Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“Once, the Spy spread a tale so tall,

It could not be seen even from the tips of mountains.

The Spy, whose words were silver as a coin,

Destroyed those who forgot such a thing.”

It was midday, with the sun high in the sky, when Shen’s light blue bird returned to him. It landed on his shoulder before dissolving into motes of light and sinking into his skin. Shen was smiling at where the bird had been, his suspicion confirmed when the memories of the bird flitted through him.

Memories of Kuala with a sling, and Arkim in as disheveled of an appearance as Shen had ever seen from the other man. They were together. Shen would only have to head toward Kuala to find them both. A weight lifted off Shen’s shoulders, and he straightened. That was one less obstacle.

Shen had been reticent to send any more birds out. His Well wouldn’t replenish his power for him anymore—his magic was what was in his blood and no more. Which meant he couldn’t deplete it or he’d lower his life force. He would be limited even with his Inheritance until he connected to a new Well.

Looking off into the distance, Shen could see the walls of Listaire on the horizon. The towering brown stone buildings reached ever upward, but there were no glints of light, no refracting beams of rainbow. Where once there had been glass, air passed freely through the empty window frames.

Shen had been to Listaire several times before, but the aftereffects of the Curse of Broken Glass never stopped causing shock and awe to well up within him. The Curse was still strong in this whole area of New Archonia, Yuhaul in particular. It was as if the country had its own version of the Doom—only they had never managed to defeat it. Yuhaul was strong in offensive magics, that was sure, but defensively, the country found itself at the mercy of others.

Yuhaul had elementalists and warmongers galore, in line with many of the main aspects of its Wells. Xolo was a prime example of this. Flames. Plague. To kill it with a long-standing illness or destroy it quickly with fire. Those were the ways of Xolo. Shen could think of several ways that both aspects could be used to fuel the study of curse-breakers, but still, Yuhaul had few—and the ones they did have were unable to live to see the day the Curse of Broken Glass ended.

The thing about Yuhaul was that it possessed a large population, built around strong Wells, with educated citizens. It led to progress. Unfathomable progress. Unfortunately, to Shen, that had been in the realm of warmagic. Much like in Contraria, the Wells were used truly and they were adored. The Gods who oversee Yuhaul were truly worshiped, prayed to, idolized. They were treasured, and the personality of the Gods were ingrained in the personality of the people.

Contraria, Shen thought, respects the wishes of Krohnic more. His wish to see all timelines come to pass. His wish to maintain his lands and keep his name alive. Even against his immortal enemy.

Shen let out a long sigh, laying his head in his arms as the cart continued its slow trek to Listaire.

In his homeland, the Well was taught to be respected—much like a weapon. For defense, yes. For protection from the Horrid Ocean, yes. But also in the way all weapons are respected: for the danger they pose to the user. Contraria was more than any one thing. More than a land of single-minded warmongers or elementalist crafters. Contraria was force itself.

It was different from Yuhaul by virtue of no one daring to reckon with the island nation Shen hailed from.

Shen smiled at the very thought. Who would want to reckon with War Mages that could turn back time—to reverse the worst of wounds or inflict them a hundred times over? Or a country with Healers that could go against the very way of the world, of nature as whole? Or a land where scholars could pick a timeline and dive into the past, reliving it as if it were their own life, unimpeded by the flow of time?

Contraria had Kings with Divine Rights, and Godlings slaughtered by Heroes younger than most learned to even connect with a Well. Heroes, chosen by Krohnic himself—and a Well that was alive with a will of its own. A Well to be feared.

It was why, even after the millennia passed and the Doom consumed the land time and time again, so few dared to cross the Horrid Ocean. No matter the other Wells to be found in the islands. For they were gone, lost to the mainland by the simple fact that they belonged to Contraria and her children.

Shen felt a smile quirk up his face as he hopped out of the cart before the walls of Listaire grew too close—before his presence became noticed by the guards. Shen slid in with a family, a gentle, “How are you, Mom?” and a soft, “Hey, Dad, what’s for dinner?” leaving his lips.

His Inheritance swelled, and he felt his body become shorter, his face less defined by the passage of time. And then, he walked into Listaire, a young boy come to the city for the first time. It was only for a moment, then Shen separated from the family, letting his bones slide back into place as he dodged fast-moving couriers and staring tourists. The city was alive, fully awake at midday, and ready to be seen.

But Shen didn’t bother to follow the gazes of tourists. Whatever site they were so enraptured by was one Shen was doubly familiar with. Though, Shen would still need a guide to the Well of Xolo. There was only so much that could be done with second-hand information gathered through gossip lines.

