Chapter Text
When first I was allowed to witness the Orlav Ritual, three men were put on the stone, and only one arose afterwards. Though he became an effective magicar in a matter of days, the shadow of loss still haunted him. – Vitor Manezka, From Batesk to Tovari, 1723
“If I’m going to be able to get past those magics, I’m going to need it. And we don’t have the time for some miserable bastard to run me through the basics.”
Those were Vilkar’s last words on the subject before he went to bed. He wasn’t wrong, Jack thought, watching the crates being loaded into the Aurora. The plan left little time to spare - stock up and fly over the open ocean to Mazakar, then stock up again before heading into the shattered edge. While it was closer to the Empire than he’d like, it was at least out the way of any obvious areas of interest.
All that was needed was the ritual.
It was two days before the loremaster – who’s name was apparently Leo, Jack finally overhearing their name in conversation – contacted the crew and informed them that they would be proceeding that evening. It was with great apprehension that the three man crew approached Leo’s house and knocked on the door.
They were lead through the house to a spiral staircase, which – after an awfully long climb – lead to a door. Opening it up, they emerged into the howling winds that tended to dominate the very upper reaches of Torlim, the party having to keep the hair from their eyes as they walked over the to the ritual site.
It had been prepared to the specifications of Tomzyk, the magicar in the red and white of the Bateski Arcane Corps. A stone circle, 8 feet in diameter, had been created in the centre of an earthen pit, with the surface of the stone a full 2 feet below the surface of the earth. Several lines had been carved into the disc, not quite forming a full square, and a central hollow had been formed. Vilkar had been measured up beforehand, and had protested the entire time.
“Here we are, Tomzyk! Everything ready?”
Jack didn’t know how Leo was maintaining their demeanour as the Bateski man gave them a curt nod, talking through the process with them as Vilkar began stripping down to his underwear.
“I’m fucking freezing,” he hissed whilst loosening a boot, “are we sure we couldn’t do this indoors?”
I’ll take this opportunity, dear reader, while our young magicar friend is preparing for this ritual, to explain the nature of the arcane schools as they exist on the continent. The formal categorisation of magics, as it has become known, was first put forward by an arcane scholar in Batesk by the name of Tomarik. This categorisation split the field of magic into four by which field the energies best applied themselves to. It took Tomarik the best part of three years to put together his final categories: material, soul, force and being. Tomarik chose to call them chords, seeing them as a mere part of the magical whole that humanity was able to access and stating that any being that considered itself to have full access to the arcane miasma would only know it to be true when said miasma consumed them. These four chords would, over time, be split into their own specialisations – carburin, for example, was a strictly material field that focused on crafting, usually found in shipyards and such. Carburin steel was highly prized for swords as well as myriad other applications for its ability to resist impact whilst maintaining its sharpness. It sat next to cinnador, still a material field but more focused on manipulation in the moment – melting the lock from a door, or loosening a stuck hinge, smaller scale in its application but much more convenient in it’s timescale. They weren’t strictly separate magics, and any specialist in one would usually be able to perform some of the other, but finding the base chord of a magicar was key to finding that specialisation. Without that first step, it was damn near impossible to wield magics with any kind of efficiency.
Jack walked over to Tomzyk, the magicar directing his bevy of apprentices into position. They’d done most of the legwork in setting up the ritual, and were now being positioned to be conduits at the edge of the circle.
“What do you reckon his chances are?”
“We will see. It is different with everyone, no way of telling until he gets on the circle.”
The flat baritone didn’t do anything to ease the fluttering of Jack’s heart. Tomzyk must have caught sight of his face, because he clapped a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“Truly, he is in the safest hands. I would not ask this ritual of any apprentice that I did not think among the highest, and you share a good bond. Are you his anchor?”
Jack nodded. He and Tom had already had the argument, Tom stating that a Captain needed no distractions when travelling over the open sea and Jack stating that at Tom’s age any complications could be severe. In the end, they’d tossed a coin over it.
In the end, Jack had slighted it.
He could feel the coins in the hidden pocket of his sleeve as he watched Vilkar climb down into the pit, visibly shivering. He laid himself down into the hollow, and Jack strode over to take his place outside the circle, above Vilkar’s head.
“Don’t worry, lad,” Tom called from further back, “your Captain’s got you. At my age, indeed.”
Vilkar’s jaw was set, the reality of it all coming home to roost as he looked up at the sky. It was beginning to get cloudy.
“Start channelling!”
The barked order from Tomzyk came as all four apprentices began to channel arcane energy into the stone. The veteran magicar’s hands extended, and he began to shape the energy around the central stone. You could see it in the air, the way the raindrops which had just started to fall flew in unnatural circles around the prone Vilkar. The magicar’s right hand began drawing circles in the air, and Jack took in a deep breath.
Tomzyk punched his right hand forward, and Vilkar screamed.
Jack felt the connection take hold then and there, could feel it in an unseen hand grasping onto his arm, nails drawing blood in desperation for an escape from the agony. Vilkar’s back arched out of the hollow as all the energy the apprentices had conjured forward flowed through him, his eyes shining white into the rain as his breath ran ragged.
