Prologue
24th of the Turn of Maeana, 4744
Wet and shivering, he awoke to the roar of the surf and the whistling of the Winter wind. Lying on his back, a wave of water rushed up and covered his legs, shocking him with its chill. His eyes shot open. A uniformly gray sky stared down at him.
In a croaking whisper, he muttered, “Syra?”
Dragging his elongated arms slowly to his sides, he dug spindly fingers into the wet sand, pushed himself up into a sitting position, and scanned the beach. Other than hunks of rock jutting up from the mud brown sand and a lone gull strutting along the edge of the breakers, it was empty.
The last thing he remembered was Syra standing beside him. With a touch more strength in his voice he said, “Syra?” His mouth tasted of saltwater.
Rotating his head, he gazed in the other direction. His soaking wet, long, white-blonde hair whipped him in the face and stuck, plastered against his pale skin.
After clearing his throat, he called out, “Syra?” His voice sounded small against the roar of the waves crashing on the shore. Raising it even more, he cried, “Syra?!”
There was no answer.
Another wave rushed in from the sea over him. Gasping against the cold, he stood on wobbly legs, his blue robes clinging to his thin frame. He spun around, searching in all directions. The beach was barren. Nothing but sand, surf, and rocks greeted his anxious stare. The towers of the academy rose in the distance.
Dark tendrils of panic began to wind their way around him.
“Syra!”
Spotting a hulking boulder several dozen paces away, he decided to get a better view of the area. He stumbled through the sand toward it, all the while shivering uncontrollably. His entire body was numb.
Upon reaching the rock, he attempted to scale it, but his long limbs would not respond properly. He tried to grab hold of a rough edge and pull himself up, but his wet fingers slipped from the rock.
“Beelvra!”
He gripped the handhold again, and tried a second time. Again, he failed. His fingers were too cold and weak. Frustrated, he reached out for the white Strands of Air, and tried to a knit a quick Weave, but he could not concentrate. Prolonged exposure to the wet and cold had affected his mind as well as his body. Slouching forward, he leaned against the rock and tried to clear his head.
He remembered bringing Syra here to help her prepare for her final trial of the semester. Preceptors were not supposed to give individual aid but he had made an exception for Syra. In her six turns at Immylla, the pair had grown close. Very close.
Resting his forehead against the cold stone, he stared at his feet and muttered, “What in the Nine Hells happened…?”
Drops of crimson blood fell to the sand. Lifting his hand, he found a long gash on his palm and reasoned he must have cut it on the boulder. His hand was so numb that he had not even felt the slash. Now that he was aware of the wound, however, it began to throb.
Turning around, he faced the sea. The tide appeared to be coming in, which meant he had been unconscious for a few hours. As he stared at the ocean, trying to dredge up his memory, he noticed the high tide mark was gone. Looking up and down the beach, he spotted a long stretch of sand where the line of driftwood and reeds had been washed away.
Suddenly, he remembered. His eyes opened wide.
“Bless the Gods…”
Syra had reached for far too many Strands of Water, wanting to impress him. Syra was strong with Water, but like the rest of the acolytes here, she had only been working with the Strands for six turns. She tried to manage them all but the Weave became more and more tangled. He had given her leeway, hoping she could fix her mistake.
Shutting his eyes, he cursed himself. Had she been any of his other students, he would have unraveled the twisted mess of Strands, admonished Syra for overreaching, and made her start again. His love for her had blinded him. By the time he realized what she had wrought, it was too late.
With almost no warning, a thirty-foot wall of water had risen from the sea and struck the shore. He tried to Weave a protective barrier of pure Air around them both, but there had been no time. With Syra screaming, he reached out to grab her arm, trying to hold onto her as the water struck, but the torrent had ripped her from him almost instantly.
The bitter seaside felt like a roasting midsummer day compared to the cold emptiness that suddenly filled him.
“Syra…”
Pushing himself away from the boulder, he hurried inland, scanning the beach and praying the wave had deposited her in the sand before rushing back into the sea. Pools of water left over from the wave filled dozens of shallow depressions. Tripping over his wet robes, he fell into one of the pools, splashing into the cold water. Rising, he hurried along, whipping his head around in all directions.
