The villagers had directed the authorities toward Snapper’s house and frequent fishing haunts by the shore. If Snapper returned to pack supplies for a long journey, he would risk being arrested on sight. Considering this, Snapper and Kite went in the exact opposite direction: further inland. They followed a small rocky path instead of the main road, moving at a brisk walk to avoid drawing the attention of anyone looking for runners.

The nearest town was half a day’s journey away, but its dense population would help hide Kite and Snapper from the authorities. Both fugitives had distinctive appearances that would make it difficult to avoid notice near the village. Kite’s black hair and sharp-boned face were common in the far west, but no one in the fishing community near Snapper’s village had such features. Meanwhile, Snapper sported the algae-red hair found only on rare migrants from beyond the northern mountains. Anyone searching for these traits in the rural areas would be able to identify the two fugitives at first glance. However, in a larger town with tourists and merchants from afar, their foreign attributes would be less remarkable among an ever-changing population.

After an hour of walking, the two travelers came to a small stream that flowed out from an underground spring. The rocks around the path had grown tall and complex, rising in high arches or dipping into shallow caves that provided shelter from the late-morning sunshine. The travelers paused by the stream. Kite splashed his face with water and shook his head, shedding droplets everywhere. Snapper moved further upstream to avoid the spray. He refilled his water flask and took a deep draught of the cool liquid.

Kite sat on a rock with one hand in the stream, trailing his fingers through the water.

“Nice caves. Do you suppose they’re natural or—” Kite’s sword flashed from its sheath just in time to deflect an arrow.

Before Kite could fully stand, a person lunged from between two tall rocks, tackling him into the stream. Both people crashed into the water with a huge splash.

“Kite!” Snapper flattened himself against the nearest boulder, hoping that the uneven stone would be enough to provide shelter from the archer. He recognized the striped uniform of the local militia amid the limbs flailing in the water.

A scream sounded, high and shrill, then cut off abruptly. The splashing stopped. Kite crouched in the middle of the stream, sword driven downward through the body of the attacker. The water around his thighs was stained with a growing cloud of red.

Snapper leaned forward to get a better view. The militia member was no one he recognized from the village, but the exposed skin of the man’s face and hands looked wrong. They were wrinkled, almost sunken, similar to the features of an elderly person—but it made no sense for the militia to conscript an old man, much less send him in pursuit of two dangerous fugitives.

Motion caught Snapper’s eye. Kite waved the arm not currently holding the sword.

“Stay back. There’s at least one more.”

A whistle of wind reached Snapper’s ear, and he retreated against the boulder again. An arrow bounced off the stones by his shoulder.

A short knife dropped from Kite’s sleeve to his free hand. He flung the knife upward in a streak of silver, targeting the unseen archer.

Another voice cried out.

Kite climbed out of the stream, staggering slightly to regain his balance on the slippery rocks. Water trailed from his sodden clothes. He crouched there for a few seconds, sword held at the ready as his eyes scanned the shadows for signs of another attack. When no additional enemies appeared, he waved Snapper forward.

The archer had been perched on a high boulder overlooking the stream. When Kite and Snapper arrived, they found a young man leaning against a rock, blood pouring from where Kite’s throwing knife had stuck in his shoulder. A bow and arrows were on the ground, just out of the archer’s reach, but he lunged for them as Kite and Snapper approached.

Snapper might have taken pity on the poor lad, but Kite acted faster. He kicked the arrows away and stabbed his sword through the archer’s leg. The archer screamed and thrashed. Kite only held the sword down with both hands, watching the archer struggle with a vicious grin.

As the seconds passed, the will to fight seemed to drain from the archer’s body. Agonized screams turned into shallow gasps, and his eyes rolled back into his head. The skin of his face, once smooth and taut with youthful vigor, began to shrivel with the marks of old age. His clothes also collapsed inward like rags draped over an empty frame. Soon, only a skeletal husk remained.

Kite withdrew the sword, inspecting its bright blade. Not a drop of blood stained the steel. Satisfied, he sheathed it again. He also retrieved the throwing knife from the archer’s shoulder, tucking it back into his sleeve.

