Chapter 3: Tears of the Gods

Joan pressed his hand to the back of his neck as he hurried out of Leyton Academy. Once outside, he pulled on his hooded cloak, drawing the cowl up to completely conceal his neck, and only then did he feel somewhat at ease.

He whistled, calling back Jamie, who had been busy snatching scraps from a pack of city strays, and with the dog in tow, he set off with his sled along the wide streets, packed hard with snow. They walked in silence for half an hour before finally finding a shop that sold arcane devices, spellcasting materials, and all manner of books.

Upon entering, Joan’s gaze was instantly drawn—greedy and longing—to the shelves lined with elegantly bound tomes. He wished nothing more than to claim them all. Yet the rows of exorbitant numbers on the price tags quickly brought him back to reality, reminding him that his meager purse could not bear the weight of such ambitions.

After much deliberation and calculation, he decided to purchase only what was most necessary and within his means: a blank spellbook and a vial of special ink infused with “deep-sea squid” essence. This rare ink bonded closely with magical script, allowing spells copied with it to endure without losing their enchantment.

After buying the spellbook and ink, Joan barely had enough left to purchase a single 0-level cantrip scroll. Perhaps out of sympathy for the handsome, slender country boy, the shopkeeper parted with two cantrip scrolls for almost nothing: one for “Introspection” and the other for “Ray of Frost.”

Zero-level spells, commonly called “cantrips,” usually did not need to be recorded in a spellbook. Nor were they limited by spell slots; a wizard could cast them at will. Still, Joan meticulously transcribed all three of his cantrips into his spellbook, as if this made him look more like a true “magister.”

With his purchases complete, Joan left Port Leyton and set out for home along the road by which he had come. Jamie pulled the sled swiftly across the open fields, and as he rode, Joan wasted no time—he studied the two new spell scrolls intently as they traveled.

“Ray of Frost” was a rare offensive cantrip and the foundation for many higher-level evocation spells—particularly those involving rays. It was not easy to master, and so far, Joan had made little progress. The other cantrip, “Introspection,” was perhaps the most widely known spell in the world of Varesse; it appeared on the spell list of every class capable of magic.

Simple yet wondrous, this spell allowed the caster to enter a state of meditation and, by force of will, examine their own health and attributes—all displayed in neat, numeric form. In fact, not only spellcasters needed “Introspection.” Even those with no magical skill often wished to know their own condition; for them, there was always the option of purchasing a vial of “Introspection Potion” for twenty gold coins, granting them temporary access to this self-awareness.

Joan devoted himself to studying “Introspection” on the journey, and that very morning, he succeeded in casting the cantrip for the first time.

In the instant the spell completed, Joan slipped into a meditative trance. The world around him faded away, and within his mind, glowing words and numbers appeared.

…

Class: Wizard Level 0 (Apprentice)

Status: Healthy

Attributes: Strength 10, Dexterity 12, Constitution 9, Intelligence 13, Wisdom 14, Charisma 16

…

Thanks to “Introspection,” Joan knew his own body with accuracy for the first time in his life. His brief surprise gave way to memory: he recalled what the examiner had told him during the arcane entrance exam.

The upgraded version of Introspection, a second-level spell known as “Greater Introspection,” could not only reveal one’s own attributes but sometimes even those of others. At the exam, the examiner had used this very spell to assess Joan, then explained that his physical attributes—Strength, Constitution, Dexterity—were all average, at the level of an ordinary person. The mental attributes were a little better: Intelligence was slightly above average, Wisdom a bit higher, but nothing extraordinary. Only Charisma was exceptional—a sign, according to the examiner, of special bloodlines and the potential to become an outstanding sorcerer.

Joan had doubted the examiner’s words at the time, but now, seeing the numbers with his own eyes, he had to admit: Charisma was indeed his strongest trait.

“That examiner was right,” Joan thought gloomily as he sat on the rushing sled, fingers unconsciously reaching for the back of his neck. “With my intellect, no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be a great wizard. Sorcery suits my talents better, but…”

He was lost in thought when a sudden roar shattered the silence, startling him so badly he nearly fell from the sled. Jamie stopped abruptly, ears pricked, growling toward the direction of the explosion.

Joan leapt down and looked toward the sound. In the distance, a pillar of light surged skyward and branched at the top into thick and thin limbs—like a colossal silver tree piercing heaven and earth.

Never in his life had Joan seen such a magnificent yet terrifying sight. He stood frozen for a long time before he could move again. By then, the phenomenon had faded; the world was empty and silent. The silver pillar had vanished as if it were no more than a fleeting dream.

