The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book III, Chapter 9

AN: This chapter, like multiple previous ones, contains references to my original urban fantasy series, Strigoi Soul. As can be guessed from the chapter sections detailing the structure of creation, the stories take place in the same cosmology.

It also contains the introduction of Mendax, a character who was referenced before, and who readers of SS will almost certainly recognise, despite the different name.

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The last thing I remembered before being knocked out was staring up at Ib's flat visage, featureless yet concerned: I'd learned to read its body language, to discern its mood from the tilting of its head. Even without my arcane sense, I'd have been more than able to notice its worry.

Two of its arms had wrapped around me. Cool but not cold, harder and more flexible than any material I knew of, the appendages had stopped my fall. And yet...

And yet.

I was flat on my back, which ached almost half as much as my head did, even though I - as far as I could tell - was neither concussed nor bleeding.

Get up. Need to get up, I thought, my not-so-old survival instincts resurfacing.

Lying supine was akin to surrendering: there was no position more vulnerable except for, arguably, lying prone, which I'd never do while I was alive.

Placing my hands against the deck, which felt oddly uneven - must've been damaged by whatever had knocked me out. The steamer hadn't acted up in a while, at least not in a way that involved shapeshifting -, I managed to get to one knee.

Blinking sweat out of my eyes, I glared around dimly. I couldn't make out anything, so either something was wrong with me - as I'd been told since birth - or with my surroundings.

For one, I could see nothing on the horizon, even in the parts not covered by fog. This was not the hateful mist that had harried me, but a mundane, grey-white haze. The horizon was a shapeless, blank expanse, which registered as darkness to my eyes.

Part of me wondered why it wasn't white, then (maybe because the fog wouldn't have been visible then?). I would've wondered why I was making such leaps at all, but they were hardly the strangest thing in this place.

A glance downwards revealed I was on a raft, little more than a bunch of logs bound with crude ropes. I could see no sail or oars, nothing I could use to travel the water that stretched around me until it met the darkness. A dark blue that revealed nothing, it resembled ink more than anything, and was as still as a mirror - not that wind would've helped much, with the ramshackle raft I was on.

I decided I would have an easier time running on water, if that was what it was. Why had my first thought been about how to sail? Habit? But I had hardly ever taken the more difficult option.

Grunting, I tried to rise to my feet, and failed as miserably as the attempt left me feeling.

Breathing harshly, I supported myself on trembling knees and elbows, looking at the raft in incomprehension. I had never been this weak, even as a child. My parents would've dashed my head against a rock. And I was a sailor, in my prime, not some old goat who couldn't take a step without wheezing for breath.

My magic wasn't being weakened or suppressed, not that I needed it to stand. Sure enough, I could feel mana flowing through my sinews.

Supine again, I slowly looked upwards, or tried to. There was nothing above me. To avoid sounding arrongant, let me explain: above a certain point on the horizon, my gaze was stopped cold, leaving me dazed, as if I'd lost a headbutting contest Ib. It also made everything blurry, which didn't help, given I felt like I'd been looking at a painting made by a blind child (and one with more enthusiasm than talent) to begin with.