“Let’s keep moving.” A hand closed around Snapper’s elbow, tugging him away from the drained corpse. Snapper could only follow, wide-eyed, as Kite led him to the path again.

Two militia members had died by Kite’s sword, and Snapper had done nothing to intervene. If Snapper had not been guilty of murder-by-association before, he surely was by now.

They continued moving toward the nearest town. The rocky terrain continued for several miles in this region, but the path they walked was relatively flat, and the cave-riddled stones around them provided some interesting scenery in the otherwise monotonous journey. Oddly, Kite kept falling behind as Snapper plodded onward. The youth had never shown any trouble with keeping up before, yet now their pace had dropped to less than half of the usual speed.

When Kite disappeared from Snapper’s side yet again, Snapper turned to look—and stopped in his tracks. The stones behind them were dotted with blood. Kite had only fallen a few paces behind, but he was clearly limping, and each step of his left foot created a red-stained footprint on the path. Most of Kite’s clothes had been soaked from falling into the river, but they had dried over the last few minutes of walking. Only the cloth on his left leg was still wet, and it looked a shade darker than the usual charcoal color of wet grey cloth.

“You were hurt?”

“Arrow,” Kite said through gritted teeth. “Nothing serious.”

Even if that were true, which Snapper doubted, the injury presented another problem.

“You’re leaving a trail of footprints. We should bind the wound before moving further,” Snapper said. If two militia had followed, then more could be on the way, and Kite might not be able to fight off reinforcements while injured.

The youth looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded after a brief pause. “It’s almost noon. May as well break for lunch.”

They found a shaded cave large enough for two people to comfortably sit inside. Kite sat with his injured leg stretched out before him. There was a small hole at the calf of his trousers, and a half-inch of cracked wooden arrow shaft poked out from the wet cloth. Kite rolled up the trouser cloth to expose the injury. The arrowhead had embedded itself in the muscle of his calf, and the additional motion of snapping off the arrow shaft or walking on the injury had torn apart the edges of the wound.

Kite touched the broken shaft and flinched.

Every fisherman knew how to treat a wound from an embedded fish hook. If pulled out the way it went in, the barbed end would shred the flesh, leading to even worse damage. The best solution was to continue pushing the fish hook inward until the barb emerged on the other side of the punctured area, then snip off the barb and remove the smooth portion. Snapper figured that the same principle could apply to an arrow wound, but pushing an arrowhead through the entirety of one’s muscle would be significantly more painful than sliding a hooked wire through surface-level skin. Snapper decided not to suggest this method.

Fortunately, Kite seemed to have experience with arrow wounds. He took a narrow, razor-sharp knife from his sleeve—not the throwing knife, to Snapper’s surprise, but a different blade. Kite slowly stuck the blade into his own leg, following the arrow shaft from the surface downward. The knife slid through flesh with barely any resistance. Kite hissed and shuddered, but his hands and leg remained still as he cut a thin slit down the path of the arrowhead. When he next tugged on the broken shaft, the arrowhead came loose from his leg, emerging with a squelch.

Once the arrowhead was out, Kite set aside the knife and drew his sword. One hand grasped the hilt, while the other rested under the steel blade, holding it horizontally over his lap. His head bowed in concentration. As Kite held the sword, the edges of the wound began to close. Torn flesh knitted itself together before Snapper’s very eyes.

Relief eased the strained lines of Kite’s grimace, smoothing it into a more natural smile. He glanced at Snapper and noticed the other’s astonishment.

“Learned a few tricks from a wandering sage,” Kite said, as though that explained anything, and put away the sword. When Snapper’s brows climbed his forehead, Kite laughed. “Don’t look so skeptical, old fellow. Why are you still alive and well after all this time? By normal standards, you ought to be a heap of dusty bones.”

Snapper frowned and looked away.

“You are a Caster, then?” Snapper asked. Casters were rumored to have powers of sorcery. If the youth was one, it would explain his rapid healing ability, as well as why he did not fear the local militia. Ordinary villagers would have posed no threat to a Caster who could bend the forces of nature to his will.