As Shen took in the populace around him, he looked for locals—those who made eye contact only with others of their kind, whose names they shouted or familiarity drew them to greet. They moved faster than the others. The travelers who were just coming or about to go moved at a glacial pace in comparison. The travelers had to be careful, had to measure their distance against their exhaustion, and make sure they were capable of continuing on—of making their money and rations last.

That wasn’t who Shen needed, no, Shen needed someone to take him to the Well. Someone whose magic was strong, of bloodline and worship both. He tasted the wind, letting the air fill his lungs as he reached within himself. Catching a thread of his Inheritance, he let the magic swell within him. Babel had been mildly useful in this.

Making eye contact with a man dressed in a fine suit, Shen didn’t bother adjusting himself. He looked well enough, in his crimson and brown travellers' cloak and the thick rings on his fingers. His hair could be better done, but such was the risk with napping in a cart.

“Ho there,” Shen said, waving lightly.

The man paused, looking Shen over, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, and the monocle covering his eye self-adjusting on his face.

“Young man,” was all he said, the man’s shoulders straightening and the grip on his cane tightening.

“Sorry to bother, but I’m in from Vrayer, and”—at the mention of the university, the man visibly relaxed his grip—“I need assistance finding the Temple of Xolo.”

Temple, Well, whatever, Shen thought, the mask on his face not letting his irreverence through.

“Ah, a hopeful, then?” The man huffed, gentle amusement radiating off him. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes of my day for that.”

“Much appreciated,” Shen responded, a genuine grin slipping onto his face.

It was quick work, with few conversations following, getting to where the Well of Xolo resided. Shen followed the man through the flat roads of Listaire, weaving through the populace as if he were hardly there at all. None looked his way, none save the man.

It wasn’t until a building of crimson popped up in the distance that Shen was certain they were going the right direction. As the sun hung high in the midday sky, its light refracted off the building to create a green and yellow glow. It was in great contrast to the dark crystals that made up the walls of the temple. The closer they got, the more unsettled he felt. The closer they got, the clearer he could see the sickly shimmering of light and the embers twinkling in the air. It was beautiful and disgusting, both.

In front of the sealed entrance stood two priests with muscles that were hardly contained beneath their thin clothes and vibrant red veins shooting across the skin that was visible.

With a lopsided grin, Shen nodded to the man and said his thanks. It wasn’t until the sound of the cane hitting stone grew distant that Shen let his smile drop.

Releasing a heavy sigh, Shen prepared himself for what was to come. Prepared himself for the implications that came with bonding to Listaire’s Well—none of which he was enthused by. Nor was he surprised by. He knew what people thought of those who chose the Well of Xolo. Undesirables. Xolo was notorious for his dislike of the twice-blooded—those who had more than a single Well. He sent a prayer to Krohnic that Xolo wouldn’t take offense that he had a shattered connection to the other God.

Shen did not receive a response to his prayer.

Instead, he dwelled on the idiocy that was the restriction on curse-breaking in Yuhaul. It was the reason this temple had to be made of crystal, the reason that there were no windows within Listaire. The reason there was no possibility of a draft in the temple complex he found himself entering, with its stale air and dim light. The inability to break the Curse of Broken Glass was a direct result of the curse-breaker discipline being anathema to a God’s power.

To Shen, such a thing was simple. To go against another God was no problem, but to go against Krohnic? He would rather watch the law of man crumble. While Shen knew his devotion didn’t inherently help keep Krohnic’s Well full, he knew it didn’t hurt. It was why the Gods fostered fear and love in equal measure.

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None of that mattered, though, because the Curse of Broken Glass was not a godly curse. No divine being sent it to thin out an overpopulation or to smite a heretic—not quite. Though, it was dependent on how the Well of Bruten Mark was viewed. There were only a handful of people with access to the land mass civilization had originated on, lovingly referred to as Old Archonia, and even then, most of the people with ties to the Well were long dead. That also depended on what one chose to believe. Shen chose to believe the people of Bruten Mark were gone, and it was the collapse of the Well that caused the curse to become so widespread.

Sending a curse to the only known immortal to use the damn Well, Shen made his way to the back of the temple. His skin was cast in the sickly glow of illness, but the priests of Xolo were cast in a crimson light that originated from the veins on their bodies that looked about ready to burst.

Stepping to the back of the first layer of the temple, Shen passed pillars and pews scattered with a half dozen devotees. The guides told him what he had to do next, and he found it ironic that a Well of Illness had a test of physicality beforehand to reach it.

Walking through an ornate archway, the temple opened up. The ceiling reached further and further toward the sky, but never exposed the insides to the weather. Thus, Shen was forced to climb an unholy number of stairs to get to the Well, all while not a single breeze brushed up against it.

