“Please!”
She cries out alone in the night and, I can do nothing but watch.
“Lapat, come back!”
This disease eats away at my skin, turning my bones to stone, chewing through my blood like a thousand termites.
“Don’t go!”
I caused this. I ruined everything. I am running out of time.
“Lapat, stop! Please!”
I am trying so hard. I can feel the sickness wrapping its dark tendrils around my heart, squeezing my life away with every passing second.
“Lapat, stop!”
I beg and plead. For more time, for a cure, for anything more with her. But there is nothing left. I am a ruin.
“Stop!”
I am so sorry.
“Stop!”
My wife, my darling, my Rosie.
“Stop!”
- ?? ??? ??? ??? ??? ???
“Gods damn you, man!” a voice cursed. “I am stopping!”
Lapat blinked back the nightmare as sunlight poured into his weary eyes. He looked down at his gloved hands, sparks bursting between his shaking fingers. He quickly balled them into a fist and cut off the flow of magic, stifling the smell of pine.
Just a dream. Just a bad dream.
He pulled down on his sleeve, cringing at the sight of an inch of his exposed skin; flesh peppered black with a sickly rot.
A very bad dream.
“You hear me, old man?”
Lapat looked up and saw the cart driver glaring at him. “May I help you?”
“I said no shouting on my wagon! No barking! No rocking! And definitely,” the driver looked to Lapat’s hands with a particular breed of blame, “No spellslinging!”
Lapat fought back the urge to roll his eyes. Perhaps the driver also participated in a ‘no showering or good manners’ policy as well. But as Lapat always knew, good manners are of made of petty sacrifices.
“My apologies, of course.” Lapat smiled, “My mind seemed to have wandered a bit. Age will do that to you.”
The driver huffed and prodded the mules forward once more. Lapat stretched, straightening his back with a pop and rubbing his sore rear-end against the uncomfortable wooden bench he’d grown so accustomed to. From the corner of his eye, he saw a family of elves staring at him. Their concerned gaze flicked between him and the black burn marks peppering the wood around him.
Lapat brushed away the dying sparks. “Bit of casting in my sleep. I hope I did not disturb any of you kind people too outrageously.” Lapat tried to smile in apology, but the man only stared at him suspiciously.
“Mama.” The little girl pulled at her mother’s skirt. “Why’d the turtle man burning up?”
“Hush now, Darla.” The mother whispered, feigning a polite smile.
“It is quite alright, Lapat chuckled. “Though my people prefer the term Tortle, if that is alright with you. While I cannot deny a resemblance to our tiny brethren as seen in the green skin, the shape of our skull, and clearly,” he gestured to the wide shell across his back. “We are a little more evolved than our reptilian kin. As to the ‘burning’ as you put it. Nothing more than a small expel of magic, little one,” Lapat explained. “Would you like me to show you-”
“No! Don’t!” The father shot up from the bench. “I mean...I’d rather you didn’t. Warlock...sir.”
I did not spend decades of study to be compared to one of those soul-selling deviants. But alas, if my manners are to be tested once... Lapat breathed deeply. "Of course. I meant no harm by it.”
He looked away from the family and to his surroundings. The cloudless blue sky was but a backdrop for the blinding yellow sun hanging tall above them. The thick air of the western coast sat heavy in Lapat’s mouth and coated his skin in a damp blanket of moisture. After sixty-three and a half years on this continent, a Tortle knows many things of humidity, and yet even Lapat found himself wishing for a cooler breeze on his reptilian skin. As the high city walls rose into sight, Lapat took note of the familiar uneven stature of each brick.
Sat on a swamp, the city of Meerside had been stubbornly carved from the land like a half crescent, jutting its belly north, its spine fed by the wide Corazon River, its many docks the very lifeblood of the city. Lapat remembered once sitting on the far western bluffs of the city, away from the traders and noise, indulging in the sight of the Endless Sea.
But that was long ago. Wasn't it?
