And in fact, they did. Rogan had already seen what he would find here, in this vast, empty cave. And he soon found it. Kaita’s body lay facedown, twisted in pain. There was a hole through her back, and her blood covered the stone floor.
Weeping, Rogan fell to his knees beside her. He took up her hand, cradling it against his cheek, careless of the blood he spread on himself.
The Lord stepped up beside him, and then he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“Why?” said Rogan. “You said you knew why. I know our goals are worthy, more so than anyone else in the nine kingdoms. But this … this feels like too high a price.”
The cave was silent for a long moment. When the Lord finally spoke, Rogan could hear the grief in his voice. “It is a high price. But no price would be too high to pay. The death of any one person—even Kaita, even Tagata, and yes, even you, my favored son—would be worth it in the end, if we achieve what we mean to. And yet now we may rejoice. Today, we need pay no price at all.”
Rogan looked up at him in the darkness. “Father?”
“Lift her hair, my son.”
As Rogan watched in wonder, the Lord pulled out a needle, ink, and a small hammer.
“Father,” said Rogan. “I thought no wizard could receive your gift.”
“So did I,” said the Lord. “But now let us say, instead, that I never knew how to bestow it upon them. Not until I needed it most.”
His hands were swift and deft as he tapped out a tattoo on the back of Kaita’s neck. Rogan had seen it a dozen times before. But this tattoo was … different. It did not look like his own, like the design that all the shadeborn wore.
“Can you do this to anyone?” he asked in an awed voice. “Any other wizard, I mean?” His mind raced with the possibilities of what this could mean for the coming war.
“We shall see,” said the Lord. “For now, put her on her back again.”
Rogan did. The Lord placed his hand on Kaita’s chest, where the spear had made its mark. And his eyes began to glow with a pure, unrelenting white light.
Her body began to convulse. She groaned, like a corpse expelling the last air from its lungs. Suddenly the groan erupted into a scream. Like Mag’s when she had come back to life, Kaita’s back arched, with only her head and pelvis still touching the ground. The scream bounced from the rocky walls and off itself again, becoming painful. Kaita’s eyes were wide, and the blood vessels within them split, turning them red.
“Hold her, my son,” said the Lord, his voice halting with effort.
Rogan seized Kaita and held her down. He wished to comfort her, but he knew that was impossible. Not until the ritual was complete.
And then, finally, her screams subsided. Her body sank back onto the ground, plopping wetly in the blood pooled beneath her. Her blood-red eyes spun, and then finally they focused on Rogan, on the Lord. Her expression held only anguish.
“Rogan?” she croaked.
He scooped her up into his arms, holding her and weeping anew, but this time with joy. And the Lord, though weary from his exertions, stood and placed his hands on them both. Rogan’s heart filled with his warmth, with his love.
“My children,” said the Lord gently.
You see, Sun, you have already realized that this was not the end of Mag’s tale. It was merely the end of the beginning. What we did not know at the time was that another tale had begun as well.
OF WEREMAGES, THEIR TECHNIQUES AND TRAINING
During the tumultuous days of the War of the Necromancer, several prominent weremages were of great importance.
(There are many who would insist we call them “therianthropes,” in the manner of the proper speech of the Academy and of the nobility. But we shall here use the commoner’s tongue for them, as well as for wizards of the other branches, for it renders greater understanding, and that is a nobler goal than lofty words.)
On the battlefield, a weremage’s impact could be great. As powerful animals or terrible hellskin beasts, they could lay waste to entire squadrons of troops, or in the case of a powerful few, entire armies.
But more often, and far more potently, they were instrumental in many clandestine matters. Across the nine kingdoms, and on all sides of the conflict, they collected information, scouted out enemy movements, and even assassinated powerful foes. After all, who could be better for such espionage than a wizard capable of assuming any form?
Or at least, so most of the commonfolk believed. But as we shall see, they were rather misinformed.
To understand the many aspects of a weremage’s power, it is best to start at the beginning of their training. One of the first things a weremage learns, whether from the Academy or from a private tutor, is the “creative” transformation of their own body. “Creative” transformation is differentiated from “acquired” transformation, which shall be discussed in detail later.
In creative transformation, imagination is paramount. But because imagination is the center of a weremage’s ability, that ability is incredibly versatile in some respects, and heavily restricted in others.
The subject of color is a good example. In the mirror branch of alchemy, an alchemist must have powerful focus and mental strength to change an object’s color. That is because an alchemist transforms the actual minute particles that give an object its color. But for a weremage, it is much easier to change the colors of their own body simply by thinking about it.
This is, in fact, how young weremages are tested for. The person administering the test only has to say to a child, rather sharply, “I did not know you had green eyes,” or some other color the child’s eyes do not in fact possess. If the child is
