Therelin wiped sweat off his brow without interrupting his line of sight. His eyes were locked on Master Igard’s straight sword, as was all the concentration he could bring to bear. The Master strode forward still, though each step was hefty and calculated; Igard moved as though he was carrying a sizeable brick, not a small metal blade. Their mental duel lasted only a few moments longer—when he reached Therelin, Igard let go of his sword. Therelin’s focus had made the weapon as heavy as a slab and it clashed to the dirt with a reverberating thud. Therelin let out his breath with relief; his head hurt, and his vision was swimming.
“Better, slightly,” Igard said. The Masters that frequented the casual training yard on the Isle of Dusk had praised Therelin for his quick grasp of these techniques, but the process of refining and improving came slower to him. His gift was great, according to Igard, but he needed more experience with mentors.
Therelin sighed again. “Thank you,” he said, and stepped aside. He had been quickly advanced to a group of intermediate magicians—all of varying ages and origins—so his absence made room for another duelist to challenge Master Igard’s focus. He had to walk around a group of meditating rudimentary pupils before he found a place to sit.
Another of the magicians of middling ability was walking by—a man in his late twenties named Kren. “May I join you?” he asked, smiling.
“By all means.” Therelin nodded. He reached into his pack and brought out a small animal-hide square, cinched at the top with an obsidian pin. He unfolded it to reveal his salad lunch. Kren was holding a small wooden bowl; they were serving a stew from the preparation hall today. It contained meat, so Therelin had arranged his own cuisine.
“You’re from Keth, right?” Kren asked, looking at Therelin’s salad. “You must be new on the Isle. I think I know all the usual tenants by their appearance at least, if not their name.”
“I am,” Therelin said. He used his wooden utensil to poke a few green leaves and put them in his mouth.
“That’s pretty far east,” Kren nodded. He paused for a gulp of his stew broth. “There’s only ocean beyond it, right? Is the war going that way too?”
Therelin grimaced. “That’s definitely a fear, but no one knows for sure. I hope to see it stopped before then.”
“You and me both,” Kren said, smiling politely.
“Oh, do you know people from Keth?” Therelin asked. Not many of his kin left that isle.
“Just the one now,” the other mage said, grinning and waving his spoon in Therelin’s direction. Kren had even darker skin than Therelin, though not as dark as the Isle’s inhabitants that claimed an origin on the Elder Coast. He had short curly hair and his beard was like obsidian ringlets. His clothes didn’t make it clear what social class he might hail from, if his home even had such things. On the Isle of Dusk, these things didn’t seem to matter. “I just like to keep an ear open for where it’s safe to go these days, you know? Sooner or later, I’m going to have to leave the Isle again.”
“You’ve been training pretty hard,” Therelin observed. “Aren’t you going to go fight when you leave the Isle?” He tossed aside a brown piece of lettuce and then served himself another mouthful.
Kren stiffened, though his expression remained playful. “I’ve got enough people who want me dead already, thank you very much. I’ve been here a long time now, it feels like, but I plan to head north when the time comes, not south.” After a beat, he groaned and added, “You’ll probably think me a coward, now…”
Therelin shrugged dismissively. “Why do people want you dead?”
Instead of reacting grimly or delving into a difficult story, Kren beamed. He pointed at the sword strapped to his back, which was nothing but a random well-worn weapon. “You’ve probably seen me with this sword, right? It’s lucky. I stole it from Mad Raely back in Maykren. She’s put a bounty of 500 iron coins on my head, so rubbing shoulders with mercenaries in the war isn’t a tantalizing proposition.” Then he leaned closer, smiling ear-to-ear. “Between me and you, I don’t think Mad Raely could afford 500 iron coins.”
Therelin couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s strange story. “Why do you say the blade’s lucky?”
“Well, Raely said it was. She found it in the mud of a waterway when three guards were after her—got her out of that conundrum just fine,” recounted Kren. “Then I watched her hit a throwing knife out of thin air with it, and I started to believe. She’s been in harm’s way a dozen times and this sword was always the difference between life and death. And she rarely lost gambles she made. I was sick of the city—and my skills being exploited—so I came up with a scheme and stole it. Worked like a charm, you see? Lucky.”
“I’m impressed,” Therelin allowed. “Seems like I could use one of those.” Of course, he would be using it to hit incoming threats out of the air, not dealing with three guards in a clearly questionable manner.
“Have you got 500 iron coins?” Kren asked, raising his eyebrows. He scooped up some vegetables from his wooden bowl.
Therelin snorted. “I don’t mean your sword specifically,” he explained. “Just something like it.”
Kren finished his mouthful. “Well, sorry friend. I’ve been here for… is it two years now? I suppose it is. I haven’t come across any spell to make a sword lucky, though I didn’t try asking old Norgin about it.”
“Would Master Norgin be able to make a weapon like yours?” Therelin questioned.
“No, no,” Kren admitted. “But he knows what is possible and where to look for that knowledge. Still, I wouldn’t recommend asking. Most magicians I’ve talked to about Mad Raely’s sword say that luck isn’t measurable or manipulatable by magic—if luck is even a real thing at all.”
For a second, Therelin pondered the notion of enchanting weapons again. He knew the basics—and he also knew he needed a sword himself. It was looking more and more like his best option for contributing to the war effort was accepting Master Byranim’s mission, and he wanted every option to defend himself on the mainland, should he need it. After a moment, he finished his salad and thought about something else that Kren had said. “So, you said you plan to head north when the time comes. Why north?”
“Can’t go west—Mad Raely’s got my face on a dozen wanted boards that way. Can’t go south—unless I want to end it all the easy way,” Kren said, rolling his eyes. “Can’t go east—unless, gods-be-willing, your home manages to avoid the war. North seems like the safest way to go, relatively.”
Therelin nodded to each item of Kren’s list. “I’m heading north myself in a few weeks’ time. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?”
Kren smirked. “Well, my original plan was to wait on the Isle until the mad mage’s ships are bearing down upon it, then escape at the last moment… you know, all dramatic-like. But let me think on your offer. I’ve been feeling rather cooped-up these last few Moons.”
“Good. Just let me know soon after next moon’s summit,” Therelin said. He liked Kren, though the man seemed to have lived a wildly different life than him. Still, the immanent meeting of magicians on the Isle of Dusk occupied most of his attention. He hoped to meet more of Gethra’s community of mages, but he also wondered if he would spot any familiar faces.