From Chapter I of Pilgrimage
The heavy brass bell rang the call to dinner, yet Hossa Kuraeti lingered at the base of the statue, a colossal monument to the Order’s founder, Saudamor o’sha.
Hossa raked a hand through his long auburn hair, his gaze locked with the cold, marble eyes of the Order’s most revered maghdym. Though only a stone likeness, Hossa could even now sense the power of the man.
As Saudamor’s arm reached eastward toward Aesir Eyna, Hossa followed it to the distant horizon. My time will come, he thought, the unspoken promise hanging in the air.
A throng of young recruits loitered at the edge of the square, their playful laughter rousing Hossa from his somber thoughts. Their joyful innocence suggested their recent arrival to Sha’gridar. It was customary for children to begin their journey within the Order at a tender age. Hossa himself was taken into the church’s care at the unassuming age of four.
His attention drifted to the window in the Recruit Quarters where he’d spent his first two years at the temple. He’d had a roommate then, but when he attempted to conjure the name, the memory remained elusive. Trivial recollections like that often dissolved into obscurity at Sha’gridar, like drops of ink in a bubbling brook.
Suddenly, the name came back — Kamaron Dalta! Hossa wondered what had become of him after failing his first-year exams. Those who stumbled at the temple were usually consigned to Dah’lamenga, seat of the church’s military might and home to the Godbloods. He could never imagine Kamaron as a soldier.
Hossa had since become a Third-Seal apprentice, and books were now his closest companions. Lately, it was The Rites of Maghvera — a guide for initiates embarking on their pilgrimage to Aesir Eyna. It wasn’t his first foray into the text; in fact, he’d read it many times. Aspiring apprentices were only granted one opportunity to receive the gift, and Hossa intended to be well-prepared when destiny came knocking.
Hossa examined his right hand, tracing the inky black lines snaking up his pinky and ring fingers — proof of his completion of the first two seals. His index and middle fingers, for the moment, remained naked — a poignant reminder of the journey ahead, when those, too, would one day bear the mark of the Maghdym.
First-Seal training had been a crucible of physical endurance. From dawn to dusk, they had pushed him to his limits: endless exercise, rigorous muscle conditioning, and bouts of Buroka Kova — an ancient martial art preserved only within the walls of Sha’gridar. In contrast, the Second Seal had delved into the great mysteries of the mind, centering on meditation, mindfulness, and the arcane secrets of spells and incantations. The latter, however, would remain beyond his grasp until he received the gift at Aesir Eyna.
As the sun descended behind the western wall, a raspy voice stirred Hossa from his reverie.
“Hossa Kuraeti.” Turning, he found his mentor, Abar Hossini o’sha, at his side. The elder priest tucked his wrinkled hands into the wide sleeves of his elegant purple cassock, the fabric fluttering in the breeze. Captivating patterns in golden thread adorned the sleeves, and the emblem of Saudamor, emblazoned upon his chest, caught the dying rays of the setting sun. It made his own gray caftan feel drab in comparison.
Hossa could never pinpoint Abar o’sha’s precise age; those blessed with the gift aged in ways that defied the laws governing common folk. But he was certain Abar had seen at least seventy summers. His mentor had served on the Synod for over half a century, a tenure unmatched for almost two hundred years, earning him the coveted position of the Archon’s most trusted counsel.
“Do you intend to forgo this evening’s supper?” Abar inquired, a hint of amusement in his aged voice. Hossa smiled, delighted by his mentor’s return. Abar often journeyed to the mainland on the Order’s behalf, and his latest venture had spanned three months.
“It’s good to see you, Abar o’sha.” Hossa rose, touching two tattooed fingers to his heart in a respectful salute, which his mentor mirrored with four of his own. “When did you return?”
“”Not so long ago, and I have been in counsel with the Archon ever since,” Abar explained, taking a moment to appraise Hossa with a nod of approval. “You have grown stronger in my absence.”
“I’ve been diligent in my Buroka Kova practice,” Hossa replied.
