The Calling
The Calling is a short story set hundreds of years before the events of A Fate Entwined. It features Saint Heigo, ancestor to Heigos (who appears in the prologue to A Fate Entwined), as he seeks revelation on how to end the ongoing war.
An icy gale meandered through the Peaks of Echar. Artus braced against the bitter wind, his crimson robes doing little to lessen its bite. He gazed over the circle of black stones below, as well as the three veramancers standing guard should a kanstyr suddenly appear. They had captured few of the enemy this way over the past months, but they simply couldn’t risk one of the Echan emotionalists slipping into their camp unknown.
Bright sunlight materialised from the centre of the kanstyr ring, a portal opening up there. Artus raised his forearm to his eyes and waited for it to subside. When the light was gone, a single man stood in the circle, holding a scroll. The veramancers sprung forward.
“Wait!” said the kanstyr in Palanese. “I bring a message from Saint Polma!”
Without warning, Artus appeared in his tent, warmed by the fire burning outside. Galdus stood before him, reading from the unfurled scroll. The page boy paused and glanced up.
“What is it?” Artus said, unable to help himself. By now, he knew for sure that this was a dream. Whether it was that kind of dream was a mystery still to be solved.
Galdus was silent a moment, still staring at Artus with those wide eyes of his. He shook his head, snapping himself out of the daze. “My apologies, Saint Heigo. I was merely stunned at the news. Saint Polma claims the war is over. She signed a treaty with the Barakan leaders this morning and sent the kanstyr emissary to deliver the message.”
Artus Heigo stepped back and collapsed into his chair. “Over? After all these years, it’s finally over?” He waved for Galdus to bring him the scroll. Once the boy passed it over, Artus skimmed the message. “Over with a treaty. I can’t believe it. We don’t sign treaties—we conquer. That’s all we’ve done since the Great Mother told us to prepare for the Twins.”
“Now what do we do?” asked the boy.
Artus sighed. “That is the question.”
The dream changed again, now taking place somewhere he immediately recognised: the records vault of Prima. Countless books lined the walls of the grand underground chamber. Artus had spent entire days exploring this vault, back when he’d been a simple veramantic apprentice, decades ago now.
Holding a torch in one hand, Artus stalked forward with purpose, his dream body acting of its own volition. He wore no crimson robes, draped instead in an unremarkable brown cloak. Eventually, he stopped at a shelf and scanned the tomes. Taking one, he shook it open with his free hand.
The text was a classic, written by one of the finest masters of veramancy the world had ever seen. With it, one could have almost taught themselves the magic without a mentor. Artus knew of only a few copies—this, however, was the original. An artefact so priceless that not even a ship full of speculite could be traded for it.
Artus couldn’t believe his eyes as his dream self dropped the open book to the stone floor with a thud. Barely hesitating, he took his torch and tossed it onto the manuscript, the ancient paper catching alight in thumping heartbeats.
Horrified, Artus barely had a moment to take it in, his body turning almost nonchalantly away from the scene. The vault filled with smoke, its stench making Artus’s nose wrinkle, even through the dream. No, this was more of a nightmare.
At least his motif hadn’t appeared. Surely the Great Mother wouldn’t expect him to do something so barbaric. This had to be an ordinary dream or nightmare. That was the only explanation for it.
Dream Artus toyed with the smooth veranium ring he wore on his left hand for a moment, then reached into a sack on his belt. From it, Artus pulled the coin he’d grown to fear. A boxel, complete with its raised cross extending from corner to corner. Ordinarily, the coin was made from palladium, but this particular one had been crafted from gold.
And the gold boxel meant that this dream was no dream at all. Another vision from the Dreamsoul.
Why? Why would you have me bring such destruction? Artus thought, watching his body flick the coin into the air and catch it.
“There must be no trace, my child,” said Dream Artus. “When the Twins arrive, the magic of the emotionalists shall be long forgotten. You must leave tonight and leave alone. This is my final message for you, Artus Heigo. This is your final task.”
As the vision faded, Artus caught his reflection in the gold boxel. He had aged well, but it was still clear he had aged. A dreadful pit opened in his stomach. Artus suspected that this work would not be completed in a month or even a year. No, his final task for the Great Mother would claim the rest of his life.
* * *
It was only on exceedingly rare occasions that Artus was able to clearly tell what the Great Mother wanted him to know. Usually, She communicated through signs and metaphors that could take endless hours to decode. Sometimes, it would be more obvious.
But in all his decades of Dreamseering, Artus had never heard the Dreamsoul speak to him directly. Something monumental had happened, or was perhaps about to happen. Artus could feel it deep in his slowly ageing bones. Would this task be the most important thing he ever did? If it truly was the last time he would receive a vision from the Great Mother, there could be no doubting its significance.
Burn some of the world’s most valuable books? Destroy all traces of veramancy? Why would the Great Mother want that? It made little sense to Artus, but he would not question Her will, especially not when made so clear.
Sure not to ignore the first half of his vision, Artus gathered six of his veramancers to watch the kanstyr circle for the arrival of an emissary on behalf of Saint Polma. Unlike in his vision, Artus could not help but draw slithers of titanite emotion from the watchmen, using the magic to strengthen his body’s resistance to the cold. He kept the portions insignificant, easily able to withstand the misery that came with borrowing titanite.
