Terry Simpson - Etchings of Power

Ryne’s mind was still on the weather when they arrived at his over-sized house, lamplight pooling from several windows. Wispy smoke swirled from the brick chimney, and spicy food smells filtered from within. Before he could reach the wide front door, it opened, and light flooded the road.

Vera’s buxom silhouette stood in the doorway. “We hoped you would be back in time to eat.”

“And we hoped we would get to dance for you tonight,” said Vana from somewhere in the room.

Ryne grinned as he stepped inside and embraced both women at the same time, one in each arm. “I thought you two would be going back to Hagan’s?”

“Master Hagan knows better than to ask us to work late with you out and about,” Vana said. “We overheard you say you had a summons to attend to.” She flicked her long dark tresses to one side.

Vera chimed in, “Who else would feed you before you left?” She tossed her head the opposite way from her sister, her hair falling past her shoulders.

Leaning into his hug, their heads barely reached his abdomen. They still looked as beautiful as the night he saved them from a slaver’s brutal whips. Maybe tonight he wouldn’t act shy when their bodies, which still bore the scars from their abuse, swayed as they danced the Temtesa for him. Ryne still couldn’t decide what to do about their affections, or which to choose, or even if he should. ‘A nice dilemma to have,’ Hagan often said.

While the sisters fussed over Ryne, Sakari disappeared down a lamp-lit hall toward one of the two rooms in the rear. Ryne couldn’t help the twitch of his lips. He’d tried many times, but Sakari insisted on keeping to himself.

Finished with their playful banter, the sisters vanished in the direction of kitchen. Ryne shed his boots in a corner near the front door, strode across the large room, and eased himself into a chair at the dining table with a heavy sigh. It felt good to be home.

After a moment, he stood and strolled over to one of the many bookshelves lining one wall opposite the kitchen door. Close to the shelves, a huge padded chair sat below a window looking out onto the plains and the Nevermore Heights outlined to the north. The hidden slopes brought anticipation trembling through his body and made him glance at his books. He’d received several there.

Most of the books on the shelves were detailed studies and theory on Mater from great professors of the topic like Shin Henden and Exalted Calestis. Many of them detailed different Forges, how to use essences within different elements to combine to make another element. They made it seem so complicated. He recalled his first attempt, taking water from the element of Flows and cold from the element of Streams, to make ice which was a part of the Forms but still bore properties of the other two. Soon after, he’d been required to kill, not only to replenish that which he had lost, but to appease the voices in his head. He cringed with the thought.

To him, it was all so simple. Liquid plus energy to make a solid. Solid plus energy to make a liquid. Most, if not all things, required the energy of the Streams. Take that away and it broke down to its baser components. Forging worked best on something already in existence with a source to draw upon, like pulling heat from a flame to create a fireball. Or the charge from a storm for a lightning strike. Sure, some of it could be stored, but when the essences were readily available around you, the Forging was that much more powerful. It wasn’t as if most of the elements weren’t already incorporated into each other. He remembered when he used to doubt whether the elements existed in everything, but wherever he looked in the world he saw where different essences combined for the tiniest of creations.

Other books dealt with military strategy and instruction on the Disciplines of Soldiering. Those included fighting styles, relaying stories of warriors who could summon massive Constructs to do battle for them or lose themselves, battle-bonded within the clarity of the Shunyata, undefeatable. Some contained myths and legends of peoples and creatures long lost-the Eztezians, the Erastonians, the Chroniclers, the netherlings and many more. But within every myth there was some semblance of truth to be found. Others gave detailed recounts of Denestia’s split into Ostania to the east and Granadia to the west. He always believed if you had to read, then make certain you gained practical knowledge.

Ryne took off his sword and leaned the white scabbard with its gold rune embossing next to the bookshelf. A series of white glyphs were etched into the guard and long golden hilt. He straightened to see Vera bring him a plate piled with venison stew. The peppery smell from the meat and the scent from the baked bread in her other hand made his stomach grumble.

“You know you can’t eat with those on, right?” Vera pointed to his leather armor. “Well, not that you can’t eat,” she corrected herself, “But we won’t serve you until you remove it and show us you didn’t get hurt earlier today.”

“Sometimes I forget myself, Miss Vera.” Her raised brow at his lie brought a smile to his lips.

The two-piece armor always felt loose at first, but once he pulled them on, they melded to his body, as if tailored just for him. If he didn’t know the power of the Scripts drawn on each piece he would have wondered how such flimsy looking, fitted armor could protect a man. The leather itself was harder than any metal he knew and more pliant than the finest cloth weaves. The multicolored Scripts were an exact replica of those covering his body up to his chin.

Vera’s green eyes studied him the entire time as he peeled the armor off. Her gaze didn’t drift even when she placed the plate on the table. Her sister soon joined her, carrying a pitcher of sweet kinai juice and a glass. They giggled as he laid his armor over his chair.

He stood before them in tight undergarments made from fine cotton, crafted so they wouldn’t hamper his ability to put on his armor. Giving them both a ghost of a smile, he said, “Well, you ladies had your fun, and have done your inspection. You see I’m not hurt. May I eat now?”

“Yes, you may, my Lord,” they both answered.

He strode to the table, sat, and dug in with zest.

Hours later, after another night with little sleep, a long, whistling wail penetrated Ryne’s skull-the summons he anticipated.

The calling was more a feeling than a sound. Ryne’s head resonated with it like one of his many headaches. He fought off the familiar dizziness swirling through his mind as the euphoria from the kinai juice he drank earlier battled the whirling sensation. After a few moments, the lightheadedness dwindled. With the dwindling came an irresistible pull like a maggot to a corpse.

He stared off through his window toward the cloud-shrouded Nevermore Heights. The summons pulled him there. He knew the place well.

Smirking, Ryne put down the ancient leather-bound tome he’d been reading. The title leered at him- The Principles and Tenets of Mater by Exalted Thanairen. After twenty years reading the book, every single word within it remained etched in his mind. One part came to mind as he took in the gloomy light of dawn peeking through the clouds. Dawn and dusk-The Spellforge hours-the times when light and shade were the most balanced-a period for great power.

Ryne stood and the two young women at his feet stirred. Vana and Vera had swayed and gyrated in the Temtesa until they grew tired. Then they sat and listened to him read from the book until they fell asleep. He waited a few minutes to make sure they were sound asleep once more. Satisfied with their slumber, he gathered his armor and his sword and slipped from the room.

In the adjoining room, Ryne donned his armor. Tightening the laces, he savored the feel of the leather molding itself to his flesh until the Scripts on the armor and those on his body became seamless. He tossed the strap for his scabbard over his head and his greatsword came to rest at his waist, the pommel slanted across his stomach.