“Not exactly.” Kite’s gaze slid to the side. He picked up the soiled knife, wiped it to a polish on his trousers, and tucked it back into his sleeve.

Rays of light shone down from the cave entrance, throwing deep shadows behind the two travelers. Kite stretched out his legs and leaned against the nearest rock wall.

“It’s almost noon. Let’s rest here for a bit.”

While the injured leg continued to mend itself at an unnatural rate, Kite dug through his travel bag. He wrapped the broken arrowhead in a piece of cloth. Brushing dry leaves away to create a space on the cave floor, Kite began to spread out his other items. First was a pouch of hard biscuits; Kite kept one and offered another to Snapper. They gnawed on the biscuits while Kite unpacked his inventory. His bag contained a flat, well-used sharpening stone and a leather strop. After that, there was a small tube-shaped metal contraption that could emit sparks when a lever was squeezed.

“Clever design,” Snapper said, pressing the lever and watching sparks fly off the end.

Kite froze. “You recognize it?”

“No.”

A money pouch rolled out of Kite’s bag, and the youth stuffed it back in. The clink of metal reached Snapper’s ears: judging by the sound, these coins were precious gold instead of the more common metals. The most Snapper had ever owned was the humble jar of copper coins hidden atop a ceiling beam at his house—but now was not the time to think about what he had left behind. If they returned to fetch Snapper’s items, the militia would arrest them. Besides, Kite’s money had probably been robbed from some unlucky passer-by, and thus it did not deserve Snapper’s appreciation.

The travel bag also contained a cloak large enough to double as a blanket. Once, perhaps, it had been a deep navy in color. Now, it was a well-worn grey with faded spots and small tears that had been mended with a careful hand. Kite wrapped this cloak around his shoulders, tugging the cowl over his head. With his face buried amid shadows, Kite resembled a wandering mercenary more than ever.

Snapper self-consciously tugged his own reed hat over his face. Aside from this hat, the small water flask that he took everywhere, and the clothes on his back, Snapper had nothing useful for a long journey. He carried no food, no money, and no tools. Why would he have brought any of those things? He would never have anticipated that a casual trip to the village center could end with himself fleeing the law.

Several knives came out of the bag next. Kite lined them up in a neat row on the ground. Long or short, straight or curved, smooth or serrated—Kite’s collection had them all. Some were wrapped in cloth while others had true sheaths. Kite trailed his fingers over a leather sheath thoughtfully.

“You need a way of protecting yourself. Here, you can have this one.” The youth held out a straight-edged dagger with an embossed leather sheath and a shiny copper handle. It was the second largest of the bunch.

The dagger was heavy and solid. Snapper unsheathed the blade, rotating it to view the shape from all angles. As Snapper inspected the dagger, Kite re-packed the other knives and supplies into the bag.

This blade had a silver gleam that shimmered under the sunlight. The intricate vines engraved on the handle were painted with gold leaf, but the dagger seemed better suited for decoration than any actual use. To put it plainly, the dagger felt soft. As Snapper handled it, he could not shake the expectation that it would bend or dribble between his fingers like molten wax. The dagger might appear as shiny as any other well-maintained tool, but Snapper knew with absolute certainty that it was not made of steel.

If this was a test, it was a mean-spirited one at the mildest. Offering Snapper a useless blade for self-defense was almost worse than leaving him unarmed. If Snapper had not realized that the dagger was defective, a blade like this could have failed him at a critical moment.

“This knife…” Snapper tried to think of a way to decline the gift without outright insulting the giver. At last, he said, “An old fisherman like me would have no use for such an expensive knife.”

He handed the dagger back, wondering if Kite would be disappointed that the trick had not worked. However, Kite did not insist that Snapper keep it. Instead, the youth smiled, true wonder lighting up his face in place of the usual smugness.

“No use. Of course you would say that,” Kite said, a wistful note in his voice. The dagger went back into his travel bag.

Once Kite’s leg finished healing, they continued their journey toward the town.

