Three days before Anino’s death, I was thinking he wasn’t always near-sighted. His eyes were sharper than talons on a bird of prey, and his senses were as keen as a hunter’s -- even without the aid of magic. Gurong Kalasag, our combat instructor and magical arts teacher, told me it was because of Anino’s Diwatan heritage.
Anino had lived in the castle since we were little, when the Circle of Mages took him in as their apprentice. They told Amang Hari he was supposed to hold an ancient power of something or the other that has kept evil at bay for the last three centuries, but then again they’d always talked funny that way. Words like “doom” and “twilight” and “the end of all things living” were constantly plaguing their lips. For my part, I was just happy to have someone new to play with.
“My name is Kidlat,” I remember saying, my head raised proudly and my earth-soiled hands outstretched in greeting to the pale little boy. I remember his unusual blue-grey eyes looking at me for a time, then at my hand, and then he nodded almost imperceptibly in acknowledgment without taking his hands off the Elder Mage’s robes.
It was the Elder Mage who replied on the little boy’s behalf. “His name is Anino,” he said somberly. His voice always made me shiver, like a prelude to a storm, or a cold sea wind. “He is to train with you under Kalasag’s care.”
Without sparing so much as a glance at the Elder Mage, I took Anino’s hand in mine and had him run with me towards the chamber doors, barely giving the old man enough time to throw his unerring indignant glare at the back of my head. I heard my Amang Hari’s amused laugh as we ran past the startled castle guards. We were inseparable since then.
It was when Anino tried to cast an elder-level Light spell -- for the first of only two times in his short life -- his vision started deteriorating. This was two revolutions ago. There had been a storm, and the grown-ups insisted we should find amusement for ourselves inside the castle for the rest of the day. Like good little sheep, we let ourselves be herded inside Gurong Kalasag’s laboratory while we waited for him to arrive.
Anino paced around the laboratory, idly letting his quill hover about his head. It looked as if the feather still had a spark of memory from when it had been a part of a whole bird, and was trying to regain its ability to fly without tilting wildly to and fro. I, on the other hand, was playing with my dagger, letting it stand on my fingertips, occasionally flipping it into the air and then catching it by the hilt. It was worn and looked like it had seen years before I even breathed my first into this world, but it had been a present from my Amang Hari when I was fifteen summers old.
Merely five minutes into our little adventure within the rectangular space and Anino has more or less managed to overturn every book on each desk, inspect every liquid on each flask and beaker, and mess up the neatly arranged and rolled-up scrolls on Gurong Kalasag’s summoning table. There was however, one open scroll on our master’s shelf which was very difficult to ignore. It was already sheer torture for both of us, who were used to training in the open fields surrounding the castle grounds, to be forced to sit down and spend the afternoon -- goddess forbid -- reading; but to leave a wizard’s laboratory wide open like that... Let’s just say Amang Hari might as well have invited the Lords of Chaos over for dinner.
I could imagine the temptation it must have been for Anino, who, despite his initial meekness, had the mind equivalent to a cacophony of raw magic, eager to give voice to each new spell he encounters. Odd enough that the usually-organized Gurong Kalasag left the door to his rooms unlocked; it was him, most of all, who knew the boundless amount of childlike curiosity his student never seemed to have lost during adolescence. We were then already on our eighteenth summer and he has yet to lose the oft-times frightful gleam of youthful recklessness in his eyes.
I on the other hand had always been cautious when it came to magic. A sword’s hilt in my grasp with its blade gleaming in sunlight gives me more power than any wand or enchanted quarterstaff can offer.
Amang Hari said I possess the same battle light of warriors as my mother. She died of the plague two revolutions after I was born, so I do not remember much of her, but my father had always told tales of my mother’s life that I felt much love for her even if she was not present. He said my mother used to be a pirate, and was part of a band of invaders which threatened to usurp the kingdom, which was then ruled by my grandfather. She worked as a spy, so she had to be at my grandfather’s court constantly. It was there where she met my father and where the two eventually fell in love. My father constantly tells me of the numerous predicaments he and my mother had gotten themselves into, and the few instances when they had to duel. At times my father thought he’d lose and die mercilessly at the blade of my mother, but he said my mother was a cruel killer, and made him fall in love with her instead. Fortunately -- and this part my father always told with nostalgic amusement -- his “charm and wit” eventually claimed my mother’s heart and she fell in love with him too. But, and this my father said with grim seriousness, her skills with the blade were unsurpassable. Not one soul in the kingdom existed who can defeat my mother in a swordfight. She was oft times stealthy and cunning as a panther, but fierce and unstoppable as a tiger when provoked. The same was said of me by my father and Gurong Kalasag, and it was because of this that I felt a strong connection to my mother.
And that's it. Bad trip, no? Anyway, I'm crossing my fingers I get around to working on it this time. I have a lot of ideas percolating in my head. I just need a nudge in the right direction to get my hands working. :-)
