Chapter Eight: The First Lesson

  Training is going to kill me, Ash Lorcan thought as he completed his sixtieth push-up. He groaned, his muscles screaming at him to stop. It felt as if someone had injected liquid fire directly into his body, each fiber burning with exertion. What made it worse was that his body was covered in sweat, the droplets tracing warm paths down his skin before soaking into the ground beneath him. Luckily, he had been able to take off his shirt, the fabric now lying in a crumpled heap nearby.

  The morning air held the promise of a warm day ahead, but for now, it still carried the crispness of dawn. He longed to stop and allow the cool breeze to dry his overheated skin, to simply collapse onto the grass and catch his breath. But if he did, Amalia would prod him with her staff, the white wood jabbing painfully into his ribs as she offered a scornful tongue lashing about dedication and perseverance.

  So instead, he rolled over with a grunt and began crunches, his abdominal muscles protesting with every repetition. Birds chirped cheerfully in the trees around their small clearing, seemingly mocking his suffering.

  "All the way up, Ash," Amalia instructed, her voice as cool and unyielding as stone. She stood above him, her black robes undisturbed by the morning breeze, her violet eyes watching his form with clinical precision. "I will not have you doing the exercise incorrectly."

  Ash was beginning to think she was a monster herself, perhaps something more terrifying than the kobolds they'd encountered. At least the kobolds had the decency to try to kill you quickly, not torture you slowly under the guise of training.

  After running in place, dropping to the ground, picking himself back up and doing that fifty times, Ash was certain he was going to vomit. His stomach lurched with each movement, his throat burning with bile that threatened to rise. His legs trembled beneath him, barely able to support his weight.

  "She's evil incarnate. I just know it," he muttered under his breath, wiping sweat from his forehead with a shaking hand.

  He glanced over at his companions, finding small comfort in the fact that they appeared to be suffering equally. Nick's dark skin glistened with sweat, his normally neat beard now damp and disheveled. The dwarf had removed his outer garments, revealing powerful arms corded with muscle that even now quivered with exertion. Will had abandoned any pretense of his usual easy grace, sprawled on the ground with his chest heaving. Even Rosalia, who typically moved with natural elven fluidity, was bent double, hands on her knees, her red-gold hair plastered to her forehead. All of them were groaning like toppled cows, expressions of mutual misery on their faces.

  Amalia stood in the center of their training area, shaking her head with a look of mild disapproval. Her hair remained perfectly arranged, not a single bead of sweat visible on her brow despite the morning's growing warmth. She might as well have been taking a leisurely stroll for all the effort their training appeared to cost her.

  "I expected a little more from you all," she commented, surveying their exhausted forms. "You're all full of youth, after all." Her tone suggested this explained everything, as if youth alone should have made the brutal exercise regimen effortless. "Now, get up, we're moving on."

  Without warning, she made a flowing gesture with her hand. There was a subtle ripple in the air, like heat rising from sun-baked stone, and four training swords materialized, dropping onto the dirt with a series of dull thuds. The wooden blades were simple but well-crafted, sanded smooth with leather-wrapped handles.

  "Where were you keeping those?" Will asked with a groan as he pushed himself upright, wincing at the protest of his muscles. His normally immaculate appearance was completely undone, dirt smudged across his cheek, hair sticking up in wild tufts.

  Amalia waved a dismissive hand, not deigning to answer such a trivial question. "It doesn't matter." Her eyes swept over them, assessing. "I suspect not all of you will have talent with the sword, but I want you to have a rudimentary understanding nonetheless. Grab one and pick an opponent."

  Ash dragged himself to his feet, every joint feeling as though it had been filled with grinding sand. He picked up one of the training swords, surprised by its weight. He had expected it to be lighter, but it had a satisfying heft to it, the weight balanced perfectly between the blade and the handle. Rosalia selected another, and the two found themselves standing awkwardly across from one another in a clear space, neither quite sure how to begin.

