Chapter Three – The Ways of Magic

“Don’t be long,” Aimim said. “Be back before midnight.”

“I will,” Dilmir said. “I have to; you know that. I have training tomorrow.”

“It’s cold out,” Aimim said, rummaging in a chest. “Take this.”

She held out what at first seemed to Dilmir to be a shapeless mass of fuzz, but it resolved into a woolen overshirt when Aimim shook it.

Dilmir took the overshirt. It was indeed cold outside, winter fast approaching. “Thanks, Aunt,” he said, turning for the door.

“Be careful,” Aimim said, her words serious.

Dilmir turned back. Aimim was watching him, almost as if debating within herself whether or not she should snatch him back before he opened the door. “I don’t think anyone is waiting outside to attack me,” he said jokingly, trying to ease her mind.

She half-smiled at him. “Of course,” she said.

“But thank you,” Dilmir added.

She smiled again, and he opened the door, leaving. It was indeed cold outside, and he quickly pulled the overshirt on.

It was true: there wasn’t that much reason to worry. Yes, the elves were in general more hostile towards him now than they ever had been, but their actions were limited almost entirely to the training field, where they had no choice but to face him. The rest of the time they just avoided him. Dilmir was used to it.

He stepped down from the door of Aimim’s home, the squat tree which made it enveloped in shadow. Only the windows – which were transparent enchantments – shimmered in place with a soft light all their own, mostly white with hints of green, yellow, and blue. All the houses had the same enchantments for windows, and together they cast small flecks of light across the ground as Dilmir walked, little patches of brightness amidst the shadows of night.

Dilmir didn’t have far to go. There was a sheltered space between the edge of the Upper Quarter and one of the large roots which made up Eld’rin, a small depression in the ground where several elves might sit comfortably.

One elf was in fact already there, and she turned as Dilmir approached.

“Dilmir,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Inilidin,” he replied.

“How was training?” she asked. “I heard you fought Asenir again today.”

News really traveled uncannily fast in Eld’rin.

“It went as you’d expect,” Dilmir said, shrugging. “But he fought Ilrin right after me. I think she made him even madder than last time, if that’s possible.”

Inilidin looked like she was torn between a frown and a smile.

“It’s fine,” Dilmir said, shrugging again. “What can he do? He just doesn’t like being beaten.”

“And he takes it out on you every time you meet,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t mind some cuts or bruises,” he said. It was true. He wasn’t trying to seem brave or anything; Asenir was a lot bigger and stronger than he was. But Dilmir knew he was never in any real danger. He had his magic. That was something Asenir could never beat.

Two years ago, it would have been different. Dilmir would have taken the defeats lying down, hoping maybe Asenir would tire of fighting him and move on to someone else. Now it mattered little to him. Accepting his magic had given him a sense of control over almost every situation, and that in turn made him not care as much if Asenir beat him. It wasn’t a contest anymore. He was better at swordplay than most, and with his magic, that was all that mattered. The past two years had been some of Dilmir’s happiest.

“What about you?” he asked of Inilidin, taking a seat beside her. “How was your day?”

“The same,” Inilidin said.

Dilmir knew what she meant. She was sixteen, meaning her training had entered a very repetitive phase: Magic in the morning, swords in the afternoon. Magic, swords, magic, swords, over and over and over. It got boring quickly. Dilmir had dealt with the boredom by trying to keep his magic hidden, but other elves didn’t have that. For Inilidin, who was neither markedly good or bad at magic or swordplay, it was going to be a monotonous two years of constant practice.

Inilidin was one of those elves who had achieved what Dilmir used to wish for: being invisible. She wasn’t good or bad at anything, spoke softly, and there was nothing remarkable about her appearance. If it hadn’t been for Ilrin, Dilmir never would have noticed her.

Inilidin lived only a few houses away from Ilrin in the lower quarter. Somehow, when Dilmir had been banished two years ago, they had run into each other, and become friends. Now, the two were rarely apart.

“What about your parents?” Dilmir asked. “Still no change?”

Inilidin shook her head.

Dilmir sighed. Most elves were loyal to the Council, and believed what they said about Dilmir’s use of magic. Inilidin’s parents were among these, and so disapproved of what she was doing.

