-Ferro
Seventeen days. A full week past the time that Corinth advised me to give it up, I pushed and strained to achieve what he wanted. Seventeen days of sleepless nights, of sitting in one spot and forcing all of my focus into my fingertips, of trying to pull out the barest hint of potential. Failure. I just can’t do it.
The musty smell of the barn spills in from up the stairs, the light inside my vault low, given off by smoldering green spheres floating listlessly about the chamber. Over two weeks of dedicated study, devoting all of my time to puzzle out the nuances of the black sand, to make it fit into the path that I need to walk down, has delivered some revelations.
Fighting that first magical beast, Satrix, I remembered the way that some of the black sand had absorbed its attack. At the time, the difference was a curiosity, a small ball that I pulled off the rest of the sand, filled with vital fire mana from taking the brunt of the wolf’s attack. It seems to be a quirk of the black sand, the ability to absorb mana.
Corinth explained it, guessing that the particles that make up the sand are absent of concept, even when under my control, making them susceptible to leeching concept from affixed mana. He went on, in his way of telling me exactly what was going on without actually enlightening me. To summarize, the black sand is strong against magical influence, but has a certain threshold against more mundane attacks that will likely break and shatter it.
Now, I fully understand the purpose of Corinth’s initial training. He wanted to teach me spellcraft, freeform magic that would open up entire worlds of power to me. Spellcraft is his most prized possession, without it, he never would have been able to come as far as he has with only a single affix to call upon. Corinth can craft even the most complex spells in an instant, creating runic spellframes in the air so intricate that they would shame aged scholars in the craft. As far as I can tell, he can do anything with spells: teleport himself, me, and his assistant from the mill to the farm, turn day to night, and even help the trees around the farm blossom. It is only now that I begin to understand the breadth of my ignorance when it comes to magic.
I saw Arabella use spellcraft too, hadn’t I? She used her ice clones to help her create a magnificent spellframe around her entire mansion, a spell that allowed her to fly a house over thousands of miles. Even in the competition, there was a girl who called potions to us by drawing a spellframe in the snow. This is the power of mages, a power that I will never possess.
To create spells as Corinth does, as Arabella did, I would need to manipulate ambient mana, using it to create spellframes, to draw networks of runes in the air with magic. Corinth’s guess proved correct, it is as if my soul is entirely unable to touch the ambient mana, as if there is some barrier between it and me that is impossible to overcome. He told me to stop trying a full week before I accepted the futility in it before I stopped trying to find a path.
Even without the ambient mana of the world, I had thought that perhaps the black sand might be my answer. It isn’t. Yes, I discovered that it is capable of absorbing mana, but the shapes that it is capable of taking are not unlimited. There is something about the grains, the way they try to stack together, that limits their conformations. They have set geometries, and even the elementary spellframes my brother showed me are impossible to make with them. The runes for spellcraft are often so sleek, gliding lines, and rounded corners, and all my sand can create are harsh and jagged lines.
Despite seeing the issue immediately, I persisted, finding myself trying to fit a square peg through a round hole. No, I have to go my own way, and so now I sit, brought back to my enchanting table.
The pelts of the magical beasts still lay neatly bundled on the end of the table. There is powerful magic inside of them, not enough to drain for a full affix, but enough to make them quality crafting materials. My problem remains that I do not know how to sow a garment, to create leather armor. Perhaps I could manage a cloak, but that seems so lackluster, not at all what those gracious beasts deserve. Maybe Jess will be able to do something with them when next I see her.
Right now, my poisonous knife lays in front of me, held still by iron clamps to the table. It is a pain in the ass to get the thing open, which seems like a good thing in retrospect. The ball of black sand I pull from like a ball of yarn drifts over the knife, a trail of glistening black slowly seeping into the gap between the handle and the blade. A terrible wrenching sound like a crying metal baby scratches through the vault as the grains solidify and expand sideways. Then, with a pop, the ceramic handle of Tickler’s Promise comes apart in two pieces.
