Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

25 Rescue I

Erdil

The fire roared before them, consoling Färin with its familiar dance. He'd spent much of his life around fires. Shenkel's cook fire had been a favourite when he was a young boy living in the prodigious cold Castle Weid'Sy. It had not been delightful to say the least, but in Shenkel's kitchen there had been wonderful smells, a warm fire, stories to tantalise his young imagination, and all sorts of colourful company. He'd liked fires since he could remember.

The scene he found himself in was similar to what the Apprentice, Denirya, had created somewhere on the other side of the Grùwoud. A pot of pasty, foul-smelling liquid, a fire-though this one was much bigger-and a secluded green spot amongst the trees. She stood a few steps away, tail whipping the air like it had offended her somehow, arms folded, cracked eyes glaring at the Mage who busied himself with the final details of their preparation.

Though he tried lying about it, the truth was he was a tad terrified. Not of the fire, or the whip-tailed Apprentice, or the intimidating Mage with the powerful air of majesty he carried. What Färin feared was the white, the nothing. He feared it with a nausea, a horrific numb dread that saturated his muscles and pushed the air out of his chest. He tried to calm himself by taking shaky breaths and watching the way different flames roiled and swayed, but numbness had settled in his body and he couldn't shake it.

The Mage approached him. 'Here, take this. Put it on the tip of your tongue.' Kijs handed Färin a leaf.

Färin took it, holding it with two fingers like a woman might hold a dead rat's tail. 'Pietërfuile?'

'Also known as the wayward spice,' the Mage said smiling. 'Do you know why?'

Färin frowned down at the leaf, rubbed his fingers together, felt the leaf's smooth texture become sticky where his fingers pinched at it. 'I can guess,' he said. 'Does it have something to do with this magic traveling?'

The Mage chuckled. 'Magic? Fathers, boy you have much to learn. It's named the wayward spice because of its effects when ingested, but also because of the types that tend to overuse it.'

The Mage swayed around on one leg, hands behind his back, lilting his voice in a schooling manner. 'Some of the symptoms one may experience are insomnia, restless hands and feet, involuntary twitching, and a lack of inhibition.'

'Then why the blazes are we having some of it now?' Färin interjected.

'Other more pleasant symptoms include giddiness, a feeling of having a clear mind - though that is false - and a refreshed feeling, as though you've just swum in a cool spring on a sticky midsummer noon.'

'Ahhh,' Färin looked down at the leaf, grasping at an idea that might explain why they were using the leaf, but confusion clouded over him again, and he frowned at the Mage. 'I still don't understand...'

'We use it for the third reason, the true origin of this spice's name.' The Mage grinned childishly. 'Only those who have studied under a Mage know this secret, or those few mortals lucky enough to learn it.' He tilted his chin, raised his eyebrows. 'Such as you, son of Shehëk'

'I'm honoured,' Färin bowed slightly at the waist, one hand behind his back.

'In a way, it's so simple any fool could figure it out. The Way, ward, spice,' The Mage separated the words, to clarify his meaning. 'The protecting spice if you will, that's the original meaning.' Färin's stared blankly at the Mage, uncomprehending. Kijs sighed exasperatedly. 'This is the spice used to shield one's mind when exposed to deep movements of The Way.'

His white robe swished as he stepped from foot to foot, as though he were standing on hot coals. 'Of course, it doesn't work without a hand movement or geloë.'