“What for?” asked the soldier.

  “Me and my servant here,” Pirin said, motioning to Nomad, “are collecting antiquities for our clan. The Laner Clan.” It was a made-up name, but these soldiers wouldn’t know that. Chances were, wherever they’d come from, they weren’t the most educated, and they joined the military for a stable pay. That was how most conscripts ended up in the Dominion army, at least.

  Nomad added, “We heard that there were some tomes on healing elixirs, which would be of great interest to us. Unless his hovel has been disturbed?”

  The soldiers glanced at each other, and the man shrugged. “We haven’t disturbed it, sir. No one here has. No reason to; no new blood in this town for a while, and by and by, it soon won’t exist at all. But I warn you, the villagers have been rather protective of it—out of respect for the old healer, ‘course.”

  “He wasn’t a wizard-healer, no,” the other soldier added. “Not sure what you’ll find that’s of interest to a clan.”

  “It’s no worry,” Pirin said. “We won’t cause a ruckus.”

  The soldiers both stepped back and leaned against the barrels, then again, muttered between themselves.

  If they had any suspicions about Pirin and Nomad, they were clearly smart enough to not get themselves killed.

  “Come on,” Pirin said, then walked off down the boardwalk. “It should be one of the stilt houses along the edge of the walkway.”

  “You remember which one?” Nomad whispered.

  “How could I not?”

  “I reckon I’d not find my childhood home.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re old.” Pirin tucked his hands in his pockets and walked toward the back edge of the cove. Mr. Regos’ hovel stood at the center of a cluster, but it was no bigger than any of the other houses. Cobbled-together walls, a tarp and thatch roof, as if rain would ever reach it. Seaglass windows would’ve let in outside light and given the inhabitants a view of the sun at the very end of the day, but quilted curtains blocked them.

  Not sure if I’ll fit inside, Gray said.

  “You can keep watch on the walkway.”

  You don’t need me to keep watch, she muttered. You’d sense problems coming.

  “You could too, when you train your spiritual senses,” Pirin said.

  I’m busy enough trying to figure out what you’re saying with that Low Speech of yours!

  Pirin rolled his eyes, but even then, his senses alerted him to a presence approaching from the side and staring right at him. It wasn’t the only villager here, but it was certainly a villager—they all wore the same shade of tattered brown robes and furs with a light buckle, so they could easily throw it off if they fell in the water.

  But this presence held a sharp…spear? Fishing spear. The closer Pirin drew to Mr. Regos’ hovel, the more the presence tightened his grip. It waited in a gap between the buildings, ready to spring out on a whim and attack.

  Pirin walked along, pretending his didn’t notice, then turned to the door of Mr. Regos’ hovel. Though the villagers had left it untouched, that also meant they hadn’t lit any of the torches outside its door.

  The moment Pirin reached for the door, a voice snapped, “Halt right there, vagrant, or I’ll have you in the gut!”

  Pirin didn’t stop. He gripped the door handle and pushed it open.

  The presence emerged from the darkness on Pirin’s left side, and it jabbed a fishing spear at Pirin, but he leaned back and caught its haft, then crushed it with a clenched of his fingers.

  His assailant was a well-built, tall man, about the same age as Pirin. A faint beard hung off his chin, and red hair fell down to his neck in stringy clumps.

  “Tanillar,” Pirin said. He knew this man from his memories. A fisherman’s son. They’d played together, they’d flown gnatsnappers together, they’d watched Smokes together. “I mean the hovel no harm.”

  “That voice…” Tanillar breathed. “Pirin?”

  Pirin pulled back his hood slightly—just enough that Tanillar could see his face—then pulled it back over his head.

  “By the Eane, I nearly skewered you!”

  “No you didn’t,” Pirin said. “But it was a valiant effort.”

  “What are you doing…sneaking about? What are you doing back here?”

  “I can’t stay for long,” Pirin said. “But I just needed to visit the hovel. Would you keep watch for me?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Of course…but, Pirin…how’d you do that?” Tanillar looked down at the shattered stump of his spear. “Are you a wizard?”

  “Of sorts.” Pirin tilted his head toward Gray. “She’s my Familiar. You can keep watch outside the hovel with her.”

  “I—” Tanilar scrunched his eyebrows. “A gnatsnapper? Impossible. You can’t form a Reyad with them.”

  Gray chirped, then, inside Pirin’s head, said, Can I show him?

  “We don’t need to cause a scene, Gray,” Pirin whispered back.

  Gray hung her head.

  “I mean, gnatsnappers are Eane-forsaken!” Tanillar exclaimed. “You couldn’t form a Reyad with it if you tried.”

  “You can when you put a wraith core in them,” Pirin said. “It’s…a long story. But hey, if you want to talk to her…say, if she chirps once, it means yes, and twice, it means no.” Pirin pushed open the door to the hovel, then cast Tanillar a grin before ducking inside the old healer’s hovel. Nomad followed close behind, then pulled the door shut.

