The Way Of The Caster

386 Years Later

A man walked through the streets, black cloak flapping with the cold winter air. The sun was barely visible on the horizon, townsfolk just beginning to prepare their wares in the market. He made his way, the people raising knuckles to forehead in respect. He accepted them amiably, nodding back in return.

The man stopped the spell seven strides before the doorway and placed his left hand onto his heart. There were no locks or walls around Mistress’s house, but everyone knew – or found it painfully soon – the invisible spells around the house were more dangerous than any simple weapon trap.

Soon, the man felt his Mark tingle as the spells warped around him. He entered the house, steps slowing into a lower’s pace. Mistress stood at the entranceway, more beautiful than any of kind. She was tall with long black hair, dress draping and revealing luscious curves. Powerful. Enchanting.

“My caster,” she said, red lips curving upwards. One of perfectly groomed hands caressed his check. The man felt a tingle run down his back. O Cied, he was lucky to serve her! “It is now time for you to depart. Two seasons should be ample; I will expect your return by the Week of Festivals. Do not fail me, pet.”

“By Cied I shall not, Mistress,” he swore enthusiastically. She smiled again at his fervour and signalled the meeting was at an end. He left the House with a foolish grin on his face, one that disappeared quickly enough when he thought about the urgency of the task.

Going through the town square once again, the man didn’t spare a glance at the knuckling, keeping his eyes forwards. He spoke a spell more loudly than needed, making sure the townsfolk heard, knowing his Mistress would allow it. The people scattered back to their foolish routines, darting frightened eyes back at him. He flourished his black cloak theatrically as the spell took hold and sped him back to his house. The Reloj sponsored each town’s spellcasters to do assigned tasks, sometimes giving exorbitant gifts as rewards. He could only begin to imagine the wealth in store after this mission. It was important business, he was on.

His wife was knitting inside, looking up as he came into the room. “Did the Mistress…” she began.

“I’ve got the order!” the man burst out gleefully. He covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, lifting and swinging his wife in dizzying circles.

“Put me down,” she laughed, breathless. “We got to tell our children.”

Our children, yes. The man gazed at his wife fondly. She had always been audacious in going against expectations. And now they finally had a chance at becoming one of the elites in the town. His wife began calling for her children, barely able to keep the excitement out of her voice. She came back into the main room, dragging their two boys, half-asleep from their beds, with their daughter following, looking graceful even in her nightdress.

“Say goodbye to darmo,” she said. “He’s going on a wonderful, long trip.”

“Goodbye, darmo,” their daughter said obediently. “Fare you well.”

“Goodbye, Timarie,” the man said. “I love you.”

Their daughter looked up, blue eyes large and earnest. “Please come back soon.”

“Where? Where? Da can I come too?” their youngest son piped up excitedly. He seemed completely unaffected from waking so abruptly.

The man glanced at his wife, who nodded. “Darmo, not da,” he corrected her son. “And no, it is a secret now. But when I come back, you can ask all the questions you want.”

“Wen’s dat?” asked the older boy, slurring his words intentionally like the Lower townsfolk. He always did that to upset his parents. The boy stood frowning in the shadows of a corner, where the rising sun had not yet reached. His sister turned to him disapprovingly and opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off – “Yeh promised yeh would come wi me to der Week of Festivals ter bet which boys would be chosen!”

The man’s wife shot a look at him, eyebrows raised. The man had not decided how to tell her yet, but now she knew. “I shall be back in time,” he promised, avoiding his wife’s glance. His daughter gave him a hug just the right length as she had been taught, trying not to cry, and returned to her room. When he got his promotion, he would buy the finest things for her, the perfect daughter.

“And I expect my son to fix that speech by then,” his wife said, putting an arm on Twisten’s shoulder. She shooed the protesting boys back into the sleeping room, then turned to him. “We shall talk about that promise you made when you come back,” she said at last.

The man relaxed and began preparing things for the journey. There wasn’t much he could bring: just a package of food – and his sword, clearly. His mark tingled and he flipped around, sword flying. It was just his wife, of course. The danger of a mission was already getting to him.

He let the sword fall, blushing.
“Fly safe, husband,” his wife said, unperturbed. “Do not let O Caess chase you down.” That was odd. She’d never liked conforming to the goddesses. She pecked him on the check, gently.

“No god of death for me,” he said jokingly, although fear began to gnaw at his Orbs. “Cied will protect me.”
His wife opened the door, and he slipped out, casting a spell of invisibility. He did not look back and began loping towards the town gates, staying on the stone paths. He wished he could have had time to say goodbye to his good friend, Brian, too. Well, there was no point moaning about that time. He would just share his mission when he was done. Brian would love hearing that over a few pints of beer.

His destination was not far—only ninety eight travels, that is fourteen days walk south down to Traitor’s Plain. His hometown was a tiny pebble swallowed up by the sprawling Whitewater Forest. It only took a few hours before he had walked past all habitations and was surrounded with undergrowth on every side.  When he couldn’t sense any Energy from people nearby, he released the spell, gasping as his Mark swallowed great quantities of Energy. He fumbled for the packet of food inside his black cloak, and voraciously consumed the first of the dry biscuits, leaving thirteen remaining.

The man kept walking through the forest, circumventing fell logs and hidden swamps. When his wife had chosen him in the Ceremony, she had drilled every detail of geography into his skull. She’d said it would come in useful. And it had; his Mistress had chosen him for his skill in geography, disregarding the plethora of spells he knew, obviously.
There were seven biscuits left for the return journey, and the man was nearing his destination. He could sense it through the now incessant itch in his Mark. He raised his left hand to look. The intricate silver patterns ingrained on his palm were illuminated in a soft, transcendent glow. He gave a quick prayer of thanks to the goddess O Pena for choosing him. His Mistress was right, as usual. Right before him was an unauthorized use of Energy.
Now he would simply locate the source, dispose of it, and return for his reward. It would most certainly be a bumbling village boy with a Mark just appearing. A very neat disposal, yes. The man could see the new house for his wife before his eyes; the new way all the townsfolk would see their family; perhaps even the chance to get a daughter…

A twig cracked behind him.

The man whirled round, sword flashing in front of him. His body froze, immobilized as an incessant wave of Energy tied him onto the spot. This was no fool village boy! He had never experienced such power –even his Mistress had not a miniscule portion of this, this…ocean of Energy. It was like something out of the Age of Traitors.
He fumbled uselessly for his Energy, but even his mind was guarded by that invisible spellcaster. Useless, foolish man! What would his Mistress and wife say if he failed?

The waves of Energy seemed to pull tighter and tighter around his body, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; lights danced across his eyesight, mocking his incompetence; then O Caess, the god of darkness, greeted him.

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