storms.  This went on for untold generations.

“That is, until the time of my ancestor.”

Yaro paused to take a sip of his drink.  Rhian, unable to abide the pause, blurted out, “What happened in the time of your ancestor?”

The old man smiled at Rhian from over the top of his glass.  He finished a long swallow before putting it down and wiping the his mouth with the back of his hand.  “You cannot rush a good story, Magus Rhian,” he chided gently.

Chastised, Rhian blushed and closed her lips tightly.  Yaro’s smile grew wider, then slowly faded as he continued his tale.

“In the time of my ancestor, we were not as isolated as we had once been.  Before, we had only ourselves and our kin to look after.  There were no other villages within several days’ journey of Neron, and our harvest was enough to feed only our own people.

“My ancestor saw great change, however.  People from Neron decided to leave, and founded their own villages and towns up the coast.  Some went further inland.  Wherever they went, though, they longed for the taste of home.  For the cooking of the flesh of fish is a closely-guarded secret in Neron.

“Those who had moved away pleaded for the fish and other delicacies of the sea from our village.  They offered goods in return, things we did not have or had never known existed.

“It was an easy decision in those times.  These were the sons and daughters of Neron; although they were no longer physically a part of the village, they were still our flesh and blood.  So, we increased the sea harvest, bringing in enough for both ourselves and for our wayward kin.  We traded:  Our fish for things such as silk, cloth, the secrets of iron, and so on.  The arrangement worked well, and we were pleased we could help.

“However, it was not enough.

“These other villages expanded and spread, bringing word of our fish to places we had never heard of, distances we had never dreamed existed except over open water.  More of our fish was demanded of us, and we had to increase the harvest.

“Then, the storms came.”  Yaro took another sip of water, though Rhian wisely kept her mouth shut this time.  “The storms that season were the most terrible and powerful they had ever been,” he said sadly.  “Many, many lives were lost, and the village itself was nearly destroyed.  Some of the people knew that Meris was displeased with us and how greedy we had become, taking more than what we, the village of Neron itself, needed.  They demanded we stop harvesting for other people and go back to only taking enough for us.  Others thought it would be the greatest sin of all to abandon our kin who had spread far and wide.  ‘They are still of us, of our blood,’ they would argue.  ‘They are still a part of Neron!’

“The debate raged, even as the storms themselves did.  It was during this time that the Heroes arrived.”

Afterward, Rhian could never be sure, but she thought she detected a trace of a sneer in the word.

“My ancestor was there to see them as they arrived in town, in the middle of a rare respite from the storms.  He tells of the three humans riding forward, down the gravel road, upon their great beasts with long, graceful necks and hair that tossed and turned like the wild waves of the sea itself.

This was the first time anyone in Neron had seen a horse,” Yaro said with a small smile.  “It was also the first time they had ever seen an adventurer.
“The leader was a great warrior atop a black battle charger.  The beast’s barding gleamed in the rare sunlight with a ferocity that matched that of its’ master’s armor.  Its master’s armor was red like blood, forged from the scales of a fallen dragon.  The scales absorbed light and reflected back only the anger that must have existed in the beast’s heart as the great warrior drove his blade into the dragon’s very soul.  That same sword rested at his side now, a bastard sword forged of adamantite with a gilded hilt that bore the crest of a lion.

“The warrior himself was tall, standing a full head taller than any person in the village, with light hair and a fierce, green eye, his other eye having been extracted at some point, the act leaving a single scar that ran the length of his face.  He would seem to any man to be a paragon of evil, but in fact the opposite was true.

“Riding behind the warrior was a stooped figure, shrouded in a cloak the color of pineapple leaves.  It was difficult to tell how tall he was until he unfolded himself from the chestnut stallion he rode; when he did, he was taller than the warrior, lithe and quick.  His arms were muscular, what could be seen of them not covered by studded bracers that bore the design of ivy leaves.  He bore across the saddle a huge bow, a weapon not seen by my ancestor before this.  The weapon was as large as the torso of this man, and even unstrung the raw power could be seen in the graceful curve of the wood.

“This man had a cool and calculating looking about him; his eyes constantly darted about as though taking in every detail of our town.  He was attentive, as a hound to a scent, but it was also apparent that like a hound, he was held in check by his master, the warrior.  While he watched them all, he kept fingering the strap of a lute slung over his back.

“The third was a woman, dressed in robes that flowed down over the light brown hair of her steed.  Along the length of her forearms were bound gilded bracers, which seemed to drink in light around them.  About her head she wore a circlet, with a single large opal adorning it.  Three stones flew about her head of their own accord.  She rode tall in the saddle, with a staff that laid crosswise across the saddle, made of a heavy red oak, hewn and carved with numerous runes.  A single blue crystal topped it, a stone that seemed to pulsate even in the daylight.

“The three rode to what sufficed as the center of the town in those days.  The warrior addressed the assembled crowd, for by this point, everyone in Neron had come out to see the strangers.

“‘I am Karl von Kaltenbach,’ the dragon-clad warrior proclaimed in a deep and booming voice, ‘and these are my compatriots.  Ludwig of Columb, master of the bow and lute, and Morgan of Caernaugh, mistress of the unseen.’

“‘We have heard of your plight,’ Ludwig continued, his voice quiet yet able to carry and be heard by everyone in the village, ‘and we are here to offer our assistance.’

“The villagers were confused at this, for they did not realize they were actually in peril.  It soon became apparent, however, that Karl von Kaltenbach, Ludwig of Columb, and Morgan of Caernaugh felt strongly that the villagers were in dire need of help, and that the only solution to their plight was to destroy Meris.

“Some of the villagers were dead-set against this, saying that it was our own meddling that caused Meris to become angry with us and bring the storms.  The other villagers agreed with the Heroes, entranced by their presence and outsiders’ ways, and persuaded the dissenters that it was for the best that Meris be destroyed.  For then they would be able to take as much from the sea as they wanted, and no longer would the storms threaten the village of Neron.

“It was a terrible fight, brutal and violent.  The skies flashed with lightning, the seas churned with a frightful energy as the three Heroes encountered Meris and defeated him.  Their fight, recounted by Ludwig of Columb, was memorialized in the statue in the center of town.

“My ancestor’s tale ends with an era of prosperity and peace ushered in after the defeat of Meris.”

Rhian frowned at his words.  “You don’t believe that,” she said, remarking on the defeatist tone of his words.

Yaro shook his head.  “No, I do not.  It is a proper tale, but whether you believe in gods or not, the fact is that the storms have not stopped.  The fish harvest is the same, and we have continued as we always have since that time.  The difference is, we have become weak.”