  Nearby, but far enough away not to interfere, Will and Nick were doing the same thing. Nick looked vastly uncomfortable holding the sword, his grip awkward and stiff as if the weapon might bite him. Will, by contrast, held his with the casual confidence of someone who had at least seen swordplay before, even if he hadn't practiced it himself.

  Ash, for his part, found himself surprised by how naturally the blade seemed to fit in his hand. There was something about the weight, the balance, that felt oddly familiar, as if he had held such a weapon a hundred times before. He slipped into a stance with his feet apart, knees slightly bent, his body finding the position without conscious thought. It felt right, natural as breathing.

  Across from him, Rosalia looked like a newborn sheep, uncertain of herself and about to fall any minute. Her ears, slightly pointed at the tips, twitched with nervous energy as she held the sword out in front of her, her stance all wrong, grip too tight on the hilt.

  "Begin!" Amalia called out, her voice startling them into action.

  Rosalia rushed him with unexpected speed, her face set in a determined grimace. "Hi-yah!" she yelled, slashing at him with her wooden blade. The attack was unpolished, telegraphed so clearly that Ash could predict its path before she even completed the movement.

  It was child's play for him to move around the attack, stepping to the side so that her blade cut through empty air. But when the opportunity came to counter, he hesitated, his sword remaining at his side.

  He didn't want to hurt her. The thought of striking Rosalia, even with a wooden practice sword, made something in his chest constrict uncomfortably. She was so much smaller than him, her frame delicate despite her half-elven heritage.

  His hesitation cost him dearly. She whirled around with surprising agility, having recovered from her missed attack faster than he anticipated. The wooden blade struck his shoulder with unexpected force, sending a pulse of hot pain zinging through his body. He blew out a hissing breath, wincing as the impact reverberated through already sore muscles.

  "Oh! I'm so sorry, Ash!" Rosalia exclaimed, her eyes wide with concern. She immediately lowered her sword, one hand reaching out toward his injured shoulder before stopping, hovering awkwardly in the air between them. She bit her lower lip, her expression a mix of guilt and worry. "Did I hit you too hard?"

  Light, but she's adorable, Ash thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. Even flushed with exertion, strands of hair escaping from her braid to frame her face, there was something undeniably charming about her genuine concern.

  "It's fine," he assured her, rotating his shoulder to demonstrate its continued functionality despite the ache. "Again?" he asked, raising his sword once more. Amalia was staring at them from across the clearing, and he didn't want her to come over and berate them for not taking the exercise seriously enough.

  From the other side of the training area came a triumphant shout. "Aha!" Will called out, having apparently knocked Nick's wooden sword out of his hand with a well-placed strike. The wooden blade lay in the dirt as Nick clutched his hand.

  "Light!" Nick swore, shaking his hand vigorously before sucking at his fingers, his eyes narrowed with pain. "Ye hit like a blacksmith's hammer, ye shadow-cursed peacock!"

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  Will seemed unperturbed by Nick's colorful description, grinning triumphantly as he strutted around the makeshift arena, holding his hands out to an imaginary audience, blade outstretched in one hand like a conquering hero.

  "Thank you! Thank you!" he called out to the nonexistent crowd, bowing with exaggerated grace. "Tell me, are you not entertained?" His impression of a tournament champion was so over-the-top that it was impossible not to smile at his antics.

  Rosalia giggled again, the sound light and musical. Ash found himself frowning as he stared at Will, something uncomfortable stirring in his chest at the way Rosalia's eyes followed the other boy's theatrical display.

  They continued practicing until Amalia finally called a halt, by which time the sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in deepening shades of orange and pink. Ash's arms felt like lead weights, his hands blistered from gripping the practice sword, but beneath the exhaustion was a curious satisfaction. Despite his complete lack of training, he had found himself improving rapidly, as if his body were remembering skills his mind had never learned.

