Haze of Dusk (A trilogy) (2 page)

“If you wear it near your heart nothing can hurt you. I want you to have it, until we meet again.” He excitedly takes it on his hand and rubs it with awe. “I can’t believe you have this. Do you know the power it carries? It’s a god stone, only the most powerful people in the world have this…wow,” he esteems it a lot more than me. “I’ll lend it to you, but you have to give it back, and if
you don’t, I’ll come and get you. That stone is very important to me.” He puts it near his heart and nods. I can see hope grows in him.

“We will definitely
meet again. I’ll bring it back, I promise.” He hops on his draghorn and beams a smile. “Until then, Judyala…” he says with a hand on the air and hurries away, flying to the sky. I miserably wave. “Until later my friend, and thank you, for taking my pain away.”

-1-

Rose to amend

Present

“You have it in you
, you know. The power to grow, the power to become the greatest healing priestess.” Wizard Srogeri explains during healing class,  but as common his focus is on me, as if everything he teaches, the knowledge he consumes is for me to gain. I lower my head feeling uncomfortable—classmates rumble over his favoritism. Srogeri has a bad habit of enlarging his eyes when concentrating on a certain subject. I think that’s the reason why he can lift objects with a point of his staff—his degree on magic…highly competitive. I jerk my hands from the faded-woody desk, and view the healer act book forcing interest to the well-known lecture. If I make eye contact with him, the other apprentices will gossip about our instructor’s preference. With me, the association with the twenty five girls is… beyond my reach. 

I’m what people call the isolated
learner. Ever since I was a young girl, instructors seemed to prefer me, and this spins my classmates’ sentiments. It's not my fault I can easily capture the elements of magic. I’m what they call a natural. On friendship and involvement with others, I’m certainly a failure. Srogeri randomly stops his lecturing to shake his head to both sides of his shoulder, until his neck makes that cracking sound that grosses out the majority of the girls.  It’s something he does because of a neck immovability defect only I comprehend.

Srogeri passes
around class handing a leathery sheet with written scriptures, an exam on the matter of healing. It’s my turn to get the examination, oddly, he hands me two additional sheets. “
Umm
, Wizard Srogeri….” I call before he heads to the next healer. He slightly tilts his head to meet with me. His bald head is polished. There must be some type of shining substance on that head— by no means can it glimmer such way. He pulls a frown that is frequently covered by his white and brown long mustache.

“Ah, you handed me two
more,” I murmur. I’m not about to do more work than the other girls, of all days, not today.
“No I did not. Each assessment is different, if you received more, then that is the one assigned to you,” his old voice is raspy. He has a deep accent like the people from the north. I grimace.
The giggling of my classmate infuriates me. They’re fortunate that I respect my instructor, if not I fear what I’ll do to those snotty bitches that have rolled their eyes at me since the first years.

I look
down at the off-white, crease paper that after so many years of his lecturing, his messy handwriting is easier to identify. The first assignment revolves around the independency and the vulnerability of healing. Easy subjects to understand for a reader like me. Turning to the second sheet, I read terminology with no concern to his daily lecturing. I scoff, aware of his doing. The questions are scriptures on sorcery and arithmetic equations. I’m alright with the sorcery subject, there’s a particular familiarity, but the arithmetic throws me out the table.
I want to complain, but he sits still on his desk, reading a task scroll. I see no objectivity—I’m going to guess the answers with the arithmetic problems.

“
Why do you always give me more work?” I argue handing him the complete assignment, as typical it’s me and him, alone in the room. He takes my work and carefully revises it. He sneers, his eyes move back to mine. “Because, you’re special, and it seems you did pretty well, except for a few arithmetic problems.” I scowl.

“You know I hate
arithmetic…” he puts down the sheet and faintly breathes out. He picks up his long wooden staff that also works as his cane and points at the open entrance. The door shut close and clicks, locking it. “I have dreadful news for you…about progression,” we’re not talking about the exam anymore. I know exactly what he means. I deeply breathe in. “The head magic division didn’t accept my request for knowledgeable magical progression,” my voice wobbles. He partly nods. I gulp in grief. It’s the third time permission to learn farther and stronger magic has been rejected. “As long as they think you’re a low rank healer, it will not be acceptable. Only the standard amid heritage wizards, healers or sorcerers can join…forgive me…” He groans, rubbing his aching neck. The age is finally hitting him. For ten days, old Srogeri missed class trying to get me to join a superlative high-knowledge academia far from land, but because of the unfairness of our world, my dreams seem to be far from my reach.

