Storm Phase – 8
In this epic fantasy series, a young wizard with a mysterious destiny, a cat-girl ninja, and a diary that turns into a bat-like creature journey through worlds of monsters and mayhem.
With his braided black hair fluttering behind him like a banner and a pile of worn books cradled in his arms, Turesobei raced down pathways that meandered through a network of manicured gardens, babbling streams, and koi ponds. His wide-legged pants ruffled noisily, his sandals clattered across gravel and clapped against bridge planks, and the sword belted to his waist slapped against his hip.
For possibly the thousandth time, he was running late for his wizardry lessons. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed he could never wake up on time or peel himself away from a book long enough to see how far the sun had moved through the sky. Even asking Shurada to wake him hadn’t worked. Sure, this time might be different because of the weird dream he’d had of Chonda Lu, but the result was all the same.
As he darted around a tall rock wall, he heard a woman say, “What is that noise?”
Crap! He rounded the corner and skidded off the path into the grass to avoid running into two older ladies out for a morning stroll. As he caught his balance, their wide eyes flashed, and their disdain burned across him.
Turesobei tucked his stack of books tight against his chest and made the appropriate half-bow before running on.
“Such ungodly racket and behavior,” one of the ladies huffed. Her fine silk robes rustled as she adjusted them in irritation.
“You would expect more from a sixteen-year-old prince,” the other muttered behind her colorful fan.
Their comments had been quiet enough to portray private conversation yet just loud enough that he could hear them. He was intimately familiar with the technique. His mother was a master in the art.
A minute later, he paused when he reached the path that led straight to his destination. Tucked into the midst of an expansive plum orchard rose an elegant marble tower — the home of Lord Kahenan, High Wizard of the Chonda Clan.
Jasmine and honeysuckle in full bloom wreathed the ornate, wrought-iron archway that opened onto the path. The scent of the flowers, heavy and cloying in the heat and humidity of late summer, filled his lungs as he gasped for air.
Standing here wasn’t going to help him catch his breath, and it certainly wasn’t going to get him to his lessons faster. So, he took off down the path, though his speed was slowed to a jog.
Nearing the tower entrance, he set his books down then snatched a ripe, purple plum from a nearby tree and popped it into his pocket. Oversleeping meant skipping breakfast, and today he hadn’t even had enough time to pop into the kitchen to grab a slice of bread.
Sunlight glinting off steel helms caught his attention. He stared for a moment, puzzled by the sight of dozens of Chonda warriors assembling in the orchard on the other side of the tower. That was odd. Why would they practice there instead of the military training field? He had never seen them do that before.
Turesobei shook his head, picked up his books, and continued on. If he felt daring later, he would ask Arms Instructor Kilono about it.
He pushed through the heavy oak door and raced up the stairs to the tower’s top level. He entered and faced his grandfather.
Dressed in regal gray robes trimmed in emerald, with the clan’s goshawk symbol embroidered in gold thread on the left breast, Lord Kahenan stood in the center of the room, his normally kind eyes narrowed, his face wrinkled into a scowl. One hand stroked his long, wispy beard. The other clutched the hilt of his legendary longsword, Yomifano.
Turesobei swallowed nervously and stuttered a greeting that Kahenan immediately interrupted.
“Even my ten-year-old students arrive on time. They certainly do not arrive more than an hour late.”
“I am sorry, Grandfather. I had a dream that—”
“I do not want to hear any excuses.”
“But this wasn’t different. My dream—”
“I do not care about your dream, Chonda Turesobei. I care about you arriving here on time for your lessons.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Turesobei replied with his head bowed. “I promise to—”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.” Kahenan steepled his fingers together. “Now, shall we begin?”
Turesobei placed his spell books on the table in front of the open east window. “Yes, Grandfather.”
Kahenan frowned as his eyes raked across Turesobei. “I do not mind your disheveled appearance, but in life you will find others take such matters seriously, far too seriously in my opinion. Nevertheless, some of these people will be your peers.” He waved his hands at him impatiently. “Tidy yourself. Quickly, we do not have all day.”
Turesobei untied the emerald sash binding his thigh-length overcoat. His coat had emerald trim like Kahenan’s robe, but his goshawk emblem was embroidered with silver thread. He straightened his coat then retied the sash. Finally, he situated his amber kavaru hanging from its silver chain so that it stayed on top of his coat.
Remembering the plum, he pulled it out, considered eating it, glanced at his grandfather, then considered otherwise and placed it on the table beside his books.
“You should have one of the servants wake you,” Kahenan said.
“I tried that this morning, Grandfather. She wasn’t able to wake me because of the dream I was having. It was a vivid dream about Chonda Lu.”
Kahenan eyed Turesobei curiously.
