Page 6 of Ashes of Aether
“How did this happen?” she asks softly.
“Kaely struck me with a blast of aether,” I say. We tend not to use the true names of our spells in conversation, lest the aether in our blood reacts with our words. “If I hadn’t been in mid-teleport, I’d be dead.”
She frowns at my wounded shoulder and then shakes her head. “I will ask your father to speak to Archmage Gidston. Training should not be this dangerous.”
I give her a stiff nod. The reason Archmage Gidston didn’t intervene earlier is probably because I’m an Ashbourne and she thinks I can endure more than I can.
My mother leaves the chaise and paces over to the oaken cabinet in the far corner of the room. It features paneled doors and drawers with brass handles and is decorated by floral flourishes carved into the wood. The upper part mostly consists of glass and displays the finest crystalline chalices we own. Most have been in the Ashbourne family for centuries, and my father tells me some are as ancient as Nolderan itself. If that’s true, it would make them over a thousand years old. Thanks to the aether imbued in the chalices, they are resistant to shattering. As a child, I once came close to testing their durability, but my father stopped me before I could let the chosen chalice fall onto the hallway’s tiles. He was so furious he couldn’t bear to look at me for a whole week. If I brought up the incident now, even a decade later, he likely wouldn’t speak to me for an entire day. That particular chalice belonged to his grandfather, so it is far from the oldest one we have inside our cabinet, but it is the most precious to him. My great-grandfather was a Grandmage of Nolderan, like my father, and he idolizes him greatly. Sometimes I catch him staring up at my great-grandfather’s portrait when he thinks no one is looking.
My mother opens the topmost drawer of the cabinet and rummages through until she finds a round, silver tin. She returns to her spot beside me and unscrews the lid.
The salve inside is so red it looks like hundreds of crushed rubies. While Blood Balm is the name of this regenerative ointment, blood isn’t an ingredient, and it’s instead made from the leaves of Blood Mint. The balm smells far more pleasant than the potion Archmage Gidston gave me in the arena. Blood Mint is the most prominent note in its fragrance, being the active ingredient, and it makes the ointment smell like something between cool mint and spicy pepper.
She dips her fingers into the ointment and slathers a thick layer of glossy crimson across my shoulder. As vivid as the hue is, it doesn’t stain my skin. My pores quickly absorb the balm, and if not for the sting spreading across my shoulder, I would forget it was there.
I hope that with both the healing potion and the regenerative balm, my recovery will be quick. Each time I look at the bruise, I’m reminded of Kaely and the defeat I suffered at her hands.
Once my mother finishes applying the ointment, she screws on the lid and sets the tin onto the nearest counter.
“Does Father still have meetings until late tonight?” I ask. “Or have they been canceled?” The hopeful note to my voice raises it a pitch higher.
To my dismay, my mother shakes her head. “We’ll do something at the weekend to celebrate your birthday.”
“Even Eliya is busy,” I grumble. Apparently all those dearest to me care little about my birthday. At this rate, I’ll be left to celebrate it alone with only a bottle of wine for company.
“Have you asked Arluin?”
“He’s forgotten, too.”
“What do you mean he’s forgotten?”
“Last night he didn’t mention anything about making plans.”
“Well, why don’t you find him and see if he’s busy?”
“I suppose I’ll have to,” I say, sliding off the chaise and striding out the room. Though I’m annoyed at him for forgetting that today is my birthday, at least his company is better than none at all.
“Don’t forget to change your robes,” she calls after me. “And make sure you brush your hair!”
Three
DuskhasfallenbythetimeIleavemymanor.I’veswappedmysingedrobesforasky-bluesleevelessdress.Blossomsclimbtheskirts,andapinkribbonaccentuatesmywaistline.Agossamershawldrapesmyshoulders,anddaintyrose-coloredslipperscovermyfeet,butthey’rehardtoseewithmyskirtsbrushingthefloor.
An illusion conceals the bruise on my shoulder. Other magi will be able to tell I’ve cast an enchantment over my skin, but they won’t see it unless they dispel my illusion. And doing so is regarded as a terrible insult here in the Upper City of Nolderan, where magic is free to flourish.
I don’t bother teleporting myself to Arluin’s manor, knowing he won’t be there. Other than sleeping, he spends little time inside his home. But he can hardly be blamed. If I lived in a big, lonely manor then I would also spend little time in it. He doesn’t even keep faerie dragons and insists they are merely pests.
I instead teleport to the archway which marks the Arcanium’s entrance.QUEL ESTE VOLU, PODE NONQUES VERA MORIREis etched into the ancient stone. It’s written in Medeicus, the language of aether and translates to:That which is aether may never truly die. When saying the phrase out loud, we prefer to use the common tongue, in case we inadvertently activate our magic. All our architecture features the Medeicus translation, however.
Beyond the arch, a lengthy path trails to the Arcanium. Statues of long dead magi tower on either side and cast long shadows over me as I pass beneath. Glittering violet crystals float along the path. They are much like the ones I fed Zephyr, though these are clustered together and housed in decorative silver hemispheres. They glow vibrantly with aether, acting as tiny streetlights.
The end of the path is marked by the statue of Grandmage Delmont Blackwood, Founder of Nolderan and the Magi. The plaque fixed to his podium reads exactly that, but I doubt there’s anyone in the entire city who wouldn’t recognize him. He has a long beard and bushy brows which the portraits of him inside the Arcanium depict as being the shade of black ink. He wears the magnificent robes that only Grandmagi are permitted to wear and clasps the same crystalline staff my father never goes anywhere without. The weapon is forged from aether, and its surface ripples with magic, though you can’t tell that by looking at the statue.
I don’t stare up at Grandmage Delmont Blackwood for long before following the flight of stairs which spirals around him.
The Arcanium itself is a sprawling palace of countless spires. Thick pillars form a portico, and illustrations are carved into the pediment atop it. They portray the Primordial Explosion: when aether exploded in the emptiness of time and space, forming the Heavens, the Abyss, and Imyria—the mortal plane of existence. Throughout my first year at the Arcanium, my tutors insisted on drilling the origins of the universe over and over during our classes, even though every child from magi families can already recite the tale by heart.
My footsteps echo through the portico as I pass the rows of pillars. The Arcanium’s large doors are spread wide open, allowing the adepts and magi to pass through in a stream of cerulean and indigo robes. Since I’ve changed out of my adept robes for the evening, I’m a stark contrast to the rest of the crowd. The Arcanium is off limits to the ordinary people of Nolderan, but no one stops to question me. They all know my face, thanks to my father.