As the sky changed from an overcast grey to indigo, the sun setting beyond the jagged Peaks of Echar, Artus began to suspect that there would be no emissary today. What had that part of the vision meant, then? Could the war really be over, or was the meaning hidden deeper?
Artus returned to the rather sizeable camp, bringing three of the veramancers back with him. Now that night had come, it was time for him to make his preparations to leave. He knew each person who had travelled into the mountains with him well, but Artus felt no need for goodbyes.
Even his family, safe back in the Palans, would get no farewell from Artus Heigo. His children would take care of their mother, he knew, even as they started families of their own. They knew the burdens he carried as a Saint—his final note would be all they needed to make peace with his disappearance.
Still, he did wish he could hold Cirexia in his arms one final time, even if her mind was distant now. Artus avoided gazing into his speculite bracelet as often as he could; it was too painful to see the muted colours there. Regularly draining titanite emotions had held off Cirexia’s mental deterioration for many years, but she had lived a life far longer than most, and eventually, the sickness had caught up.
Artus entered his lavish tent, dimly illuminated by the twelve glowthread rings along the shoulders of his veramantic robes. He took a deep breath and tugged back the sleeve of soft cotton, checking on his beloved wife, many miles away. The speculite gem emitted a dull gold light, setting his mind temporarily at ease. At least she wasn’t in any pain.
Sitting at his desk, Artus unstoppered his ink bottle, took up his pen and prepared to write his final words to the people of the Palanese Empire. It took a moment for the words to come, but soon enough, the ink flowed onto the page like blood spilled from the countless Barakan he’d slain over the seemingly endless Echan conquest.
Although Artus had come to the mountains to ask the Great Mother to show him a path toward the end of the war, She had shown him anything but that. He’d received many visions from the Dreamsoul over the previous months and spent most days trying to uncover their meanings. As a result, he’d written much concerning the Twins and the Woe—far more than he had in years gone by. He only hoped his interpretations would be of some use for whoever might one day read them.
Artus read through his entry—the whole thing spanned several pages—ensuring he had written everything he felt necessary to record. At last, he prepared to write his final words.
It is with a heavy heart that I write my last words unto you, the people of Palantina. It seems the Great Mother has more work for me to do, although it shall not be as Saint Heigo. Tonight I leave behind my crimson robes for a simple traveller’s cloak. This is the Dreamsoul’s will, and I am ever her humble servant.
I believe that the Echan conquest will soon come to a close. The Great Mother saw fit to give me a vision more clear than any I had received before. If my assumptions are correct, Polma has signed a treaty with the Barakan, ending the conflict. In my vision, the Great Mother also spoke to me directly, assigning me a task of great importance, which I shall not write about here.
Before I put down my quill and begin a new journey, I would leave you with perhaps my most important conviction:
For all our claims of prophecy, these things cannot be trusted with complete certainty. We merely do our best to interpret the dreams given to us by the Great Mother. Only She truly knows of the things to come.
Saint Artus Heigo.
Content his work was complete, Artus stood and made his final preparations to leave. He disrobed and changed into the rough travelling clothes he had not worn in many weeks, then folded the smooth veramantic robes and placed them neatly by his writings. He had worked so long to earn each of those twelve circles, but it would attract too much attention now. Better that the robes be sent back to his family.
He would travel light, hunting for food when he could manage it and eating from rations otherwise. The journey back to the Palans was a long one—perhaps a month, all going well. He’d start there, even if the temptation to visit his wife and children would be great. He knew he could not return to them, for once he did, he would never leave. Artus had to be strong and follow the Great Mother’s will.
Once he was ready, Artus made his way out of the tent. As the tent flap fell back into place behind him, he felt something change. What had changed, he wasn’t exactly sure, but something felt distinctly wrong all of a sudden, as if he’d been cut off from the air itself.
Artus quickly made his way to the edge of the camp, unseen in the dark of night. Still feeling that something wasn’t right, he closed his eyes and calmed his mind. It was one of the more complicated veramantic techniques—assessing one’s own core emotions. Artus was one of the few it had come naturally to.
As the meditation deepened, he searched for each of his emotional sources. He found nothing, met with only darkness. The emotions were still present, for he could feel his anxiety distantly building as the calm state of mind threatened to tear away, but it was like he’d been cut off from being able to measure them.
Shouts from the camp snapped Artus out of his meditation. He found himself sucking in cold air as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
“I felt it too,” said someone from the other side of the tents. “Something’s wrong.”
Another responded in a whisper that carried through the rocky plateau. “I feel… empty all of a sudden. Disconnected.”
There came a moment of silence, followed by rushing footsteps. “It’s gone,” said a third voice. “My magic is gone!”
Gone? Artus thought. It can’t be gone.
The camp erupted into panicked chaos. Artus knew someone would come searching for him in mere moments, so he slipped between tents to get a view of the scene. Choosing the closest figure, he attempted to pull a tiny thread of clinohumite emotion from them. He should have felt the change as the sense of excitement or satisfaction struck him, but nothing happened. Artus tried another, then two more without any success.
By then, the others were confirming it. Their veramancy was gone.
Without warning, they had all lost their magic. Nothing like it had ever happened in the history of the world. Suddenly his dream made a bit more sense, and Artus knew that veramancy would not be returning, for this was the Great Mother’s will.
And when Artus Heigo was done with his final task, there wouldn’t be a trace of the magic remaining on Raedos.
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