“Syra!”
A hundred paces away in the direction of the academy, he spotted a lump of gray in one of the pools. The shade of the robe was darker because it was wet, but he instantly recognized the gray acolyte garb.
“No…”
He turned and sprinted, swinging his long arms as he ran.
“Syra! Syra!”
He rushed straight through another arctic pool on his way to Syra’s side, hoping to find that she was simply unconscious as he had been. As he neared, he realized in horror that she was face down in the shallow pool. The crimson ribbon she wore to tie back her blonde hair was the only speck of color in the dirty pool.
“No…no, no, no…”
Jumping into the water, he dropped to his knees and flipped her over, already knowing she was dead. A red, bloodless gash marred the left side of her face, running from her temple to her chin. Most likely, she had hit her head on one of the boulders that littered the beach as the wave had carried her inland. He almost hoped that was the case. He could not bear the thought that she had drowned.
Cradling her limp body in his arms, he stared into her sightless eyes and whispered, “Khirlorn raecil erian elrict, Maeana.”
“You are asking the wrong God for aid.”
Startled, he looked up and found a saeljul draped in long, black robes standing a dozen paces away. His white-blonde hair was pulled back tight, presumably bound behind his head. His manner of dress denoted that he certainly was not from the academy.
Wondering how the stranger had approached without him noticing, he stared at the saeljul blankly, unshed tears blurring his vision.
The saeljul brought his hands together at his waist, folded them, and said, “Maeana is not the God you should be pleading to, Jhaell.”
At the mention of his name, Jhaell’s eyes narrowed. His senses might be muddled, but he was confident that he had never met the figure standing before him.
“You know my name…how?
A sly smile spread over the stranger’s wide lips.
“Do you believe in fate, Jhaell? Or is your life your own to live?”
Jhaell was in no mood to play riddles. Glaring at the saeljul, he muttered, “Leave me be, outsider.”
“I cannot do that.”
Jhaell stared at the saeljul, bewildered and angry.
“Go away!”
Still, the stranger did not move. Looking to Syra’s dead body, he asked, “How will you explain this to your superiors at the academy? I doubt they will be happy with what transpired here.” He shifted his gaze to Jhaell and shook his head slowly. “Preceptors getting their students killed? The registry will not be pleased, I think.”
Jhaell stared at the saeljul, deeply disturbed by how much the outsider knew about him. As he considered the actual question, his mood grew even darker. Accidents were common when teaching acolytes, but deaths were rare. The last had been over three decades ago.
Looking back down to Syra’s slack face, Jhaell shook his head and said quietly, “I do not know…nor do I care.” Once he reported Syra’s death to the Distinguished Ones, his time as a preceptor at Immylla would be over.
The stranger approached, stopping at the edge of the pool.
“If you would like, I can help you, Jhaell. But I need you to help me, too.”
Pulling his gaze from Syra, Jhaell stared up at the saeljul. The Winter wind blowing off the sea whipped the stranger’s robes.
“Who are you?”
The corners of the saeljul’s wide mouth turned up a bit.
“The answer to that question is…complicated.”
Jhaell pressed, “Tell me who you are, how you know me, and what you are doing here!”
Ignoring his demands entirely, the stranger nodded at Syra and said, “She can still be saved, Jhaell.”
Shaking his head, Jhaell growled, “You’re mad. She’s already dead.”
With a tiny shrug and a calm smile, the stranger said, “So?”
Jhaell wondered if he was so addled from the wave that he was imagining this conversation.
“What do mean, ‘so?’” exclaimed Jhaell angrily. “Syra is gone! She is dead!”
The stranger nodded and said, “For the time being, yes.”
Baffled and furious at the same time, Jhaell shouted, “Why are you bothering me? Go away and leave me be!”
With a tiny sigh, the saeljul said, “I suppose it will be easier if I just show you…”
Shifting his attention away from Jhaell, the stranger stared into the empty air above the beach. Moments later, Jhaell felt the familiar crackling of the Strands and watched as the saeljul pulled forth hundreds of pulsating gold and silver threads. He deftly wove them together, swifter than Jhaell had ever seen any mage work with the Strands. In the span it took for Jhaell to gasp, the stranger had completed the massive Weave.