Now, he no longer found solace in the damp air or the sweat-inducing heat. His long tan jacket and travel-stained pants compounded this unbearable temperature. But he kept the sleeves cinched tight, his leather gloves devouring all of his exposed skin, and a wide-brimmed hat to shade the rest.
“Up and out!” the driver hollered. “That gate’ll take you in if they let ya!”
Lapat stood, gathered his things, and took his leave. The path to the gate was congested with people. Dwarven merchants with sun-protective onyx glasses bustled aside Elven families with simple leather packs. Everyone trampled the wet ground before them to a muck. Within minutes, Lapat’s treasured and polished shoes were stained and ruined.
City guards shouted out amongst the crowd, corralling them into relative order. “Coppers for entry! Writs of invitation! License for practice! Have your papers out and ready!” Lapat found himself quickly compressed into a line funneling into the city.
“You’d think the city guard would have it figured out by now,” a voice muttered. “Holiday falls on the same day every year.”
Lapat looked down and at waist height stood a bulbous halfing man. His nose was wide, casting shadows on a hairless upper lip, one that was repeatedly wetted by a darting pink tongue.
He looked up at Lapat, “Tradesmen, farmers, the religiously blind, they all come through the gates right before the Night of Lights every year like clockwork. And it's you and I who get stuck in line for hours like a couple of jabronis.”
Lapat smiled uncomfortably, “I was unaware of my jabroni status, but it does seem as though the crowd is much more immense than it used to be. Though there must be some hypocrisy in complaining about the masses seeking to enter the city when we are an active member of that population.”
“You are a clever one!” The halfling let loose a single snort and stuck out his hand in greeting. “Gian Ramsley.”
Lapat shook the little halfing’s hand. “Lapat Braveson, a pleasure as well.”
“Say, ain’t it a bit hot for gloves?”
Lapat cringed and pulled back his hands. “I-I-I am used to hotter climates,” Lapat stammered. “Just trying to-”
“Keep the travel dust off your skin!” Gian interrupted. “Good thinking! I’m pleased to meet a quick mind amongst all this rabble!”
“Of course, the dust.” Lapat looked around, trying to change the subject. “There does seem to be even more crowding into the city than in years past.”
“Ach!” Gian spat. “Half are witless goons set to drink the city dry, and the other half are even worse...Malina’s religious fanatics.”
Lapat cocked his head curiously, but before he could speak, a woman’s pointed nose jutted forward.
“How dare you speak of the Order in such a manner! It is Our Lady who grants us reason for celebration! She ought to strike you dead for speaking of Her flock like that!”
Gian rolled his eyes, “Lady, if you want to strike anything, strike this!” The halfling pulled down his pants displaying a set of pale butt cheeks that drove the woman back in a screech. “That’ll teach her not to ‘butt’ in on private conversations!” Gian erupted in a braying laugh that left Lapat wondering on the choice of his companion.
“Ah, what fun. But my friend, what brings you to the city? You aren’t a zealot, are you?”
“No, not a believer. I do not find my fate in the gods. I’m just...visiting an old friend.”
Gian looked around, his interest fading. “Well, I am here as a master of cuisine. This is but one stop along what I have deemed a journey of taste!”
“Ah, are you a chef?” Lapat asked.
“Gods no!” Gian blurted. “Too messy! No, I am a food critic! A taste tester! I sample recipes across the continent. Dragon berry pies, minced goat chops, stews to make a man drool.” Lapat watched as Gian’s tongue flicked out rapidly, as if already tasting his next meal.
“What a... interesting profession,” Lapat said. “Perhaps I will need a recommendation or two.”
“Oh, my friend!” Gian’s eyes lit with excitement. “I have much better than that! Cliffside Temple, one of Malina’s sort, is hosting the city council on the night of the festival. It is rumored that the best cooks money can buy will be in attendance! Surely you must come!”
Lapat shook his head, “Thank you for the offer, but I dread the politics of city councils, and I am sure the event is invite-only. And have you not been quite critical of Malina’s followers? Why would you attend an event in her honor?”
