The Question of Khiva

"Master Fenrick? You mentioned how magic is the same in different places, but we have different traditions." Martel looked at his teacher while most of his fellow students stared blankly into space or fidgeted with whatever items they had in their pockets.

"I did indeed. I sense you have a question?" The Master of Lore turned his eyes under their bushy brows towards Martel.

"What about Khivan magic?"

"What about it?"

"I never heard about it," Martel pointed out. "But if we have our traditions, and the Tyrians have theirs, shouldn't the Khivans have theirs?"

"Very good question. As far as I know, there has not been a Khivan sorcerer for three hundred years. Given the importance of that date, can you imagine why?"

The novices, at least those paying attention, looked at each other with uncertainty. Finally, Martel made the obvious guess. "The fall of Archen?"

"Indeed. The Khivans reacted rather drastically." Fenrick cleared his throat. "Seeing the devastation wrought, they banned all magic. Ever since, all children who show any sign of magical talent have small bits of gold inserted under their skin to neutralise their talent."

Martel thought about his fight with the berserker and how the golden chain had taken away his magical strength. He tried to imagine if he had been born in Khiva. He would be an ordinary boy, probably working in his brother's forge and being a burden to his family.

Looking at the other novices, several of them looked almost horrified at the thought.

"But if the Khivans don't have magic," one student argued, "how do they stand a chance against our legions and battlemages?"

"That is beyond my area of knowledge," the teacher answered. "You will have to ask our esteemed commanders."

"But they did at some point have magic? The Khivans, I mean." Martel returned to his original question, still hoping for an answer.

"They did. But we have no knowledge of how it might have looked. After all, we have our own gaps of knowledge to fill out, and the Khivans certainly are not interested in their own magic traditions. They went to great lengths to eradicate them."

"What did they do?"

"In one terrible night, the people turned on all sorcerers in Khiva. Those few that survived went into hiding. All their lore and tomes of knowledge were destroyed. Since then, the Khivans have focused on ways to strengthen their society by other means than magic."

Martel thought about Master Farhad and his clocks. From the few glimpses he had caught, he knew they contained machinery of a complex nature; so complex that even the mages of the Lyceum desired his service, presumably unable to create something of such position themselves.

"Does that mean if the Khivans win the war, they will come here and kill all of us?" The fright in the small novice's voice spread to the expressions of the other students.

"The frontlines in the war has not moved for years. Not to mention, our armies are in Khivan lands, not the reverse. You are safe here," their teacher reassured them.

Despite his assurances, the novices did not seem to be particularly at ease, and even Martel felt a little uncomfortable at the thought of raging Khivans purging everyone with magical talents. For the rest of the lesson, the students found it difficult to focus on Master Fenrick's teachings.

~

After the class, Martel approached his teacher. "Master, about our trip to this stone. Anything I need or should know?"

"Fetch yourself a tent from the quartermaster. We will bring provisions on a mule, so just wear sensible clothes. We leave as soon as second bell has rung from outside the main gate, so don't be late," he stressed.

"Very well, master." He hesitated for a moment. "What should I expect?"

"Something magical."

~

As daylight waned, Martel went south into the city. Approaching the Khivan quarter, it felt different to him than when he first came to Morcaster. Influenced by his knowledge, he noticed the signs of damage on many of the doors and shutters. Some of the debris did not come from natural decline, but had been forced upon the buildings. And while he could not be sure, it seemed to him that more and more of the hovels looked deserted. As for the people he passed by, their looks were anything but friendly.

When he slipped inside the door to Master Farhad's workshop, he found its inhabitants at work by the benches like last time.

"This boy again." The watchmaker made a few grumbling noises in Khivan and returned his attention to his work, fitting little bits of metal together.

"Dad, be nice," Shadi admonished him. "Your trip is tomorrow?" she asked Martel.

"Yeah. I just wanted to say farewell since it will be a few fivedays before I return."

"I am glad you did. Want to go upstairs? We can talk for a bit."

"No," came Farhad's rumbling voice. "It gets late. Boy should not be on the streets after dark."

"Dad! He can stay a little while."

"No," the old man reiterated. "I will not have boy's blood on my conscience. Get home, mage boy."

Shadi gave him a tight hug. "I will see you when you get back."

"You will." He returned the embrace.

"Tell me all about it, alright?" she asked, pulling back. "All the amazing magic that you're going out to experience."

Martel could not help but take a look at the watchmaker, searching for any scars that might have gold inside of them. All he could find were veins and miscoloured spots. "I promise. You'll hear every detail."

Walking home, he looked up as the first stars began to appear. The sun would not set entirely for another hour or so, leaving only the brightest star to be visible yet. At this time of the year, that should be Malac, the bold warrior. Walking through streets that seemed less and less welcoming, Martel did not feel particularly bold even with the star's light shining on him.