“Silver! Now!”
An apprentice that had stood to the side came to Tomzyk’s side, clutching a bar of silver. It was neatly slid into a hollow by his feet, glowing molten in seconds as the hands that placed it were snatched away. Melting in an instant, it began to flow in a circle to match the rain around vilkar, sepearating out into droplets. The molten metal splashed against his outstretched hands and Jack felt a schism of pain tear through his hand on the same spot. That hand that hand drawn blood on his arm felt like it was reaching deeper now, grabbing onto his nerves and demanding that they suffer the same agonies. He grasped onto the grass, gritting his teeth and willing Vilkar on. He saw a furrow of concern plough itself over Tomzyk’s face as the metal continued to circle, not yet falling. Vilkar had run short of breath, unable to continue the piecing scream and having to take all the relief he could get by clawing into Jack’s consciousness. It felt like the claws were raking across the front of his brain, digging in as Vilkar’s body began to spasm in the centre.
“Come on lad! Keep strong!”
Tom’s words were shouted over the growing wind and the rain that had now began to pour, steam rising in a cloud over the molten torrent. Jack felt a hand grasp his shoulder, felt the calloused right hand of his engineer grasp his. Leo was standing behind Tomzyk, ready to channel magic away from the boy in the centre, try and save him before the ritual could take more than Vilkar could give.
“Don’t! Don’t fucking do it!”
The voice came from the centre. Tomzyk’s eyes went wide, Leo taking a hasty step back as the silver began to be forced into a solid band around Vilkars form. The flailing limbs had been wrestled back under control, Jack could see what it was costing him – forehead drenched in sweat, mouth raw, hands pale – but Vilkar seemed to be riding the wave.
“There’s our fucking boy!”
As if on queue, the silver dropped to the stone slab, snaking as if scalded into the grooves that had been carved before. Tomzyk shouted the order to release at the apprentices let go, two of them crumpling to the ground with the strain. As the steam rose from the still cooling slab, Jack gained enough of his faculties to peer over the edge of the pit.
Vilkar lay on the stone like the dying hero from the romantic paintings of old, one arm outstretched towards Jack, the other clawing at his chest like he’d been shot through the heart. The silver had settled – but not as anyone had anticipated.
“Ormeer above!” he heard Tomzyk exclaim, “Three chords! Three!”
The silver had gone to the grooves for material, soul and being. Soul and being were filled to the brim, whilst material was only partially full. He went to reach out for his friend, but was shouted back by Tomzyk.
“Wait for the weave to clear!”
Vilkar began to raise his head off the stone, but gave up, slumping back to the floor. Tomzyk gave the all clear, and Jack and Tom raced onto the slab, grasping his arms and hoisting him onto their shoulders. He hung limp in their grip as the moved towards the door, struggling down the stairs even with an apprentice to aid them. Eventually they reached the base of the stairs and an examination table that Leo had dusted off beforehand. As Tomzyk started checking over his apprentices, Leo sent for a Quasari – telling the apprentice the directions for Sural House before returning to Leo and fussing over his still prone form. As Jack looked down on the young magicar, sweat already soaking into the linen that had been laid across the table, he couldn’t help but feel a flood of relief.
Vilkar took two days to recover from the ritual, sleeping through the first and waking halfway through the second. Jack had meant to go out and arrange supplies, but had instead sat vigil with Tom. The Quasari Leo called in had confirmed what they already knew – he was unconscious, still alive and mostly well, but with no idea when he would wake. Thankfully, Leo was there to take the dressing down over reckless performance of rituals that could inflict serious harm and to be a damn sight more careful in future, the reckless fool. They were all too keen to wave off the grey haired woman who left shaking her head.
“Well, it wasn’t going to be their cup of tea,” he admitted to Jack as he boiled the kettle, “Quasari have a habit of not liking anything that puts anyone in danger, no matter how experienced the practitioner. If it were up to them all practice would be confined to mere parlour tricks – anything to give them an easy life.”
The statement was at odds with the face he made as he glanced towards Vilkar on the couch. Tomzyk was stood next to him, brow no doubt still furrowed from the ritual that he’d overseen. Bateski magicars took immense pride in their conduct of the arcane – the ability to channel the weave directly from the source was a technique that had been perfected in the nation’s Magicar Houses and was a source of great national pride – and nearly killing Vilkar was putting a strain on that pride. The apprentices that collapsed had needed a good two hours to recover, and were likely going to be out of action for a while. Those that hadn’t collapsed still held midnight shadows under their eyes, moving with the same strain as a soldier post forced march. There seemed to be something else underneath, an undercurrent that belied the immediate situation, but any attempt to make further inquiries was met with the traditional Bateski wall of silence.
“He won’t even tell me about it,” complained Vilkar, having recovered enough to complain, “just leaves the room, recommending more rest.”
Jack was at least glad that Vilkar was feeling well enough to complain. He’d almost missed it.
