Book 3: Web of Knowledge

Relia followed her master down the winding mountain path. They’d walked for over four miles that morning, and the older woman had barely said a word. The only sounds were the birds chirping in the trees, and their leather boots crunching against the dirt.

Despite the dim light, her master treaded effortlessly over tree roots, trenches, and fallen branches. Relia kept a close eye on the path as she followed, all too aware that her condition could send her stumbling at the wrong moment. She’d become an Apprentice this year, so a simple fall wouldn’t hurt her. It would still be embarrassing, though. Especially when her master walked like a queen through a palace.

In many ways, Relia’s master looked like an older version of her. They both had the pale skin of northern Espirians, and they both had red hair. But while Relia’s hair was light and fiery, her master’s was a deeper red, like wine from the Francso vineyards. And while freckles dusted Relia’s cheeks, the older woman’s skin was clear and perfect, like moonlight on a pond.

If you saw a picture of her master, you might guess she was in her late thirties. But you’d revise that guess the second you spoke with her. Her eyes shone with the knowledge and experience of someone many decades older. And her voice was even harder to describe. She spoke with an accent Relia had never heard before. And while Relia would never describe her voice as old, it was far from youthful.

Eventually, the trees parted to reveal a deep valley at the base of the Crocan mountains. This valley was all that stood between them and the hostile nation of Creta to the north. They followed the valley for another few miles before their path took them back to the village.

“Do you know why we’re here?” her master finally asked.

“Fresh air and exercise?” Relia guessed with a smile.

“Here in Torshavan,” she clarified.

Needless to say, they had very different senses of humor. The older woman only seemed to laugh at “clever” things, like dramatic irony or poetic justice. Meanwhile, Relia could giggle at a kitten chasing a tiny Missile technique.

“I’m here to get my aspect,” she said.

“Correct. But why here, specifically?”

Relia scrambled for a suitable answer as the village grew closer on the horizon. Would it kill her to ask these questions before the walk? At least then, she’d have time to mull them over.

“I’m supposed to internalize the idea of life. This town is like a small ecosystem, right? Everyone relies on each other, like a tribe from the Primordial Age.”

“Your observations are correct,” she said. “But look deeper. Where did our breakfast come from?”

“The fish came from Luca Carita, and the eggs came from the Morillo’s farm.” That was easy enough. Relia had gone to the market yesterday and bought those herself.

Her master nodded. “The food gives us life. But life always comes at a cost. Two days ago, those fish swam freely in the Inner Sea. They gave their lives to sustain ours.”

Relia frowned. “What about the eggs? Weren’t the chickens laying those anyway?”

The older woman gave a knowing smile as they passed through the village’s eastern gates. By now, the sun had crested the mountain peaks behind them, and the townspeople went about their morning chores. “The chickens ate insects and plants around the farm. They never could have survived if they hadn’t, much less produced those eggs.”

Relia was about to ask about fruits and vegetables next, but she saw the answer before she opened her mouth. Plants needed proper soil to grow, and something else had to die to make that soil. Even if it was just other plants.

The pair continued walking as Relia ordered her thoughts. This village was the most backwater place they’d ever been. The houses were all wood, brick, and plaster, prone to leaks and drafts. The nearest hospital was two hours away, and the local healer worked directly out of her house. Simple stone walls kept out the predators, along with constant patrols from the town’s Mana Artists.

They had some modern stuff like cars, TVs, and plumbing. A cell phone tower was visible on the mountain to the west, and the mayor’s office even had a computer with internet access. Still, other parts of the village felt downright ancient. For example, the town had a blacksmith who spent his days making katanas for the Blade Artists. Apparently, Torshavan had once been a colony of the Shokenesse Empire, and bits of that culture remained centuries later.

“Life always comes with a cost,” her master went on. “Plants grow on dead organic matter. Animals eat plants, and predators eat animals. In a garden, you must choose between the weeds and your food. The predator decides whether to attack his prey or starve to death himself.”

Relia wrinkled her nose. “Seems kinda depressing.”

“It’s reality. It’s only depressing if you expect something else.”

Her master watched the villagers as she spoke, and Relia watched them too. Despite all their problems, the sight filled her with a strange surge of jealousy. These people didn’t have much, but they had the one thing she’d always wanted—a close-knit community of friends and family.

“This is why we’re here,” her master said. “Because I can’t explain this to you with words. Instead, you’ll be working on the farms and the fishing boats. You will see life and death for yourself, and you will engrave the ideas in your soul. Only then can you aspect your mana.”

Huh. Wasn’t life mana supposed to be about healing? Relia was no expert, but she knew Restoration Artists spent time in clinics and hospitals, treating the sick and injured. Instead, she’d be working with farm animals and fish?

“What about the bakery?” Relia asked hopefully. The baker’s son, Tomas, was by far the cutest boy in town. Even if he was a year younger than Relia, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

The older woman glanced toward the end of the street where Tomas smiled at them. Relia started to wave, then changed her mind halfway through the motion, fidgeting with her hair instead.

“Ah yes,” her master said. “Another essential aspect of life. One you’re free to study on your own time.”

Relia rubbed at her cheeks, but only because they were hot from the walk. She definitely wasn’t covering a blush.

But why here? Didn’t Espiria have farms and fishing boats? Besides, Relia understood death far more than most fifteen-year-olds. Her condition hovered over her like a storm cloud, and her doctors had claimed she’d never make it to adulthood. She’d also seen people die with her own eyes.

How did this place help her internalize life and death?

Six weeks later, Relia got her answer.