“Weak?”  Rhian shook her head.  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

He leaned in closer and spread his hands apart.  “We used to be so self-sufficient, Sendai Rhian.  We were self-reliant.  But after the so-called Heroes came, we haven’t lifted a finger to do anything for ourselves.  Our village has grown, but if you look closely, everything here caters to the odd adventurer who happens through.  Blacksmiths make swords and maces — what does a fishing village need with such things?  We went from housing people who happened through in our homes, and now we have inns to do the same.”  He shook his head.  “I don’t know.  It just seems wrong, somehow.  It works, but we are no longer the strong people we once were.”

Rhian pursed her lips, absently dismissing the scribe spell.  She thought for a long moment, Yaro’s tale spinning through her head.  “What if,” she said slowly, as though an idea were beginning to form but she didn’t want to give away too much before it crystalized, “what if I could help restore the confidence of Neron?”

Yaro looked up, eyes narrowed.  “How?”

She certainly didn’t feel confident, however.  Her hands were shaking, hidden beneath the billowing sleeves of her robe, and her heart was pounding furiously.  Still, she stood before the fountain memorializing the Heroes of Neron and didn’t run.

One of the townspeople, a large man with black hair so dark it had purple highlights in the sun, stepped forward.  “Are you the one who summoned the dragon?” he asked in a booming voice that echoed throughout the town square.

“I am,” Rhian confirmed.  “But I feel I should—”

Her words were drowned out by a sudden swell of cheers from the gathered townspeople, so intense and loud that it literally made her stagger back a step.  Confused, she could only stand there dumbly as the large man came walking quickly up, a huge smile on his face, the rest of the townspeople following close behind.  He grabbed her hand and shook it enthusiastically while the rest of the crowd gathered around her, shouting encouragement and pounding her on the back.

Somewhere, at the edge of hearing, she could just make up Kyle’s voice:  “See?!  See, I told you!  She summoned a dragon!  She can do magic, just like Morgan!”

“What’s this all about?”  Rhian tried to shout, to be heard over the din, but there was so much going on that it was impossible.  Frustrated, she grabbed the threads of magic and formed them into a bubble that surrounded her and the large man who was presumably the leader of the townsfolk.  It couldn’t stop all of the enthusiastic shouting, but it was enough to hear and be heard.

“—Finally put them in their place!”  The leader was still shouting as though trying to be heard.  “It’s so wonderful!”  Suddenly he stopped and looked around, noticing the greatly diminished noise.  “Amazing!” he breathed.

“Yes,” Rhian agreed, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “Now, please, sir, please tell me what’s going on.”

“You are the answer to our prayers!” he lauded, his face alight with joy.  “You are just what we need to restore peace to our town!  You are—”
Rhian tuned him out as he continued in this vein for a few more minutes.  Uncharacteristically, she found herself thinking that this may be a situation in which Divination would come in handy.  Could just read his mind and get to the point, rather than listen to him blather on, she thought.

Having had enough, she finally held up one finger in front of his face in a well-known wait-just-a-minute gesture.  He stopped talking.  “Thank you,” she said, trying and failing to keep her frustration out of her voice.  “You’re very kind.  But I need to know why, exactly, I am the answer to your prayers, et cetera, et cetera.”

“What is your name, O Great One?”

Rhian barely stopped herself from smacking her forehead in frustration.  “I,” she said with a sigh, “am Sendai Magus Rhian Wright, of Caernaugh.”

His eyes lit up.  “Just like the Great Morgan,” he breathed.  He dropped to one knee and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead.  “Sendai Magus Rhian Wright of Caernaugh, I am Efym, the magistrate of Neron.  We need your help.”

I got that part, she thought wryly.  Instead she said, “Of course.  How may I be of assistance?”

Efym’s expression became serious.  “We would not ask for your help on such a paltry matter, as I am sure it is beneath the talents of a Great One such as yourself, but we are desperate.”  His voice dropped to a whisper.  “Bandits.”

One eyebrow raised.  “Bandits?”

He nodded.  “Bandits.  They have been coming into our town and demanding money from us for protection!  Those that do not pay …”  He shook his head.  “Too many shops have been destroyed.  We have lost much money, both to the bandits and because we do not have the shops we once did.”  His expression became pained.  “We cannot sell goods and services if we do not have shops, and that is the town’s lifeblood!”

Rhian frowned.  “Why don’t you go after them yourselves?” she asked.  “There are many of you, and probably not so many of them.”  She gestured to the throng that surrounded their bubble.  “Some of your men look very formidable indeed.  I can see a few blacksmiths, and I’m sure they know how to handle the weapons of their creation.”

Efym looked puzzled, as though the idea had never occurred to him.  “Do it … ourselves?” he mused.  He shook his head violently.  “No, no we cannot do that.  We are but simple folk!  We cannot do the work of great heroes such as yourself!”

“Have you tried?” she asked.  “You may find it’s easier than you think.”

Again the magistrate looked puzzled.  “Tried?”

“Yes.  Tried to confront the bandits.  Tried to find out what it is they want, what motivates them, why Neron instead of some other town.”

Efym looked aghast.  “We cannot talk to them!” he said in a near-panic.  “They are bandits!  They are evil!  They are—”

Once again Rhian held up a finger and Efym shut up immediately.  “While I’m sure that may be true,” she said, “it’s still no excuse.”  She thought for a moment.  “Alright,” she said finally.  “What if I go and talk to them and see what I can find out.  Maybe there’s a peaceful—”

No sooner than the words were out of her mouth than he started grinning like an idiot and pumping her hand furiously, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.  Startled and a little frightened, she lost the focus needed to maintain the bubble and it popped.  Instantly, the cries of the townspeople washed over her, their shouts and screams of triumph and joy threatening her like a physical wave.  Efym was in the middle of it all, continuing to shake her hand like he would rip it off at the shoulder and shouting encouragement about how the bandits would pay for their crimes in a river of blood.

Great God of Magic, Rhian thought.  What have I gotten myself into?
…

“A mess, that’s what,” Yaro said with a heavy sigh, setting a mug of hot tea down in front of her.  Rhian took it gratefully, the warmth doing much to calm her shattered nerves.  It had taken some fancy footwork to get away from the crowd, and even so, the entire crowd had endeavored to follow her back to the Witch’s Pearl.  She finally gave a short speech that pleaded the townsfolk of Neron to leave her alone to “prepare for the trials at hand,” a phrase that she felt was suitably heroic to make them listen.  They did, and now she reveled in the blessed quiet of Yaro’s inn.

