The Currents of Magic (11)

I'd expected darkness, filth, rats, stink. The prison was nothing like that.

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The walls were clean, polished stone, smooth and shiny. Plenty of light came in from a high window opening. And plenty of fresh air.

It would have been straightforward to farsend myself up to the seemingly-wide window ledge, if not for the fact that no magic could exist within a Folly.

Or rather, as magic emanated from living things, a tiny island of magic dwelled within me. It seeped out of me and into the ether, where it was pulled from the air like water falls from the sky.

Most workings required the interplay of currents and eddies of magic, flowing through the world, from being to being, creature to creature, from atom to atom. In a Folly, such a thing was nigh impossible.

Farsending required the "cooperation" of the currents of magic outside the mage. And there was no such cooperation within a Folly. Here, I was truly an island.

With great care, I placed my hands to the stone wall, and pushed my mind towards it; my awareness could not exceed my own body.

The stone was smooth, cold, and utterly dead. The stone contained no echo of life, not even my own.

I felt absolutely alone for the first time in my life.

As a child, no matter how alone I'd seemed, I wasn't truly isolated. Not like this. I could always feel the echoes of others, or of myself. When a person inhabits a place, they soak into it, their echoes reverberating through it. I realized how lucky I'd been, to have never felt this way before.

I felt humbled. Cowed. I didn't like it.

This wasn't Father, an opinionated tyrant who nevertheless responded to my words, my actions, my very existence. No, this place did not see me or hear me. It didn't care if I was alive or dead. It was intractable. 

I sat with my feelings. I thought. I had no other choice.

From time to time, I'd relieve myself in the hole in the corner. A sluice brought me water into a basin when I needed it. I could bathe, after a fashion, and perform all necessary ablutions. 

My bed, also my seat, was a mattress on a long slab of stone. There were ample blankets against the nightly chill. The days were warm, comfortably so. The tropical heat could not penetrate these walls.

Periodically, a hatch would open in the door, and a tray of food would be passed through to me. And that was no mean fare, either. Most meals consisted of a bed of some amber grain, topped with a spiced mash of various meats and vegetables. Exotic. Tasty. I had no complaints about it.

It was all so unexpectedly civilized.

But it was still a prison.

The days kept on turning, and I lost count of them. What could I do but ruminate?

I railed against my father, no matter that he must by now be buried in the family mausoleum in the Garden of Kamuru, west of Peledar. He lay, now, beside his own parents, and among all the long lines of Azillan.

I railed against the Curse, dooming me from birth to these intolerable strictures. I fantasized about how I would break each rule, take the Seal from my brother, unseal the world's Circles, and finally free myself.

I railed against Mother, for leaving me, first at home under the bitter glare of Father's watchful eye, and now in this foreign prison, this strange Agalin torture chamber, where the tortures were all self-inflicted.

In time, I'd realized that was the point: the enforced self-reflection and self-recrimination were worse than any mere physical pain. 

I imagined how a stern parent might chastise a child, send them to their rooms, to think about what they'd done. I laughed, heartily. These cunning Agalins. 

I railed against my brother, for his freedoms and privileges. I wondered how he'd reacted to Father's posthumous return. I wondered what he'd thought of Mother's letter, and what the letter had in fact said. I wondered how the weight of the entire lan might be crushing him. I wondered if he worried about my wellbeing, my incarceration for an unwitting crime of technicality. I wondered if he'd made any attempt to free me. Or if Mother had.

And after I had railed and wallowed for many days, a strange calmness finally came over me. Had I expunged my demons? Not at all. I'd simply worn them out. They were just tired of dealing with me. 

Into that calm clarity, I posed a series of questions, of examinations. I ruminated on all I'd been taught, by the Masters at the Black Isle, by Father in his great authoritative wisdom, and, of course, by Mother, in words of simple truth carefully explained.

Vital lessons, and lessons to relearn now.

I could feel the changes these days had wrought upon me. In the complete absence of magic I managed, nevertheless, to hone my understanding of my art and myself. I truly became a mage. 

A number of things finally fell into place. I knew I'd emerge from this prison a new man.

Continue reading with Part 12 - A Kinnon Mage.