Manifester: Stardust
The Head Mage picked up the sphere with tweezers and studied it. “And you got this bullet from where?”
“It sailed through your daughter’s hand. There were two more that stuck in her.”
Drakin’s weathered gray eyes fixed on the young Prince. “Two of these--” he held up the blood-stained ball “--are in my daughter, Tempyst?”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, knowing full well the “Sir” was unneeded.
Drakin gave a heavy sigh. “They need to get out of her.”
“Why?” Drakin was busy ordering his apprentice around, shouting orders in a crazy, arcane tongue. “Why should the…bullets be removed?” Fenix continued.
The apprentice walked out, carrying a heavy leather sack. Drakin held the bullet in his hand. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
Drakin tossed the bullet, Fenix catching, then dropping it. “That thing hurts!” the young Royal snarled.
“Yes, I expected it to.” The aged magician removed his glasses and stood, scratching his well-trimmed beard as he searched his shelves.
“You knew it would hurt, and yet you still threw it at me? I could have you locked up for this, you senile, old--”
“I needed to test a theory. You saw how easily I held the metal sphere, correct?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Fenix replied, his eyes wandering around the Mage’s laboratory. --Snails. Eye of newt. Dragon’s blood. Dragon tears.-- The Dragon’s heart caught his attention. --Drakin certainly has a thing for Dragons.--
Drakin turned around. “Put these on.” He tossed a pair of thick leather gloves onto his desk.
Fenix eyed them cautiously, then slipped them on. They were well-worn, a hint of smoke amid the earthy scent.
“Well, I believe the Hunter’s bullet and the ones used by the Nen’dori are one and the same. Hold out your hand--those gloves will protect you.”
The Fourth Prince held out his hand and received the bullet, surprised it hadn’t burned him yet.
Drakin nodded. “Now, close your hand and try to turn into a falcon.”
Fenix did as told. No matter how hard he tried or concentrated, he couldn’t become a falcon. Not even a finch. “I can’t.”
“Just as I feared. The Nen’dori have returned, and they’ve learned about you.”
Fenix set the ball and the gloves down on the desk. He had heard about the Nen’dori. They hunted and slew every member of the Nen’roma, the Shifting Clan. --But wait, I shift.-- “If the Nen’dori killed all of the Nen’roma, then why--”
“Your Father is a desendant of the Nen’roma. The blood is diluted considerably, but roughly every five hundred years, a Manifester from these bloodlines resurfaces. We’ve been waiting one thousand years for another to be born. Normally, these are male, and able to become whatever creature they wish.” Drakin began to scribe something down in his tome. “Apparently, there was a reason for the thousand year gap, for there are now two alive.”
Fenix narrowed his eyes. “You know who the other Manifester is.”
“I do, but I will not tell you.”
--All Solaris are stubborn. No wonder they’re always Mages. Too stubborn to change.-- “Do you know who Lysah is, then? Can you tell me who that is?”
He dropped his quill. “You shall not repeat that name, boy.”
“But that Hunter stared Tempyst down and told her that Lysah knows who she is, and I want to know who this Lysah is and why he or she is so interested in her.”
The Head Mage sighed again and leaned back in his chair. “That Hunter believed that Tempyst was the Manifester born to Solaris.”
“Is he right?”
Arcane shouting echoed down the hall.
Drakin stood.
“Is Tempyst the Manifester?” he pressed.
The apprentice burst into the room, waving the bag around.
“Mage, answer me!”
“Go see to your Guard. I must see that you are not killed.”
Fenix growled and stomped out, slamming the door shut. He smelled burnt wood, and knew he had left a charred handprint on the door.
“It sailed through your daughter’s hand. There were two more that stuck in her.”
Drakin’s weathered gray eyes fixed on the young Prince. “Two of these--” he held up the blood-stained ball “--are in my daughter, Tempyst?”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, knowing full well the “Sir” was unneeded.
Drakin gave a heavy sigh. “They need to get out of her.”
“Why?” Drakin was busy ordering his apprentice around, shouting orders in a crazy, arcane tongue. “Why should the…bullets be removed?” Fenix continued.
The apprentice walked out, carrying a heavy leather sack. Drakin held the bullet in his hand. “Give me your hand.”
“Why?”
Drakin tossed the bullet, Fenix catching, then dropping it. “That thing hurts!” the young Royal snarled.
“Yes, I expected it to.” The aged magician removed his glasses and stood, scratching his well-trimmed beard as he searched his shelves.
“You knew it would hurt, and yet you still threw it at me? I could have you locked up for this, you senile, old--”
“I needed to test a theory. You saw how easily I held the metal sphere, correct?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Fenix replied, his eyes wandering around the Mage’s laboratory. --Snails. Eye of newt. Dragon’s blood. Dragon tears.-- The Dragon’s heart caught his attention. --Drakin certainly has a thing for Dragons.--
Drakin turned around. “Put these on.” He tossed a pair of thick leather gloves onto his desk.
Fenix eyed them cautiously, then slipped them on. They were well-worn, a hint of smoke amid the earthy scent.
“Well, I believe the Hunter’s bullet and the ones used by the Nen’dori are one and the same. Hold out your hand--those gloves will protect you.”
The Fourth Prince held out his hand and received the bullet, surprised it hadn’t burned him yet.
Drakin nodded. “Now, close your hand and try to turn into a falcon.”
Fenix did as told. No matter how hard he tried or concentrated, he couldn’t become a falcon. Not even a finch. “I can’t.”
“Just as I feared. The Nen’dori have returned, and they’ve learned about you.”
Fenix set the ball and the gloves down on the desk. He had heard about the Nen’dori. They hunted and slew every member of the Nen’roma, the Shifting Clan. --But wait, I shift.-- “If the Nen’dori killed all of the Nen’roma, then why--”
“Your Father is a desendant of the Nen’roma. The blood is diluted considerably, but roughly every five hundred years, a Manifester from these bloodlines resurfaces. We’ve been waiting one thousand years for another to be born. Normally, these are male, and able to become whatever creature they wish.” Drakin began to scribe something down in his tome. “Apparently, there was a reason for the thousand year gap, for there are now two alive.”
Fenix narrowed his eyes. “You know who the other Manifester is.”
“I do, but I will not tell you.”
--All Solaris are stubborn. No wonder they’re always Mages. Too stubborn to change.-- “Do you know who Lysah is, then? Can you tell me who that is?”
He dropped his quill. “You shall not repeat that name, boy.”
“But that Hunter stared Tempyst down and told her that Lysah knows who she is, and I want to know who this Lysah is and why he or she is so interested in her.”
The Head Mage sighed again and leaned back in his chair. “That Hunter believed that Tempyst was the Manifester born to Solaris.”
“Is he right?”
Arcane shouting echoed down the hall.
Drakin stood.
“Is Tempyst the Manifester?” he pressed.
The apprentice burst into the room, waving the bag around.
“Mage, answer me!”
“Go see to your Guard. I must see that you are not killed.”
Fenix growled and stomped out, slamming the door shut. He smelled burnt wood, and knew he had left a charred handprint on the door.