“The road is too visible. We should take a different route,” Snapper said, and he outlined the path he had in mind. Unfortunately, the shortest road between the village and town ran through miles of flat grassland. Any pursuing forces could easily spot two fugitives moving along that open road. Snapper knew of an alternate route placed far enough from civilization to ensure that travelers could move unseen. He finished, saying, “It’s a bit longer, but the lower risk is worth a few more hours.”

Sensibly, Kite agreed, and they set off along the detour.

As they passed from the rocky area into a dense hedge of shoulder-high shrubbery, Kite began to talk.

“That symbol I drew the other day, the one you called an urchin—it’s a word in the Northern Sage Script.” Kite caught Snapper’s intrigued expression and shrugged. “Probably means ‘suppress’ or something similar, not that I can read the Script. It’s been a dead language for centuries, ever since the northerners lost a war with the Empire.”

Snapper recalled the symbol that Kite had drawn in the dirt. If it was a word instead of a cake urchin, then it Snapper had read it correctly the first time. However, he could not fathom why the word “straw” would have any special significance.

“The symbol itself is no different from any other scribble, but when written on a rare mineral, it can suppress a Caster’s power. The good-luck charms were carved from that mineral. A Caster near one of those charms would be weakened to the level of a normal person.”

“A sensible precaution,” Snapper mused. Casters had abilities that tampered with the workings of nature itself. It was only reasonable that ordinary villagers search for any small advantage against unstable individuals with such power. Speaking of dangerous individuals—“Is that why you murdered Chert? The stone-carver who made the charms,” Snapper added, seeing the blankness of Kite’s expression. “To recover your Casting powers?”

“No. To recover yours.”

Snapper stopped in the middle of the path. “Me, a Caster? How absurd.”

Even as the words left Snapper’s mouth, he wondered how it would feel to possess a Caster’s power. He waved a hand in the same way that he had once seen a street performer summon flame, and that power surged through his very being. It felt like sprawling out on the beach under the summer sunshine—the slow stretch and relaxation of stiffened muscles, followed by a warmth that would never end. Immense energy flowed from Snapper’s fingertips, flooding the world with light. Distantly, he heard someone breathing heavily.

He opened his eyes, and the warmth faded to a contentment deep within his core. Pale sand dunes surrounded Snapper. Just a minute ago, they had been walking amid vegetation taller than a person’s head, but those shrubs had all disappeared. The ground around him was covered in glassy patches interspersed with blackened stalks. Smoke trailed from his left sleeve. He patted out the smoldering area.

“Interesting. Is that what you meant?” Snapper asked, before glancing up.

Kite lowered the edge of his cloak from where it had been shielding his face. His eyes were enormous, and his mouth hung slightly open from shock. One hand rested on the hilt of the sword, which appeared to be glowing. In fact, Kite’s whole body appeared to be glowing. His mouth opened and closed several times before any sound emerged.

“Oh. Yes,” the youth croaked. “Yes, just like…” Kite waved his arm, mimicking the street-performer’s motion that Snapper had used. The glow on his skin disappeared, and a ball of fire no bigger than a pigeon’s egg appeared over his palm. “...that.” Kite sighed, and the flame disappeared. His shoulders drooped.

Compared with the field of destruction around them, Kite’s small, well-controlled candle flame seemed like an impressive feat to Snapper. However, Kite did not appear to share this opinion. A long minute passed before Kite straightened from his dejected slump. He started walking down the path again, and Snapper followed.

“Well, we’re definitely out of range of those good-luck charm talismans,” Kite said in a cheery tone. He kicked a stone across the path, knocking over the skeletal remains of a shrub. “You have raw power, but power isn’t much of an advantage without skill. You must have forgotten all of the old techniques when the Sage Doctor erased your memory.” Pride gleamed in Kite’s eyes. “Once you relearn them, none of the world’s Casters could be your match.”

“Right. You—” Snapper slipped on a shiny patch of sand fused into glass. He righted himself with a wordless grumble. “You killed my neighbor and smashed his shop to, what, unlock my power? If the talismans have a range, then we could have just left the village. You need not have attacked anyone.”

“There was only one Caster worth suppressing within range of the village. You. The stone-carver was making those charms to bind you. He was your enemy, and you should be glad that he’s gone. If it weren't for my efforts last night, you would never have realized that you’re a Caster. You owe me your power and freedom.”