“I know,” Rhian sighed.  “I have no idea what happened!”  She spread her hands in an I-give-up gesture.  “I mean, one minute I was trying to get this little boy to tell me the legend of the Heroes of Neron by showing him some magic, and the next—”

Yaro held up a hand, stopping her speech.  “You showed them magic?” he asked, his voice incredulous.  When she nodded, he sighed again.  “Then this is my fault.  I’m sorry I didn’t warn you earlier.”

“Warn me?  About what?”

Instead of answering her, he disappeared into the kitchen.  He was gone for a little while, and Rhian was becoming concerned and considering going after him when he reappeared, carrying two plates piled high with food.  There was a fillet of white, flaky fish meat, garnished with what she thought were pieces of the pineapple fruit.  Some green vegetables, bulbous and steaming, and a spoon-full of white, long-grain rice rounded out the dish.

“Here,” Yaro said, setting one of the plates down in front of her.  “Eat this.  It will make you feel better.”  At her look, he smiled.  “Food always makes one feel better.”  He patted his ample stomach.  “It is a phrase I have lived by all my life.”

She smiled, then set to the food, hesitantly at first, then with growing enthusiasm as she reveled in the taste of the exotic flesh and cooking style.  She hadn’t realized how hungry she had been until she began eating, and soon made short work of the delicious meal.

Yaro ate as well, and they were both silent as they polished off their food.  He took their dishes back into the kitchen, then returned with two mugs of a frothy drink.  One sip told her it was a fermented ale, but this was made from pineapples.  Is there anything they can’t do with this fruit? She thought to herself.

Eventually Yaro sighed.  “Let me tell you a story,” he began.

Yaro looked very concerned.  He rushed behind the bar and came back with a glass of water, placing it into her hand and curling her fingers around its smooth surface.  “Here.  Drink this slowly.  Are you alright?”

“I’m okay, I just … I had no idea how far the Arc Magus had sent me, I suppose.  It’s quite a shock.”  That was an understatement; her hands were shaking so badly she had a rough time holding onto the cup, much less take a drink.  Still, she tried, spilling most of it down the front of her robes.

The water simply beaded up and rolled right off without leaving any evidence of its presence in its wake.  Rhian was too shaken to notice.

Yaro refilled the water glass and held her hands around it, like one might do for a small child.  He kept his hands wrapped around hers until he felt her shaking subside.  “Where are you from?” he asked gently.

“Regdar.”

His black bushy brows shot up.  “That is—”

“On the other side of the continent.  Yes.”  She took another sip of water, then looked down at it and frowned.  Once again she reached for the tenuous stream of magic that ran through the Witch’s Pearl and weaved a different pattern around and through the liquid in her cup.  When she released the magic, the water had become a hot cup of blackberry sage tea.  It wasn’t really tea; the magic just fooled her senses into thinking that it looked, smelled, felt, and tasted like the hot tea she favored so much.  She was still just drinking water, but the hot beverage did help calm her down.

Yaro raised his eyebrows and shook his head.  “I don’t believe I will become used to that,” he confessed.

Rhian smiled, still a little shakily he thought, but with a little bit more of her old self coming through.  Or, rather, what she had been like before he had told her where the Arc Magus’ magic had sent her, he thought with a smile.

She suddenly laughed, a short sound without much humor in it.  “He wasn’t kidding, was he,” she mused.  Yaro waited in silence, and she eventually clarified.  “Lore Master Acvs’ work.  I told Arc Magus Gwydion that I would start where the Lore Master had left off in his search for magical nodes.”  She gestured around her.  “This is where he left off.  Well,” she hedged, “not this inn or this exact spot, obviously, but he did leave off his search in Fyodor.  I guess the Arc Magus took me literally.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Rhian gave Yaro a blank look.  He tried again.  “You said you wanted to start where this Lore Master had left off.  What did you mean by that?”

“Oh.  I suppose I meant I would look through the journal, gather more information from the books in the library, do more research on the most likely spots to begin my search for the nodes.”

“Ah.”  He nodded, then leaned forward, placing a hand on her shoulder in a familiar and comforting gesture.  “May I offer some advice?”

Rhian raised one eyebrow and pulled away almost imperceptibly.  “The last time someone said that to me,” she said wryly, “I ended up teleported across the continent.  Forgive me if I’m a little reluctant.”

He laughed and held up his hands in a placating gesture.  “No, no magic.  Only this.  Your Arc Magus, this Gwydion, is a wise and learned man, yes?”

“Of course,” she answered simply.

Yaro nodded.  “So, it seems to me, that he had something in mind for you by … teleporting,” he hesitated over the unfamiliar word before continuing, “you here, instead of leaving you at the school to look through your books.”

She nodded, but her brow was furrowed in slight confusion.  “I believe you should make the best of this opportunity,” Yaro said.  “Start at the literal place where this Lore Master left off.  See what you can see.”
…
See what I can see.

Rhian turned the words over in her head, musing as she stepped from the main door of the Witch’s Pearl Inn.  The inn was not, as she’d originally thought, three stories tall.  Rather it was only two, but what had thrown her off at first was the fact that the inn had been built on stilts.  When asked about it, Yaro told her that, due to the storms that came every so often that brought huge waves from the sea, many of the buildings that were built within a certain distance of the sea were built on stilts.  It kept the buildings from becoming flooded with water when the storms brought the giant waves, he said.

Rhian looked out at the sea.  It was a deep blue, with calm waves lapping up on the sparkling, white sand of the beach.  The sun beamed down upon the placid water, creating undulating pools of light that Rhian had to shade her eyes against.  It’s hard to imagine, she thought, something so peaceful-looking being so dangerous, and able to sweep away entire buildings.  It’s amazing.

The Witch’s Pearl Inn was not actually within the town of Neron; rather, it was a little bit down the road from the town proper.  There were a few other buildings out this direction — most of them were other inns like the Witch’s Pearl.  They all followed the same driftwood motif of construction, were all built on stilts, and offered beautiful vistas of the ocean and beach.

Rhian walked down the gravel road towards Neron.  The road crunched under her new boots, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of the ocean to her left, or the screech of some of the local birds overhead.  They were white, with yellow beaks and dark-tipped wings.  Yaro’s word for them had come across translated as ‘seagulls,’ and once again Rhian remembered reading something about them once long ago.  They were loud and aggressive scavengers, something she was experiencing for herself as they dove down towards her.  She tried to shoo them away, but they were persistent.  Finally, she drew upon the magical energy and weaved a tall shield around herself.  The birds, unknowingly, crashed into it as though it were a pane of glass.  They were unharmed, though; simply dazed.  It didn’t stop them from continuing to try, though, and Rhian stopped flinching at the sound their bodies made as they crashed into the shield after the first four or five.

