Another unfinished work. Someday..

00

What does it profit a man to gain the world and lose his soul?

—The Gospel of Matthew 8:32

The first thing he became aware of was the sound of sea lapping over the beach around him, crashing on the rocks beside him.

He sat up immediately, and felt a wave of dizziness move through him as the surf pulled back away.  The net feeling was of moving swiftly and frictionlessly across the beach, but his eyes told him this wasn’t happening.  He swooned a bit, and then he smiled.

“Where am I?” He said.

The surf didn’t answer.

He took stock.  A rocky offshoot to his left.  A beach, sweeping out to his right, which curved back into a cove.  A gray and angry  sky above him.  A turn of the body (and another wave of nausea) and neck showed a berm behind and slightly above him, with some scrub foliage nodding at him in an ever present breeze.

He smiled.  The smile started with the eyes, and moved through his face, and had anyone been watching, they’d have sworn they could even see it move through his body.  It seemed to fill him like a pitcher of your favorite nectar.

He stood, slowly, brushing sand off of his clothing.  When he first started brushing, his clothing was gray, torn, and threadbare, as if he’d been wearing it for a long time before exposing it to the ocean, but as he brushed, it seemed to gain color, the tears seemed to vanish.  It even seemed to dry.

He looked down at his bare feet, and cocked his head, wondering for just a moment.  He then turned about towards shore, and spied a small dune just behind him.  Brushing sand away, he exposed an oilskin wrap, which on unwrapping, revealed a fine pair of boots.  Smiling, he sat, brushed the sand from his bare feet, and pulled them on.  They fit perfectly.

Had anyone been watching, they’d have sworn that the little dune hadn’t been there a moment ago.

He stepped up over the berm, spying the land scape around him.

“One direction’s as good as another.”he said, seeming to come to a decision.  Still smiling, he set off.

The angry skies were the only witness to his passage.  The only evidence of his presence, the oilskin cloth, was quickly covered by the shifting sand and lost to view.

01

"She's beautiful!" Alexander said, shading his bright eyes, staring at the trireme as she maneuvered towards the docks, to the waiting crew standing in the dock that would in the hour tie her off and begin unloading her cargo.  She was a month overdue, and Celise had feared her lost.  Alexander had never lost faith; he had consoled her,  patted her hand, and been the rock upon which her hopes had rested.

Celise had invested her life savings in the Sprite's maiden voyage.  Her captain had promised a 200 percent return. She could certainly use the money.  She might finally pay back the full balance of her debt to the Academy.  The thought being free of that debt at long last made her heart hammer in her chest.  She might finally leave Nayesport, might finally use the Art for her own..

She looked to her right, and took in the site of a gull, circling over the docks, his head darting left and right as he sought his dinner amongst the litter of the dockmen's lunches.

As a memory, it would serve.  The site of the gull picking amongst the leavings reminded her of her own poor youth as a parent-less urchin in Smithstown.  She would have to be careful to omit those childhood memories from the weaving.

She gestured, focused, and looked out at the Sprite.  The memory of the gull washed over her for a brief moment, and then it was gone, wiped from her mind as if it had never been there.  The Sprite's deck sprang closer to her, the weaving complete and granting her far sight.

She saw the crew at their stations, following the commands of their captain, who stood aft, his watchful eyes everywhere at once.  There was quite a bit of activity going on amongst the crew, and the captain did not have the calm demeanor she associated with him, but then, there would be much to do, putting in.

Had she been able to remember it, she would have compared the sight of the captain's gaze to the hunting gull, but she could not.  The Art gave power, the strength and scope of which ranged from the inconsequential to the incredible, at the cost of the Artist's memories.  The deeper meaning of the memory which the Artist chose to sacrifice, the more powerful the effect of the weaving of memory, gesture, and focus.

She wondered, for the thousandth time, what it was that she'd given up for the close view of the Sprite.  She knew that the memory wouldn't have been a dear one, so she'd not give it much thought, and while she'd been trained that she should avoid that question, that it could drive an Artist mad over time, she was still young, still weak, and still wondered.