Not that she was doing much. Probably just sitting here talking to him was enough in the eyes of some, but there was more. Eltuthar had taught Dilmir some of the secrets of magic he had uncovered, and in turn, Dilmir had taught these secrets to Ilrin. Inilidin had been interested, so Dilmir had taught her as well, only realizing afterwards that her parents were opposed to her even being seen with him. But the damage had been done, and now Inilidin showed up almost every night, at this same spot, to practice what Dilmir had shown her.

In reality, Eltuthar hadn’t shown Dilmir a whole lot. Dilmir had eventually figured this out for himself, because what Eltuthar had shown him didn’t add up with his tales of the past. Eltuthar had said that because of what he had shown his followers, they had gained powers the Council feared. Eventually the rift between the elves who sought Eltuthar’s secrets and those who feared them had grown too wide, erupting into one of the bloodiest civil wars the elves had ever known. Eltuthar had been Cursed by Sonlen, stripping him of his magic, and most of his followers had abandoned him, returning to Eld’rin or being banished. That had been many years ago.

Obviously, Eltuthar hadn’t wanted to repeat that, because when Dilmir showed up, banished, two years ago, he had taught him only the safest secrets of magic. It irked Dilmir some that Eltuthar hadn’t trusted him, but he supposed it made sense. There were far too many similarities between them; Dilmir couldn’t blame Eltuthar for choosing not to tell him everything.

But the result was that while he had taught Ilrin and Inilidin some secrets of magic, they were really no more powerful than any other elf. The Council conveniently ignored this fact, overreacting as if Dilmir were Eltuthar all over again. At least they’d left him alone for two years. He supposed that was something.

Still, he felt sorry for Inilidin. She was curious about magic, and eager to practice what he had taught her, but she had to do so in secret, her parents having forbidden her from so much as talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

“It is, sort of,” he said. “My magic started all this. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was going to show everyone my magic, and they were supposed to see it for what it was. But the Council is blinded by the past, so—”

“—So it’s their fault,” Ilrin said, approaching out of the darkness. “Not yours.”

Dilmir frowned at her. “You are way too quiet when you move,” he observed.

Ilrin ignored the comment. “It is their fault,” she repeated, looking at him. “You did what you could.”

Dilmir nodded. She was right, as she always was. Still, he felt a twinge of guilt as he looked at Inilidin, still sitting there.

“Endir not here?” Ilrin asked, stretching her arms over her head. Endir was another elf who had been interested in Dilmir’s magic.

Dilmir shook his head. “I haven’t seen him,” he said. “Maybe he couldn’t make it.”

“Close,” said a voice, “but not quite.” Endir materialized out of the night. He was seventeen, tall and wiry, and seemed possessed of a perpetual grin. “I was waylaid,” he said, speaking as if he was retelling an epic tale, “by a force of five sinister dwarven agents, who tried to assassinate me in the dead of night. I only just now escaped.”

“Right,” Dilmir said, grinning as well, “and I’m Alfimir, here to arrest us all.”

Ilrin laughed. Inilidin smiled.

“Shall we get started then?” Endir said, rubbing his hands together.

“You better stay a good five feet away from us,” Ilrin warned him good-naturedly. “Your magic can get a little… exuberant.”

Endir gave her a mock bow and backed up, closer to the root.

What Eltuthar had shown Dilmir was simple for him. He had possessed his power all his life, and had been able to use Eltuthar’s secrets easily. But Ilrin, Endir, and Inilidin, as well as all other elves on Feylund, were Cursed. They needed to practice to make use of Eltuthar’s secrets.

Long ago, when magic was still young, the elders of the elves, fearing the consequences of wielding so much magic, had formed a powerful Curse. This Curse was complicated and inescapable, and they had cast it on the entire Elven race. It limited an elf’s magic to a very small amount, and kept them from having any more. For most elves, the Curse was forgotten, the miniscule amount of magic they had assumed to be normal.

But Dilmir wasn’t Cursed. Somehow, his predecessors had escaped being Cursed. Eltuthar, Dilmir’s oldest living relative, had been the first to use his full power in centuries. The Civil War had been the result. Eltuthar’s descendants had been more careful, controlling their power and keeping it hidden, but Dilmir had always struggled. He had always felt his magic, seething and boiling within him, and finally, two years ago, he hadn’t been able to keep it in any longer. He had been banished as a result, gone to Eltuthar, and there learned the secrets Ilrin and the others were now about to use.

Eltuthar had taught him exactly one thing he had not known: that magic could enchant energy. At Eld’rin, it was taught that magic could only enchant living things. While Dilmir had taken to the lessons easily, for a Cursed elf, they were hard to master. And that was why he met with Ilrin, Inilidin, and Endir, almost every night after dinner: to practice.