Eventually she came to the town proper.  The road widened to almost twice its width from the Witch’s Pearl, now wide enough for three carriages to drive side-by-side down the road.  Buildings lined both sides, most of them still in the driftwood motif of construction, but a few had add stones as reinforcement.  None of them were built on stilts; Rhian supposed they were far enough from the sea to not worry about the great storms Yaro had told her about.

Neron was larger than she had expected, despite Yaro’s confidence that she would be able to find anything she was searching for there.  The main road she was on led to the town’s center, a large square in the middle of a crossroads.  There was a fountain depicting what appeared to be a great battle between three humans and … Rhian peered closer.  Could it be a man half human and half fish?  She thought.  That was what it looked like:  the man was depicted with short, wavy hair, and an equally wavy beard that did not extend beyond his chin line, plastered close to his head by the spray of the sea.  A circlet of some sort adorned his brow, and in one hand he brandished a weapon towards the three humans.  It was long, like a staff, but with three spear-tipped prongs that were aimed menacingly at the group of humans.  The other hand was held up in a sweeping gesture, and a wave followed the curve of his arm, as though he had called the wave into being.  His torso blended into a large fish’s tail, which he balanced upon as he faced the humans.

The first of the humans was obviously male, if the artist’s representation of the chiseled features and bulging musculature were to be believed.  He wore what appeared to be a breastplate that was obviously battered and dented, but even so one could tell that it was a work of art.  He brandished a sword, a beautiful weapon with a blade longer than her arm and a deadly point that was thrust decisively at the sea creature.

The second human was also male, though he was built more like a whipcord than a boulder when compared to the first.  His armor was depicted as being a leather tunic studded with small, rounded pieces of metal.  He wore a cloak, which whipped heroically in the fury of the sea, with the hood thrown back.  His hands and forearms bore leather gauntlets, also studded like the tunic.  In his hands he had a giant bow that was nearly his size, drawn back with not one but two arrows on the string ready to be fired.  He also carried, slung over one shoulder, a stringed musical instrument that Rhian recognized as a lute.  She wondered about its appearance in the statue for a moment before turning her attention to the third person.

The third figure was, Rhian was surprised to see, a woman.  She was beautiful, with long hair that the sculptor had depicted as being blown back wildly by the sea.  Her features were fierce, her mouth open as though shouting at the sea creature, her eyes narrowed.  Her arms were thrust out before her, fingers frozen in a pattern that Rhian recognized as one manipulating the flow of magic, but she did not recognize the shape the magic should have taken.  The woman’s robes bore a pattern that marked her as coming from Caernaugh.

Rhian began searching for a plaque that bore the names of these heroes, desperate to find out who the woman was.  She had not, to her recollection, read anything about a Magus from Caernaugh becoming an adventurer.  It would certainly be possible, she admitted to herself.  We are taught all sorts of ways to manipulate the flow of magical energy that could be used in combat, or for protection, and even for healing.  Still, most of the Magi that I have been associated with are certainly more suited to a sedentary life, filled with books and giving advice.

The plaque was affixed beneath where the warrior male’s plate-clad foot was planted decisively as he brandished his giant hand-and-a-half broadsword.  The statue was titled, simply, “Heroes of Neron.”  There was no other information.

“Nice, huh?”

Rhian looked over her shoulder and straightened from the undignified position she was in, bent over at the waist to read the plaque.  “Yes, indeed,” she agreed.

The speaker was a young boy, maybe seven or eight years of age.  He had tousled, sun-bleached hair and dark skin that was either his natural coloring or had been bronzed by a lifetime out in the sun.  He had deep blue eyes the color of the sea, and a charming smile.  He wore simple clothes, a shirt with short sleeves underneath a brown tunic that was not tied closed, and another pair of those canvas pants that had been cut short at the knees.  He wore a pair of brown leather sandals on his feet, though the calluses she could see probably meant he was more comfortable running about barefoot.

“Who are the people the statue is depicting?” she asked the boy.

He stared at her, open disbelief on his face.  “What, seriously?  You don’t know?”

Rhian shook her head, smiling.  “I’m … from out of town.”

“Oh.”  He nodded as though it was something he had heard before many times.  “I’m Kyle.”

“Hello Kyle.  My name is Rhian.”  She gestured to the statue.  “Could you tell me about these heroes of Neron, please?”

Kyle pointed at her robes.  “You’re dressed like her.”

“Very astute of you to notice, Kyle.  I’m a Magi like she is.  We even studied at the same school.”

“Do some magic.”  It was not a request.

Rhian felt her smile waver, but kept it plastered on her face.  She’d forgotten how difficult dealing with children could be.  “What would you have me do?”

“Umm ….” He screwed up his eyes and tilted his head far to one side, thinking fiercely.  “Summon a dragon!”

“That is impossible, Kyle.  For one thing, dragons aren’t real.  For an—” She stopped abruptly when she noticed his eyes rapidly filling with tears at her words.  “I mean, of course!”  She amended quickly.  “I will summon a dragon.”

Rhian rolled back her sleeves as Kyle stood a few steps away, watching her with the intensity born of a child.  She reached for the magic again, drawing more into it than she had recently for the complex Illusion weaving.  Holding that much magic at once was both exhilarating as well as tiring; she would need to rest afterwards and limit herself to smaller workings after this.

She used more dramatic gestures than she had at the Witch’s Pearl when using her magic around Yaro, wanting to impress the child enough that he would finally tell her the story of the Heroes of Neron.  Eyes closed, she used her hands to outline the shape of a powerful dragon with a long, graceful neck and regal bearing.  She continued down, giving him powerful legs with lethal talons on the end of long fingers and a grand, sweeping tail that ended in three spikes.  Finally, she built him giant leathery wings.

When she released the magic, the dragon Illusion roared, quite literally, to life.  It was not the size of true dragon, of course — something that big would have engulfed the entire town of Neron.  Still, Rhian had made it twice the size of a large cow, thinking that would be big enough for the boy as well as for her limits.

She had shaped it into the visage of a fierce red dragon.  Its great jaws opened, revealing two rows of sharp and lethal teeth, and it spewed forth fire into the air.  It roared, unfurling its giant wings and taking flight.  It circled the town and roared a challenge, belching forward more fire.