She'd made her first tentative steps in the Art with the aid of the man who stood beside her.  He'd been only a year ahead of her in the Academy, and yet he'd achieved an easy mastery of the Art that had allowed him to translate what he knew into terms that she could understand.  She did not know the source of the easy, giving friendship that had drawn them together.  His was a rich, old family, in which the Art had bred true for generations beyond telling.  She was a patronless waif who had discovered her talent by sheer dumb luck.  What could she possibly offer him? Unless…

No, she told herself for perhaps the millionth time in their friendship, it cannot be.. love.  Not from him.  He, an Artist of considerable power, rich and unattached, could have his pick of any lady,  perhaps even the Princess herself, if he chose.  The Princess certainly favored him, and such a match, bridging the Guild with the Royal house, would be welcome to both Alexander's father, and to His Highness.  While the war seemed to be drawing to a close, the victory was not sure, and the presence of a powerful Artist next in line of succession would end the petty power struggle plaguing the elite.

No, not her.  She could not allow herself the hope, despite the fact that, whole she would never admit it, gaining Alexander's love was nearly the sole wish of her heart.  She'd felt jealousy at the mere statement he'd just made about the ship; why could he not find her beautiful?  Celise was comely enough, even though…

An explosion shook the Sprite to her keel.  Celise, with the weaving still providing her with a view of the deck, could see men swarming to get below decks. The stairs already bellowed a dark, greasy smoke.  "Fire!" she heard them cry, and the men instantly began passing buckets hand to hand into the smoke.

"The cargo will burn!"  Alexander shouted, turning round to see if the fire brigade were on their way out from the city behind them, but of course they weren't.  There simply hadn't been time.

"It won't burn.." Celise said, pointing.  The deck was listing to fore as she looked on, despite seas calm as glass.  Looking closely, she could see that the Sprite was taking on water from a smoking hole that had been opened in her side.  She spent perhaps three or four seconds wondering what could have opened that jagged rift, however there wasn't time for such digressions.  No matter what had happened, the more pressing problem was in how to save her before she went down.  The docks had been built near a deep, and if she went down, the Sprite would find herself five fathoms down.   Her savings, her future, might as well be on the moon.

The list was increasing, and crewmen were throwing themselves over the sides; they knew that the Sprite was lost.

"What can I do to save her?" she thought.  The kind of power it would take to pull her, fully laden, out of the water was nearly beyond her.  She could do it, but it would cost her..  It would cost the memory of a parent, for any other mage.  Or a lover.

She couldn't face it, losing Alexander this way.  He'd been the only man she'd ever cared for, ever would, and if it meant losing him, she'd prefer the near slavery of becoming an Academy mage.  She'd find a way to..

A groan, like the sound of a giant waking, echoed across the docks.  Celise turned and saw Alexander, his arms raised, staring with rapt attention at the Sprite.. which was lifting slowly from the water.

"How?"  she asked.  She had never known Alexander had the kind of strength to channel energy of this magnitude, had never suspected he harbored such a strong memory.  Surely he had not sacrificed his memories of his beloved father?  The man was a peer, and also a decent and honorable man, and Alexander had often spoke of his pride and desire to emulate his august father.  His mother had only passed away this past year; the grief was raw and strong, and could provide considerable power.. However, the memory sacrificed to the Art tended to be reflected in the weaving.  No, this was buoyant, strong. A love, surely.  The Princess?  Had things progressed so far?  Would he give something like that up.. For her?

The men at the docks stared, shocked at the multi ton craft moving slowly and gracefully like a wood and canvas cloud over the docks to the beach nearby, settling slowly down.  As it touched down, swarms of men began pulling themselves aboard, and within moments, a fire bucket line was in place.

Alexander slumped, the weaving completed.  "Alexander," she said, scarcely able to speak, "what have you done?"

He turned to her, passing his fingers through his long, sweating hair.

"I'm sorry," he said to her, "do I know you?"