“I don’t need to follow their prattle to savor their food! And besides,” Gian reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter, “This here was meant for my son, but he took ill. Please take it!”
“No, thank you. I don’t plan to be in the city long. My wife waits for me back home.”
“Bah! Wives! She won’t mind an extra day or two! The festival is only a few nights away!”
“A few nights I’d rather spend returning to her,” Lapat insisted.
“Ah, well, take it, and if not then it would go to waste anyway.” Gian shoved the letter into Lapat’s hands. “If you do go, then find me there. I’ll walk you through a true dining experience that will have your tongue singing!”
A shuffle in the crowd drew Gian’s attention. “I am going to sneak on ahead here, but I hope to find you at the temple before the night’s festivities truly begin!” He slipped away, his braying laughter carrying on until Lapat could no longer see his bouncing, bulbous form.
After another hour of sweating in place, Lapat passed under the walls. Inside the city, banners flew high upon roofs, signs were polished to a shine, and all manner of people bustled about through the streets rushing in preparation for the festival. Unable to call upon an appropriate carriage with the density of the crowd, Lapat marched forward, his aching knees crying with the rising elevation. It was only at the university gate that he allowed himself a moment to collapse in a nearby bench. As he wiped an undue amount of sweat from his brow, he took in that little had changed from his first arrival so many years ago.
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The red-bricked lecture buildings lorded behind a wide green courtyard, dotted with students of all degrees gathered and studying or lying out in the grass. Out of habit, Lapat looked around the space for a familiar face but found himself alone. He watched curiously as two boys knelt before a bench beside him. With a quick glance back, one pulled out a small knife and dragged it against the wood.
“Stop, Ruffians!” Lapat snapped. “What do you two think you are doing?” Surprise and guilt painted their faces before they fled into the courtyard and out of sight.
Lapat huffed and inspected the bench, feeling the fresh cut deep into its planks. “Delinquents.” His hands ran across dozens of etched words and initials. “Nothing better to do than vandalize...”
Lapat’s heart stopped. Faded, half ruined by another’s mark, lay the letters LB. Lapat touched the initials gently. DN and AO.
“Hello old friends.” He remembered being a first year; his friends around him. All carved a piece, claiming their history. “I suppose we were once delinquents too, weren’t we? So long ago.” He smirked upon seeing JL carved in the corner. “Jana, perhaps we have learned a few things since then.” Pulling his gloves tight, he marched on to the lecture hall in search of his old friend.
Finding a seat at the rear of the bowl-shaped classroom, Lapat followed the students’ gaze down to their professor. From atop a wide lecture stand, Dr. Jana Lockwood turned as she spoke, fingers pointing about to emphasize the lesson, her voice carrying beyond the stage to the furthest seats in the hall. Her hair had grown long and gray since he’d seen her last, but it only made her look all the more refined. Watching her grace on stage in formal green robes, Lapat felt a pang of resentment bubble in his gut, if only for a moment.
“The Gray Schism began in the eastern villages of the continent nearly 800 years ago. Their origin is debated to this day, with some evidence pointing to a tension between the temple-bound followers of the gods who believed magic was a holy tool of the heavens, and the witches and wizards of the time. There is also evidence that there were economic motivations, as the money from laymen that would have gone to temple coffers was now being contracted to magic users for labor, as we see now with wind weavers and smithmen.”
Lockwood’s lips curved into a secretive smile. “Some of my more romantic colleagues point this era beginning with the rumors of a tragic love story. A tale of doomed passion between a noble’s son and a young wizard. A forbidden romance that resulted in the son’s death and spawned an age of violence that echoes through history to our current day. Some say the vast desert beside the city of Aarekeen, the “Dreamless Sands,” or “Spirit Wastes,” is the result of the young wizard’s grief.
Mutterings of surprise sounded out around the class, but Dr. Lockwood continued.
“The story goes that a spell was cast from a sorrow, a pain so deep that it broke the land, poisoning it with monsters that haunt horrific desert storms and rendering the lush area a barren wasteland. Madness, the locals claim, is all that remains in the desert. The sorrow of a man made into a Mad God. After all, what is more devastating, more destructive, more beautiful than love?”
