Hearth & Home, Pt II: Brissa (Wayfarer Order Short Story)

[Read Part 1 Here] 

Brissa’s manner is abrupt, her pace brisk. Like in all aspects of their relationship, she doesn’t make it easy to keep up with her.

“You said you were looking for me?” Rindan asks as they enter the main hall.

Inside, the Spire is eerily quiet. The misaligned furniture and scattered personal belongings makes it more like a home than a base of operations, but with everyone outside it feels derelict. The rugs are threadbare, their once intricate patterns worn through to the stone beneath. Half the windows are boarded up, waiting to be repaired. Barricaded doors guard the entrance to collapsed or unstable wings. The surviving stained glass windows cast strange patterns of light across the floor, candles run down to stubs flicker from brackets in the walls, and an unlit, iron-wrought chandelier creaks from its chains.

“I was,” she answers, pausing at the foot of the stairs to wait for him. “There is a matter I would like to discuss with you. Privately.”

First Sero, now Brissa? Something must be in the air.

“Oh?” he says, joining her. He eyes his mug as they climb the curving stairs together, watching it carefully so as not to spill his tea. “Should be interesting. Why private? Is this not something Sero should know?”

“The situation is sensitive, considering their current stance. I would like to discuss it with you before bringing it to them.”

He pauses, a foot halfway to the next step. His heart clenches, unease sinking to the pit of his stomach like a stone. As one of the senior most Wayfarer masters and the Order’s ambassador, the future of the Wayfarer Order must be weighing on her mind as heavily as it does on his and Sero’s.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Rindan says, passing her as he walks hurriedly up the stairs. His tea sloshes around his mug, threatening to spill over the edge. “I’m not interested in going behind Sero’s back.”

He reaches the landing and turns sharply to the left, following the curve of the second-level mezzanine. From here there is a clear view of the hall below; it must have been spectacular during the Spire’s glory days. Centuries ago now. A thousand years, perhaps. Too long. Were the signs of what they would become there, even then? Were their predecessors too far up their own asses to realize what they would become? A failing motley organization hidden in the mountains, refusing to change with the rest of the world?

He groans. He’s feeling his age more than usual these days.

“I believe there is,” Brissa says insistently, already on his heels. “I saw those reports, Rindan. They’re not only regular accounts sent by Wayfarers in the field. They’re intelligence on magiani children.”

“And your point? I’ve been receiving those kinds of reports for years. I doubt our contacts would stop sending them to me even if I asked politely.”

“And if you asked impolitely?”

Rindan pauses, a hand on the tarnished doorhandle. It’s lopsided, the wide iron-wrought circle hanging at a strange angle. No doubt a screw has worked its way loose. He can’t remember how long it’s been like that. “…same difference,” he grunts and yanks the door open.

A narrow, circular stairwell lies beyond. Sunlight streams through the slim windows lining the exterior wall, illuminating the path upwards. He shuffles up the stairs, Brissa behind him, and together they climb with the casual pace of old familiarity. His office lies at the top in one of the Spire’s many turrets, the slender, elegant structures from which the citadel gets its name.

“The fact of the matter is that we are needed,” Brissa continues. “There are magiani—children, no less—across Rhesainia with nowhere to go. Uncertain of how to live with their abilities, ostracized by their families and communities for an accident of birth.”

“I know. But with the way things are, we can’t afford what you’re proposing—”

“How do you know? I haven’t proposed anything yet.”

Rindan grimaces. “And now you’re being infuriating on purpose,” he grumbles, glancing over his shoulder. “Thought we put that behind us—”

He yelps, his foot slipping on a wobbly step, and falls up the stairs. Cursing loudly, he catches himself on the exterior wall, his mug shuddering in his hand. Somehow, miraculously, he hasn’t spilled a drop of tea.

Brissa eyes him from the steps below, an amused smile on her lips. “Problem?” she asks.

“Damn it, Amali,” he mutters, stooping to inspect the step. As expected, he finds a familiar oval stone beneath—the gift Amali asked Tiva to leave him. It’s an ongoing gag that has gone on for more years than he can count. Countless times he has removed the stone and discarded it, only to find the exact same stone under the exact same step. Cursing quietly, he retrieves the rock and pockets it, then firmly shoves the step back into place. “This isn’t the place for this. Let’s go upstairs.”