From a breast pocket, Turesobei retrieved the folded piece of paper on which he’d recorded what little of the dream he remembered. “I think it was a memory from my kavaru.”
Kahenan read it then returned the paper. “You wasted time writing this?” he said, irritation returning to his voice.
“I fell back asleep while writing it, Grandfather, and when I woke up, the memories were gone.”
“You should go to bed earlier,” Kahenan said then muttered something about teenagers.
“I don’t know why I fell back asleep, Grandfather. I wasn’t tired. And I was kneeling at my writing desk.”
Kahenan stepped up to him, touched Turesobei’s kavaru, and closed his eyes for a few moments. “I am not detecting anything unusual,” he said. “Is this the first time your kavaru has levitated on its own?”
“Yes, Grandfather. Does that mean something?”
“I have no idea.” Stroking his beard, Kahenan stared at the ceiling as if the answer might be suspended above them. Then he shrugged. “It is not unusual for the wielder of a kavaru to dream the memories of its past owner. This has happened to me as well. Perhaps a dozen times over the course of my life.”
“Has your kavaru ever levitated on its own?”
Kahenan shook his head. “I have never heard of such a thing happening before.”
“Should I be worried?”
“I think it is likely that your kavaru was merely responding to your dream,” Kahenan replied. “But let me know if it happens again. Immediately, so that I can study the energies at play.”
“I am sorry that I was late,” Turesobei said. “It really wasn’t my fault this time.”
“Perhaps.” Kahenan gestured toward the two thick cushions on the floor. “Can we begin our session now?”
Kahenan knelt on one cushion and placed his sword in its scabbard in front of him. Turesobei took the other cushion, facing him, and did the same. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to center his mind and begin gathering energy. Then he opened his eyes and nodded.
“I would like you to summon a dark-fire globe,” Kahenan said.
Starting with dark-fire? Kahenan must still be irritated with him.
“Strike!” yelled the warriors in the orchard outside. Their wooden practice swords clacked together, thudded against shields, and clattered against the interlocking rings of their armor.
The shutters and paper screens on the tower’s large windows and the door leading onto the balcony were open. The drawn-back drapes fluttered in a breeze.
“Strike!” the warriors cried again, followed by more clacking, thudding, and clattering.
“Can we close the windows, Grandfather?”
“A dark-fire globe,” Kahenan said, ignoring the request.
Turesobei chanted ancient words of power and in his mind pictured the runes for darkest night and relentless fire. Sparks danced about in his amber channeling stone.
Only the baojen, who were descendants of the ancient beings known as the kairu, could wield magic. Those like Turesobei with a kavaru-sized birthmark somewhere on their body had inherited more kairu potential and were thus far more talented at wielding magic than others. This potential was passed down through some families more than others, but for reasons no one understood, not every member within a family would inherit this power. Sometimes it skipped generations. Sometimes one sibling would have a kavaru birthmark while another would not.
And beyond that, some marks were dark like Turesobei’s while others were so faint that they were barely visible, like the one on his father’s neck. On her back between her shoulder blades, Turesobei’s mother had one of the most visible marks seen in generations, much like Kahenan’s, whose his mark was on his chest. Their marks, however, were not as dark as Turesobei’s. As for Enashoma, he had never seen her mark, but she claimed it was as dark as his.
Being a baojen and bearing a mark meant nothing, however, without a kavaru. A wizard could not cast even the most basic spell without the use of a channeling stone. Turesobei’s kavaru was the most powerful and most renowned in the Chonda Clan, having originally belonged to the kairu hero Chonda Lu, for whom the clan was named. Through a channeling stone, a kairu could be eternally reborn, yet as far as Turesobei knew, none remained.
Four centuries ago, Chonda Lu, having lived for millennia and having grown weary of life, released his body to death after being wounded by a fearsome monster. His soul, however, would remain forever within his kavaru. So it was with all the channeling stones that wizards used.
As Turesobei concentrated, a ball of dark-fire slowly formed over his sweating right palm. Around the orb’s black center crackled purple flames that burned hotter than any natural fire. But as long as Turesobei maintained his focus, the fire couldn't hurt him.
“Strike!” Clack, thud, clatter!
Beads of sweat popped out onto his face. At first his hands shook, then his whole body trembled.
Kahenan bobbed his bald head and tugged at his white beard. “Excellent,” he said. “Now move it over to your left hand.”
“Strike!” Clack, thud, clatter!
Turesobei tried to shut out the noise. He lifted his left hand and willed the ball of dark-fire to fly across the space between them. The orb rose and began to move.
“Strike!” Clack, thud, clatter!
Halfway, the orb began to bounce and weave. Unable to control it much longer, he rushed the orb across, overdoing it. The orb struck his left palm so fast that he lost control, and the dark-fire seared his skin.