Satisfied, she turned to regard Kyle’s reaction, hoping the boy was as impressed by her illusion as she was.

Kyle, however, was no longer standing by the statue.  Instead, he had joined the mob of townspeople that had poured into the street, fear and anger in their voices as they called out to one another, the men brandishing weapons while the women gathered the children to safety.

Suddenly Kyle pointed, and Rhian felt the entire attention of the town upon her.

And, it was probably safe to say, they were not pleased with her dragon Illusion.

Oh.  Bork’s snot, she swore silently.

The common room of the inn took up the entire bottom floor. From the steps, a long bar stood to Rhian’s right, ready to serve food and drinks to any who wished them. The bar was hewn from a dark, rich mahogany wood polished and painted to a shine. Directly across from the stairs was a large stone fireplace, though it looked as though it had not been lit in quite some time. To the left was the main door of the inn, standing open to allow the fresh breeze to wash away the stale air of night.

The inn was made of what appeared to be driftwood, the wooden walls washed and painted with a varnish that made them shine. The reflection of sunlight and candlelight off these walls gave the inn the impression it was much larger than it truly was, a deception that fascinated Rhian. The tables strewn throughout the common room were circular, but there were also a few rectangular tables that sat on the two sidewalls, opposite from one another. The circular tables and chairs were arranged in the center of the common room, spaced enough to give the patrons privacy yet not so far apart that walking between them would be difficult.

Rhian marveled at the ingenuity of the design. As she stood there looking around, a man came from a door behind the bar, one that ostensibly led to the kitchens beyond, wiping his hands on a stained piece of cloth. He was about Rhian’s hight, if not slightly taller, and had dark hair that reached to his ears before curling up slightly at the ends. A dark, thick mustache rested below his bulbous nose, hiding his mouth from view. His cheeks were round, as was the rest of his face. His arms were thick, although whether with muscle or fat was hard to tell. He had a prominent belly, one that was barely contained by the stained kitchen smock he wore over a plain white shirt, and pants that only went down to his knees.

Rhian made an involuntary sound at this – she had never seen such a piece of clothing, and found herself somewhat embarrassed.

At her sound, the man looked up and smiled at her. His smile lit up his face, crinkling his eyes until they were almost lost in a sea of smile and laugh lines. The expression made him look like a kindly grandfather, and reminded her of Arc Magus Gwydion so much that she couldn’t help but feel a pang of homesickness, even as she returned the smile with one of her own.

He began talking excitedly to her in an unfamiliar, lyrical language, gesturing widely towards her room then pointing at her, the motion sharp. He didn’t seem angry, though; just the opposite in fact. She thought he might have been asking her how her night’s sleep was. She shook her head. “I’m very sorry, but I do not understand your tongue.”

He smiled widely again. “Ah! You speak the Common. I am sorry, we do not hear it much. You are mage, from great school, yes?”

Hearing his accent in her own language made it even more difficult to place, and twisted the words enough to make him difficult to understand. “I am Sendai,” she confirmed.

He looked confused. She shook her head. “Sir, if I may, I can make it so we may speak in your tongue.”

His eyes lit up. “You speak of using the magic, yes?”

She nodded. He looked excited, like a little child. “I have never seen the magic used, only heard of it in stories.”

“You do not have Magi born in —” she started to say village, but not having seen the rest of the area outside of the inn, she didn’t know if she would be insulting him, or giving this place too much credit. “—Here?”

He shrugged, taking two glasses from behind him and placing them on the counter as he spoke. “Not often. Only every many years. Several generations since last one.” He took a pitcher from underneath the bar and filled the two glasses. The liquid was yellow and clear, with bits of what looked like pulp in it. It reminded her of orange juice, but it was the wrong color and texture. “Here. Probsta!”

Rhian took the glass from him. “Uh, probsta. Thank you.” She took a tiny sip, a little apprehensive but not wanting to appear ungracious. The liquid was cold, and very sweet with a slight bite at the end. She took a larger sip, then another. “This is excellent!” she exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Is … uh … “ He scratched his chin, squinting as he thought. “I do not know Common word. Here is called ananas.”

“Ananas.” Rhian liked the way the word rolled off her tongue. “Is it a fruit?”

“Of course! Here – I show you.” He disappeared behind the kitchen’s door once again, returning a short while later with the strangest fruit Rhian had ever seen . It was tall and oval in shape, with broad green leaves sprouting from the top. It was yellow, and covered with wicked-looking sharp points, yet the innkeeper handled it without worry.

Something clicked, and Rhian remembered a book she had read at one point, speaking of plants that grew only in warmer climates than her own home. “A pineapple – I think it’s called a pineapple in the Common.”

“Pineapple.” The innkeeper repeated the word, then shook his head. “Is ugly word. Like ananas better.”

Rhian smiled. “Pineapple does describe what it is, though. Look.” She pointed out the spikes on the outside flesh of the fruit. “Looks like a pine-cone.”

He frowned. “What is pine-cone?”

She opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. “I can see that this will be a very awkward conversation. Please, may I shape the magic in order to understand your language?”

The prospect of seeing magic done excited him — his eyes shown again and he nodded vigorously. She nodded as well. “Very good. I will have to touch you for this to work,” she cautioned. “Here,” she touched her lips, “and here,” she touched her forehead. “Is that okay?”

He nodded again. “Yes, is fine.”

“Alright. Then I’ll begin.” Rhian took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching out with her other sense, that Magi had and other people did not, the one that allowed her to feel the presence of magical energy. When she touched the magic, she immediately understood why so few Magi were born to this community – the flow of magical energy was little more than a creek, or a slow-moving stream. It was very akin to the energy source at Kethelsha; that was one of the reasons that location had been chosen as the site of a school of Magi. With less magic to draw from, it taught the budding Magi, firstly, to be able to sense even the most minute amounts of magic, and secondly, to be sparing with the magic they used for their workings.

“Anyone born with the ability to sense the magical flow of energy can use it to do almost anything,” one of Rhian’s instructors was fond of saying. “But it takes a true Magus to work great feats with but a thimble-full of magical energy.”

Rhian pushed the memory away and prepared to manipulate the magical energy she found. First, she drew a small amount to herself, running it through her fingers, shaping it into several strands of a cord. Two strands she placed on herself, one on her lips and one on her forehead, and the other two she attached to the innkeeper in the same fashion. Then, using her fingers, she twisted the cords together, shaping the final bits of energy into a braided rope of magic. Then, she released the energy.

