Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“There once was a Scholar,

Wise beyond his years.

So young, but so bold.

It was his downfall.”

The world he found himself in was a brilliant white; there were no walls or edges, simply shining brightness surrounded Arkim. For all that he knew what he was seeing, at the edge of his vision, there was a creeping darkness. It was within that darkness that a voice resounded.

“You seek my power.”

The voice was genderless, though Arkim knew it must have belonged to Mirage. It was, after all, her Well they had sought out. She was a God of Fealty, of blended lines and perfect merging—the High Goddess of Marriage. It only made sense for there to be no separation in her Domain. It was for this reason that Arkim had preferred this Well over any smaller ones along the way. There was a civilization built around Mirage, a lifestyle with schools and war mages. The potential of such a Well was exponential, and he was genuine in his desire to connect with it.

“I seek but a taste of your Domain, your Divinity,” Arkim said after a long moment, a moment where he chose to kneel down and present himself to the darkness earnestly. “I am a servant of Krohnic, lost without a Well, and in dire need of protection. I can offer you less than most—as I need my strength and mind and memories to bring back my land from destruction. But I will give whatever I can, whatever you so desire, that will not ruin my people’s future.”

“You are not asking for a mere blessing, child,” the voice said, and the darkness deepened, encroaching further into Arkim’s vision. “You may have been severed from your prior God, but his touch still lingers. It will cost you more, not less, because of this.”

Arkim, in another circumstance, may have fought the implication that he was ignorant of the world. But not here, not now—not when he had the sense to understand that a God was not to be backtalked. He also had the sense to contain his disappointment at the price of power.

But that was just it.

He was in no position to negotiate. Arkim had no leverage over a divine being older than the Well of power they gifted to the land. And Arkim needed power. He bent his head and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness in his vision to become whole.

“I will pay your price with surety. Surety in your strength, in the strength of your Well, in the certainty that you are giving and I am receiving.”

“Then you shall give me what you value, and I can feel the call of knowledge in your bones. Your God has called you Scholar. I know what I will take.”

And then Arkim felt a sting creep into his palm.

Opening his eyes, he stared at his hand, at the way the skin separated into clean lines—flesh and muscle and bone made themselves seen as his pointer and middle finger unraveled. But his blood never flowed out of the wound, instead his flesh snapped back down—sealing the skin back together with no ridges or bumps.

“If you wish to share what you know, it will be through your voice. If you wish to write, you must invest the time in it. It will not be on a whim. Now, begone.”

The bone and flesh of Arkim’s pointer and middle fingers fell away into the brightness, and Arkim was left lesser.

He swallowed thickly, his face gone pale at the sight, but he did not waver. He did not flinch or take back his words. His mind and body were married in their purpose, and so, he simply stood as the light surrounding him dimmed and morphed back into the temple proper.

Yet still, Arkim was alone. Kuala was nowhere to be found.

With a sigh, Arkim reached into himself and felt the trickle of power that flowed through him.

He had a new Well of power; now, he had to learn to use it.

Arkim released an unsteady breath and swallowed thickly. Talking to the empty room, he said, “It is the cost of bringing them home, Ark. You’ll be okay. She said you can still learn. That’s all you need to be able to do. Learn.”

And, he told himself, even if you cannot rewind the cost, there may be someone who can. Someone with more magic and aptitude. Someone like—

“I see you survived,” Kuala said lightly, appearing in the middle of the temple between one breath and the next, interrupting Arkim’s frantic thoughts.

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“Luckily.” Arkim waved his hand, showing off his missing digits. “She chose to take them from my dominant hand.”

Kuala flicked her eyes down at the smooth lump, where one could see the bones moving under the skin, and nodded. Then, she pulled the sling off her arm, displaying her dark skin. Arkim narrowed his eyes as she shook out her limbs easily.

There were no remnants of the decay magic that had severed her skin. It was smooth, and not even a scar remained.

“What did Mirage take as a sacrifice?” Arkim asked, fighting back the bile that was making its way up his throat.

Taking that which cannot be seen was worse than any physical deformity.

Still, Kuala simply huffed a laugh and replied, “A matron never kisses and tells.”

“Maiden,” Arkim spoke on instinct, his voice testy. “Why would a matron be—never mind. It doesn’t matter. Are you still solid? Are you ready to head to Tayaran?”

Kuala gave a sharp grin. “Ready as ever.”

Nodding, Arkim turned on his heel, finding himself wishing for a cloak to flick dramatically. It would, unfortunately, have been a terrible experience trying to keep it clean.