Her smile widens. “I’m waiting on you.”

Rindan treads up the stairs, round and round in a tight spiral until he reaches the single arched door at the top. The landing is small and cramped with little room for more than one person. Brissa waits several steps below, stooping a little to keep her head from bumping the ceiling, watching as he slides a key from his pocket. He shoves it into the lock, grappling with it for a moment—he’s refitted this lock more times than he can count, but this part of the Spire is cantankerous, just like him. When it finally clicks into place, he pushes the door open on creaking hinges and enters the room.

Rindan’s office is modest. Most senior Wayfarers chose more impressive parts of the citadel for their personal quarters, but this suits him just fine. Its comparatively low ceilings aren’t a concern for him, it’s a short walk to the kitchens, and he enjoys the quiet. Besides, the view from this small, insignificant tower has his favourite view of the grounds and the mountains beyond.

Three large, curved windows are set in the far wall, filling the room with warm afternoon light. A deep red rug stretches across the floor, covering the flagstones. To the left, an interior wall is lined with bookcases built for dwarven height, their shelves stuffed with a vast collection of books and scrolls, meticulously catalogued and cared for. A ladder rests against a bookcase near the centre, next to the gap that opens into his private chambers.

The turret’s little heart sits in the opposing exterior wall, its mantle decorated with an eclectic collection: old pottery, ancient figurines, a decorative box that holds the glass eye Brissa gave him to wear to formal functions forty-odd years ago. A couple of large-backed armchairs sit in front of the heart, a chessboard on the small table between them, its pieces still scattered across the surface. He played Dessa that morning, part of their morning routine in the early hours before the rest of the citadel wakes. The hearth is unlit for now, but when evening rolls around, the cold will necessitate a fire. The Frostmarks are still the Frostmarks, even in high summer.

Though the stonework made it difficult, the hearth’s wall is hung with a hodgepodge of pieces—art and tapestries collected over the decades. Many of the canvases are old and faded, splashed with an eclectic assortment of colour and depicting beings and beasts that only a child could dream of. The children who painted them grew up long ago, becoming Wayfarers in their own right. Some are scattered across the continent, writing only once every handful of years to report on their work. Others have children of their own. Most are dead—felled by beasts, battle, injury, or the unyielding passage of time.

A large world map stretches across the remaining space, its surface stabbed with colour-coded pins. Red for senior Wayfarers, green for recent graduates, purple for masters travelling with apprentices, yellow for pairs or groups, blue for everyone else, and silver for… well, he doesn’t want to think about the silver pins. Most of the colour markers are concentrated around Rhesainia, though there is a noticeable absence within Arathian territories. Some have migrated to other continents, but they are few and far between.

A heavy ornate desk sits off to the side, turned awkwardly to provide a view of the map and the windows. Its surface is scattered with a collection of pens and inkpots, waxes and seals, and disorderly stacks of paper. This is all an unfortunate part of record keeping: missives to be sealed and sent, reports to be processed, codes to be transcribed, personal letters to be read… He’d be a fool to think there will ever be an end to this parade of paper and ink. He has been the Order’s archivist for more years than there have been archivists.

“All right, Brissa,” Rindan says, holding the door open for her. “You were saying?”

She ducks through the threshold and crosses the room, effortlessly sweeping into a half-sitting, half-leaning position against the armrest of her favourite chair. “I have concerns that I am not prepared to voice to Amali,” she says. “Not without consulting you.”

He nudges the door closed with a foot. “You value my opinion?” he replies, trodding over to his desk. “Glad to know I haven’t fallen that far out of favour.” Settling into his work chair, he shuffles a handful of papers aside, leans back and raises his mug to his lips. If he’s going to have this conversation with her, he might as well enjoy his tea first.

She glances at him. “Your tea must be cold.”

He pauses, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “That’s the intention,” he says and downs a mouthful.