Lockwood spun suddenly. “Regardless, the Gray Schism spread. Sparking a mass eradication of mages and “unholy” magics. As the small casting population was decimated and forced to flee west, it was the kind souls of Meerside who welcomed them and created the safe haven of learning and training that we have at this university. Now, how many souls are estimated to have been lost in these purges?”
A young girl raised her hand, “It is estimated between three thousand and ten thousand.”
Lockwood nodded approvingly, “And how many of those are the layman population? Those who did not preach or practice magic themselves.”
Lapat heard a grumbling a few rows before him.
Lockwood turned to the noise, “What was that? If you are to speak, speak clearly for us all to hear.”
A young human man sauntered to his feet. “I said, ‘Who cares?’”
Gasps escaped around the class, all turning towards Lockwood for direction. She narrowed her gray eyes at the student. “Care?” Lockwood drew the word out, “Why should we not care?”
The student let loose a derisive chuckle, turning to his friends for support. “Those stupid farmers and mud eaters hunted our kind like animals. Who cares how many died? If anything, we should be ashamed that so many of ours did. We are mages! Conduits! If I were there, I would have turned them to dust!”
Angry chatter erupted across the class, all of which was silenced by a raise of Lockwood’s hand.
“What is your name?” she asked coolly.
“Tradley,” He chuckled. “Tradley Sinclair.”
Lockwood smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Please, Tradley, join me on the podium.” His friends gave quiet encouragement as he sauntered down the stairs. As his foot stepped aboard, Lockwood took a position on the opposite side. “You are trained as a Nimbus, correct?”
Tradley smiled confidently. “Yes, ma’am. Top of my class.”
“Good.” Lockwood stopped at the edge of the podium and spun to face him. “Then perform a summons and strike me.”
Tradley hesitated. “Ma’am?”
Lockwood’s gaze was steel. “Strike me. There is approximately four meters between us. I will have ample time to react, though your doubt in my training is noted.”
“I’m not sure-”
“Strike me, Mr. Sinclair!” Lockwood snapped. “That is an order.”
He looked around anxiously, but his companions averted their gaze. Seeing no support and no escape, he closed his eyes and raised his hands. The smell of ozone filled the air, mixing with the young man’s own magical scent; fresh ink and old wine.
Lapat felt his skin tingle with static. Power cracked from the boy, blue sparks running down his frame. Suddenly, he jutted his hands forward, and a thin bolt of lightning erupted from him. Students screamed and threw themselves down but without a flicker of doubt Lockwood flung out a wall of energy, catching the bolt and sending it crackling into the ground.
“One,” Lockwood shouted calmly, not a hair out of place. “Again.”
The boy stammered, a worried gaze flicking out to the audience. “Professor-”
“Again, Mr. Sinclair. Do not try my patience.”
He closed his eyes, and after a moment, another jolt of lightning erupted, only to be driven down into the podium with a crack.
“Two. Again.” Lockwood’s face was cold as ever, though Lapat saw anger bubbling beneath.
The student wiped back sweat, and again lightning erupted only, to be driven down.
“Three. Again.”
He was panting now, the sparks that peppered him shrinking in size. “Professor...I’m...” He fought to catch his breath. Even from this height, Lapat could see his face spotted red with exertion.
“Again, Mr. Sinclair,” Lockwood demanded.
Tradley gritted his teeth once more, but the bolt flew out erratically and arced towards the audience. Students screamed, and Lapat rushed to stand, but Lockwood reached out, catching the bolt and slamming it to the ground.
Tradley fell to his knees, his chest heaving. “Professor...I... I can’t...”
Lockwood marched over to him, pushing back a fallen strand of gray hair from her face. “Four.” Her voice was cold. “Four times you were able to summon. Four lives you would have claimed. And then what, Mr. Sinclair?” She kneeled to his level, “What would you have done as the- what did you call them? ‘Mud eaters?’ What would you have done as they charged you?”
