For two weeks, Therelin and Kren worked for wages in Noress-That-Was. Kren spent long days relearning the baker’s trade, while Therelin harvested those herbs he knew and began learning about those he didn’t. He brought nutmeg and mace to the shop where Kren worked and sold it for as much as Kren was making each day. Once, he was lucky enough to find a few saffron plants amid the shrubbery of a rare clearing in the tightly knit broadleaf forest.
News, trickling out of Cobblestone Bog and the frequently-shifting city harbour, was much less fortunate. It seemed that the city of Aloor had now fallen to Tarro’s armies. Only Bellasa—on the east end of the landmass—and Starath—an isle on the Orrish—continued resisting its siege. Therelin sometimes looked out from the rolling mountains of Var Nordos, at the stretching, bleak expanse, and wondered where Tarro was…out there. Was he still on the Isle of Dusk? Was he overseeing the destruction of Starath or Bellasa? And how long before the occasional corsair galley that harassed Noressi waterways came accompanied by a hundred others?
He hoped the plethora of sails around Noress-That-Was—and the Matriarch’s other fleets he knew navigated the smaller islands between here and the Raderan coast—would be enough to protect the remnants of this ancient Empire.
One day, close to the end of the 6th Moon, Therelin was delivering another pouch of herbs to the bakers. Kren waved at him, but went back to work. It was close to the end of his work day; soon the shop would be locked and boarded up. Kren seemed perfectly content to work here, day-in and day-out. It wasn’t enough for Therelin, though—not in the long run.
He stood near the window, looking out into the street through a set of four glass panes. Most men out there had swords on their belts—ceremonial or protective. Some women were armed, too, though in Noress it was less common than in Sheld or Saanazar. Therelin was still uncertain how he felt about carrying a tool for killing. The concept would have made him an outcast in Keth, while its use would have led directly to true exile. Still…Therelin needed to defend himself. He cared about his explorations and he cared about doing his part in the coming struggles. The magicians he had met were his brothers. He rubbed a scratch in the glass with one finger.
A man was sitting on the top of the hill, feet angled away from the boulder where he rested. The trees around him, looming overhead, were all dead and leafless. His pack was discarded nearby, leaning against a grey tree trunk. Within was a writing kit, complete with a quill in a case, an inkwell, blank parchment, wax, and a seal. The seal had an animal design on it… but little detail. The man, face obscured by shadow, was holding his canteen—then opening it, then lifting it overhead. Only dirt poured out. Thirsty, the man drank the sand until it filled his mouth and poured over his cheeks. Then the shadows were obscuring it all, pulling the hill back, away, out of sight…
“Therelin?” Kren was asking. “There you are. Come on back.”
Therelin blinked, eyes focusing as though he’d been asleep for half-an-hour. He was slumped against the wall of the bakery, stopped from reaching the floor only by the wide window sill. A vision, he realized, as his mind cleared. He flicked his eyes rapidly and then looked at Kren again.
“Are you good?”
“I—I’m fine,” Therelin stammered. “Just another vision.”
Kren nodded. It wasn’t ordinary to delve into the details of another magician’s visions or their focus—that around which their visions always centered. Instead, Kren said, “Right, I see. Anything useful?”
“I still have yet to see…” Therelin muttered. Drinking dirt? he wondered. And what was the significance of the dead trees? If only he could remember the details of that animal sigil…he longed for a more tangible detail. He would need to figure out what the dream-like experience concerned this time.
“Right,” Kren said. He glanced around the bakery, getting a nod from one of the other apprentices. “You need a drink or something. I’m done here. Shall we?”
Therelin smiled. “Let’s go,” he said, standing up. He snatched up his old driftwood staff from near the door and led Kren outside. The day seemed brighter now, but his ever-growing coin pouch still felt too light. It certainly wasn’t the weight of a sword.