It was horrible, and he hated it. He was panting. Shen knew he wasn’t meant for physical exertion. He was the Spy. He was meant for casual conversation with double meanings. He was meant for court politics. For spending his time gathering rumors, finding the truth of them, and setting them free to ruin his enemies. He was meant for shining bars and flutes of champagne. For the grime that coated the back alleys and the daggers in the back that refused to hit him.

Alas, he grumbled to himself. Huffing as he continued to climb, he wondered if he should have just sucked it up and gone to a more distant Well. Not one protected by a bunch of muscle-headed monks who could give him a magical plague that would utterly destroy his future. That would be fun, he thought grimly.

But, then again, who would save Contraria without him?

Probably the other three, he mused to himself. Though they’d have much more trouble finding each other.

Shen was glad that Arkim and Kuala were together in Tayaran, somewhere in the plains to the west of the desert, based on the images the bird had delivered. Olea, however, was who knew where—nations away, probably. At least for Arkim and Kuala, Shen had seen them within the last year. Olea had been lost to him, though, and had been since long before she physically left Contraria behind.

With every step, Shen was pulled deeper into his dwelling. It was the only distraction strong enough to get him to forget the aching in his calves. Olea hadn’t simply fled Contraria, she’d fled him. By the time she’d decided to enact her final goodbye, she’d said as much. That, just like Babel, Shen was a useless man. A man as cruel as he was calculating.

Olea had said he was the Spy, and therefore, he was unknowable. And by extension, she declared him both unlovable and unable to love.

That had been rich, though, coming from the teenage girl who had cut out Shen’s heart more times than he could count on his fingers. To Olea, what they had must have been an escape, a way to work out her anger and boredom. Shen was the stopper that plugged her gushing wounds. He had also wanted Olea’s fire for himself.

Shen had only wanted to know what made Olea so vibrant. He should have known the darkness he caught was what she was trying to hide. But he used what Babel taught him, and he used it with Olea. He became the Spy when she simply wanted Shen. He shouldn’t have done it, not when their Inheritances were so closely tied. Not when he knew how Babel could be.

At that thought, Shen looked up to find he was at the top of the stairs. Before him stood two priests in what he would call skirts, but he knew they were ceremonial Hilns—fabric tied around a battle priest’s waist that would leave their chest bare for better channeling of their magic. Behind the two bulky priests, there was a set of red and black marble doors twice as tall as Shen himself. They looked heavy, and neither priest moved to open the doors for Shen.

Behind the doors would be the Well. Shen knew that. The priests clearly knew Shen knew that. And Shen knew they knew he knew. Which begged the question, Why aren’t they opening it?

Shen met one of the men’s gazes, trying to gauge how he should proceed. Who should he be?

The answer turned out to be someone rich.

Both priests were eying the bag on Shen’s hip that held the last of his Goen, the star-shaped currency of Yuhaul. Shen debated whether he could just open the door himself. Unfortunately, he was without a Well. And exhausted.

Ripping the bag off his hip, he tossed it to the man on the right. The priest caught it easily, but as he did so, Shen saw a glint enter the man’s eyes.

“Nice rings,” he grunted.

Shen looked at the door, then at his rings, and did a calculation. It wasn’t great. Shen knew he probably wasn’t strong enough on his own, and it wasn’t as if he could use a working to break the stone if it came down to it. But then again, he only had so many rings to fund his journey.

There were only so many setbacks they would be able to handle, which meant that Shen couldn’t fail at the very first trial.

Shen attempted to pull open the door first, using every bit of muscle he pretended existed within him to grip the handle and tug. When that didn’t work, he braced his back and kicked in the hope it opened inward. When that, too, failed, he tried to pull again and again and again.

By the time he decided to rip off his smallest ring—the one he wore on his left pinky—and chuck it at one of the priests, he was struggling to breathe out of frustration, and a new sheen of sweat poured out of him.

“Just open it.” Shen ground out.

“Of course, charitable sir.” One of them snickered, but Shen’s vision was dark around the edges, so he chose to ignore whichever one it was.

Shen found himself wishing that Arkim was with him and that they had their Wells so he could revert to a cleaner condition. Meeting a God while disheveled was not quite Shen’s preference.

As the priests pulled the door open with ease, Shen didn’t fail to notice the levers they had been standing in front of. Behind the oversized doorway, a chamber was revealed. Stepping inside, Shen straightened his back and headed for the towering pillar at the center of the dome-shaped room. Behind him, the doors slammed shut, and Shen felt a breeze hit his face. Looking up, Shen saw the sky. The top of the dome was open to the world beyond, and clouds were slowly crossing the great blue yonder.