Brissa shifts her weight, calmly adjusting her skirts as she waits for him to finish, and casts an eye about the room. Her golden-eyed gaze lands on the map with its kaleidoscope of pins. Frowning, she rises and approaches it, drawn by intense curiosity. She raises a hand and trails her fingers carefully across the markers, her forefinger coming to rest on a trio of pins pushed into Tyridia.

“Tell me again why the Grandmaster has forbidden recruitment,” she says.

Rindan sets down his mug. “We do not have the resources,” he explains. “How many ships must we charter? How many couriers must we pay? A century ago we may have had wealthy contributors from across the world, but times have changed. The Spire may be self-sufficient with our current numbers, but if we had more, how could we afford to feed them all?” An unintended glance out the windows has him staring at the grounds below. Darius and his friends have finished sparring for the day and are relaxing in the shade of a large oak. “This summer alone is proof of that, with Avennor and the others here.”

Her eyes narrow. “Give me another reason. If crowns were the only issue, I would have resolved that long ago.”

“There is not enough remaining Alassar to equip every new Wayfarer. Our weapons are diminishing faster than our numbers. Without it…”

He trails off, catching her eye.

She pauses and looks away, casting a sideways glance at the map. Her fingers ghost across a silver pin. “Alassar is potent, that much is true,” she says. “But Wayfarers do not need it to accomplish our ends. Why else would Tiva take so enthusiastically to archery? She will never inherit an Alassar bow or arrows, but she is a hunter at heart. The lack of Alassar will not stop her. It is our most valuable tool, yes, but a Wayfarer who has mastered their skills is just as accomplished with steel as they are with it. We must not let it become a crutch.”

A heavy silence settles about the room. She turns her back on him and studies the map, her gaze focused on those blasted silver pins. He pauses, grinding his teeth, and pushes his half-empty mug across his desk from hand to hand. He should have known the conversation would take this turn the moment she entered his office.

Seeking a distraction, he stretches back in his chair and glances out the window. Down on the grounds, Tiva wanders away from the archery range and hovers on the edge of the oak’s shade. She watches Darius and his friends, her bow held loosely in her hands, too nervous to interrupt.

“How many are new?” Brissa asks gravely.

He turns back, his mouth oddly dry. “Two,” he murmurs. The word is difficult to get out. Even after two hundred years, confronting the death of former students and comrades does not get easier. “The reports came this morning. I’ll inform Sero and the others tonight.”

“Who was it? Who fell?”

“Finnica and Oreth.”

She nods, her expression blank. “At least they fell together,” she says quietly. “Have arrangements been made?”

“I have contacts near Corsida who will retrieve their bodies and their weapons, and send them home. I’ll make burial arrangements once they reach Tyridia.”

“And the others?”

Rindan eyes the map, his gaze passing over the remaining silver pins. Four pins. Four dead Wayfarers. Four Alassar weapons to collect. “There are… challenges,” he says. “They can’t be retrieved and their weapons are missing.”

Brissa closes her eyes. “More missing Alassar…”

“I have an Erebian contact looking into it. Brin has offered to personally track down the ones in Vestra if other methods prove unsuccessful. They’ve been intending to return for a while now.” Sighing heavily, he leans forward and shoves his mug out of reach. He has little desire to finish his tea. “This isn’t about Alassar, Brissa. Or funding, or resources. Sero’s decision reflects a reality too many refuse to acknowledge. Our numbers have been dwindling for years—decades and centuries, even. If there are fewer magiani, there are fewer Wayfarers.”

“But are there?” she counters, turning back to him, her expression hardened with intense resolve. He has a feeling she has finally reached the point she wanted to discuss. “It was true a hundred years ago. Perhaps even thirty or forty. But now? I have reason to believe it is changing. Reason that substantiated by more than that pile of reports on the corner of your desk.” She nods to the leather-bound portfolio stuffed with five years worth of letters, missives, and notes. It is bursting at the seams, its contents barely contained.