Abar tapped a finger to his temple. “No, I meant up here. Your mind seems fortified.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve been reading.” Hossa held up the book. “You always said a body without a sound mind is nothing more than a slab of tough meat.”
“Did I?” Abar asked with a hint of amusement. Hossa nodded, and Abar released a great, labored shrug. “Well, one lesson I’ve learned is that the foolish will eagerly accept any nonsense as truth. But yes, mind and body are of equal importance; without balance, there is only imperfection.”
Abar’s gaze settled on the book in Hossa’s hand. “The Rites of Maghvera? Has there been some recent development that has escaped my notice?”
Hossa shook his head in response, his eyes falling to the stonework beneath his feet, and Abar placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Be cautious not to race ahead too swiftly, lest you look back in regret with a cricked neck.” Abar lowered his fragile body onto the stone bench. “Did you know it was the Elderfolk who erected Sha’gridar? They were a formidable race, the first to harness the gift of magic.”
“I’m aware,” Hossa replied, attempting to temper his pride. “We learned about them in our first year of training. But if they were so powerful, why did they vanish?”
All things must end,” Abar mused. “Yet, the Elderfolk are not entirely lost to us. Their spirits endure.”
“In books and memories, you mean?”
“Nothing so abstract, I assure you.” Abar o’sha adjusted his position with a pained groan. “What I am about to impart is known only to the Maghdym. You must swear to keep my words in the strictest confidence.”
“I swear.”
Abar leaned in closer, his voice just above a whisper. “The Elderfolk discovered a means to preserve their spirits even after death by casting the departed soul into another vessel.”
“Into another person?”
“No,” Abar replied, lowering his voice further still. “They transported the deceased to Aesir Eyna and channeled their spirit into-“
“The maghtrees!” Hossa blurted out and quickly hushed under Abar’s chastening glare. “I apologize, Abar o’sha, but it’s the maghtrees, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, your wisdom grows, young Hossa,” Abar acknowledged. “You are correct — they imbued the maghtrees with the spirits of their deceased. A worthy apprentice may forge a hallowed pact with one of these spirits and receive the gift of magic.”
Hossa was struck silent, disbelief and anticipation mingling within him. He yearned for the day he could embark on this sacred journey, to join the ranks of the Maghdym like his mentor. Yet, the prospect of conscription into the Godbloods loomed with each passing day, his eighteenth birthday drawing ever closer. He shuddered at the possibility.
“Hossa Kuraeti, you have been an exceptional apprentice, but the time has come for my guidance to end,” Abar declared. The words seemed to burn within Hossa’s ears, constricting his chest and making it difficult to breathe. Panic welled within him — was he being expelled? Or conscripted like Kamaron? Either way, his aspirations lay in ruins. He had failed.
Abar o’sha surveyed the square, ensuring their conversation remained unheard, and leaned in closer. “The Archon has granted permission for your pilgrimage.”
Hossa’s mouth gaped in disbelief, his eyes welling with tears, ready to spill over at any moment. But before he could give voice to his shock or gratitude, Abar pressed on, leaving no room for questions.
“You’ll depart on the morrow, hence my concern of missing supper. The journey is long, and you will soon miss the comfort of a good meal.”
Overwhelmed with joy, Hossa sprang to his feet. “Thank you, Abar o’sha! Thank you! Will you honor me with one last feast?”
The old man declined with a slow shake of his head, turning his gaze to the horizon as twilight deepened around them. “I believe I’ll remain here until slumber calls me. There’s no better time to refine one’s gift of sight.”
“In the dark?” Hossa questioned with a chuckle, surveying the dimming square.
Abar raised a hand, guiding Hossa’s gaze to the sky. “What do you see up there?”
“Nothing. Just the stars.”
“And yet, those same stars are lost to our sight during the day, are they not?”
“Of course.”
“So you see, only in the embrace of darkness can we discover the beauty concealed by the light,” Abar mused, almost to himself. “Now, go. Fill your belly and rest well. I expect you at the Istengate by sunrise.”
Kyle MacNeil | The Official Website 