I wonder what Alara the Great, Conqueror of Death, Mavlan Spire, Air Whisperer, and Landrag Vern, Master of Darkness, would think of us now.
I can't say I pay any mind to what I read, until a line catches my attention.
I frown, silently reading it again, and then a third time.
Sir Vern melded the darkness so well, he could drown souls in its depth.
I would have dismissed it as more inane lyrical nonsense had I not done just that, again and again. Taken someone's body and mind, and contorted it under layers of shadows.
They're talking of mysting.
I'm stunned.
When Gendrion Frost found me in my village and told me the power I wielded was called myst, he mentioned no one had seen a Myst for an age. If books ever existed on this power, they'd long been forgotten. I was trained alone, in an experimental way. My tutors had no idea what I could do, what my limits were. I'm still not quite sure of the bounds of my power.
Yet this tiny pocket book printed not two winters ago mentions myst, under the surface. I am sure of it.
I close it, and turn it around, checking the attribution.
"A History of Fae, by Marren—79 AE."
It's a print of a book written not even a hundred years after our arrival in Alfheimr.
I catch a movement right in front of me, and lift my head.
Then I still.
Part of me wants to scream; the other could jump in elation.
Vlari's right in front of me.
She's also on her bed. She hasn't pulled me into her mind, this time. She's appeared here, in this world.
"I thought we had an agreement." My voice is dry, but firm.
"I'm within these four walls." She shrugs, callous as always.
I can't even be mad at her twisting our deal to please her fancy. I would have done the same in her shoes.
"You've found something, haven't you?"
I don't reply at first. I'm too busy looking at her, taking her in, wondering if I can touch her. Feel her.
At long last, I turn the book around. "See this line? I believe the author was talking about a Myst. This person—Vern."
"The Master of Darkness," she says. One of us was paying attention, at least. "The title would certainly fit. Isn't that what you do? Mold darkness to your will?"
It sounds like an oversimplification, but I nod all the same.
"And this could be a Storm," she says, pointing to a line on the opposite page.
Spire was "bidding the sky above to answer his commands." Storms are another lost power—air mages with the strength to command tornadoes and lightning, when ten regular air folk would have to use all of their power just to bring a little rain during a drought.
The sky, like the sea, had a will of its own, and did not care to bow to the desires of most of the folk.
"The Master of Death could be a Void," I say.
Her eyes widen with an eagerness I share. Hearing of others who may have been like us is a strange thing, in a world where I've taken for granted that I am alone.