Jhaell stared in awe at the glittering mass of pulsing strings, gold and silver against the gray sky. He had never seen so many Strands in one place before. Noticing a number of holes in the pattern, he realized the stranger had used at least one type of Strand that Jhaell could not touch.
Staring with wide eyes, he muttered, “How is it—”
“Quiet!” interrupted the stranger tersely, his face a mask of intense concentration. The saeljul’s gaze shifted to Syra’s corpse and the bundle of Strands dropped from the air and surrounded her, wrapping Syra in a web of gold and silver. “This will not last long. I am meddling in a domain that is not mine…”
Confused, Jhaell asked, “What won’t—?”
Suddenly, he felt Syra stir in his arms.
Startled, he stared down and watched Syra’s eyes grow wide as she took a deep, gasping breath as though she were emerging from an extended, underwater swim. Fresh, red blood began to seep from the wound on the side of her face. Her eyes darted about for a moment before locking on Jhaell’s face. Shock and confusion flooded her expression.
“Jhaell…?”
This was impossible. No mage was capable of doing this.
Mouth agape, he muttered, “Syra…?”
Wondering if the stranger was weaving some type of illusion, he reached down to touch Syra’s face. As he did, her gaze shot to the gash on his palm. Reaching up, she grabbed his wrist and a look of concern flashed over her face.
“Oh, Jhaell…you hurt yourself! How did that—?” She cut off and her eyes went round. Drawing in a quick breath, she whispered in quiet shock, “The wave!” Peering into his eyes, she pleaded, “I am so sorry, Jhaell. I did not think I had reached for—”
“Hush, Syra,” murmured Jhaell. His heart pounded in his chest. A joyful smile spread his face. “It was an accident.”
Embarrassment washed over Syra’s face.
“I so wanted to impress you, Jhaell. I wanted you…to be…proud of…” She trailed off and began to shiver. Within moments, she was shaking uncontrollably.
Jhaell’s joy fled. Something was wrong.
Syra’s eyebrows drew together. In a quiet, bewildered voice, she mumbled, “I’m cold, Jhaell.” She stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Why am I so cold?”
Panicking, Jhaell began to move, intending to lift her from the chilly pool when the glittering Weave around Syra suddenly fell apart, the Strands unraveling and fading in an instant. Syra immediately went limp in his arms, her head lolling to one side and her eyes staring sightlessly at the white-capped sea.
Syra had died twice today.
Shaking his head, Jhaell muttered, “No…no…” Lifting his head, he stared at the stranger and demanded, “Bring her back!”
The saeljul shook his head and said, “I cannot. That Weave is a difficult one to maintain.”
Jhaell did not want excuses. Angry, he shouted, “Try again!”
A dark, wicked shadow passed over the saeljul’s face. For a moment, Jhaell felt a deep, soul-wrenching fear he had never before experienced in his life.
“Do not make demands of me, Jhaell Myrr! Not now! Not ever!”
Shaking his head quickly, Jhaell muttered, “I’m sorry…I did not mean to…” He trailed off and went silent, staring at the seething saeljul.
The stranger glowered at him for a long moment before shutting his eyes and taking in a long, settling breath. After exhaling slowly, the outsider reopened his eyes and said gently, “Pardon my outburst.”
The numb look Jhaell gave in response had nothing to do with the wintry weather and his soaked, frigid clothes.
The saeljul stared at Syra and cocked an eyebrow. “Be grateful for the moment you had, Jhaell. I did not expect to refute Maeana’s hold on her soul as long as I did.”
Staring in awe at the saeljul, Jhaell muttered, “How did you do that? There is not a mage on all of Terrene that can do what you did.”
“Simple, Jhaell,” said the stranger calmly. “I am not a mage.”
Jhaell’s eyebrows drew together. He had seen the saeljul Weave the Strands.
With a slight smile, the saeljul said softly, “My name is Tandyr. And I desire your assistance.”