He follows her gaze, craning his neck to account for his missing eye. The socket aches. Though the injury is older than most of the Order’s current members, it feels emptier than usual. He blinks, eyelashes scraping the back of his eyepatch. “Don’t have to make me feel guiltier than I already do,” he grunts. “I know how many are out there. How many need a place to call home. How many we’ve left behind—”

“And I believe it’s more than you think.” She reaches into her satchel and withdraws a pamphlet. “I had the luxury of visiting a friend at Seiran College last winter. Her research focuses on magical heredity. It’s a proven fact that attunement to certain spheres are more common than others—”

He groans, rubbing his forehead. “Brissa.”

“But that’s not important. In the Lotharic provinces alone, there has been an undeniable increase of magiani births in the past ten years. Enough to indicate a change.”

His stomach drops, the implications of her words shaking him to his core. He clenches his jaw, the last vestiges of a rebuttal vanishing into silence. From the gleam in her eye and the intensity of her speech, he has no doubt she believes this with every fibre of her being.

Taking his silence as a cue, Brissa drops the pamphlet on his desk. “Read it,” she continues and pushes it towards him. “Her articles have been denied publication more than once on the grounds of improper research. A comical façade to anyone with half a brain. The Arathian government would murder their own emperor before presenting magiani in a half-decent light.”

Rindan eyes the pamphlet and runs a hand over his chin, his fingers catching in his beard. “I’ll read it when I have damn time,” he says finally. “What do you want me to do? Even if this was true—”

“It is. Look at your damn desk! You must believe it—why else would you take such dutiful notes? Such dutiful records?”

His mouth is dry. “We can’t help them all.”

“Then start with the ones we can.” She rounds the desk and seizes his portfolio, pushing it to the centre. Gripping the back of his chair, she leans over him and flips through the first few pages, scanning his meticulous notation. “Look. Nesactium. Tol Covere. Vodena—”

“Possible sightings. Read my notes, they’ve yet to be corroborated—”

“Hell, here’s one from Trian remarking on one of the Brennath clans! Three in Tyridia alone—”

“There are always magiani in Tyridia,” he interrupts darkly. “Doesn’t take a mastermind to realize why.”

Brissa pauses, the intensity of her tirade fading as guilt flickers across her face. “I had hoped the current generation of Wayfarers would be less cavalier than their predecessors, but…” She looks away, her hand slipping from the back of his chair.

Rindan gently pulls the portfolio from her grasp and closes the cover. “I would help them all if I could, but sometimes it’s not in the cards. The Order is stretched thin. Our people are half a continent away. Of those that remain, half are apprentices themselves. The other half are masters with students, active Wayfarers without the disposition to instruct, or civilians who can’t.”

“We have had more students than masters before. If we had more leniency—”

“It’s tradition.”

“Then perhaps it is our traditions that are at fault!” She exhales a sharp breath and strides away, pacing around the chamber with brisk, direct steps. “Are we really so unyielding that at the slightest difficulty, we would rather give up entirely than implement change?”

“Traditions are important, Brissa. Our techniques are not easily learned. More than that, they are our history. Our way.”

She eyes him irritably. “Humour me, please, Rindan. Consider, just for once, that our current methods are outdated, suited for a time long before ours. If we do not have enough Wayfarers capable of instructing, then perhaps a single master to a single apprentice is the wrong method. We should expand our reach, not restrict it.”

Rindan grimaces and folds his arms, keeping his mouth firmly shut. Considering the current direction of their conversation, he knows better than to argue with her until she has exhausted her point. He cautions a quick look out the window. Tiva has finally worked up the courage to approach Darius; they have migrated away from the oak, lost in an animated conversation.

“The Guild of Mages once had a system similar to ours, but even they understood the need to adapt,” she begins. “Their novitiates are instructed in classes before they are chosen for apprenticeship—”

He curses. “Brissa—”

“—allowing a single instructor to teach the basics while the specialists focus on one-on-one training. They changed their ways and now their academies are successful, respected institutions across most of Rhesainia—”

“The Guild is not a point of comparison!” Rindan rises out of his chair, hands slammed against his desk. A loose page crinkles beneath his palm and he shoves it out of the way. “Their methods work because they are training mages, something anyone with high enough skill, talent and ambition can be. This is not the case for us.”

