The Dream Crafter(53)
“It’s the Magic Realm. Before the Great Collision.” The other breathed the words, so small and delicate amongst the awe her face displayed. “I remember…a little. I remember here.”
“This was my home. Mine and Merc’s.” The monastic’s voice interrupted their perusal, the man himself tall and straight, not prideful in his manner but pride in his bearing. Her doppelganger’s face went from awe to surprise, to wariness holding shadings of fear. His visit was not in her plans.
Amana held no fear of the man. This was the man who Merc spoke of, the one who had trained him, and only curiosity coursed through her, the possibility of learning Merc’s origins exciting her in ways she’d never before believed possible while within a dream. “Merc’s originally from the Magic Realm?” Amana asked. No one knew how many humans from the Magic Realm survived the Great Collision. Part was because so much damage and chaos occurred, reliable records were non-existent. The ones who wanted to join society at large were able to slip right in and never needed to tell their history. Those that were not comfortable losing their way of life stayed closer to the changed lands, where dwarves and elves made their kingdoms, and lived as they had before, under the protection of other races who did not answer to anyone.
It was one of the reasons for so many problems, so much us versus them. Humans were from one Realm, monsters and other races from another, and the twain oftentimes did not like to meet.
The man began to walk forward, an easy gait where he never glanced their way, his manner of a man who was used to others following. “He was my initiate,” he said, and then nothing else, the answer frustrating in its vagueness.
The other was walking but keeping a distance from the man, but Amana rushed forward to be beside him. “He said you had him from birth. Where was his mother and his family? Does he have any siblings?”
“Such curiosity for a man who kidnapped you. Shouldn’t you ask how to defeat him? Shouldn’t you ask even what I know of your powers?” Now they were in the castle, in a huge room filled with scrolls, and in the middle a woman with dark, dark hair sat at a desk, transcribing. On her right was a large dusty collection of scrolls tied together. Of all the scrolls in this room, Amana’s gaze settled on those, a vague recognition tickling her senses.
Amana circled the woman and saw Merc’s mouth, the shape of his nose. The woman looked up and it was Merc’s honey-gold eyes in a feminine face. “Why are you here, thief?”
Amana’s surprised double-take wasn’t even finished when Merc’s voice said from behind her, “Looking for a scroll, of course.”
The woman…Merc’s mother?…hadn’t been talking to her, but at a man behind her, and Amana turned to see a near replicate of Merc. With a moment to reflect, it hadn’t been Merc’s voice. This man’s voice was coarser than Merc’s, a hint of accent where Merc had none, but with so many similarities, this had to be his father.
The monastic stood beside her, watching the scene with the same placid expression he’d shown throughout this strange meeting. “Merc’s mother was from a clan sworn to protect the Spellbook. She was the thirteenth generation who had taken an oath of blood and magic to protect the Spellbook unto death.”
The room gave way in slow dissipation, but the last look of Merc’s parents showed them looking at each other in hungry fascination. The space reformed, a dark alley, echoes of men and women yelling and laughing from a nearby tavern filling the space, and Merc’s mother covered in a dark cloak and holding a bundle. Merc’s master was now part of the vision, standing before the woman, his eyes on the bundle even as he spoke to the woman. “I will not give him back.”
“I would not ask for him back,” the woman said. “I will have him free from my clan and the oaths they would demand from him. Will you train him to forge his own path?”
The monastic pushed the covering on the bundle to reveal a baby, Merc’s bright hazel eyes in the round features all baby’s possessed. Merc was awake but silent, staring at the man in quiet contemplation. “I guarantee nothing.”
“I ask for him to have a chance, nothing more.”
With those words, Merc’s master reached out to cradle the baby. There was one second where Merc’s mother’s hands and arms tightened, a small pulling of the bundle back to her, but she gave way and Merc was nestled into the monastic’s arms. Without any hesitation the man left, and Merc’s mother’s gaze never wavered from him until he disappeared from sight.