James Galloway - The Tower of Sorcery

"I didn't know it was still alive," Tarrin said in surprise, going over and picking up the staff. He inspected it, and realized that it had been cut, right at the very end. He grounded it, and saw that the man had shaved about a quarter of a finger off its length. "You cut it."

The man gave him a surprised look. "Well, yes, I took a sliver off the end. I'm surprised you noticed."

"It pays to know a weapon that may save your life some day," he said sagely.

The man chuckled. "Oh, yes, that's right. They said you're half Ungardt. I'll fix that right now. I'll put the length back."

"How can you do that?"

"Inititate, Sorcery can very easily affect plants," he said with a smile. "I'll just urge it to grow back out to its old length. Give me the staff. I have to be touching it to do this."

Tarrin watched curiously as the little man touched the Weave. He could almost see the intricate and complex spell the man wove, from all six Spheres. The flows gathered inside the staff, going through the Sorcerer rather than gathering from strands, tangling themselves in a seemingly chaotic mass of confusion, but Tarrin could tell that the rotund Sorcerer knew what he was doing. Then the chaotic mess snapped , and it turned into a very orderly and sensible weave. Once he was done, he released it into the staff, and Tarrin saw it grow that lost bit of length back, and even fill in some of the nicks and scratches that had been inflicted upon it.

"There we are, good as new," he said, handing Tarrin the staff. "I took a bit off of it so I can get an ironwood tree to grow," he explained. "I've always wanted to study it in a controlled environment. And not have to trudge through the forest for a month to find a tree," he added, patting his wide belly. "I'm not built for field work."

"How did you yank on it like that?" Tarrin asked curiously.

"Yank on what?"

"You wove the spell strangely, then it was like you grabbed it by the ends and snapped it into shape."

The Sorcerer gave him a very strange, penetrating look. "It's a common trick when dealing with a very complicated weave," he replied. "Since it's hard to weave them tightly at a distance, we weave them in something that we're touching in a wide pattern, bringing the flows through us rather than pulling them from strands. Once we have all the flows in place, we just tighten it down into a working weave. I didn't notice that you were touching the Weave."

"I'm not," he said absently. "I can sense weaving around me without having to touch the Weave."

"Interesting. That's not supposed to be possible. But you're Were. It's very possible that your enhanced senses can sense something that ours cannot."

"Maybe," Tarrin said carefully.

"Well, studies on Sorcery aren't my areas of expertise. I'll leave that for others." He tapped the staff. "You should be very proud to have this, Inititate," he said. "You take good care of it, and it takes good care of you."

"You talk like it's alive."

"It is alive," he reminded him. "It has needs, and you provide for them. In return for that, the staff remains literally unbreakable, and it will always be something that you can depend on." He smiled. "Ironwood isn't a completely natural wood. There's a bit of magic hiding inside the staff, a natural magic that gives the wood its unusual properties. That's a part of what I want to study."

Tarrin looked at the staff curiously. He was right, it was alive. Ironwood never dried out, it always remained vibrant and strong. It was almost totally unbreakable, and would bend rather than break even if enough force was exerted on it to make it give. Only rigorous sawing could cut the wood. It made the best bows and staves, and the bark could be carefully stripped and shaped into poweful bowstrings that would never break. When he learned about the rare and prized wood from his father, he took its properties to be simply natural. Now he understood why it had properties that no other wood had. Maybe there was a bit of old magic in the wood, placed inside it by some forgotten Mage or Sorcerer, or perhaps even a Druid. A magic that changed the wood forever, and also passed on its properties into the trees spawned from it.

"Well, I have to be going," Tarrin told the Sorcerer. "Thanks for taking care of it for me."

"It was my pleasure," the rotund man smiled. "Oh, here it is," he said suddenly, turning and pointing to a huge earth-filled jar in the center of the room, surrounded by several tables holding glass beakers and tubes. There was a very young Ironwood sapling in the pot, only a span tall, with but a few twigs and leaves. "That's your staff's baby," he said with a chuckle. "I've been helping it grow with Sorcery. It's a very stubborn tree," he said with a laugh. "It doesn't want to grow faster. I guess that goes along with its nature."

"Maybe it does," Tarrin agreed. "I have to go. Thank you again."

"Any time," the little man said with a smile.

Tarrin reached the field during a scheduled break, where the cadets were sitting on the ground, panting and sweating in the cool air, while the Knights stood in groups and talked with each other. Binter stood with Ulgen, Darron, and Faalken, showing them a very large, ornate warhammer with a double head and a spike on the top. Faalken looked a trifle uncomfortable holding it, and he handled it with a slowness that told Tarrin how heavy that hammer was.

"Tarrin," they all greeted as he joined them. "You're looking well after Allia kicked you all over the field yesterday," Faalken added with a grin.

"You're just jealous that I can last that long, Faalken," Tarrin retorted calmly.

"Tarrin, this is Captain Binter, commander of the High Princess' personal guard. Binter, this is Tarrin, one of the Tower's Initiates that is partly owned by the Knights."

"Her Highness speaks about you often," the massive Vendari said in a curiously deep, hollow voice. The Vendari had a squared snout and black, dead eyes, eyes that would chill anyone who squared off against him in combat. His crest looked like a mohawk, riding high over his green-scaled head, and Tarrin could see that those scales were small but very compact and tightly organized. They looked to be a very effective natural armor. That close to him, Binter's raw size was incredibly intimidating. He loomed like a mountain, a massive mountain of a Vendari that was nothing but sleek muscle and raw power. He wore only a pair leather straps crossing his chest, connected to a wide belt holding a shortsword, and a furred clout over a pair of black trousers. Like Tarrin, he wore no shoes, letting his clawed feet touch the earth. He had similar short, wicked-looking claws on his hands. Tarrin was eight spans tall, towering over most humans but Azakar, who averaged about six spans in height. Tarrin only came up to Binter's chest. He had to be ten spans tall, almost as tall as an Ogre, but not as wide or plodding. He was sleek, powerfully built but not at the expense of his agility, and he was all warrior. Binter would be an absolute terror in battle. Now Tarrin appreciated why he was chosen to be Keritnima's personal bodyguard. Nobody would dare attack something like that . "It is an honor to meet you," he continued.

"The honor is mine," Tarrin replied cordially. Exposure to Allia and her culture, which placed honor in very high regard, would help him in dealing with the Vendari. To the average Vendari, honor was life. To lose honor was to lose life, and they were known to kill themselves after being dishonored. Killing one's self was an acceptable path to regaining honor. "Being the personal guard of the Princess is a station deserving great honor."

The Vendari's maw curled up in the most curious way. Almost like a smile. "Honor and Blood," he said.

Tarrin gave him a curious look. That was something Allia said occasionally, and its meaning was obscure. It was a Selani term for duty that brought honor, but often also brought hardship. It was a task, an ordeal, to be endured. But once it was done, great honor came to those who managed it. She often called her being sent to the Tower a trial of Honor and Blood.