  As the sun began to set in earnest, Amalia produced cookware and venison from seemingly thin air, prompting Ash to wonder where, by the Light, she was keeping it all. First the swords, now this. Did she have some kind of magical storage space? A pocket in reality that only she could access? He made a mental note to ask her about it sometime, though he suspected her answer would be as cryptic and unhelpful as usual.

  Dinner was made shortly after, the venison sizzling over the fire, filling the air with mouth-watering aromas. After the day's exertions, the group ate like ravenous wolves, tearing into the meat with hardly a word exchanged between them. Ash hadn't realized how hungry he was until the first bite hit his tongue, and then it was all he could do not to inhale his portion in a matter of seconds.

  When they had all finished eating, Amalia watched them with an unreadable expression, waiting until they had settled back from the fire, stomachs full and muscles aching pleasantly.

  "Sit down, all of you," she instructed, her voice carrying easily in the evening stillness. "It is time you learned a bit about magic."

  The effect of her words was immediate. Nick, who had been slouching against a tree trunk, straightened up. Will, who had been lazily cleaning his fingernails with a stick, dropped it and leaned forward. Rosalia, who had been braiding a small section of her hair, let it fall forgotten against her shoulder. All of them turned their full attention to Amalia, as alert as if they hadn't spent the entire day in grueling physical training.

  She smiled slightly, violet eyes glowing in the firelight, reflecting the dancing flames. "Yes, I thought that would earn your attention," she remarked, a hint of amusement coloring her usually neutral tone. "Sit down, cross your legs, and listen closely. I do not like repeating myself."

  When they had all complied, settling into comfortable positions around the fire, Amalia held up a single finger. A ball of pale white flame appeared above it, reminiscent of pearls and polished silver. It was no larger than a bead, but it cast a soft, radiant light that seemed to push back the gathering darkness around them. The flame didn't flicker or waver like normal fire; it remained perfectly still, a droplet of pure light hovering above her skin.

  They all stared, enraptured by the display. Ash found himself leaning forward unconsciously, drawn to the light like a moth to flame. This is magic, he thought, a sense of wonder filling him. In that single instant, every part of him wanted nothing more than to be able to do what Amalia was doing, to hold light and power in the palm of his hand.

  The storyteller's voice was tinged with amusement as she observed their reactions. "You see this as magic, as a spell out of the stories, yes?" she asked, though the answer was plain on their faces.

  They all nodded at once, unable to look away from the brilliant point of light.

  Making a fist, Amalia caused the ball of white fire to vanish as suddenly as it had appeared. She held her fist up for a moment, allowing the anticipation to build, before slowly unfolding her hand to reveal her open palm. It was empty, no trace of the light remaining.

  "In truth it is not magic at all," she informed them, dispelling their preconceptions with cool precision. "At least, not in the way you're thinking."

  Her voice gained an edge of sorrow as she added, "Sadly, the truth has a way of removing the magic from most things." There was something in her tone, a weariness perhaps, that suggested she spoke from experience, that she had seen wonders reduced to mundane explanations more times than she cared to count.

  She cleared her expression, wiping away whatever melancholy had momentarily claimed her, and lowered her hand as she continued. The night air had grown cooler, causing her black hair to move like dark water when she shifted, the strands gleaming in the firelight.

  "What you saw is known as a technique using my elar, which comes from my elan," she explained, her voice taking on a more instructional tone.

  "Elar?" Rosalia asked, the unfamiliar word awkward on her tongue. At precisely the same moment, Will inquired, "Elan?" The two glanced at each other, startled by their simultaneous questions.

  Rosalia shot a glance at him, her ears going pink at the tips. Will grinned at her, the firelight catching the white of his teeth. Their shared moment of confusion seemed to create a small connection between them, and Ash felt ice in his veins as he scowled, looking away from the pair.

  "I do not wish to over explain," Amalia stated, drawing their attention back to her, "as you will learn most of this at Wyrmhaven. Instead, I want you all to close your eyes and cast your consciousness within yourself. Look for the core of who you are, of that spark within you. You will know it when you find it."