It’
s rare, to see a healer… or more like a woman, with powers of sorcery, but I'm that rarity. Unlike most of the girls in our town of Duolic, or the capital of Snegnio, I’m not only a healer, but I carry eccentric powers that can make me do things not even the greatest sorcerers can. By me being able to carry two powers at once is miraculous, but unsuitable, for if they know my truth, I’ll be sent to fight. Thinking about it, the idea doesn’t seem as bad as it sounds. My cyclical life is going to take me to a dark path. I need to get out of Duolic, and by being denied a change, I no longer care about anything.

“Forgive me,
Judyala, but besides our private classes this is the only way I can teach you the arts of sorcery, by giving you additional exams, other than that, it can’t be helped. You know you have to remain low. Your powers are unique, and if they know this, they will send you to the cynical war, and you don’t want that life, do you?” The cynical war—the scariest battle that has ever happened in our lives. A battle that has decreased our population by stealing children and killing mothers and fathers. A war so obnoxious that makes the world sick to know of its calamity, and what alternative do people have?
None. By law, one member, strongest preferred, of the family has to join the war, if not, the family would be hunted down and killed by the great leaders. Since the haze of dusk, this is the life we live. We unite to battle the creatures that come every sixty days, and that on the hours of dusk, the sky opens up pulling out an orangey fog that brings into our world flesh-eater monsters called the arclaws.

What are the
arclaws? They are a combination of a bat and a hungry werewolf lusting for flesh, without the hairy skin. They have the power of witches, conjuring fire from the skies, shaking the earth with their spells. The females have long leathery wings, and the males carried a strength not a hundred men can fight against. Unlike any ordinary human kind, they can use powerful magic by utilizing their hands, that’s why they’re magic is called wicked— arts of witchcraft. They are smart, and know how to progress in battles, but they are cynical, for trying to take a world that doesn’t belong to them. Nobody knows why the arclaws came to our planet, some say their planet collapsed. Others say they ate everything in their sight and had nothing left. My father used to say they entered our world because they were called upon by a powerful sorcerer or wizard for unknown reasons.

From t
he bottom of my heart, I thank Srogeri for trying to teach me what he can— but not for protecting me. Since Papa passed away, Srogeri has done everything in his power to stop me from joining the war. He has committed the greatest treachery in the scripture of law; lie to the great leaders. It is because he respected and deeply cared for my father why he protects me and my brother. He feels it’s his duty to help his old friend. Every year, the leaders of Doomsvell, the ones who collect people for the war, personally come to the district to revise every apprentice’s journal of progression. Although I’m the best healer and a great sorcerer, my progression journal is marked as MI, magic incapable—brains are fit, but powers are weak. This lie he performs to protect me from the grasp of the war, but also it has affected me for no academia wants me. If this continues, I can see my future. I’m selling potions in a cart, calling out to the people that pass by. My prediction makes the hair in my skin crawl.
Damn it, I have to get out of this misery.

Duolic town is actively moderate as usual. The merchants are yelling out the sales. The citizens walk the streets greeting and asking about one’s health. The sex, color of skin, race and intensity of a being doesn’t matter like it used to hundreds of years ago. Since the arrival of the arclaws, we’re closer than ever. Duolic, a town of twelve hundred natives has a variety of races: the yolks, in which others called the gnome or little people are many in our town. Their powers aren’t great, but they are experts in mining, inventing, sculpturing and finding mystical items. The fewest natives are from the elf race, they’re similar to the yolks but taller, and their ears are too long for their heads.  They’re separated by type of magic; the sovys use powers that are likely to be of Mother Nature; they can move the earth, bring out winds and command trees with spells. Their powers, highly—frightening. The least powerful but more required for our world are the elves of nature, whom can bring nature back to life and force the clouds to bring down rain, their powers, highly—necessary. It is because of their love for nature why our planet has the bit of life left. The elf race is one of the races that can use magic without the use of a staff. Still, unlike the arclaws, their powers are used to sustain life, not destroy it.