Rhian felt the energy as it hit her, a feeling as though her ears had been clogged and were now clear. Her tongue felt a little funny, and she thought she had a coppery taste in her mouth. They were but aftereffects from the spell’s workings, and knew they would go away in a few moments.

The innkeeper, however, had felt nothing. He frowned at her. “Is it?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Hmph.” He snorted, clearly disappointed in the lack of flashes and pyrotechnics. “Was expecting more. Did work?”

Rhian gave him a slight smile. “Let’s see. Speak to me in your native tongue, please.”

“Native tongue?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. Your own language.”

He cocked his head at her. “Is there anything in particular I should say?”

There was a slight buzzing in her ears as he began speaking in his own tongue, barely noticeable, but disappeared completely by the third word. By that time, she could understand him. “No sir,” she answered in his language, “that’s just perfect.”

He blinked and smiled, clearly impressed. “That’s amazing! How did you do that?”

Rhian thought briefly about how to distill the past several years of her life into a simple explanation. “Practice, study, patience, and some great teachers,” she responded. She changed the subject quickly, feeling as though they could stand here speaking of magic for far too long. “My name is Rhian — Sendai Magus Rhian Wright.”

“Rhian. That is a beautiful name. I am called Yaro. I own the inn here.” Yaro spread his arms, indicating the entire building. “I must admit, we were very surprised when we found you in the empty room upstairs yesterday evening.”

She seized at this conversational thread greedily. “Yes, as was I, to be honest. The room looked as though it had been held in reserve for someone; I hope I didn’t step on any toes by showing up there unexpectedly.”

Yaro looked confused, then he laughed. “You don’t know, do you?” he asked. It was a rhetorical question. “No, obviously not,” he answered himself. “Many, many years ago,” Yaro said, “far before this inn came into my hands, the Arc Magus of the great school of Magi made a deal with its current owner. They were to keep a room on the top floor always ready to receive a visitor, at any time. In return, the inn received a payment from the school for the value of the room. It has been used in the past, but,” he shrugged, “not again in recent memory. The owner before me had never had it used, and I had not either. Until today, at least.” He smiled warmly. “You are the first visitor to that room in many, many years.”

That would explain the musty smell, Rhian thought. Instead, she said, “I appreciate your dedication to the covenant with the Arc Magus. It was a very nice room to wake up in, very comfortable and bright.”

Yaro smiled, his chest swelling with pride for his inn. “Well, while you are here, you are an honored guest. Your room and board has been paid for, so feel free to eat and drink to your heart’s content. However,” he held up a single finger, “this does not extend to the rest of the town. You will have to pay for goods and services outside of the Witch’s Pearl with your own means.”

She was about to ask what the Witch’s Pearl was, but realized that he was referring to the inn. Interesting choice, sir, she thought wryly, mentally addressing the Arc Magus who had originally set up the contract. Instead, she asked another question that had been burning in her since she had awoken. “Forgive my ignorance, but where am I, exactly?”

“You are in the town of Neron. In Fyodor.”

She was in a small room, only large enough for the bed she was laying on, a ceramic ewer, and a wooden chair.  The walls were unadorned and roughly textured, as though made with mud daub instead of hewn from stone, like her own room.  There was a single window cut into the wall directly to her left, covered with a gauzy cloth that let in the warm sunlight that had awoken her.  The curtain moved with a gentle breeze from outside.  There were straight wooden beams in the four corners of the room, and they continued overhead as crossbeams.  The ceiling was not simply another wall, though; the roof steepled overhead, and Rhian could see several holes where the wooden beams didn’t fit together well enough.  Birds flew in and out, and there was the unmistakable smell of their droppings, as well as white spots on the wooden beams where the droppings had fallen.  They made odd chirruping noises, unlike anything she had heard around the area of Kethelsha, and darted to and fro almost too quickly for the eye to follow.  She thought they may have been mottled brown, but in the shadows of the rafters it was difficult to tell.

Besides the smell of the birds, there was a undercurrent of mustiness and mold, as though the room had not been used in quite a while.  The sheets on the bed were a testament to this as well — although they were clean, they were also stiff and musty.  The mattress was probably straw-filled, if the itchiness she felt was any indication, and who knew how long it had been since fresh straw had been put in.  The bed was barely large enough for her; her toes were in danger of dangling off the end, even with her head at the very top of the mattress.  The pillow was at least somewhat soft, but again had that stale, musty scent to it.

Rhian got out of bed and noticed immediately that she was no longer wearing her formal Sendai’s robes — only her undergarments and dressing gown remained.  She wondered what had happened to her clothing, then blushed hotly as her mind entertained images of strangers undressing her before putting her to bed.  There was a brief moment of uncomfortable panic, but a thorough examination of herself revealed no evidence of abuse.  She sighed in relief and walked to the ceramic ewer.

There was a pitcher of water next to it, and Rhian determined after a cursory investigation that the water, at least, was fresh.  Although she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a layer of dust or a few dead bugs floating on top, especially after the state of the rest of the room, she was grateful for its presence.  She took a birdbath in the sink, washing her face, behind her ears, and neck thoroughly.  She discovered a washcloth and used it to clean under her arms and to wipe them down.

She felt much better after her impromptu bath, and looked around the room with fresh eyes.  It was obvious that it hadn’t been used in a long time, and Rhian got the distinct impression that it was kept perpetually ready.  But ready for what? She wondered.  Or, more likely, whom?

She turned toward the single window in the room and pushed aside the gauzy fabric that served as its curtain.  A warm breeze washed over her face and brought with it the salty scent of the ocean that crashed a few hundred yards away.  Large trees of a kind she’d only seen in books swayed in the wind, their round, furry fruit making a low, musical sound as they bumped together.  Their leaves were huge and made up of many finger-like projections, and were only found sprouting out the top of the tree trunk like a carrot’s top.  White sand ran most of the distance between the building she was in and the ocean’s edge — she’d only ever read of beaches, but she assumed this must be one.

Looking down, she saw the building she was in was most likely an inn.  Rhian was in a room on the top floor, but it looked like there were only one or two floors below hers.  It was difficult to see the rest of the building from her vantage point, but she got the impression it was made of the same wood-and-mud daub motif she encountered in her room.

She couldn’t see any people from where she was, but if her suspicions were correct and this was an inn, there had to be at the very least its proprietor present.  Perhaps they could tell her where she was.

