Conflict (31 page)

I’ve been a fool. I behaved toward myself the same way my neighbors did toward me, guided by fear and superstition. Committing the same fault I always held against the others of my tribe
.

He inhaled deeply.

I’m different.

I’m the Marked.

He let the air out of his lungs.

So what? I don’t care anymore. I’m what I am and I embrace it. No more denial or rejection. I’m different and I always will be
.

He stretched his arms and walked around the small room with a mixture of happiness and nervousness. It was a crucial moment in his life, he knew that. New paths, new experiences, were opening up before him. And what was more important, accepting himself and his power was revealing itself little by little as deeply important for his ultimate goal: to avenge the death of his parents. That inner power, if he managed to control it, if he learnt to call upon it at will, would give him a tremendous advantage over his enemies. And the medallion could even amplify that power, as he now knew.

He put his hand on his chest, where the medallion was hanging, and stroked it. That medallion made magic, he had witnessed it at first hand. The matter now was to understand the mechanism by which the power was activated and the way the artifact worked. This was a problem which completely eluded him. He could only think of one way to learn, and that was by trial and error. Holding the medallion in his right hand, he closed his eyes and focused on finding his inner energy so as to summon it. But nothing happened, he did not feel anything, either from within himself or from the medallion. He went on doing it several times more, without success. He began to feel disappointed. He was no mage, he had not received any training in the magical arts, he had no idea of how to invoke or control his own energy, much less cast spells. He felt foolish. Trying to do this without the least knowledge seemed absolutely vain.

Upset by his failure and by the feeling that he was being silly, he poured himself another glass of wine.
It doesn’t matter
, he said to himself. He had decided to learn to use his power and use it he would, whatever it took. That was another of his most notable qualities: he was as stubborn as a mule. When an idea came into his mind he would not let go of it. He had to admit he was full of virtues. He smiled.
You have to laugh at yourself, at your qualities and defects, or else you’re lost
. Humor returned to his spirit. At least he could recognize his weak points. He shrugged and tried to think of a strategy that would allow him to learn to use his Gift. He could not go to a real mage, since he had heard in the city that the only Rogdonian mages were in Rilentor, at the King’s Court. He would have to fend for himself.

What had the common theme been each and every time the medallion had activated itself? He lay back on the bed and pondered about this as he stared at the wooden ceiling.

Think, Komir… think…

In every one of those cases he had found himself in imminent danger of death. That was what all the incidents had in common. His power appeared in extreme situations, where it was a matter of life or death. The first thing that came to mind was to force one of those situations and see if the power was truly activated.

How stupid I am… the ideas I have sometimes!
he chided himself.
Really… in the end I’ll kill myself with my own foolishness…how can I take such a risk? It must be the wine affecting my judgment
.

The idea, though, was not so farfetched. Going to the extreme of putting his life in danger was definitely not acceptable. But it might not be necessary to go as far as that in order to kindle the spark of power. If desperation and anguish were capable of summoning the power, perhaps other feelings might do it too.

What could it be? Mmmmm… pain, perhaps? That’s it! Pain should be capable of calling upon the power. It’s the closest to anguish, isn’t it? It’s practically a physical representation of it! It might work. Why not? In any case I lose nothing by trying, surely?

For a moment he had doubts, he was on the point of causing himself pain on purpose. Had he had too much of the inebriating red liquid, so that his mind was not thinking straight? Maybe. But he would do it anyway. He looked at the candle burning on the bedside table, and with a mixture of fear and excitement held the palm of his hand over the flame. He closed his eyes. The burning sensation turned to pain almost at once and Komir bore it, and bore it, suffering the torture, waiting for something to happen inside him.

It burnt, it hurt…

A lot!

But nothing happened.

With a cry of pain he withdrew his hand and began to curse, at the same time shaking it energetically, trying to dissipate the pain, but without success.

I must be a moron! Who else would think of something like that! Only me! I’m losing my wits, I’m worse than Hartz!

The experiment had left him with a bad taste in his mouth and he did not know what else to do. He took a draught which helped mitigate the pain in his hand slightly. Yet the more he thought of it, the more he believed he was on the right track. There was nothing else he could think of. It had to work! He drank some more, and with renewed courage faced the candle again. It seemed to be waiting for him, defiant, stiff, burning.

I don’t fear you, I’ll beat you, you’ll see
.

He made a fist with the unhurt hand and placed it over the candle flame. Once again, he bore the pain, clenching his fist, suffering the agonizing torture. He shut his eyes, as if by doing so he could make the pain less. But nothing could stop the agony, his flesh was burning and the smell was disgusting. Still Komir held his hand over the flame out of sheer stubbornness. A tear of mingled pain and rage ran down his cheek. He had to stop the pain, put out the candle, by whatever means.

And then it happened. A flash came out of his chest, a blue gleam.

And he discovered it, his magical energy, accumulated in his chest, resting as though in a peaceful lake of sky-blue water. He could clearly see it inside himself. He had done it, and there it was! A feeling of triumph replaced the intense pain for a brief instant. But... now what? How could he make that energy cast a spell? He had not the slightest clue. He put his other hand on the medallion and wished with all his might for the pain to cease and the flame to go out. He begged the medallion to stop the torture, like a chastised child weeping at the blows inflicted on it.