02

Lord Caden walked through the corridors of his keep with an east stride. It would have taken a careful eye indeed to see past his casual demeanor to note the occasional bunching of a fist, the careful attention to his surroundings.

His eyes were like searchlights, nearly blinding when one made eye contact, and the few servants in his path immediately bowed low, moving out of his path, and that of the retainer that walked beside him.

It was an hour shy of sunrise, and Lord Caden tended to be a very early riser. Truth told, he hardly slept at all, and despised the need to do so. If he could, he would have eradicated the need to sleep, but Artists long before him had tried to do so, and suffered terrible fates as a consequence, driving themselves mad in a short space of time.

Caden didn’t have an abundance of trust in these legends, and so he’d forced his own artists to perform similar experiments, and so he was well aware of the truth of those claims.

Rounding a corner, he stopped a moment.  “Kestus,” he said, “has my son yet risen?”

“No, my lord,” said his retainer. The voice matched the frame, as Kestus resembled a mountain, and his voice was the low, threatening rumble of the quaking earth.

“This won’t do at all.  No son of mine should engage in such habits.  The usual, I think.”

“Yes, my lord.”  From a hook on his belt just behind his back, Kestus drew a whip, coiled and oiled. A passing servant would have thought he’d drawn a pet snake, and the way he held it suggested a much loved pet at that. Kestus opened the door in front of him, and closed it softly behind him.

Caden leaned against the wall beside the door frame, waiting, listening for the punishment to begin.  His face was a serene mask, and only a certain glint in the eye would have given away his expectant joy at the sounds that would come from the doorway.  Kestus was a master with his weapon, and could either inflict extreme pain with slight marring of the flesh, or lay a man’s flesh open to the bone at his whim.

Fellin, Caden’s current favorite son, would never hear Kestus’ approach. He would only wake to the pain, and the screams would come.  Screams were good.  The memory would be a strong one.

At some point, Caden would open the door and stay Kestus’ hand, acting the savior. Another strong memory, and another link in the chain that bound Fellin to him.  But that could wait, while Caden leaned and schemed.

His mind turned once again to Regencia. Such a kingdom as that, to be in the sway of fops and farmers. How pitiful.  How very sad.  He thought of all of that farmland, crops to burn, and the great cost  Marolay paid in importing those crops. True, his kingdom of Marolay was rich in metals, and he’d never had a problem in making those payments.  But that a man of his stature should have to have done so..

As Caden’s father had taught him, never buy what you can take. Those lessons had held true in Caden’s mind, and never left him. Of course, it helped that Caden’s father had held lessons similar to the one Fellin was currently receiving.  The screams ran down the corridor, but Caden had barely noticed.

His mind worried over the balance yet again. His strength in sword and arms, their strength in Art, their distance across the sea. It was too solid a structure, and as he ever did, he looked for a way to upset that balance.

A young maid carrying an overloaded basket of laundry turned the corner on the far end of the corridor; she looked and saw Caden, and immediately bowed low, placing the basket in front of her.  She held that position for several moments, waiting to receive any orders, or rebukes, from her liege lord. After the proscribed period of silence, of not being recognized, she pulled the basket as she backed away into the crossing corridor, slowly disappearing from sight.

But she had been recognized, and Caden had noticed her lines, her frame, her youth. He did not recognize her, and so she must be new. He placed a marker in his memory to return to her this evening.

After all, Fellin was one of many, and he could always use more sons.

03

The sun shone down, the birds sang, and the road came up to meet his boots in a steady but unhurried pace.

The sound of the beach had passed behind him, such that he could not quite tell if it was truly the sound he now heard, or simply his expectation of it being there.

He’d come across the road, a narrow path beaten more by boots than wheels or hooves, after a few hours, and he had followed it initially through a forest.  Had anyone witnessed his passage, they’d have wondered at his ease in his walk.  Most folk feared the wood, for fear of bandits.  Or wolves.  Or worse.

The wood had opened onto a wide plain.