When the shock wore off, Joan’s first instinct was to steer far clear of the explosion and continue on his way—no need to invite trouble.

“Not our business, Jamie. Let’s go!”

But, to Joan’s surprise, Jamie, usually so obedient, ignored his command and dashed straight for the source of the blast.

“Not that way!” Joan shouted anxiously at the dog’s retreating back. “That’s not the way home—it’s dangerous!”

Jamie was a crossbred winter wolf, far more intelligent than any ordinary animal. Though he could not speak, he always understood human words. What had gotten into him today? Despite Joan’s repeated orders, he barreled ahead, sled in tow, toward the explosion.

Joan couldn’t hope to cross the snowy wilderness on foot alone and reach home safely. Watching Jamie disappear into the distance, he could only shake his head in resignation and chase after the dog toward the blast site.

He ran for about two hundred yards, then the ground dropped away unexpectedly. Unable to stop, he tumbled down the snow-covered slope and landed hard, blacking out momentarily. He lay on his back in the snow, gasping for breath before finally coming to his senses.

Jamie, hearing his master’s cry, hesitated, then turned back and ran to Joan’s side. He lowered his head, whining softly, emerald eyes full of concern.

Joan raised a hand to stroke the winter wolf’s soft, silken mane, assuring him he was all right, then struggled to his feet. Looking up, he couldn’t suppress a gasp.

He’d passed this way just two weeks ago and remembered well: at the foot of the slope was a small village of forty or fifty families, mostly hunters and fishers. Now, the wooden palisades were gone, the houses reduced to ashes, dust swirling in the north wind.

Joan stood dazed before the ruins, unable to say how long before he finally found his voice, calling out with a trembling shout, “Is anyone there?”

His cry echoed over the snowy plain. No answer came.

He had no idea what disaster had just befallen this place—what could have wiped out the entire village and its inhabitants in an instant, leaving not a bone behind. Was it divine wrath or the “work” of some powerful, malevolent spellcaster?

Joan dared not think too deeply on it.

Suddenly, Jamie growled, emerald eyes fixed on a snowdrift.

Joan approached and, to his astonishment, found a girl lying on her side behind the mound, eyes closed and unconscious. Her delicate cheeks were flushed with fever, and her long flaxen hair was woven into many fine braids—an ethnic style, combined with her unusually pale skin, that marked her as an Asa.

The Asa were one of the main native peoples of Alfheim and the New World, claiming descent from the ancient gods. To the colonists from the Old World, however, these forest dwellers were little more than savages—uncivilized and out of step with the times.

Joan was himself the descendant of “civilized” colonists, but he harbored no prejudice against the natives. Nor did he enjoy meddling in others’ affairs, but to abandon an unconscious girl in the wilderness seemed too cold-hearted.

He knelt beside her, placing a hand near her nose to feel for breath. There was still a faint sign of life, which only deepened his puzzlement.

All the villagers had perished in the explosion, yet this Asa girl had survived—why?

While he pondered, Jamie grew impatient and seized the girl’s trouser leg, dragging her toward the sled.

Joan was not surprised. While winter wolves were generally cruel and savage, Jamie had not inherited his sire’s cold nature. Raised and trained by Joan’s grandfather, he had become a competent and devoted hunting dog. Hunting, protecting his master, and rescue work were the three essential skills for such a dog—Jamie excelled at all, and, more unusually still, possessed a strong sense of justice and compassion. If he found someone in need in the wild, he would do all he could to help.

Joan could not, in good conscience or reason, stop Jamie from rescuing the girl. Pushing aside his doubts, he helped the dog lift the unconscious girl onto the sled and covered her with a blanket.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Joan was about to leave the eerie ruins when something caught his eye—a glint in the snow. Curious, he brushed aside the snow and found a shining crystal, about the size of his fist, shaped like a teardrop with smooth, graceful lines—no sign of human carving at all.

“What is that?” Joan wondered, fascinated by the beautiful, mysterious stone. For safety’s sake, he did not touch it directly; instead, from five feet away, he cast “Mage Hand,” conjuring a spectral force to gently lift the crystal from the snow.

Maintaining his concentration on the spell, Joan brought the crystal closer and, after long and careful examination, was satisfied it would not explode. Only then did he reach out a finger to touch it.

He felt a cool, smooth sensation, and at once a stream of chill energy flowed from his fingertip into his body, making him dizzy. Suddenly, his mind flooded with strange new knowledge—all relating to the mysterious crystal beneath his hand.

Standing in the snow, Joan’s fear slowly melted into wonder. He gripped the crystal—so alive, so wise—and whispered its name.

“The Tear of the Gods.”