  Pirin walked to the windows and pushed the curtains open, letting in a trickle outside light. Dust swirled in every breath he took and coated every surface of the room in a thick layer of grey snow.

  There was a table in the center of the room with a disorderly heap of books and papers on it, and an inkwell that’d been left open. The ink had long since dried inside it, trapping the quill like a boat in ice. Hammocks hung across every corner of the room, for Pirin to sleep in and for Mr. Regos’ and his patients.

  Along every wall were shelves of regular healing herbs, glass vials of salves, and old misty remedies that’d probably long since lost any potency.

  If he’d been hoping for arcane resources, he’d have been sorely disappointed.

  This had been home, but the dust made everything look a shade lighter. It didn’t feel like his anymore.

  Nomad approached the table and lit a candle, then leaned on it. “Your first task is to use the Memory Chain. Seek your past, and understand how you came to be. You won’t find your revelations until you understand truly who you are.”

  Pirin folded his legs beneath himself and sat on the floor, careful not to disturb any more dust than necessary.

  He’d waited long enough.

  Pouring Essence into the Memory Chain, he dragged his mind back through time.

  First, he needed to see what happened to the old kings. What caused them to die off. He targeted a time before his own life, and pushed enough Essence through the Memory Chain to drive him backward in time.

  His life rewound, and he passed through thousands of memories, thousands of hours, until everything fell blank—to a time before he was born.

  It didn’t jump to his parents. Nothing.

  For nearly twenty years, there was nothing. The chain was empty. Usually, he pushed past it, moving the chain so quickly he didn’t notice.

  So no one had possessed the bloodline for a few decades before Pirin. That shouldn’t have been possible. He posed the same thought to Nomad.

  “Bloodline power is stored in your core as a fraction of your forebears’ Essence, for you to continue to cultivate,” Nomad explained. “It causes subtle mutations within your body and spiritual system.”

  “So…the line wasn’t broken? Who am I?”

  Nomad shrugged uncertainly.

  “Fine,” Pirin muttered. “Guess I’ll look back.”

  He pushed to the brink of the empty segment of the Memory Chain, playing time backward until he arrived at the last glimpse of the previous king’s life.

  Mransil III lay on a bed in an airy bedchamber. It was the middle of the night, and there wasn’t even a candle blazing.

  His spirit cried out in pain and discomfort. Every breath was agony. His channels weren’t just twisted; shards of glass flowed through them.

  It was the price he paid for rushing to Wildflame with a weak foundation—only three Timbers—and without reaching the correct revelations. They were weak and uninsightful. Instead, he’d just used elixirs and wild-treasures to push himself closer to the brink, then forced an advancement.

  Only a king for a few years, and no heir with significant spiritual potential.

  After his death, he knew his kingdom would collapse. Khirdia would be no more. The bloodline talent of the elves would die with him.

  Pirin pushed the Chain harder. Why had Mransil III rushed to advance?

  A few years earlier. On the deathbed of Mransil II, forty years ago, the ancient Wildflame grasped his son’s hand. Mransil III, only a Flare at the time, looked his father in the eyes. “Father, we received word this morning. The Dominion has conquered Pherodotes. The entire Mainland is theirs, and they’ll be coming for us next. I need your counsel.”

  The old wizard-king only rasped and spoke in nonsensical gibberish.

  “A curse has fallen on this land, father. We’ve had no new wizards in years, and my sons and daughters have no spiritual potential. Their hair runs black like the heavens have doused them in ink; they are cursed. The Memory Chain has not passed to them. None can sense it.”

  Again, the wizard-king said nothing of meaning.

  “Our throne is withering. This land is dying. Soon, the riots will begin. They look to us to protect them, but I’m not strong enough…”

  Pirin pulled his mind back to the present and dispelled the vision. He glanced at Nomad. “The elven wizard-kings didn’t always have black hair.”

  “No, they did not.” Nomad snorted. “That was your biggest take-away?”

  “They lost their magic. How’d the curse come to settle on the Elven Continent?”

  “A curse may not be the best term. Their bloodline died, faded away, and with it, the tree they nurtured also faded. This land has always been barren, the Eane poorly responsive. But the throne tree acted as a node, projecting its power across the land making it normal. As long as elves lived here, it has lived. They’d shared power with it, and it had accepted their power back.”

  “So we make the tree bloom, we dispel the curse. Still doesn’t explain why the king’s heirs had no magic.”

  “An aging king whose mind was fading, a son nowhere near the power of a Wildflame. They couldn’t feed the tree, and the tree couldn’t feed them. Bad timing, perhaps.”

  Pirin nodded. “After his death, the nation split, then?”

  “There was a rumour his heirs had survived the chaos. No one knew where they went, or if they’d even survived, but the Sirdians fled north, believing that if a king was to return, they’d welcome him home with open arms and restore the kingdom. The Aerdians supported Tarliom, as you know, who promised them riches and led them to ruin.”

  “But then there’s still the problem of me, and where I fit into it all.”

  “Indeed. I suggest using the Chain again, but focus on why you exist. It may provide you insight for your next two revelations.”