I sigh, sitting back and admiring the naked blade, undoing the clamps and picking it up to look at in the neon light. It doesn’t matter the color of the light, the blade of the dagger casts a strange rainbow, a thin coat of poisonous oil covering the steel. But it isn’t the edge that I focus upon, I admire the runework inscribed into the grip of the naked steel, the parts covered and protected by the handle before.
The patterns are simple, but elegant at the same time. Ribbons of infused bronze look to almost be sewn straight into the steel, the rings of enchantment alight with an assortment of tasty mana. Despite my expectation, the mediums inside do not appear to house corrosive mana, the same mana that I stole from the Bane Crystal, but instead, one that I will classify as poison mana. The forms are only two real forms, one to utilize the stored mana to conjure poison, the oily slickness that always coats the blade. The other is to drain ambient mana from the atmosphere, to keep the enchantments functioning.
Before Corinth’s explanation, I merely took these mana-draining formations as routine, a required part of the mechanism to keep enchantments running for any significant length of time. Now, I have a greater understanding and a glimpse into what is going on.
As I study the blade, copying the runework into a journal with my right hand, a knocking noise above draws my attention away. A figure darkens the entrance to my vault, the stooping body of a big man. He pays only momentary respect, not waiting for me to invite him in before he steps over the threshold, coming into the light at the top of the stairs.
My father whistles, looking around the expanse of the vault. “Well, this is quite something,” he says, rapping his knuckles on the thick metal of the door. “Very expensive looking.”
“Dad.” Suddenly, I notice how out of sorts everything is. Leaving my old room untouched, I have been spending my nights in here, and it shows. Clothes lay scattered on the floor or draped over chairs. The big bed that I have set aside in one corner of the room is a mess of violet sheets and far too many pillows. Gold and silver coins lay scattered about, some bent or chewed up as I was using them as fodder for my black sand.
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I jump up from my chair, almost cutting my arm open with the naked blade in my hand. “I…come in.”
“Glad to have the invitation,” he says, strolling down the steps, his big boots echoing off the steps. “Although, you did park this thing inside my barn.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, tossing the dagger back onto the table. The gloomy green light strikes me as an immediate problem. The light vanishes for a moment as I pull the mana out of the floating orbs, replaced a second later by the soft orange glow of fire-flavored mana. “I didn’t expect you to come down here.”
“No? I’ve passed by this open door of yours three times today. You must be really caught up with what you are working on.” He steps up to the table, looking over all of my enchanting materials, the devices and machines, dials, wires, and copper coils. I cringe as he reaches down and picks up the blade that I was working with. “What’s this then?”
“An enchanted dagger,” I say, gingerly taking the steel from him. “It is very poisonous.”
“Don’t know how I feel about my daughter toying around with poison knives,” he says, taking a look at an open book.
“I am not toying with anything,” I say. “This is difficult work. Work that I am interested in doing.”
My father turns, looking me up and down. “You are, aren’t you? Never could get you that interested in your chores. Was like trying to get a cat out from under the porch to get you up to work what you needed to.”
“I did my chores,” I say. Even now, the man is like a giant to me.
“Aye. I suppose you did.” He scratches his beard, looking this way and that. “Well, I just wanted to see what you were up to. I won’t bother you much longer.” He turns to leave, but I catch the sleeve of his shirt.
“You don’t have to go,” I say.
“But I do,” he says, turning back to me. “Got a delivery that needs delivering. Have to visit Jeb as well, pick up the week’s flour. We’re all busy, I suppose.” He looks around the vault again, taking everything in with those eyes of his that seem to see too much. “Looks like you found something to do with yourself. Your mother was worried, thought you would run off and marry some boy, laze your days away at his house barely keeping things in order, whiling your time away doing something inane.”
“Sounds like something she would think.”
