The Last Red Year

INTERLUDE: The River of Time

 In the light of the sinking sun, the swirling snow catches first gold, then orange, then pink. The colors spin and dance around Kas, the wind buffeting their face as it tries to tug at the hair they've tucked into the hood of their cloak. Despite the cold, a burning feeling grows within them, starting somewhere higher in their chest than their healing magic. It spills out into their limbs, their throat, their head, their stomach, filling them with a strange, tingling sensation. The feeling is new to them. It's not a magic they know.

Before them, illuminated still by the sun's last rays, the snow coalesces into a memory.

It starts with a wake.

A redheaded child dressed all in black, ruby eyes reflecting the flames of a funeral pyre. I'm so sorry, says someone, a blurry, long-forgotten face. They were so young, says another. All that remains of them in this memory is a golden button on their vest. The child sits and watches the flames, lights dancing across their face, purple circles hollowed out beneath their eyes. Their skin is somewhere between tanned and brown, covered in freckles. They can't be older than seven or eight.

Not long later, figures in gemstone robes ride into town. They express their condolences to the townsfolk, and introduce themselves as a company of mages, here from Tenacitas in search of the new Red Mage. Eight years ago, they explain, the old mage died peacefully in their sleep. There is no great grief here. It was a natural death, a good death, a kind death. They had lived for ninety years. It had been expected.

The child peers up at them, eyes wide and tired and red. After that, there isn't time to think about their parents for years and years and years.

They're sad, at first. They're little and afraid in a big new city. Everything is so ornate here. So pretty, so fancy. They don't know why they have this power. They don't know why everyone thinks they're so special. They fix broken pillars, find lost pocket change, make themself useful even when it hurts. The people here love them. Not the way their parents did, but to a child that young, all love is the same.

They grow older. They let their hair grow out. They go for a walk on the town streets one day. It's just a normal day. They stop to admire the patches of princetsbane, though they know better than to touch it--it's rare a child in this world doesn't know the dangers of the little yellow flowers. Behind them, a dog barks--they turn around just in time to be squashed into the ground like a well-cooked potato by a runaway horse-cart. It's so fast they barely feel the pain.

Around them stretches darkness, so vast and deep it seems to settle in their bones. It smells ever so faintly of oranges. Am I dead? they think to themself. A horse-cart. What a silly way to go out.

They walk forward through the darkness, boots splashing through warm, still water. After more steps than they can count, shining before them they see a four-pointed star. It spins and flickers, radiating a golden light. Where it dances across their skin, it feels like fire.

They're drawn to reach toward it. The world splinters around them, the darkness shattering into the warmth and light of a gentle summer's day. The dog barks again, and they throw themself into the patch of princetsbane instead of turning around, cringing as they hear the rattle of the runaway horse-cart. They pick themself up, skin itching and blistering from the princetsbane, and watch as the cart comes to a stop at the bottom of the hill at the end of the road.

It was nothing, they tell themself. Just a moment of panic. They were never crushed, never saw the blinding black void, never felt the light of that shining four-pointed star. They were afraid, and their mind made something up to protect them. Nevermind that it doesn't make any sense.

They go on with their life. They try, at least. But the spinning stars follow them, dancing in the corners of their vision.

They're older when they decide to visit their parents' memorial stone. It's three days to the little village--they stop in Penncradle, the capital of Cappbryde, first, to stay at an inn, to recharge, to prepare. They have tried so hard not to think of them, and they know this will bring them great grief. They go for a walk in the morning, staring up at the golden mountain that looms in the distance. They're so distracted by its majesty that they nearly trip into the fountain in the center of town. Something catches them. Someone.