Suddenly, as if the medallion had heard him, he felt the great Ilenian jewel fill with his energy and begin to shine with a dull whitish gleam. Arcane symbols, golden signs, began to shape words in his mind. The symbols seemed to flow from the jewel itself towards his brain, dancing and reorganizing themselves until finally they formed an incomprehensible phrase. The medallion, that Object of Power, seemed to have a mind of its own, casting a spell without his being able to understand it.

From the hand which had been wounded over the flame there came an icy gust of the purest winter cold, which put out the candle.

It had all happened in an instant.

Komir stepped back in awe.

The candle, the bedside table and part of the bed were now completely frozen, covered by a layer of ice and frost.

Amazing! Wonderful!

I…froze the candle… and part of the furniture… unbelievable…Awesome
!

He looked at his battered hand, where an ugly burn was evident and hurt terribly, but he was very happy ‒ more than that, he was exultant ‒ he had worked magic, his idea had worked, he had managed it by himself, without any help.

This is great! I’ve worked magic! Incredible!

He was so happy he skipped all over the room like a little boy with new boots on, capering and dancing, forgetting for a moment how much his hand hurt. He could only think of what he had achieved.

The medallion emitted a whitish flash.

Huh, what’s it doing now? What’s going on?

He held the medallion on his chest with his good hand and looked at it, half-fearful, half-excited.

A new white flash filled the room.

Something was happening, he did not know what but he had no control over it. The medallion ruled with its own intelligence. A dense, mysterious mist began to take shape around Komir. For a moment restlessness and nerves enveloped him, but they were soon replaced by a feeling of gladness: he was causing the phenomenon, even if involuntarily.

The ancient, powerful energy issuing from the medallion became mixed with his own, creating a link of enormous strength, like braided rope. He could actually feel the power of the medallion united with his own, pulling on it, forming the link. It was a curious and ominous feeling. He felt he was being used.

The strange mist rose around him, forming an esoteric circle.

Everything around him vanished, the room was no longer there, he was in a different reality. All vanished in the enigmatic mist summoned by the medallion. Komir reached out with his hand, tearing the mist apart with his outstretched fingers, but there was nothing to be seen on the other side.

Gradually a figure began to take shape in front of him, before his very eyes. He could almost touch it, but for some reason he was aware that this image was not there but in some other place, very far away. At once he thought of the beautiful girl he had seen coming out of the mist once before. This made his heart beat faster in anticipation. A knot gripped the pit of his stomach as he was held by the female image forming before his eyes. He wished it was her, the young woman who had enchanted him.

But it was not the girl with great eyes the color of the sea and curly golden hair. His heart grew calmer, and the knot in his stomach, erased by disappointment, vanished quickly.

A young woman began to take shape before his eyes. Little by little the image became real, and Komir watched her with great interest. He was looking at a pretty brunette with two long braids which fell over her thin shoulders. She wore pants and a tunic of tanned leather in a style Komir had never seen before. Her mahogany eyes were almost the color of rubies, and in them he saw alarm. But what impressed Komir most was the color of her skin, which was red. He had never seen such a shade on the skin of any human being. It gave her a wild, exotic look. He wondered, surprised, where she might be from.

Seeing that she was looking at him with obvious fear in her eyes, Komir raised his hand in a greeting which tried to be friendly and reassuring.

The girl drew a short sword.

Komir, taken aback, retreated a couple of steps.

Hundreds of leagues from the Flying Pony Inn, in the shade of the Fountain of Life, a young Masig was experiencing a strange event she could not understand and which filled her with fear.

Why is this happening to me, oh Mother Steppe? Is this a dream, or could it be a vision of the spirits?
Iruki asked herself, her heart beating furiously with unease.

Who’s this man? And what does he want of me?

She tried to ask the apparition what it wanted, but no sound came out of her throat. She was mute. This alarmed her even more, she could not speak, she could not cry for help. What was going on?

She looked around, but everything had disappeared, swallowed up in this enigmatic mist which had treacherously enveloped her moments before. She was aware that she was inside the Masig tent of her father Kaune Warrior Eagle, but she could see nothing. Had she traveled to the spirit world without realizing it? Was the young man a spirit? Was this spirit a good or an evil one?

She remembered the stories of Ilua Hidden Path, the Healer of the tribe. The spirits visited them in times of need and happiness, some were bearers of good news and blessings for the tribe, but others were bearers of evil and would try to trick them into their treacherous purposes. She had to remain alert and protect herself. She brandished the sword she had found in the Temple of Water, although she had no idea how to wield it. She was really using it like another tool, to help in the quartering and preparation of the carcasses the men of the tribe brought back with them. As it was extremely sharp it allowed her to cut and prepare the meat very quickly.

The young man before her did not make any threatening gesture, but instead was simply looking at her and making calming gestures with his hands to persuade her to put her sword down.

In your dreams, evil spirit! The sword stays in my hands. What do you want of me? What are you looking for
?

Iruki struck the air twice, trying to intimidate the spirit.

Have I offended the spirits of the prairies in any way? Is it because I intruded into the Cave of No Return? No, I don’t think so. The Spirit of the Water which lived there is dead. So why is this new spirit coming to haunt me? Is it because I’m the new Healer’s apprentice? But I have no powers, I’m no shaman, I’m not in touch with the spirit world. I just want to help my people, my beloved tribe, by learning to treat wounds and cure illnesses. That’s what really fulfills me and inspires my soul. I want to study medicinal plants and learn to brew tisanes and prepare ointments to help the children when they fall ill, and our warriors when they’re wounded by enemy weapons. But I’m not interested in the world of spirits, I never was, I fear it and greatly respect it.