The preparations for their journey over the water continued at pace, now that Vilkar was back on his feet. Supplies were loaded, charts were consulted, and Tom gave the installations on the Aurora the once over. He’d disagreed with Jack on the necessity of some of the items – they’d had quite the argument over the new offensive hardware Jack had asked for – so Jack was quietly grateful when he climbed out of the Aurora and gave him the nod.
The two men held very different views on acceptable airship hardware, particularly when it came to weapons and engine augmentation. Jack was a romantic who’d been in the game of under-the-table dealings long enough to fall in love with the likes of smoke bombs, offensive flares and auxillary boilers. Tom was an engineer who’d been in the business of building and maintaining airships for long enough to consider them heresy. Jack was the Captain, and would thus have final say on any modifications to be made, but it would be an act of extreme arrogance to ignore the words of your engineer and he did not have final say over Tom finding another ship. In the end they’d compromised – the auxiliary boiler was scrapped (the less Jack had to hear about propeller stresses and their consequences, the better) and the flares and smoke (the less Tom had to hear about “necessary tactical advantage” in the engine room, the better) had stayed.
They’d managed to get hold of some carburin-enhanced fuel oil for the journey, which Jack was grateful for. The stuff was in short supply, especially with the talented carburi apparently wanting to seek their fortune further afield, but Jack had made a visit to Molvarrick and explained the situation, and he’d pulled some strings. Some Captains tended to pair the enhanced fuel oil with a similarly magicked firebox and a cinnador crewmember providing an extra spark, but that tended to take it’s toll on the engine and the Aurora’s current maintenance schedule suited Jack just fine. She wasn’t a fussy girl, just needed the steady hand of a good engineer to keep her ticking over. The kind of ship you wanted when you were setting out over the open sea.
That did concern Jack. It was one thing flying over land, where at the very least you could try flinging yourself clear of the crash site, but if you went down in the water you were as good as dead. There were some islands out there in the far deep, but they were mostly uninhabited as far as Jack knew and would, to be honest, probably just prolong the misery. Eating your crewmates just tended to sour the mood. He’d had experience of it before – each Navy observer had their mandatory time out in open sea, first at the start of storm season, then in the depths of it. By Jack’s reckoning, storm season was still a good month away, and might even provide cover in the Shattered Edge for when they went after this compass. Some research had provided a couple of reasons that Barris might be after it – a couple of vague articles on Tovari research into magical navigation aids had mentioned that it was among the first articles produced by Bellari House, the legendary Tovari magicar house that had up and vanished shortly before Barris began the travels that would make his name. Hopefully, the Shattered Edge might have some more concrete answers – Molvarrick’s library wasn’t big on Tovari magicks, and Leo had given him the sort of patronising smile when he’d asked if he could have a look that meant he’d never find anything in there either. Loremaster libraries were usually closely guarded, but it had been worth a stab. Tomzyk might have been another option, but the Bateski magicar had left Torlim for home the day prior – in mildly better spirits now that Vilkar and his cohort of apprentices were back to full health, but still with that undercurrent of concern that surfaced whenever he put eyes on Vilkar. Hopefully whatever was causing his concern would leave them untroubled until they got the damn compass.
He didn’t have much time to brood on Vilkar’s potential problems, as it turned out. With the Aurora being a small ship, she didn’t take much packing, and while Leo was giving Vilkar some basic pointers before they left, the majority of his training would have to come from the loaned books that were carefully packed into Vilkar’s portion of the Aurora’s cramped living space. Tom had given the newly minted magicar a warning that if he set the ship on fire there’d be hell to pay, but there had been a twinkle in his eye as he said it. Fuel had been accounted for, as well as ammunition for all arms, old and new; Tom had packed the engine room full of everything he deemed essential and Jack had stocked up on rum, silk soap and coffee. All that was left was to say their goodbyes.
The goodbyes, as it turned out, weren’t long. Tomzyk was long gone, Barris had left port a few days prior, and Molvarrick was too busy to see them off in person, settling for a quick bonecrushing embrace within the halls of his house. Lostar had apparently cared enough to wish them safe travels at the door, but he had his duties. That left Leo as the lone soul who cared enough to make the journey up to the dock, the delicate black and red silken umbrella more suited to full sun than the uncharacteristically grey skies that had greeted them as the crew made their final checks.
“Good sailing, lads,” they offered, looking up at the carriage as Vilkar got himself comfy next to the navigation table, “you’re going to need it.”
“With a crew like this, we’ll have it” Jack replied with a smile. If nothing else, confidence would see him through.
“You’ve certainly got the magicar for it, that’s for certain, You’ll try and keep him out of trouble, yes?”
“I’ll try, that’s as much as I can promise.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Leo smiled, shaking Jack’s gloved hand, delicate silk against airman’s leather, “I’m sure he’ll do you proud.”
They withdrew their hand with a theatrical flourish, and with a cheery wave departed to the white visitor’s guideline to see the Aurora off. Jack gave a casual salute before turning to climb the ladder.
“Well then,” he announced, pulling the ladder up and closing the hatch behind him, “let’s find our fortune!”