Hot Obsidian. Olga McArrow

lowered his eyes, suddenly shy. “I’ve never killed any dark creatures before. This morok was my first kill…”

      “Why didn’t you tell us? We could've helped you!” grunted Lainuver.

      Bala turned to him and made a hasty forbidding gesture which, along with Bala’s sad face, explained a lot. Maraskaran alone, of all people here, knew how helpless a warrior was when a wave of morok’s magic hit him.

      “Well, we could have told the Crimsons about the monster then,” Lainuver kept going, “let them face that thing with a couple of battle Sevens!”

      “No, we couldn’t,” Orion stopped him and added with a tired reproach, “Kosta already told you why. Just imagine what the mages would do to him if they learned that he can sense the darklings!”

      A heavy silence fell. It made the gloomy little room look even darker, despite the golden rays of the morning sun slanting through the open balcony door.

      Kangassk Ollardian was right to warn his son against revealing his secret to anyone. And most likely about the mages instantly recruiting him too. They would drag him into every raid, use him to detect dark creatures as a village sorcerer uses a divining rod to find water. “Oh, the boy is coughing again? Good! Reinforce the perimeter and tell everyone to stand ready!”

      Kosta’s life would turn into endless torture. How long would he live? An illness that makes you cough blood is no joke. Oh, but no, they would not let him die too soon! They would prolong his life – and suffering! – with medicine and magic and in the end they would assign a battle Seven to him so the donors would sustain his life as long as possible.

      Sainar used to say that the worldholders and their mages would do anything “for the greater good”. So why wouldn’t they sacrifice one boy to a "good" cause…

      That made Sainar’s own decision – about sacrificing not one but nine boys to his Order’s plan – look quite ironic. But only Abadar, Orlaya, and their apprentices knew that, of course.

      For the whole time of Sarien’s Sarra interrogation, it was touch and go whether Kosta would live. The boy steered through all her tricks and traps as gracefully as a pirate captain steers his ship through the Perilous Archipelago. Even Juel gave a deep sigh of relief after learning that. He wished he could somehow steer between his oaths, duties, honour, and the Order’s mission the same way and bring his little team – all the boys – alive to the final point of the journey. It was a beautiful dream, a dream worthy of living for. One moment, it quenched Juel’s rage and lit a small candle of hope under his heart. But a reminiscence that rose in his mind the next moment barred its way…

      “I don’t want to lead these people to their death,” said Juel, looking his master in the eye. “I’m not a murderer and not a liar.”

      “I know,” said Kangassk Abadar, crossing his arms on his chest. His cloak was flapping in the wind like a flag. “I will be honest with you, Juel. There is no one to murder there. They died a long time ago, even before becoming the apprentices of the Order. You alone are real of the whole team.”

      “I don’t understand…” recoiled Juel.

      “I know. But you will,” Abadar leaned forward. “You will see the truth, all of it, very clearly, when you step onto the shore of the Karmasan sea with Hot Obsidian burning on your chest.”

      “…died a long time ago…” The cruel phrase echoed in Juel’s mind again.

      He raised his eyes and saw that a lot of time had passed while he was brooding over the past, relieving the strange conversation over and over again in the vain hope of grasping the meaning of his master’s words.

      Bala was busy cooking breakfast for the whole team. Kosta had changed into a clean set of clothes and was asking Pai about a magical way to remove blood stains because plain soap had been no help. Orion was making a wooden flute for Jarmin, and Jarmin was nagging Oasis about more stories…

      With Kosta's life no longer in danger, there were chatter and laughter in the room again. More than ever, the small flat felt like home.

      “…you alone are real of the whole team…” another echo rose from Juel’s memory.

      The austere Faizul hid his face in his hands. He felt like crying now, as a helpless little child would.

      Chapter 7. Divide

      When I was small

      My sworn oath was spoken

      And I will honour it whole.

      My word was given

      Ere my mind was woken

      When there was peace in my soul.

      I kept my promise

      Through the years, unbroken

      And I have won me a sword.

      If I could return,

      Knew what it might betoken,

      Yes, again I would give my word.

      Max Milian, when he was a child

      Einar Sharlou was enjoying the view opening from the college loftiest tower. He was alone there, on the balcony, alone with his thoughts.

      Those were the last days of spring but the weather was summer-hot. It turned the whole city into a giant frying pan and made the college moat the only safe haven for everyone suffering from the heat. Einar could hear students and other kids splashing in the college moat and deeply regretted being unable to join them. A magister's status had its downsides, indeed…

      With a tired sigh, Einar turned away from the city and gave the lush green of the Firaskian forest a long, yearning look. There was shade, beautiful, tempting shade under the ancient cedars; and quiet. If only that charming place weren’t crawling with dark creatures… like the one his young friend Kosta had killed recently. A twelve-year-old ambasiath.

      The morok was about two centuries old. Einar was the one who had put its head into a formaldehyde jar in the college museum, so he knew that for sure. Just like most mages, Einar Sharlou usually considered the ambasiaths’ way a waste of magical potential. But sometimes, their deeds made him doubt himself. Kosta’s famous victory over the moroks was certainly one of those. And all when he, Sharlou, must finally decide what to do with Pai!

      Pai Prior was a talented boy; even more: a boy living and breathing his dream of becoming a mage. He studied so hard, he shone so brightly! He was everything Einar dreamed of being and was never going to be, but instead of getting jealous, the junior magister wanted to help. After these months, the very thought of letting such talent go to waste became unbearable to Einar Sharlou.

      But accepting Pai to the college was easier said than done. Mages and ambasiaths had an unspoken treaty that forbade either side from recruiting children from the other. Overcoming that was no laughing matter, especially for someone standing so low in the mage hierarchy as Einar did…

      A scream interrupted Sharlou’s thoughts… a painfully familiar scream.

      A Transvolo done properly looks like a ripple in the air for an outside observer, a slight blur similar to the one you see when hot air “dances” above a frying pan or a Firaskian street on a summer day. That ripple plays tricks with the observer’s vision, making it impossible to spot the exact moment when the Transvolo’s caster appears.

      The Transvolo witnessed by Einar Sharlou above the college was wrong, horribly wrong. There was no peaceful ripple in the air, no gentle blurring of vision. No, the fabric of reality itself had twisted in a tight knot that burst with a sickening gurgling sound when the caster of that abomination appeared. Pai Prior.

      If it wasn’t for Einar Sharlou who had happened to be there by pure chance, that fall would have killed the boy. Yes, Pai knew levitation spells: both his own and the classic one, but lifting yourself with a levitation