He of course didn’t need to be there. They knew everything they needed to; now it was just a matter of endless repetition. But Dilmir himself had things to practice. He had tried to ignore his magic until Eltuthar had convinced him to use it. As a result, he was still learning everything he could do.

They took up positions around the small space, Endir and Dilmir keeping their distance, Ilrin and Inilidin in the middle, practicing together. Dilmir closed his eyes, a smile escaping him, and plunged into his magic. He had been looking forward to this all day.

Power rose and fell within Dilmir, crashing within him with the force of waves on rocks. He could feel it: nearly nineteen years of accumulated magic, just waiting to be released, waiting to shape the world as he wanted. Dilmir relished the feeling. He liked his power, not because it made him different, but simply because he didn’t have to worry about being the same as everyone else. Those days were gone.

Dilmir raised his hand, and let his power rush out of him. It flooded into the ground at his feet, working its way in and around the dirt, stones, and roots which made it up. Magic was bound to energy, and energy was heat, meaning Dilmir’s magic could go anywhere. He could feel his magic in the ground, feel the roots, the small worms and insects in the ground, all of it.

Cursed elves needed to cast spells, but Dilmir didn’t. He was in complete control of the magic and everything it touched. With a thought, he caused the ground before him to rise up, held aloft by roots, pushed upwards as if some great burrowing beast had surfaced. To do the same, a Cursed elf would have to prepare at least twenty spells and fire them into the ground individually, making sure they struck the correct roots. And even then, the result wouldn’t be the same. Once a spell was fired, the elf lost control over it. Not so Dilmir. Even now, he still controlled the roots and the earth they held, causing them to slide back into the ground, replacing it seamlessly where it had been.

Technically, a Cursed elf could do everything he could. But Dilmir could do it faster, with much more precision, and all at once. And he was always in control. He could feel not only his own magic, but that of Ilrin and Inilidin, struggling to cast basic enchantments, and Endir, going overboard in the opposite direction, producing highly combustible spells. If he let his magic continue to flow outwards, he could feel the magic of every elf in the Upper Quarter, and at least half of the Lower Quarter. His magic had its limits, but he had never needed to test them.

As he continued to experiment, he could feel the others nearby. Elves were trained to enchant living things, like trees. Eltuthar had taught him that energy could be enchanted, which meant the very heat in the air could be made to glow with light or produce fire. But doing so was such a foreign concept to Cursed elves, that even Ilrin, who had been practicing for two years, had trouble. Dilmir had to admit he couldn’t imagine being unable to enchant the air. If he wanted to conjure a green sphere of light, he just… did it. Even now, the limitations of the Curse continued to surprise him.

The Curse. Eltuthar wanted more than anything to lift it, but it had defied his every attempt. The Council blamed Eltuthar for the Civil War, but he blamed the Curse, and Dilmir agreed with him. The Curse had blinded the elves, and made them shun their true power. Only by lifting it could they ensure another Civil War never happened.

Dilmir stretched his magic towards Ilrin, feeling her own, merging with it. She could feel him, and glanced towards him briefly, but then turned back to Inilidin. He had done this countless times before.

Within her, he could feel the Curse, an overly-complicated web of magic which had no right to be there. It wasn’t just a simple enchantment; it was woven into her energy, her very magic, limiting everything she did. Dilmir explored it for a time, trying various things to dispel it, but none of them worked. It was always the same way, his magic slipping off of it, repelled by some ancient countermeasure.

They practiced magic for two hours, but no one wanted to stay too late. They all had training early in the morning, and would have to get up before dawn just to be there on time. Inilidin was the first to leave, Endir soon following. Ilrin stopped shortly after, yawning and stretching.

“I think I’m done,” she called to Dilmir.

Dilmir reeled his magic in, absorbing it back into himself like water rushing to fill an empty pool. It only took half a second.

“All right,” he said. “Walk you back?”

It was a silly question; Dilmir always walked her back to the middle of Eld’rin. But Ilrin nodded anyway, and they set off together, weaving between the homes of the Upper Quarter.  It was cold, but peaceful, and his use of magic had left Dilmir feeling calm and relaxed.

Those feelings all fled as they turned a corner, and found themselves face to face with an elf. This elf wore a cloak and hood, but Dilmir could see his face: pallid, stark against the black of his hood. Alfimir.

