Wartorn: Resurrection

"Then," Ho

He lifted the glove. Praulth saw, with some alarm, that Ho

"You have wondered from the start how I have been providing you with current intelligence of the Felk movements occurring so far away."

"Yes," Praulth said honestly. "I have wondered."

"Far Speak."

"Master?"

"Communication magic. This glove belongs to one of the elite scouts dispatched by Cultat. That scout, in turn, possesses an item of mine, something I've handled often, that has essentially taken on something of my ... spirit, if you will."

"Spirit?" Praulth retreated from the word. It had no place in her world of cool logic and deductive

insight.

Ho

"My apologies, Master Ho

Yet Ho

"Everyone," Ho

"I don't believe you do." But he said it gently. "Tell me then."

Ho

She puzzled over the names. They sounded archaic, superstitious.

"It is the place from which we come," said Ho

"A reality?" Praulth felt herself frowning as her logical mind instinctively picked apart Ho

"I am not Master Turogo's pupil," she said. Turogo headed the philosophy council. "I am yours." This last came out somewhat hoarsely.

"Life's opposite is ... ?" pressed Ho

"Death," Praulth said, with a small shrug.

"That is yet another name. The oldest."

She wasn't following. She wasn't even convinced this was leading anywhere. But she had promised to hear this man's words. Then, what he had said registered.

"Are you saying," Praulth whispered, "that magic taps into a reality beyond this one ... beyond life? Its source is—death? That makes no sense." In truth, all this was greatly offensive to her rational mind. She accepted the authenticity of magic. The Felk had used it in their war, and war was a reality not to be denied. But this babble about the Wellspring or whatever Ho

"From which we come and to where we are restored," the elderly instructor repeated. His eyes had remained closed. Now he opened them, peering up at Praulth.

She felt the impulse to go to him, to kneel by the cot, take his hand. But she didn't know if such actions would be welcome. She remained standing.

"I am dying because the rejuvenation spells are failing," said Ho

He needed to pause again, for another labored breath.

"Matokin has reawakened magic in this reality to a degree it has not known for many, many years," he continued. "He has produced many practitioners. He has schooled his mages in magic's methods, but he has taught nothing of the ethics of the art. They don't grasp the consequences of what they do. Only the most powerful—the Far Movement mages, I would say—would know anything of the Wellspring. Most would only know that with enough training, with the proper incantations and gestures and discipline, they can achieve spectacular feats."

Praulth absorbed this. "But what are the consequences?"

The thi

"They are using Far Movement magic," he said. "Opening doorways, portals. They are entering the reality beyond this. They are flirting with dangers that perhaps Matokin himself doesn't even understand."

It was Praulth's turn to press. "Yes—but what are those dangers?" A coldness spread through her.

Ho

"Why did the mighty empires of the Northern and Southern Continents crumble so many hundredwinters ago?" he asked as if she was some pathetic first-phase student.

"The Great Upheavals," she answered. "And they were?"

"Internal strife. If you require a detailed accounting, I can recite what historians have cobbled together from that chaotic period—"

"Since the time of the Upheavals," Ho

It was a broad question, yet it was still answerable. "Practitioners of magic have been feared by most cultures."

"Why?" Ho

"They were made to blame for the Upheavals.

They..."

Ho

She needed to sit. She groped behind herself, found the stool, spilled a pile of pages off of it, and sat. She could say nothing. Shock gripped her.

"There is something else I wish to say."

Praulth blinked. Some moments had passed. Ho

"I ca

Praulth felt tears threaten her eyes a second time. Whatever Ho

"Thank you, Master Ho

"It's Dardas. You know that."

"Of course, Master Ho

"No ... Praulth. It is Dardas."

She stared.

"Let me," he said, "tell you about resurrection magic ..."

THE BATTLE OF Torran Flats. Brilliant? Perhaps. To Praulth it seemed the obvious tactic. She had simply approached the problem logically. She knew Dardas's style. She could predict his movements. How to engage him in the field was merely a matter of analysis and deduction.