As much as Snapper wanted to argue, he could not deny that leaving the village had somehow unleashed the vast energy that still thrummed through his body like a second heartbeat. He had never felt such a presence from within himself before, but now that he knew its warmth, he could not imagine surviving without it. The Caster energy had become as much a part of Snapper as his eyes, his hands, his internal organs. Despite Kite’s cruelty towards the wildlife and the neighbors, he had not lied about Snapper’s new power. Snapper should have felt gratitude, but he could only muster a lingering confusion over the youth’s intentions.

“No need for that face. Cheer up, old fellow,” Kite laughed. “I don’t intend to collect your debt in the near future. Consider this a favor between old friends. Besides,” Kite drew his sword out partway, exposing a few inches of bright metal between the sheath and hilt, “my dear Rifter was hungry.”

The sword had a straight, double-edged blade and a grip that could be comfortably held in one hand. The section of visible blade looked polished and well maintained, but still no different from ordinary steel. Snapper had seen similar designs carried by the local militia. If he had not personally witnessed this sword draining the life from the two militia members earlier, he would never suspect that it was a non-standard weapon.

“Hmm. I see. ‘Helping’ me by attacking others, is it all an excuse to feed your sword?”

Kite’s eyes widened, but he quickly shook his head.

“Such distrust! You wound me, old fellow,” Kite said, pressing one hand to his heart. “Long ago, you ranked among the land’s top Casters, and I was your student. I owe you a debt for all that I have learned. If I can help you regain even a fraction of your former glory, my life’s goal shall be satisfied.”

If Snapper himself had been the one speaking those lofty words, the gratitude expressed therein would be unquestionable. However, coming from Kite’s mouth, these sentiments struck Snapper as pretentious instead of sincere. Snapper scowled, unable to shake the notion that Kite was somehow mocking him.

Even though it was true that Snapper could wield heretofore unknown Caster powers, he would have to be utterly mad to mentor someone like Kite. The youth trampled upon all in his path, crushing those weaker than him without a second thought. To teach such a person the skills of a full-fledged Caster would be like giving wings to a shark: thus empowered, Kite would become an unstoppable menace.

Of course, repeating those thoughts aloud would be unwise, since Kite had already proven himself able to turn violent at a moment’s notice. Snapper contented himself with saying, “Nonsense. I’m just a fisherman.”

Kite laughed.

“It’s true, it’s all true. Your writings are used in Caster training manuals to this day. Some of your inventions are still around, hailed as artifacts of legendary power.”

A legacy made of one’s teachings and inventions sounded impressive, but Snapper could remember none of it. A deep-rooted need to relearn his own past took hold of Snapper. If Kite’s words were indeed true, and Snapper had lost his memory of a legacy that survived the ages, then what else might Snapper have lost along the way? What other vital elements might he discover, were he to retrace old footsteps? When Chert’s crewmates had pulled Snapper from the sea, the villagers and neighbors had only told Snapper of a mundane fisherman’s existence. Never before had someone offered a more profound history, and never before had Snapper had reason to suspect anything other than that fisherman’s existence.

Lost in thought, Snapper did not notice the passing of time until Kite spoke again.

“Almost there,” Kite said, pointing ahead.

A town loomed in the distance, nestled at the transition between coastal scrubland and a grove of broad-leafed trees. A wall twice the height of a man encircled the town. The road ran through the wall, passing between a pair of open gates that were wide enough to fit two wagons side-by-side. Guards lounged on either side of the gate, two dozing off against propped-up spears while a third gave directions to a lost traveler.

Snapper sent a questioning glance at his companion, but Kite’s stride was casual and unconcerned. Did the youth intend to simply walk through the front gates? Even if the guards were not on full alert at the moment, they were still armed with functional spears. Snapper only hoped that word of the murder had not reached this town yet. Their journey had taken a few hours longer than the typical travel time between the village and town center.

Although no one else was around for miles, Snapper tugged down the brim of his reed hat, hiding his face from the sun. He turned to warn the youth, but Kite’s cowl was already up.