The Blade Artists were fighting Dragonlord Antano on the nation’s northern border. The fight took place more than ten miles from the village, but a single stray Missile flew toward them.

Relia saw it happen around nine o’clock Talekday evening. The Grandmaster’s mana ripped through the second story of the carpenter’s home, killing her, her husband, and their two daughters. Relia saw their burning bodies fly through the street, along with the broken bricks and splintered wood.

For all that, the Missile hadn’t stopped. It struck the bakery next, caving in the front door and trapping Tomas’s family inside. Water Artists tried to quench the flames, but they were no match for Grandmaster-level mana.

Relia had bought bread from Tomas’s family at least three or four times a week. She’d seen the carpenter’s family in the market every Irinday and Kelsday, then again in the chapel every Azulday.

Now they were gone.

And for what? They hadn’t even died for a cause. They’d died for a stupid fight that happened miles away. A fight they hadn’t wanted or asked for.

“Now you understand,” her master said that night after the funeral. “It’s easy to distance yourself from death on a battlefield. It’s easy to see your enemies as faceless, or to hear about casualties far away, in a place that isn’t your home.”

“How am I supposed to fight after seeing this?” Relia asked in a horse voice. “This makes me never want to do Mana Arts again.”

The older woman nodded. “When you understand something, you have power over it. And you’re right—killing is rarely the best choice. But when it is, it’s the only choice.”

“No one should have to make that choice.”

“And yet it must be made. Your reluctance makes you the ideal person to make it.”

The following morning found them alone in their small cottage. Relia sat cross-legged on the wooden floor while her master provided her with the artifacts she’d need.

“This is an Angel’s tongue,” she said as she placed the potted succulent down in front of Relia. “It came from a desert in Kangavar, a hundred miles south of here.”

Relia stared at the plant with awe. This was one of the most resilient life forms in the world, regenerating its cells faster than most Mana Artists could destroy them. Unfortunately, their slow reproduction made them increasingly rare. She doubted that other Life Artists got even a single piece of this plant, much less an entire one.

Her master reached into a wooden box and removed the next artifact. “This is a phoenix feather. I wish I could say I found this in the wild, but …” She trailed off with a smile. “There are certain benefits to having your own cult.”

Like the Angel’s tongue, the phoenix feather needed no introduction. Healing Artists had been using these in their rituals since the beginning of time.

“Now,” the older woman said. “Assuming you remember your studies, something should feel off to you right now.”

Relia considered that as she examined the two priceless items. “These are both natural,” she said.

Most—if not all—artifacts were supposed to have a knowledge mana component. Otherwise, you’d inherit raw power with no direction. You’d have to invent all your techniques from scratch, and only Masters had that level of mana control.

“Indeed,” she replied. “How might we remedy that?”

Technically, you could aspect your mana with any number of artifacts, but adding too many would dilute the effects of the first two. What’s more, her master was against that approach in general. Quality over quantity and all that.

That left just one option. “The next artifact is stronger than the first two combined.”

The older woman smiled as she pulled a silver chain from behind her blue flannel shirt. A crescent moon hung from the end, half the size of Relia’s palm. A small lightning storm danced beneath its crystal surface, and it filled the room with pale blue light.

Azul’s ashes. She’d felt power from the other artifacts, but nothing like this. Something in her soul resonated with this crystal, as if it were a well of mana she could drink from. And when she looked with her Silver Sight, it was like staring into a Mystic’s soul.

“This pendant has been in my family for generations,” her master said. “Before that, it belonged to a woman named Treluwyn, and her descendants. Treluwyn founded an order called the Redeemers—some of the best healers on any world. Now, their knowledge will pass to you.”

She set the crescent moon on the floor with the other two artifacts, arranging them in a triangle formation. Relia remained cross-legged in the center, preparing for the long day ahead. She took several long deep breaths, feeling the surrounding power.

"Remember," her master said. “I’ve gathered these artifacts, but you don’t have to go through with this. You owe me nothing.”

Relia gave a sad smile. “Do I really have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice. I’d rather see you live a long life, but I’d never force that upon you”

They’d had this talk many times before. Life mana might improve her condition, but the world would fear her for it. Some of that fear was justified—the Cult of Trelian wielded this same aspect, and they’d used it to commit atrocities all over Cadria.

But Mana Artists committed war crimes everyday, and most went unnoticed. Unfortunately, the Espirian healers didn’t like new players encroaching on their territory. They’d spent millions on their public relations campaigns, ensuring the world knew them as Death Artists.

But Relia needed this aspect. Without it, she wouldn't live past her teens. Even if became an outcast, at least she had a chance. A chance to live life to the fullest. A chance to be worth remembering.

She straightened her posture, met her master’s eye, and nodded. “I’m ready.”

The ritual itself took the better part of the day. Relia started by forming a web of pure mana around her body. Missile techniques followed the strands in that web, swirling around the artifacts and returning to their source. Hours passed as she rebuilt half her soul, changing her mana forever.

When she opened her eyes again, the Angel’s tongue lay shriveled and dry. The phoenix feather had turned to dust, and the crystal moon was a dull gray with no hint of its former light.

Sweat covered her body from head to heel. Her muscles protested from sitting, and her soul ached as if she’d just advanced.

The door opened with a creak, and her master stepped inside.

Relia met the older woman’s eyes and released her new mana. Clouds of green and gold light filled the air, and she sighed with indescribable relief. The mana smelled like the dew of the Angel’s tongue, and it drifted toward the floor like phoenix feathers.

Lyraina Trelian stepped through the mist and smiled down at her. “Well done, apprentice.”