Synry
Episode Six
Hob was caught up in a tricky bit of metaphysical theory when the door to his room burst open. He threw himself off his bed, groping for his firrim, but it slid out of his grasp, and flew into the hands of the leading robed figure.
There were four of them, and Hob could recognize them as the Duke's wizards even though they were heavily cloaked and cowled. Quick though Hob was, he wasn't faster than the chains of ice that grabbed him and held him fast. Without a word, the wizards picked him up and carried him out of his room, up to the open top of the Wizard's Tower.
Hob had never been allowed up here, not being a full wizard yet, but he had seen the lights and strange visions that would rise from the tower when the wizards worked their wonders. The place was square, and took up the entire top of the tower, with crenellations around the edges. In the centre, a huge magic circle was scribed, with a black basalt altar in the middle. This was where they carried Hob, and they set him on the altar with his eyes towards the midnight sky.
Gwydus walked into Hob's field of vision, with his cowl thrown back. He looked into Hob's eyes with a stern, unyielding expression.
"Hob, you have so far failed to master even the slightest magical effect. You are failure as a wizard. We can waste no more time teaching you."
He drew a coldly gleaming dagger from within his robe, and held it over Hob's chest.
"We don't like failures. We have invested too much of our time, energy, and power in you to just let it go. Therefor, we shall sacrifice you to reclaim the power, and give it to someone more worthy. You are going to die tonight, Hob. By our hands."
"By our hands," the surrounding wizards intoned together.
Hob was thinking furiously, trying to come up with something to do or say that would save him. Even if he could, though, he knew that the chains that held him wouldn't let him act. He was truly trapped and at the mercy of his former mentors. As the totality of his helplessness swept over him, it brought a kind of calm, a detachment from the situation that he remembered from the days when he lived with Gwillem, and would be beaten. He let his mind look out of his body, knowing that he was separate and apart from the world that was trying to destroy him. It may kill him, but it would never conquer him.
As Hob reached this point of internal balance, Gwydus raised his dagger high in the air, and called out a strange phrase that was answered by thunder in the sky. The assembled wizards began chanting, and lightning began playing around the battlements. In the sharp glare of the light, Hob looked at the dagger, and realized that it wasn't real.
None of it was.
Hob sat up on his bed, and peered at Gwydus sitting in the chair. Gwydus had a little smile on his face.
"So, you've been holding back on us. You do have some Talent, after all."
"What happened?"
"Your initiation, you could call it. There's one more step."
Gwydus reached into his sleeve and drew out a small bone wand, which he pointed at Hob.
"Hob does need to die. He is keeping you from magic, and we can no longer work around him. You and I have to kill him. This isn't something I can do on my own. You have to help me."
"M'lord?"
Exasperation was thick in Gwydus's voice. "You have to ask the question, boy. Tell me what you don't understand, and I'll try to explain it. Don't make me do all the work, here."
"Aye, m'lord."
Several seconds passed.
"M'lord, I'm Hob. D'ye truly want me dead?"
"Not you. Just Hob."
"But I'm Hob."
"Yes. But Hob is not you."
"Then who is?"
"An insightful question. Very good. Let me ask you a question. Could Hob read?"
"Aye. I can read now. You taught me."
"Not you. Could Hob read?"
"But I'm Hob."
"Could Hob read?"
"I can read."
"Let's try this a different way. Who is Hob?"
"I am."
"Yes, but who is that?"
"It's me."
"No, it's not. Tell me about Hob. What is Hob?"
"I don't... a ‘'prentice wizard?"
"No. You are my apprentice."
"Hob's a soldier, then."
"Perhaps. He certainly was. What else?"
"Farmboy."
"Yes. A farmboy, beaten by his adoptive father, and traded to the army to spare the true son."
"If m'lord says so."
"Stop it. That may work with the officers, but I know you better. And any comments about being ‘'not right in the head' may prove to be unfortunately prophetic."
"Sorry, m'lord."
"So. Are you a farmboy?"
"Not no more."
"How about a soldier?"
"Still in the army."
"Yes, but as a private soldier?"
"Nay."
"So, if Hob is these things, and you are not, how can you be Hob?"
"But... Hob's me name."
"Yes. What is Hob?"
"Me name."
"If it wasn't yours, what would it be?"
"Don't... a name?"
"Yes. It is a name. A word that used to mean you. But you have changed very much, and you will continue to change as you study the Art. It is time for you to have a new name, for us to leave Hob behind, and help you become something greater."
"How?"
"We'll let your soul tell us your name. Are you ready for Hob to die, and for you to be reborn as someone new, someone without Hob's limitations?"
"...Aye. If'n ye think it'll work."
"We'll soon find out. Open your tunic."
Gwydus extended the bone wand until the end rested in the centre of Hob's chest, then spoke a single word. The wand flamed with bright silver fire, piercing Hob through the heart, sending an overwhelmingly pleasant sensation of intense heat flooding through his body. He could feel the power leaking out through his eyes and mouth, dribbling from his fingertips and arcing from his hair. When the power receded, he collapsed on his bed, panting heavily and covered in cold sweat. Gwydus leaned over him, peering with some astonishment at something on his chest.
"Well. This is unexpected."
He fumbled in his pockets for a mirror, which he held up, revealing a silver scar branded into Hob's chest. It was a stylized wolf's head, identical to the decoration on the firrim Willem had given Hob when he left home.
"We seem to have an answer, my boy. The style of the head both here and on your weapon is reminiscent of the art crafted by those who used to worship the great dragons. In the Dragon Tongue, the wolf is Synry, and it is a symbol of pragmatism and satisfaction with one's lot. The wolf does what he must, and enjoys life as he may. Not a bad omen, although it doesn't speak of a glamorous future for you. So. You are now Synry."
"Now I'm Synry."