Rhian’s stomach growled and she placed her hands self-consciously over it.  Perhaps they have something I could eat, she thought with a wry smile.  She hadn’t eaten before she had gone to see Arc Magus Gwydion, and who knew how long she had been unconscious before waking up.  It could have been only the course of a restful night’s sleep, but it also very easily could have been several days.

Her immediate concern, however, was clothing.  I certainly cannot present myself to these people, whoever they may be, while wearing only my undergarments, Rhian thought to herself.

Let me see …

She glanced quickly around the room — bed, ewer, window, chair — then more slowly.  Unnoticed until now was a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of twine sitting on the chair.  Rhian frowned as she looked it over.  There was no note attached, and nothing that would indicate where it had come from or from whom.

Curious, she untied the twine and unwrapped the brown paper.  Inside was a folded robe, made of a thick, sturdy cloth.  She unfolded it and held it up to her.  It was nearly identical to her Sendai’s robes:  White, falling to her ankles, and belted in place with a length of cloth.  However, there were some subtle differences.  The sleeves, neckline and hemline were embroidered in blue thread with several familiar runes of the Transmutation school.  Rhian recognized several different symbols of protection, some from physical insults and some from energy.  She extended her hand and ran it over the robes, just above the cloth without touching it.  She could feel the magical energy that had been worked into the cloth, could sense its shape like a shield that surrounded the robe.

There was no longer any doubt that the package had come from Arc Magus Gwydion.  How did it get here? Rhian wondered, then shook her head.  No, that’s not the right question.  It’s obvious how it got here, just as it is obvious how I got here, wherever here may be.  The question is, why is it here, and why am I here?

Musing on this question, Rhian put the robe on, belting it securely around her waist.  She noticed there was more contained in the wrapping than just the robe; a silver chain caught her eye as it flashed in the warm sunlight filtering into her room from the window.  She grasped the chain and unearthed an amulet.  It was circular, about half the size of her palm, and was made of two concentric rings around a circular disc in the middle.  Each ring and the middle disc were made of different metals — the outermost ring was golden, the next ring silver, and the middle disc copper.  A brilliant blue gem sat in the middle of the center disc; it reminded her of the gem she had seen in Arc Magus Gwydion’s chambers.

Upon closer inspection, there were more runes etched upon the two rings and on the middle disc where it surrounded the gem.  Passing her hand over the amulet, Rhian could once again feel the aura of Transmutation magic she had felt on the robes.  Like the robes, this amulet’s magic was meant to protect her from harm.

Rhian was truly surprised at the wonderous gifts, but it appeared the Arc Magus’ generosity had not yet run out.  Beneath the chair Rhian found a pair of boots.  They were of a supple and soft leather, just the right size for her feet.  They came up slightly above the hem of her robes, and fitted so well that she could not feel any uncomfortable tightness or rubbing of the leather against her legs.

Like the robes and the amulet, the boots were obviously more than as they appeared.  A faint aura of magical energy of the Transmutation school surrounded the boots, but it was very different from that of the robe and amulet.  Rhian puzzled over the unfamiliar shape of the magic for a few minutes before her growling stomach demanded attention.  She frowned, annoyed that the demands of her body could deter her from finding out about this gift from Arc Magus Gwydion, but then realized that she was serving no purpose staying in this strange room in a strange place staring at her new boots.  She decided it was time to finally find out what she was supposed to be doing here.

With that in mind, Rhian pushed open the door and headed downstairs.

Gwydion’s voice issued from his chambers as Rhian let go of the massive iron ring that served as the door’s knocker and the last echo of the knock faded.  “Come in, Sendai Rhian.”

The door opened on creaky hinges, something that Rhian found somewhat appropriate, and she noticed reflexively that the door was thicker than her waist.  Formidable indeed, she thought to herself as she entered the chamber of the Arc Magus.

Despite taking up the entire top floor of Kethelsha, Gwydion’s chambers seemed … cramped, almost.  Most of that was due to the fact that all of the available wall space was taken over by bookshelves.  Books crammed into every available space on those shelves:  double rows on each shelf, single books on top of those rows, and even piles of books on top of the bookcases themselves.  The books were of all manner of sizes and shapes, some bound in rich leather with golden ink on the spines, while others looked to be covered by leaves, and some by untanned animal hides.  Tables were set at uneven intervals throughout the room, most of them piled high to groaning with all manner of books as well as loose-leaf parchment and scrolls.  Quills and ink wells were strewn about haphazardly, as though the Arc Magus wanted to be able to write down any stray thought he might have no matter where he might be in the room.

Where there weren’t books and scrolls, there were the collected souvenirs of Gwydion’s lifetime.  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the various and sundry objects found in the chamber:  A large egg sat next to a stained and ratty doll; a blue gem that was probably worth more than a king’s ransom radiated a bright light even in the dusky confines of the room that illuminated a basket of shells from different sea creatures; an ornate sword lay on the ground, its bejeweled hilt half-buried under another mountain of parchment, while a plain wooden walking stick without any visible adornments or carvings rested reverently on the wall next to an animal-hide shield.

There was some order to the entropy, however; everything seemed to spiral inward toward a large desk, although calling it such was like saying the great monolith in the center of the desert of Rackham was a stone pillar.  It was huge, easily as large as the tables in the dining hall, and made of a dark and exotic wood.  It rested on four legs that were carved to resemble the giant paws of some predatory beast.  The front of the desk, the part that faced Rhian and any other visitor upon entering Gwydion’s chambers, depicted a peaceful and idyllic scene:  A simple village by a stream, where three women were washing their clothes in the rushing water, while several children played nearby.  Coming from the woods were a few men, the results of a successful day’s hunt draped over their broad shoulders.  In the distance, Rhian could just make out a few houses that looked remarkably like the wood and mud huts of one of the fishing villages of the coast.  The detail of the carving was exquisite — Rhian could make out the individual blades of grass and how they parted for the returning hunters; the way the folds of the children’s clothes moved as they ran; the smiling faces of the women as they laughed and talked while washing clothes.

The desk was a summary of the chaos of the rest of the room — books, scrolls, and parchment rivaled with various items such as rocks, wooden toys, and small weaponry for space on the large surface of the dark wood.

Finally, in the center of all this chaos and entropy, stood its master.

Arc Magus Gwydion looked as Rhian would expect a venerable master of the seven schools to look.  He was tall for a man, standing with the top of his head nearly level with his bookshelves.  His hair was white, flowing down from underneath the simple round hat that covered his bald crown until it reached the level of his chin.  From here he had it pulled back in a simple queue, where it reached down almost to the small of his back.  His beard was also white and long, though not nearly as long as his hair.  It was separated into three plaits, the longer one running down the middle with the other two flanking it on either side, the point of the middle plait reaching the center of his chest.