“Not me,” he says. “I always knew that you were looking for something, something to love, something to call your own. Thought that could have been the orchard. Third time I’ve been wrong about that, I suppose. Adventure keeps calling my children away. That siren doesn’t sing to me, I don’t see the appeal, but it isn’t as if I don’t see that you all hear it and want to run that way. A person ought to have something to run toward.”
The words are almost like a knife. He doesn’t know how much I still search for that thing to run toward. Inertia keeps me moving forward on this magician’s road, and I don’t know if it is much more than that. I’ve already walked this far, and I don’t intend to give anything less than my full effort. Still, I am grasping for some kind of dream, some kind of star to chase like my brothers so evidently do.
It has become even more apparent since spending time with Corinth. Every time he speaks about magic, it is like there is a light in his eye, a spark of joy. He loves it, truly loves it. I want so much to love something like that. Maybe if I walk this path far enough, I won’t have any choice but to love it how he does, maybe I will find what I am looking for.
“I’m sorry for leaving how I did,” I say.
He swallows. “Thank you for that, sweetpear. I won’t say it didn’t hurt, but I understand it. Hard to say goodbye, even when you ought to. Just promise me that you won’t leave that same way again.”
“I promise,” I say. He opens his arms to me and I practically jump into them, embarrassing him. His arms are like solid oak around me as he squeezes me tight, and I feel truly safe for the first time in I don’t know how long. After the horror of the trial, I needed this.
“Jeb isn’t going to wait on me all day,” he says, pulling away.
“Right.”
He leaves the same way he came, ponderously climbing the steps out of the vault. He stops at the door again, rapping his hard knuckles on the steel, chuckling as he steps back out into the natural light of the barn. He takes his warmth with him, but I still feel it lingering for a moment longer.
With a sigh, I return to the task at hand, picking up the blade once more. My ball of black sand looms at my shoulder, a spiraling stream of grain forming a crude chisel as I crank down the clamps to hold the blade stationary once more. Another use for the heavy sand I have found is as an etching utensil. My control over the sand has grown so precise that I can wear away almost anything given enough time, creating perfect patterns on the surface of the steel.
Using the sand, I etch two more runic frameworks into the steel. Inlaying the infused mediums is difficult, bonding my own set of copper to the steel is something I have only done in practice before. The work takes hours, my hands working slowly to make certain that no mistakes occur. Another device helps to weaken the poison affixed mana in the framework enough that I can push a different flavor into the already set pattern, overwhelming and pushing out the rest of the mana in the enchantment. Finally, I need to reinforce the powering enchantment to be able to support three enchantments instead of just one.
All in all, altering the blade takes me four full days of intense labor and more materials than two enchanted daggers would be worth. In the end, far after the sun has begun to set on the fourth day, I reseal the ceramic handle on the blade, binding it into place, and my new creation set out on the table.
The profile of the magical aura emanating from the weapon is distinct and different, a mix of soft blue and glowing white. I can’t help but beam as I stare down at my creation, sitting back in my chair and causing it to levitate into the air in front of me. I left a good bit of black sand inside the handle to allow me to control it easily. The blade still glistens in a rainbow pattern, but blue seems to dominate the sheen now.
“Galea,” I say.
“Yes, Mistress,” the fey spirit answers, perching on my shoulder.
“Show me what I have created.”
Charlene’s Mageblade(Rare):
A blade originally created to deliver slow and painful death, this dagger has been repurposed by the young enchanter Charlene Devardem. The oil created by this weapon yearns for the touch of magic other than its creators, drinking up the magic that it comes in contact with, while the powerful enchantments inside empower the bearer.
Enhancement: +15 Magic, +15 Magic Defense
Ability: Sever Magic, Mana Storing, Mana Expulsion
Maybe spellcraft is out of my reach, but my melancholy at the loss has vanished over the past few days. I will not allow that closing door to stop me.
My new mageblade spins before sliding gently back into the sheath on the table, the steel whispering against the leather of the sheath.
One day I might find a way to kick in that door. Today, I will content myself with enchantment. There is depth in the craft, something that calls to me, power to be claimed.
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