18
Perhaps physical training would have been better.
For the next hour, they sat and practiced magic.
Ezer, much to her unsurprise,had achievednothing.
Arawn was a fine enough teacher. He walked them through a basic invocation of certain syllables, in the godstongue, in which they would place an object upon their outstretched hand, close their eyes, and focus on imagining what they wanted it to do. And if they were to succeed … it would mean that specific god had claimed them.
It would mean they were truly meant to be a Sacred Knight who could wield magic in battle.
But they must be careful when they asked for a bit of granted magic. Too much, too frequent, and it would shorten their days.
Magicalwaysrequired a price.
Arawn ran through each pillar with surprising patience, his voice gentle as he showed the younglings how the invocation should sound. It was the same utterance for each: a blanket phrase in the godstongue that meant, ‘Show me whose I am’.
A prayer meant to request a bit of magic to ones’ bare hands.
Ezer’s tongue tripped over the phrase countless times as shespoke it aloud. She felt like a fool, because children half her age spoke with grace and confidence, and she …
She sounded like she was slurring her words.
Like Ervos used to sound on his drunkest nights.
For the water in the bowl, the invocation was meant to raise a single droplet. If she succeeded, it would mean she was a Watermage, a child of Odaeis.
For the unlit candle, it was to draw a flame. Success would make her a Firemage, a child of Vivorr, like Arawn.
For the seed, success would be to get it to sprout. If so, she’d be considered a Realmist, a child of Aristra.
The dagger was meant to be used to draw a single cut across one’s palm and heal the skin back together again. That would make her an Ehvermage, a child of Dhysis, like Alaris.
And for the lit candle, it was to conjure just enough of a breeze to blow it out. They would be a Windmage, a child of Avane.
It was the one Ezer leaned towards the most.
The wind was her friend, her guiding voice. And so naturally, she held out a hand to the lit candle, thinking that it would be doused by Windmage magic. She’d simply never had the means to call upon it before.
Show me whose I am,she thought, and whispered the strange new invocation aloud.
She waited, staring at that tiny flame.
And just for a moment, she believed that it would go out.
But nothing happened.
So she tried again.
Please,she thought.Show me whose I am.
She was here, after all, given entrance to the Citadel, like Izill had said. So even if shewasan Unconsecrated, born and raised beyond these walls … she had magic in her blood. She just needed to know how to bring that magic, whatever it was,out.
But when she thought of the ageing Knight in the halls – the King she’d seen in the library the other night – she wasn’t sure she wanted to pay the price.
It didn’t matter anyway. No matter how many times she tried, the candle stayed lit.
Arawn paced about the room, speaking over them all. ‘Imagine the outcome while you invocate. You must believe in your heart, your soul, that you are a true servant of the gods. That if they grant you a bit of magic to do their bidding, then you will serve them, uphold their laws in the Sacred Text until the end of your days. And even if our days are shortened, even if we do not see old age because of the power required of wielding … that is a Knight’s true purpose. To be a vessel.’