She raises her chin. “Perhaps it could be.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

Brissa pauses. “The Guild divides its novitiates by sphere,” she begins, speaking more fervently by the second. “While many of their principles are the same, soulweavers cannot train with spiritbreakers, just as brightwardens cannot train with planeswalkers. What if magical immunity was considered in the same light? Not as something that is opposed to the spheres, but something that is part of them?”

His eye widens with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” The words are cold, all trace of her fervour vanishing in a heartbeat.

“Magiani do not have a sphere!”

“Are you certain? Or is that simply Meissandic rhetoric?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I’ve always admired your tenacity and, frankly, the level of your sheer ingenuity is at times frightening, but this makes even you sound like a fool. You’re refuting millennia of known history!”

“Consider it. Our abilities are just that—abilities. Ones we have honed through years of practice, just like the Guild’s mages. Magical immunity is more than a state of being. We control it, we direct it, we manipulate it. There is a veritable difference between a magianis without training and a skilled Wayfarer. What if magic does not stop at the sixth sphere? What if there is a seventh—”

“That’s heresy.”

“It’s forward thinking.”

“No one would believe such an idea.”

“Some already do.”

“Then they are fools.”

Her expression darkens. “I never took you for a devout man, Rindan,” she says derisively. “But you sound far too much like certain Meissants for my liking.”

Rindan scowls and leans into his desk, the tips of his fingernails turning white. It has been years since he and Brissa have fought like this. They respect each other too much, know each other too well, and have passed far too many decades together to allow circumstantial anger to outweigh their history. “What you’re proposing isn’t heresy because of the Meissandium,” he says. “It’s heresy because if it were true, it would break Rhesainian society apart!”

“You’re a recluse. When did you care about society?”

He takes a breath, swallowing his anger. “I care when wild theories would make life difficult for the rest of us. More than it already is. Besides… what’s the point of arguing this? It is theoretical. It won’t restore the Order to what it was, and it won’t help with our current conundrum.”

She’s quiet for a long time. “No,” she says finally. “I suppose it won’t. I’m sorry. I came to ask for your help, and I have once again digressed into an entirely different topic.”

His shoulders sag. He loves her, but gods damn it, she makes him exhausted. “And what was that help again?”

“Despite our best efforts, the Order is fading. Amali may think they have done what is necessary, but five years is far too long. Help me convince them to overturn their decision. It doesn’t have to be a whole cohort. Two, perhaps. Two new apprentices. A test, if you like. Perhaps between the three of us, we will find a new way to keep our traditions alive.”

He looks down, resting a hand on the portfolio. The leather is stretched beyond capacity. Shit… he’s going to need a second one. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“Thank you.”

He grunts noncommittally, distracted by the portfolio, and flips the cover open. He leafs through the pages, squinting at his scrawled notes, barely cognisant of Brissa’s footsteps as she crosses the room.

“And Rindan?”

A horrendous creak jars him out of his thoughts. His head shoots up and he finds Brissa waiting in the threshold, a pale hand on the doorhandle. “What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Brissa shuts the door behind her, leaving him standing like a gape-jawed fool at his desk. He groans, irritated at her and at himself, and closes the portfolio. Picking up his mug, he sips slowly at his tea and wanders to the windows.

Darius and his friends have dispersed. Some remain beneath the shade of the great oak, others have converged on Sirin and her trainees, teasing her ruthlessly. Darius himself has strolled over to the archery range, Tiva at his side, and is demonstrating his skill for an open-mouthed crowd. And Dessa jogs slow rings in the paddock, spurring his young apprentice on as the kid finally takes his first ride.

There’s a rare peacefulness to it all. The Spire, with looming towers and formidable walls and dark ramparts, is far from idyllic. But summer has gifted them something precious—this small community, bound together by shared experience, far from war, far from rage, far from the blind hate and distrust so many of them have suffered.

Amali and Brissa have their diverging opinions, trapping him in-between. There will be much to argue about in the forthcoming months. But regardless of the Order’s future, it is moments like these that must be protected. Not for the sake of tradition, but for the silent promise he made to all them.

Gods, I’m too old for this.

Downing the rest of his cold tea, Rindan takes a seat, grabs the portfolio and the nearest pen, and begins to work.