Population increases extremely when it comes to the humans—like my step mother Morgan, they live life regularly. Magic is never an option, as it seems they can’t produce it.
It has been said some humans progress magic—Papa once mentioned it’s because their mind opens up. He alleged anybody can gain powers, as long as one is devoted.  Humans that grow to be wizards don’t seem to become as powerful as the ones born by nature, but mysteriously, most of them end up using magic for malevolence, consequently, it’s outlawed. So, if there is no sorcery or wizard background in the family or by the age of five the staff they hold upon to does not glow, then practicing magic is not permitted.

“I’m home!” I call out placing my wool shoulder bag by the door. I remove my scarlet, long shawl worn by all female learners in Duolic, and place it on the standing timber coat-hook near the entrance. Morgan comes out from the kitchen
with her hands taken, “oh sweetheart, help me!” Morgan holds two trays, about to drop it. She always tries to do the impossible. I hurry to her and take the bowl with black bean soup. Together, we prepare the dinner table. “How was school?” I wrinkle my face. My expression easily answers her question. “Repetitive…” she guesses. Morgan and I never bonded, but when my father passed away our relationship grew, and closeness developed. Now I can say I love her very much, although at times she becomes impossible to deal with.

“Hey, Judyala!” someone
shouts from the lounge. I smile to see my younger brother Jorsay, whose bright face reminds me of Papa. He’s the spitting image of him—his dark hair is short like a mushroom, his face long and his nose pointy, the opposite of Morgan, whom has light blonde short hair, and a round cute head and nose. The blue eyes certainly are Morgan’s, and maybe his smile, but I’m not so sure there. I have no memory of my father’s smile, even though I was eleven when he died that memory strangely departed from my mind.

Papa
was a great wizard and a warrior. For many years, he fought nonstop without ever getting hurt. He was a legend. People bowed to him of respect, until one day his luck ran out and an arclaw took him on the back stabbing him twice, and off with his head. That was the same week he gave it to me, he gave me the Siren stone, the stone my real mother gave him to give to me when he felt he no longer needed it. I guess it is true what they say—Siren stone is magic, and it protects you for life, no matter the danger you come across. Still, in order for its power to work, the stone needs to be near the body’s most highest energy source, which is the heart. “Haze this, see what I’m capable of doing,” he says impatiently. He holds a long red staff that once belonged to our father.

“Jorsay! I said no magic inside the house,” Morgan scolds.

“Ah come on mo
m,” he says with an attitude, normal from his part, to do whatever he wants.  Of course, Morgan accepts it. She rottenly spoils him. Jorsay firmly holds the staff in a laying position. As soon as he closes his eyes the floor begins to shake. The gravity changes, lifting objects. Because of the ground’s shaking, items fall from shelves yet remain floating on air. Morgan and I grasp the table for we lose our balance. I wheeze a breath out loud, I’m stunned my almost fifteen-year old brother has achieved such a rank. Only a few magicians can move the earth within the last years of secondary—by him combining gravity with the movement of the earth, it’s truly astonishing. He’s like Papa, a strong young magician who will grow to be a wizard; an admired, powerful being.

Jorsay drops the staff. His ivory skin suddenly turns red. He tries inhaling but finds no air. He falls on his knees. Morgan and I fearfully react. We run to him. She muffles a cry becoming impatient. Her overreaction disrupts me. I take a deep breath and put my hands over his chest. The transparent red glow that comes out of my hands enters his chest giving him back his color, helping him breathe. It’s not the first time it happens. I’m aware when he has an asthmatic attack to use my healing abilities to help him take in air. Only that Morgan regularly makes a big deal over
nothing.  “No more magic for you!” Morgan scolds in tears, holding him. Every time he uses magic, Jorsay has an attack. It is witty, how there's no remedy for him when many potions heal extreme diseases. The Highest priestess in our town once told Papa it's because Jorsay’s sickness is deep within him why it can’t be cured. Jorsay yanks away from her and stands up in a rush. “I’m fine, stop touching me,” he growls and marches to the table. It hurts me to see him fuming. He has cried so much because of that damn disease. But because of that sickness, he’s protected from the war, and that I’m grateful for.