As the two left the temple, Arkim let out a heavy breath once more. The sight of his palm was unsettling—the flesh perfectly married, melded together without issue.

Kuala must have adapted one of her workings upon connection to Mirage. Likely the one that rewound her wounds. Arkim flexed his palm, and no pain shot through his arm, no aches filled his mind, no phantom fingers existed. Even his mind knew the reality of his Well.

Much as he thought Kuala had, Arkim began a working. Pulling on the Well within him, he felt the magic seep from his pores. Running his good hand over his vest, the color of sunset became vibrant once more.

It was a simple thing, crude and unrefined in its application of the idea of marriage.

He let his mind make the connections faster than he could verbalize them. The grime that had long settled into the fibers of his clothes had no place in the marriage of the threads to one another. In fact, they belonged together, melded perfectly with the dust that blew through the air. The air that flowed so freely, yes, the particles belonged to flow freely as well, married to the wind. That was what allowed him to clean his clothes, the effort mildly intensive compared to the workings he used to perform with the Well of Krohnic.

But still, the ridges and lines of wrinkles irritated him. So, he allowed more magic to seep out of his good palm and began tapping every little mark he could find. The fibers of his silken vest deserved to be one; they deserved to complete each other. And the best way for them to do that was for them to show their loyalty. To lie flat as they ever had, to show their beauty. That was the purpose of silk, after all. It wasn’t meant to protect or keep him warm. It was a thing of decoration. And, thus, to remain married to its purpose, it must appear ironed at all times.

As Arkim’s clothes took on a freshly laundered look, Kuala huffed a laugh. Arkim ignored her, allowing a smug smile to take over his expression.

“Finally have a pep in your step, then?” Kuala said, a mocking grin on her face.

“Well, I would, if you didn’t smell worse than a sewage pit,” Arkim snarked lightly, waving his palm in Kuala’s direction and causing the dirt and grime on her own person to drift off on the wind. “Ah, much better.”

“Aye, aye, captain, now that we’re spick and span, how much longer until we can leave this city behind?” Kuala smiled, her sharp expression relaying the tension she was trying to hide behind her jovial tone.

“We need to find a moneychanger before we leave. All I’ve got left is Contrarian gold, which will be useless soon enough without a country to guarantee its worth.” Arkim sighed.

He would have to find several moneychangers, actually. He had more Contrarian gold than any one banker would be willing to exchange—not to mention the danger that came with someone knowing how much wealth he possessed.

“They’re going to murder you on the exchange rate. By now, there may be rumblings of the fall,” Kuala said mildly, uncaring about the absolute tragedy that would befall Arkim’s wallet.

Arkim shot Kuala a rude gesture, before realizing he did so with his half-empty hand and having to reperform the gesture with his good hand. “At least Bayquest isn’t getting consumed by a dark God as we speak, so I can always head to another moneychanger.”

As the pair traversed Ayrq, Kuala’s shoulders grew more and more tense. Arkim knew every bank he dragged the woman into was testing the limit of her patience.

“We just need enough to get to Tayaran—and Quoral,” he half-whispered to Kuala after they left the fourth bank. “We have to have something for Shen, don’t we?”

“You’re just worried that Shen is going to take your spot as Scholar,” she grumbled. “He’s spent the better half of a decade studying in a way you never have.”

Arkim, wisely, decided not to dignify that with a response, though he did give a sniff of offense.

He dragged Kuala into several more banks out of revenge, before tucking the new currency into the ring that contained most of Arkim’s life. Only once Arkim had gotten his petty revenge, and he could visually see the tension in Kuala’s every move, did he drag the woman to the merchant’s quarter to find a caravan heading to the Wistra Plains.

As they stood in front of an overly large wagon with several beasts of burden, Kuala looked at Arkim, unimpressed.

“I need a bed,” he said flatly.

“How much will that cost?” Kuala’s voice was sour, and her lips pursed as she narrowed her seafoam eyes.

“That’s hardly a concern. Besides, we can switch out.”

Kuala shook her head but acquiesced with a grumbled, “Whatever.”

Climbing up into the wagon, they took their spots—Arkim reclining in a cot hardly better than a lump of hay, and Kuala seated on the floor of the wagon with her back pressed up to the wall while she surveyed the slow-moving street behind them.

Arkim didn’t regret how quickly they were leaving Ayrq behind. Nor did he wish to stay any longer. Though his Inheritance did not punish him for being in the city, his personality was better suited to the anonymity of a passing stranger.

Besides, the half day that he had spent in Ayrq saw Arkim gain as much as he lost.

What does Kuala think? he mused. Did she lose as much as she gained?