His face was pale, with the dark spots of age a silent testament to his centuries alive.  His face was soft from countless years of sedentary living at Kethelsha, with its gourmet meals offered morning, noon, and night, and snacks in between.  Wrinkles from a lifetime of laughter crinkled the corners of his eyes and his mouth, and wispy white eyebrows lent an almost comical note to his face, as though he could never groom them properly.  His eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed spectacles, were blue, a rich sapphire in color that was matched only by the gem Rhian had seen upon entering his chambers.  They sparkled with mischief and merriment when he smiled, and beheld infinite sadness when he frowned.  A lifetime of memories were contained within their depths, and one could get lost in them if not careful.

He was a comfortable weight, neither thin nor obese, though most of his frame was hidden beneath the silken multicolored robes of his station.  His fingers were long and spindly, the knuckles having grown larger with age, and were once again populated by age spots.  He gestured to a comfortable-looking chair that, remarkably, was one of the few surfaces not dominated by papers and books in Gwydion’s chambers.

Rhian sat, and Gwydion lowered himself into a similar chair that she might have sworn did not exist until just a moment ago.  He smiled at her and she immediately felt more relaxed; it was the sort of smile she imagined might be called “grandfatherly”.

“Sendai Magus Rhian Wright,” Gwydion said.  His voice was soft and aged, yet there was an undercurrent of the power he wielded running through it.  “Tell me of the nature of magic.”

Rhian frowned, the question taking her off guard, yet she answered with a rapidity born of repetition and concrete knowledge.  The nature of magic was the first lesson taught to all who entered the doors of Kethelsha, and it was constantly reinforced throughout their education.  “Magic is a current of entropic energy that runs throughout our world like water.  Like water, it ebbs and flows and runs through our world in anything from tiny, nigh-undetectable streams to rushing rivers of magical energy.

“Magi,” Rhian continued, “are those with an innate ability to sense and manipulate the flow of magic.  What they can do with this energy falls within what have traditionally been called the seven schools:  Abjuration, conjuration, divination, enchantment, evocation, illusion, and transmutation.  It is important to understand that these are merely descriptive terms that have been applied by the Magi; magic itself has no form and is simply raw energy until acted upon by the will and intent of the Magus.  It is also important to understand that, although the energy we call magic comes from outside the Magus, it is possible for them to draw too much into themselves.  Magi without proper training and discipline have died in this manner.”

Gwydion nodded; it was a textbook-perfect description of the nature of magic.  “What is the source of the energy we call magic?”

Rhian shook her head.  “Unknown.  Ancient texts speak of what have been described as nodes of magic, where it appears that the streams originate from, but there have been no written accounts of such places existing within the last several hundred years.  The last known account of someone searching one out was from Acvs, a Lore Master who gained notoriety when he began following a stream of magic, hoping to trace it to its source.  He never completed his journey.”

Gwydion nodded again and sat back in his chair, steeping his fingers in thought.  “You are very knowledgeable for one of your age, Rhian,” he said quietly, smiling in that grandfatherly way of his.

Rhian blushed and smiled in response.  “I … just enjoy reading, sir.  I like learning.  To be honest, sir, I hope to one day become a Lore Master.”

“Really, now.”

She nodded enthusiastically and leaned forward, excited to be talking about her favorite subject.  “Yes, sir.  There’s so much information out there, so many different things to learn and to know!  I believe that just about every thing ever known exists somewhere, either in written or oral form.  I think it would be a great accomplishment to learn even a minute amount of that, and to use that knowledge to help those that needed it.”

The Arc Magus tilted his head in acknowledgment of her words.  “What of your own discoveries?”

She frowned in confusion.  “Sir?”

He waved his hand at the numerous volumes of knowledge contained within his chambers.  “You speak of the knowledge discovered by others, but have you given any thought to finding some of your own?”

“I—I really haven’t, sir.  I mean, it might be interesting to look for a magical node, maybe try to follow Lore Master Acvs’ old texts, but I’m also quite content to collect the knowledge of others.”

“I see.”  Gwydion stood and slowly walked to one of the bookcases on the far end of the room.  He ran a single finger along a row of books while he spoke, until he came to a large tome with a rust-brown leather cover.  “While the implied task of a Lore Master is to do as the title suggests,” he said wryly, “I would take a more careful look at the authors of those texts you love to read.  You will find,” he said, as he removed the large rust-brown tome, “that they are all, or nearly all, Lore Masters.  You see, besides bearing an almost encyclopedic knowledge of topics ranging from astronomy to zoology and everything in between, it is also the task of the Lore Masters to discover new lore.  In other words,” he handed her the tome, “to find out for themselves.”

She looked at the cover and read the title, embossed on the cover in flowing golden letters:  “On the Theory of Magical Nodes, An Account by—” she gasped, “Lore Master Acvs!”  Her eyes widened as she looked from the book to Gwydion.  “I didn’t even know this existed in our library, I had heard that there were only two or three copies ever made!”

Gwydion shook his head.  “There may at one time have been multiple copies, but what you hold in your hand is not only the only surviving account of his journey, but also the original.”  He smiled as she was suddenly torn between wanting to leaf through the book with wild abandon, yet afraid of touching and ruining such an obviously valuable piece of lore.  “The question is, young Sendai, what will you do with it?”

“What will I—you mean—sir?”  She looked from the book up to Gwydion.

“It is a gift—my gift to you.  Consider it the first tome of your Lore Master’s library.”

Tears suddenly appeared at the corners of her eyes.  “I don’t know—what—thank you, sir!  Thank you!”  Rhian was at a loss for words.

“I ask you again, Sendai Rhian.  What will you do with such valuable knowledge?”  Gwydion leaned closer and began tracing a symbol in the air over her brow, unbeknownst to Rhian, who was engrossed with her new book.

“I’ll follow it,” she said, almost dreamily.  “I’ll take up where Lore Master Acvs left off.  I’ll look for the magical nodes.”  She looked up just as Gwydion completed drawing the symbol.

He nodded and smiled warmly.  “Very good, young Magus.  Allow me to give you a piece of parting wisdom?”

“Of course!”  She stood, hugging the book to her chest.

“Always remember that a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”  As he spoke the last word, he reached out and touched Rhian’s forehead.  The magic he’d gathered into the arcane symbol expanded and enveloped the young Magus in a thin sheen of iridescent light.

Then Rhian’s world went dark.