With every step closer he got, the stronger the breeze became, and the clearer he could see the area around the pillar. Bowls of fire lined the pillar in a wider circle. As Shen approached, the fires closest to him dimmed to embers.

He chose not to dwell on how foreboding that seemed.

The pillar at the center of the room only reached halfway to the height of the dome and immediately around it were hot coals, and at its center was a wall of flames. Looking at the edge of the coals, Shen sighed before looking at the flames that were parting to reveal a stool.

“Of course, walk on fire, Shen,” he grumbled. “It’ll hurt so good.”

Next to the edge of the coals was a black tray that contained the discarded remains of rotten leather that Shen could vaguely tell were shoes. He decided to slide off his own pair of leather boots and place them as far from the shoe carcass as he could without actually putting them on the tray.

Shen took a deep breath, steeling himself. He needed to be committed to this path.

There was no telling what Xolo would demand of Shen in return for a drop of his power. And Shen knew he would need to be prepared to pay any price.

Rolling up his pants to his mid-calf, Shen’s fingers brushed over the thin silver scars that marred his flesh. With a grimace, he pulled his hand away as memories of being strung upside down by his ankles flashed through his mind.

Vrayer was not a kind place to foreigners. Not even wealthy foreigners who attended the school for explicitly diplomatic reasons.

And Shen wasn’t Kuala. He wasn’t a war mage or a battle maniac. He didn’t carry healing potions or know workings to undo true damage.

Thus, the scars.

He sighed, staring down at the embers.

This is not going to be fun.

Taking his first step onto the coals, hot wind assaulted his face, and pain reached up from the bottoms of his feet. Still, he took another step. Shen would not be bested by an elemental trial—not after climbing so many blasted stairs. Shen was stronger than that, both before, with the Well of Krohnic, and now, without it. It would disgrace the God who blessed his birth—the God who gave him his Inheritance. The God who saw Shen, his past and present self, and chose him.

Shen stepped forward until he was in front of the stool consumed by flames, letting the pain run through him. Gritting his teeth, he knelt before the seat, allowing the hot stone to burn through the fabric of his pants and dig into his flesh.

“Oh, Xolo, hear my plea,” Shen whispered, determination and begrudging respect in his voice, “I beg to bargain for an ember of your Well. Allow me to start a flame within myself on your behalf.”

Typically, Shen knew the traditional words for referring to Wells were ‘sip’ or ‘drink,’ but elementals liked their pleas to be in tune with their alignment. The second line wasn’t really documented well enough to have a reference, but Shen had taken more than a few theology courses at Vrayer, and they held enough guidance for Shen to know the extra plea was usually a show of genuine devotion.

As Shen knelt, he felt the world shift and turn. Between one breath and the next, Shen’s stomach churned with the warping of the world. Taking deep breaths, Shen clutched his stomach and focused on the stool before him. The pressure in the air was such that he could feel a layer of power pressing against his skin.

This was the pressure of a God.

And the being on the stool was just that—a thing of flame and sickness, of embers and plague, of fire and death.

There was no humanoid shape to be found before him, no indication of arms or legs or a head or face. There simply was the idea of an existence before him. It was power incarnate.

It was a Well of magic.

“Ask of me what you will, Child of a Foreign God,” a voice boomed through the darkness that had overtaken the world. The only light was the fire God itself. As the voice echoed, lightning formed and shot off, following the sound through the void.

It took Shen a moment to realize why his stomach had turned, and his already pale demeanor drained of even more color. This was the illness. Sickness. Plague.

“I ask for a thread. A connection to your power, High God of Fire and Plague, Xolo,” Shen forced out, attempting to keep the unease from his voice and failing.

The being stood, its flames flickering brightly, and white lightning streaking around the void, bouncing off walls Shen could neither see nor feel.

“Very well. And what do you offer for such a thing? What will you give me?”

Shen gritted his teeth. “What do you so desire, my God? What can a mere mortal give to such an all-powerful God?”

“You flatter with your silver tongue as you lie. We both know you are no conduit meant for me, Child of Krohnic. I can feel his touch on your soul, empowering you even in his imprisonment. For such audacity, I will claim something you have not offered—not truly.”

A stream of fire engulfed Shen.

His screams resounded through the darkness, over and over, they repeated back to him.

“I will take your tongue, which has woven such annoying untruths.”

When Shen finally regained consciousness, the sky above him was dark, and the embers under him had grown cold—though the fire surrounding them now burned a bright blue. And when he opened his mouth, he could no longer form the sound of words without a tongue to shape them.

He could, however, feel a white-hot flame in his soul—a connection.

A new Well of magic.