There was only the sound of Tradley’s breathing echoing across the hall.
“Nothing,” Lockwood hissed. She whirled to face the rest of the class, her eyes viscous and cold. “Four times! Four lives! A trained mage may have reached eight! A master perhaps ten or fifteen!”
Her stare traced the room slowly. “We are not gods. The power granted to us and strengthened by study is but a small spark. Even the pious priests working to save lives and cure ailments in their churches do not do so alone! They could not! Even most highly trained caster is incapable of the precision required to stitch together a bone. Only the gods wield such might. Followers of faith carry their gods’ power only in tandem with others. Sharing the burden. We often do not have this luxury. When we are called to action we must act alone, balancing a torrent of power upon a pinprick of control. To deny this is to walk with destruction!
“We do not exist beyond the good people who tend the land or anyone else. We have a power, yes. But we are not tools of destruction nor judge, jury, and executioner. Our powers have limits! One that has been abused and instead created fear in laymen’s hearts. Understand you are gifted with this ability but burdened with its responsibility. The same hand that waters crops can also wash away a harvest. We are not gods, just men and women with limits. Take Mr. Sinclair to the nurse. The rest of you prepare for next week’s exam. Class dismissed!”
Lapat approached the stage as the last of the students rushed out the door, their excited whispers and chittering filling the air. “Quite the display, professor. You’ve grown bolder in your old age.”
“Old?” Dr. Jana Lockwood turned and looked at him with a wide smile, erasing years off her face. “I heard you huffing and puffing from the very back row.”
Lapat chuckled, “The walk wasn’t nearly as far when we were students.”
Jana stepped from the podium and embraced him. “It is good to see you, old friend. Come, let’s retreat to my office. I hope you can manage a few more steps.”
Lapat followed her out of the lecture hall and down the hallway. “I remember when Professor Huey did the same thing to our class. Though your student looked twice as frightened as we had been.”
Jana sighed, “Yes, well, it is not a demonstration I aimed to use lightly. It ages me every semester, but just as it humbled us as youths, I hope it has similar effects on my students.” Jana casted a wink at Lapat. “Though I remember one such student unmoved, and if I recall correctly, had immediately declared his intention of becoming the greatest caster alive.”
Lapat cringed. “The impetous nature of youth. I was scared as anyone. Just...more determined.”
“Determined?” Jana laughed, “Stubborn more like! Graduated top of the class and left us all in the dust!” A sadness dimmed Jana’s eyes. “In more ways than one. Here is my office.”
They stepped through, and Lapat was taken aback. The room glowed with greenery, twisting vines and blooming flowers covered the walls, stemming from a thick brown trunk at the center of the space.
“Goodness, Jana! It survived!” Lapat stepped closer, the smell of an old forest filling his nose. “I remember it as little more than a sapling!”
Jana put her bag down on a small oak desk and smiled. “It was my little reminder of home. Everyone said it was foolish and doomed to die before it ever bloomed.” Jana looked lovingly at Lapat. “Everyone but you.”
Lapat gasped, “I didn’t know it had been so long.”
“Thirty years from when you last saw it, before graduation. Twenty since you last came back to the city. Five since I’d last heard from you. The trees grow slowly but...It’s been a long time.”
Regret and shame twisted his stomach, “I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. It... It’s been...May I sit?”
Jana pulled forward two chairs. “Is everything alright? When I received your letter, I must admit I was grateful, though surprised. What brings you all this way after all this time?”
“I’m...” The truth sat on his gut like a boulder. Jana stared at him curiously as he tried to find the words.
If there is anyone I can trust, it is Jana, he thought. But fear prodded at the back of his mind.
“It’s my wife,” Lapat said, the lie slipping from his mouth. “She isn’t well.”
Jana put a hand on Lapat’s knee. “I am so sorry. What is the diagnosis? The symptoms? We have some of the best doctors this side of the continent.”
Lapat’s mouth was dry, the words rough. “No, it isn’t...”
“What is it, Lapat? You can tell me.”