Alfimir was the elves’ only archmage. As such, he was permitted to study and use magic most others were not, in exchange for his protection of all elves. Many in Eld’rin respected and looked up to him. Dilmir had once, too, but that had been before Alfimir had decided that he was a threat and tried to kill him. They had clashed more than once, Alfimir even attacking Ilrin in an attempt to get Dilmir to fight back.

All of this made Dilmir hate Alfimir. But it was what Eltuthar had revealed to him which caused his magic to boil, yearning to strike at the archmage. Alfimir had deemed Eltuthar’s entire line a threat to the elves – Uncursed as they were – and had hunted them down. Dilmir’s parents had managed to escape him, which was why Dilmir was here at all. But his grandparents, Eltuthar’s son and his wife, had been mercilessly slaughtered by Alfimir after the Civil War. And he had tried to do the same to Dilmir’s parents, and Dilmir himself, when he realized he was related to Eltuthar.

It was understandable, therefore, that they both froze, Dilmir’s magic ready to be unleashed.

“Dilmir,” Alfimir said after a moment.

“Alfimir,” Dilmir replied, calm despite the circumstance. Ilrin said nothing, standing well away from the two.

“Are you planning on killing me tonight?” Dilmir asked calmly. Alfimir was an archmage, but Dilmir was more powerful. They had fought before, but Dilmir had learned much since then.

“No,” Alfimir said, just as calm. They both slowly relaxed.

“Why are you here, then?” Dilmir asked. “I thought the Council decided to leave me alone.”

“Wandering Eld’rin is my business,” Alfimir said quietly. “Running into you was an unfortunate mishap.”

The Council ruled Eld’rin, and was responsible for enforcing its laws. Alfimir reported to them. Together, they were responsible for much of the ill-will felt towards Dilmir. But that didn’t mean Alfimir was about to outright attack Dilmir, even if he might want to. The Council was bound by its own laws, and the law said that no elf could be attacked within Eld’rin. The Council of course made a habit out of bending the rules, but they couldn’t break them.

Dilmir knew all this. When his first banishment was lifted and he returned to Eld’rin, he knew the Council would try to get rid of him for good. They couldn’t do it themselves, so they hired an assassin to kill him while he slept.

Dilmir had been ready. He had laced so many enchantments around his house, that the assassin was caught and rendered helpless before he could even slip through the doorway. Dilmir had found him the next morning, and exposed him.

Hiring an assassin was seen as underhanded and cowardly, and the elves didn’t tolerate the practice. The Council and Alfimir had come under suspicion, and had nearly caught the blame, but had wormed their way out in the end. But the message had been clear: Dilmir was ready for the Council.

From that day forward, they had left each other alone. Dilmir had refrained from doing anything too extravagant with his magic, and the Council and Alfimir had generally avoided him. Dilmir liked it that way.

Alfimir and Dilmir remained silent, watching each other. Once, Dilmir had been afraid of Alfimir. But now he was in control, and waited calmly.

“Have you heard from Eltuthar recently?” Alfimir asked.

Dilmir’s control slipped slightly. “No,” he said, surprised at the question. “Why?”

“The Council likes to keep tabs on those who have caused wars in the past,” Alfimir said coolly.

“Then you still haven’t found him,” Dilmir surmised. After Dilmir’s banishment was retracted, Eltuthar had fled, knowing that no such fate awaited him. He had long been branded an enemy of the elves, and would be slain if found. He had whisked away Dilmir’s parents to safety before Alfimir could find them, and had been on the run ever since. Dilmir hadn’t heard from him for two years, but could only assume that meant he was still alive.

“No,” Alfimir said. “We have not found him.” He continued to watch Dilmir.

“What do you want?” Dilmir finally asked again.

“You are Eltuthar over again,” Alfimir finally said, speaking slowly. “You teach elves magic against the Councils’ wishes.”

“I have yet to start a war, though,” Dilmir reminded him.

Alfimir nodded slowly. “So far,” he said. “But Eltuthar didn’t mean to start a war either, and it happened nonetheless. You are him over again, and I fear another war will follow you soon enough.”

But Dilmir had heard enough. He was tired of the Councils’ constant fears that he would turn into another Eltuthar. He had proven them wrong for two years, but still they believed it, blinded by fear.

He shoved past Alfimir, pulling Ilrin with him. Alfimir let them go, a dark figure in a darker night. Some day, they would see the truth. Dilmir wasn’t Eltuthar.

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