Magick In Theory And Praxis (1-2)
Chapter 1, Part 2
Welcome Back. Magick In Theory And Praxis is a serialized fantasy/sci-fi story. You can find the previous installment here. Once the next installment is released, you can find it here.
They agreed to sleep in shifts in case a creature of the wastes would roam during the sandstorm—same practice as when they set up camp on the first night. It was Nurelien’s turn to take the first watch which he had no interest in arguing against. Before they even started sleeping, he had taken the book out of his bag.
On his first venture out into the wastes, back when he was just a youth unaware of the rate that his home was sinking into the Bleeding Sea, he’d come across a trader being attacked by a crackcrawler. It was an armored beast with pincers looking to crush anything that got in its way. The rabid thing was nasty, but he knew a fair share of spells by this point. Some of them were risky—he didn’t know the full area of a fireball’s explosion yet—but the trader was all gratitude. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten burned, and he’d even told Nurelien that he’d rather catch fire than perish.
He offered Nurelien a free item, and the first question Nurelion asked was if there was anything from Thiemon. Scratching his neck, the trader insisted that it was nothing of worth.
“I’ll bite,” Nurelien had told the trader, eager eyes prying for whatever came from the learned wizards up north.
“It’s one of the books of magic from the old times, but not even the scholars of Thiemon wanted it,” the trader said. “They say back then that magic wasn’t nearly as strong as it has become today, that few people practiced or even believed in it. I got it for only a blanket and three bags of hard tack.”
It didn’t matter what the trader would have said. Nurelion couldn’t hide the excitement in his eyes, almost bouncing with anticipation for the reveal. The trader stopped explaining, just shrugged and handed him the book.
Upon it, a simple symbol was pressed into the paperback binding. Atop the page were clearly words, though they were like nothing Nurelien had seen before.
“That’s one of the old languages,” the trader had explained. “Mandarin. The title of the book is The Kybalion. Aside from that, the scholars at Thiemon didn’t have anything to say. It wasn’t even worth studying.”
Nurelien didn’t care. Even now, holding the book in his hands filled his heart with excitement. He didn’t even know how wide he was smiling. Only one page had been translated due to incredible luck. A few years before his father passed, a trader had visited the sinking fortress, and was quite surprised to see that Nurelion had a book written in Mandarin. It was a language passed down in his family, and the trader offered real gold for the book. Nurelien couldn’t give it away, though. The book was too precious. He might never meet another trader who had anything from Thiemon, let alone one of the old books of magic.
Accepting Nurelion’s love for the book, he offered to translate some of it for him, though he couldn’t stay forever. He had been at the fortress for three days, and had to leave soon. They only got three quarters of a page. Since then, Nurelion has filled up the rest of the page with translation, though it has been tough.
“Why don’t you use magic to know what it says?” Kamt asked.
“Magic requires dedication and study,” Nurelion looked at Kamt. “There are no cheats. If you start to shortcut through your discipline, then magic won’t reveal itself to you anymore.” He looked back at the book, only a small flame in his other hand illuminating it.
“You were taught by Etchoutsu?” Kamt asked.
Nurelien glanced over with only his eyes. He gave a short nod, then turned his attention back to the book. “My father, yes.”
“My sister taught me,” Kamt said. “I’m not sure who taught her, though. Do magicians ever teach themselves?”
“At a certain point,” Nurelien looked back at the skull beside him, “one would learn everything they can from their teachers. Then, they may either seek another teacher, or they will teach themselves. I’ve heard it said that this is what distinguishes a magician from a wizard.”
“Was your father a wizard or a magician?” Kamt asked.
Nurelien closed the book. He sighed and looked away from Kamt. They sat together in the main room, the others sleeping in the two rooms that hadn’t had bones in them. It wouldn’t have mattered if they were in the same room, Nurelien had discovered on this trip that they were heavy sleepers. The last time any of them had privacy, though, was before their departure. The only things in the room with the two practitioners of magic were their bags and that basket of flowers in the corner.
“Those flowers there still have their color,” Nurelien stroked his beard. “Do you know if that indicates they were freshly picked?”
“Before I left, I only learned about the wastes what I needed to survive,” Kamt said. “I know nothing about the flowers.”
Nurelien traipsed over to the basket. Nothing about it appeared harmful. When he lifted it to his nose, the aroma was serene. It reminded him of something his mom might make a wreath of and place upon his head when he was younger. To smell good is a small thing, but it will get you far. He could hear her say it now.
It was risky to do magic with unfamiliar materials, particularly flora. A smell could only tell you so much. Sometimes it was everything. Oftentimes, it was nothing. Still, Nurelien had taken many gambles before and it was rare that the knowledge he gained wasn’t worth the price paid for experimenting in magic. He couldn’t help thinking to himself that the scholars of Thiemon must have a safer way of studying materials so that a more educated guess could be made as to the results they might produce. He’d never met a scholar, though.
He plucked a purple flower from the basket, admiring its blue stem. It smelled cool like mint. When he crushed it between his hands and rubbed it between his palms, he took careful measure not to focus so that the power it held would not be adulterated by his expectations. When he looked down at his hands, all of the recent cuts he’d made upon this trip, the ones that hadn’t had any time to scar yet, were gone. It was as if he never extracted the blood to perform those spells.
Nurelien closed his eyes. “Who left these flowers, first rebel?”
Nothing answered his whisper.
“What did it do?” Kamt asked.
Nurelien showed her his hands. “It healed me.”
“You’re still scarred,” Kamt observed. “It would be a good idea to cover your hands when we approach the doors of Karatch. The power enforcers know what magic looks like.”
“Would they search under my gloves?”
“Yes.”
Nurelien nodded. He crouched beside Versat’s bag and reached into the side pocket, pulling out a roll of bandages.
“Isn’t that Versat’s bag?” Kamt asked.
“Yes,” Nurelien wrapped the bandages around his hands. “Her’s is the biggest.”
“What if she finds out that you took from her?”
Nurelien paused, squinting at the skull sitting on the floor. “Why would she care?”
Intriguing!