“I don’t know for certain. I have a few working theories. But pathology was never my expertise. I hardly dare say it, but” he sighed, trying to fight the itch beneath his gloved hands, “I fear it may be the Black Rot.”
Jana leapt back, her hand at her gasping mouth. “Gods be good! Are you certain?”
“Truthfully, no. Some of the early signs have appeared: Exhaustion, cramps, a cough and,” Lapat closed his eyes shamefully. “Black spores on the skin.”
“Oh, Pat,” Jana gasped. “I am so sorry. How far along is she? Symptoms of delusions? Muscle pain? Nightmares?”
The scream in his nightmare echoed in the back of his mind. “No, nothing yet.”
“How is this possible? Usually, only magic users catch it. At least those who live long enough not to have already burnt out. A terrible side effect of being exposed to a lifetime of magic. She is not a caster, is she?”
“No,” Lapat said sternly. “That is far too dangerous.”
“And she wasn’t exposed to magic somehow? Perhaps you made a mistake and-”
“No!” Lapat barked sharply. “I wouldn't do that!”
Jana raised her palms to calm him. “Alright, I just had to ask.” She eyed Lapat carefully, “And you haven’t been affected? You always pushed harder than anyone else-”
Lapat felt another lie fly from his lips. “No. I’m fine.”
Jana furrowed her brow, “If you were, you’d know that there is no cure, and continued magic use would only hasten the sickness.”
“Of course, I know that!” Lapat snapped.
He’d banished the pain from his mind, but just speaking about it... Lapat looked up. Jana had pulled back, a hurt look upon her face. “Jan, I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just...”
“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “It is a terrifying thing.”
“I knew the risks,” Lapat explained. “We all did. Practicing magic makes us susceptible to power beyond our mortal selves. Too much exposure causes the rot. I knew that.”
“Did you?” Jana prodded. “It never stopped you before or even slowed you down. I remember that day in class being shown the recovered remains of a black rot victim, and you never even blinked.”
“I just...I thought maybe...”
“You thought you’d be different,” Jana stated. “You thought you could beat it.”
Lapat ground his teeth. “There has to be a way. A spell or potion-”
She stood, throwing her hands in the air. “Gods, you still think you are better than everything, don’t you? You think you are the exception to the consequences?”
Anger flared in Lapat, “Not an exception, but there must be a way to understand it, to diagnose it, to cure it!”
“I’m sorry about your wife. I really am, but there is no cure!” Jana shouted. “It is the limit on all casters, and anyone else exposed to too much power! It spreads in you and rots everything away until you are a soul trapped in an undying husk of a body!”
“I have to try!” Lapat screamed. “No matter what! I’ve always surpassed you in power! You and everyone else!”
Jana stepped back, her eyes wide with fear.
Lapat slumped into the chair. Shame painted his face. “Jan, I’m sorry. That was unkind. I-” he whispered. “I have to try. For...for her.”
Jana shook her head and knelt beside him, “Pat, I’m sorry.” She stammered to find the words. “Is there anything I can do?”
“The University,” Lapat whispered. “The archives might have something.”
Jana cringed, “Pat, the best minds have searched for cures and clues for centuries.”
“Maybe something was missed,” Lapat insisted.
Jana sighed, “Perhaps. But you need a university title to access the archives, and you left a long-” She looked at him suddenly, betrayal flashed in her eyes.
“I had hoped you’d help me,” Lapat admitted.
Jana stepped away, “Here I thought you’d written to me after all these years to see an old friend.” Betrayal grated her voice.
“Please, Jan,” Lapat pleaded.
“You’d be better off going home and spending what time you can with her before the end.”
Lapat cringed from the cold truth. “You might be right. But I need to try. I hope you understand that.”
“I understand, old friend.” She turned around, sadness aging her. “You never did know how to give up, did you? Even as an old man, you’ve only gotten worse.”
Lapat shrugged. “What other choice do I have?”
Jana stared at him, a look in her eyes like she was already saying goodbye. “There is always a choice.”