  Ash did as asked, his irritation forgotten in the face of this new challenge. He closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the fire, of Rosalia's blushing ears, of Will's easy smile. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he tried to focus inward, to delve into his own body with his mind. It was a strange concept, one he might have dismissed as nonsense had he not just witnessed Amalia conjure light from nothing.

  At first, all he was aware of was the physical sensations of his body. He was aching, every muscle throbbing with dull, tired pain from the day's exertions. The ground was hard beneath him, the night air cool against his skin. He tried to push past these distractions, to go deeper into himself.

  He became aware of his heartbeat next, steady and strong beneath his ribs. Thump-thump, thump-thump, a rhythm that had accompanied him every moment of his life, so constant he rarely noticed it. It was a healthy beat, powerful but even, a sign of youth and vitality despite the day's strain.

  Deeper still he went, past the physical sensations, past the steady rhythm of his heart. And then, unexpectedly, he encountered a coldness. It was as if he had plunged his hand into chilly water, the sensation shocking in its suddenness. His lips tugged downward into a frown, his brows inching together as a numbness began to blanket his thoughts, spreading outward from that cold center.

  Then, without warning, blue light exploded across his mind's eye, as bright and clear as sunlight reflecting off the surface of a frozen pond on a winter day. The cold intensified, but it wasn't unpleasant; it was bracing, invigorating, like the first breath of winter air after being too long indoors.

  He gasped at the intensity of it, and heard similar sounds from those around him, suggesting they too had found what they were looking for.

  "Good," Amalia's voice came to him, seemingly from a great distance. "It seems you have all found it. This is your elan. Scholars have occasionally referred to it as your core. The light you're seeing will be a different color for all of you. No, I will not tell you what it means. Not yet." She paused, allowing them to absorb this information before continuing. "All I want you to do now is try to draw on it with a mental hand."

  This new instruction proved harder than the first. Much harder. Ash tried to reach out to the chilly light with his thoughts, to grasp it somehow, but it was like trying to hold onto water; the more he tried to clutch it, the more it seemed to slip away.

  "I'm doing it!" Rosalia's voice came suddenly, filled with pure delight. She laughed aloud, the sound bright with wonder. "Oh, but this feels wonderful!"

  "This... this feels amazing!" Will echoed, his voice carrying the same note of discovery and joy.

  "I guess it's nice," Nick grumbled, though even his gruff voice held a hint of grudging appreciation.

  But Ash did not add his own voice to the mix, because he felt no wondrous sensation, no connection to the cold light within him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not grasp it, could not draw it forth as the others seemed able to do so easily.

  He clawed at the light within himself with mental thoughts, growing increasingly frustrated. He tried a gentler approach, beckoning at it with a mental wave, trying to coax it forward rather than force it. When that failed, he probed it with a spearful jab of his mind, trying to pierce through whatever barrier kept him from accessing it.

  Nothing worked for him. The light remained tantalizingly visible but utterly untouchable, like a star in the night sky, beautiful but impossibly distant.

  When he finally opened his eyes, defeated, he found Amalia staring at him. Her violet gaze was intense, searching, as if she could see right through him to the cold light he had failed to grasp. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she shook her head, a gesture so slight he might have imagined it.

  But he hadn't imagined it, and the meaning was clear. He had failed where the others had succeeded. Ash's heart sank, a leaden weight in his chest, and he hung his head, unable to bear the pity he feared he might see in her eyes.

  I can't use magic, he thought with despair, the realization bitter as gall. The cold light within him, his elan, might as well not exist for all the good it did him. In that moment, his dream of becoming an adventurer seemed to crumble before him, reduced to dust by his own inadequacy.

  Around him, his companions continued to explore their newfound abilities, their faces alight with wonder and possibility, unaware of the chasm that had just opened between them and him. The firelight played across their features, highlighting their joy, their potential, while Ash sat in shadow, alone with his failure.