“Kaiwen Earth-Mother!”
He snapped his hand away and broke his concentration. The dark-fire orb sputtered then disappeared as it fell toward the floor.
Kahenan scowled and offered no sympathy.
“Strike!” Clack, thud, clatter!
Tears welled in Turesobei's eyes. “By the gods, Grandfather! Tell them to practice somewhere else. The orchard isn’t a training field. Kilono should know better.”
He wouldn't have dared to address any other adult that way, but Kahenan had always insisted that he speak freely.
“But Sobei,” Kahenan said, calling him by his familiar name. “I asked them to practice there. For your benefit.”
Turesobei clutched his wrist as a giant, puckered blister rose on his palm. “What?!” he asked through gritted teeth. “Why would you do that?”
“Because the world does not know you need peace and quiet. And magic, I am afraid, must be worked in the world.”
“Argh! I give up,” Turesobei said. “I don't even want to be a wizard.”
Kahenan laughed. “What nonsense! Of course, you do.”
“No, I don't. And, as a matter of fact, no one ever even asked me.”
“No one asked me either, Sobei. But it is what you were born for, and you will succeed me as the High Wizard of the Chonda.”
Turesobei blew on his burned palm. He could have soothed it with a minor healing spell, but he was too upset to even think of the proper words.
“You never tortured my father with all this training.”
“Noboro could not even summon a normal flame, much less dark-fire. That is why he is a knight captain within the clan. Now come, let me heal your hand, so you can try again.”
Turesobei stood. “I refuse.”
“To have your palm healed?”
“No!” Turesobei held out his hand. “I refuse to try the spell again.”
Kahenan grabbed Turesobei's forearm and studied the burn. “Ah, then you should have said so. A wizard should always say exactly and only what he means.”
“You know what? You're an infuriating old man!”
Unmoved by Turesobei’s insolence, Kahenan laughed and replied, “Old people are supposed to infuriate the young.”
“Well then, you're the worst of them all.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Kahenan replied, “That is because I am also your teacher. A good teacher always infuriates his students.”
After his next dramatic sigh turned into a wince of pain, Turesobei said, “Please, Grandfather, this is starting to hurt really bad.”
Kahenan turned serious, his eyes falling into creased slits. With a voice that always reminded Turesobei of rushing water, Kahenan chanted, and the ruby kavaru hanging from his neck on a gold chain sparkled.
A tiny golden cloud condensed from the air and drifted down onto Turesobei's left palm. The cloud felt like cool, dense fog on an autumn morning. Kahenan's tongue licked at the corner of his mouth as he focused the healing energies.
The blister disappeared, and the skin healed. The pain faded to a dull ache, like a bruise. It would likely feel that way for several days.
Kahenan stood and belted Yomifano to his waist. “You may go now, but I expect you back early this evening.”
“I already told you. I’m quitting.”
“Yes, but I neglected to tell you that you cannot quit. I will never allow it, your parents will never allow it, and King Ugara will never allow it. The clan's future depends on you.”
“I’m not the only one here who can do magic,” Turesobei said.
There were other apprentices and four more wizards, too. But Kahenan spent little time with them. His efforts focused on Turesobei.
“None of them have even half your talent, Sobei. You know that. Besides, I have invested nine years of intensive training on you. I will be lucky if I live that many more. I cannot start over.” Kahenan smiled warmly at Turesobei. “And I would also like for my grandson to succeed me, just as I followed my grandfather.”
Turesobei muttered curses at his fate as Kahenan nodded toward the door. “Now, go. I have important summoning rituals to conduct.”
Summoning rituals? That was his favorite type of magic by far. “Um… perhaps I could stay, after all. You may need my help.”
“I had intended for you to stay. However, I think your punishment for impudence — this time — will be to go away and leave me in peace while I summon fascinating spirits you have never before seen.”
Turesobei bowed sullenly then stalked toward the door. Outside, the soldiers continued to practice. “Strike!” Clack, thud, clatter!
“Oh, by the way,” Kahenan said, “please tell Arms Instructor Kilono to move elsewhere. All that noise is very distracting.”
Turesobei clenched his fists, restrained a shout of anger, and began to storm out of the tower.
“Sobei,” Kahenan called.
He spun around. “What?!”
“You are forgetting your books.”
Turesobei stomped over to the table beneath the open east window. He swept the books into his arms and rushed out. Without realizing it, he picked up an extra book, one that hadn’t been there until a few moments ago. It was, in fact, a book unknown to Lord Kahenan or any other living wizard.
Awake for the first time in centuries, the arcane runes embossed on the cover shimmered beneath Turesobei’s touch. If not for his anger, he might have felt this subtle pulse of magic.