Hearth & Home, Part I: Amali (Wayfarer Order Short Story)

Deep in the Frostmarks lies a tower. To some, it is a citadel of myth and legend, a relic of a bygone era. To others it is a dark bastion of horror, used to frighten children with wild stories of fiends come to steal their magic.

But to Rindan Cenric, the Spire is home.

It is early in the afternoon when he tromps into the kitchen. A sturdy dwarf of an unmentionable age, he is the short, greying, one-eyed Wayfarer master widely considered to be as much a part of the Spire as the black ramparts and the stained glass windows. Some days, it feels as though the whole tower will collapse without him. As the Order’s archivist, he has too much work, not enough time, and too little patience.

So, it is with a sigh of relief that he finds the kitchen empty. Resting his favourite mug on the table, he putters about the hearth, lights a fire, and sets a pot of water to boil. His eye and mind are bleary from a morning of paperwork and he is in desperate need of another cup of tea.

“Free from hiding in your tower?” a mocking voice calls. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Rindan grimaces. “It’s called paperwork. Shouldn’t you be familiar with it by now?”

Amali Sero hobbles through the threshold on a pair of crutches, their sardonic grin unhampered by their injury. On an ordinary day, the Wayfarer Grandmaster can be seen swanning about the Spire in full battle gear, ready to trek into the woods on a hunt or leave on a mission to Tyridia. Today, however, they have opted for a loose, knee-length dress from their native Naro, and left their long, greying locs unbound about their shoulders.

“That’s the joy of being Grandmaster,” they say, grunting softly as they limp through the kitchen. “I have other people to do it for me.”

Rindan frowns. “Didn’t Sirin tell you to stay off that leg?” he calls.

“If Sirin expects me to stay bedridden, she’s smoked too much dreamweed,” they reply, flashing him a grin. They lower themself carefully into a chair at the table and exhale a long, satisfied sigh. “What’s for lunch?”

“I’ll fetch you something.”

He crosses the kitchen and digs around the pantry, searching for dried rations. Lunch was over an hour ago and with the Spire busier than usual this summer, there isn’t much leftover once everyone eats their fill. Thankfully, their kitchen is well-stocked from recent supply runs. Grabbing a tin of tea leaves for himself, he quickly returns with a plate of smoked sausage, bread, cheese, and dried apples.

Amali raises an eyebrow as he shoves the plate in front of them. “This same fare?” they ask, inspecting the cheese. “How unimaginative. Remind me to expand our pantry sometime, we’re desperately lacking in culture around here. Where are the spices?”

“You could have had something different if you got up an hour ago,” Rindan points out.

“Ah,” they tsk, already scarfing down their food. “But see, Sirintold me to stay in bed. Wouldn’t want to disobey our favourite physician.”

Rindan frowns at the contradictory statement and lets it go, too irritated to make a counterpoint. Even so, as he raises the pot lid to check the water, he can’t help a small smile. Like all Wayfarers, Amali is a notoriously poor patient. It’s not in their nature to sit still. As far as he’s concerned, they can gripe however they like.

It’s better than the alternative.

“A watched pot never boils,” Amali says through a mouthful.

Rindan slams the lid. “Hm?”

They chuckle and wipe their mouth with the back of their hand. “I’m grateful for this,” they say. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you, but there’s very little chance of me getting all the way up to your favourite hidey-hole with this in the way.” They rap their knuckles against their crutch. “Sit with me?”

“Sure. Better than watching the pot.”

Amali grins.

Rindan pulls up a chair and sits down. He’s not far from where he left his mug—he picks it up out of habit, turning it over absently in his hands.

“Been meaning to ask,” Amali says, brown eyes alight with curiosity. “Where’s that from?”

“This? Oh… uh…” He pauses. “My apprentice made it for me. Took at least six tries before this one. Even scrawled his name on the bottom…” He flips it over, fondness welling up inside him as he takes in the faded, clumsy signature and the small thumbprint next to it. “Ah, he was a good kid.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Long before your time.”

They nod soberly and run a hand over their chin, scratching at the fine layer of stubble. “How many apprentices have you had? Fifty? Sixty? I can’t imagine what it has been like. Watching every Wayfarer pass through these halls—training with their masters, mingling with their peers, living life to the fullest only to leave the Spire and never return.”

“You’ve taken a grim turn.” Rindan places the mug on the table and cracks the tea tin open, tapping a generous amount of leaves into it. The tea pot went missing this morning—someone’s idea of a prank, no doubt—and this will have to do. “Is this your injury talking, or do you have something else on your mind?”

Amali’s dark eyes linger on his eyepatch and the scarred, mangled flesh beneath. “It’s a bit of a shit life, isn’t it, Rindan?” they say. “Taken from your family to the one safe harbour you may ever know, only to be pushed out the door and sent into the fray. Wayfarers don’t retire. We push ourselves to our limits, and then we die.”

“Has your recent brush with death left you grappling with your mortality, or is this your age talking?” he retorts gruffly. Amali is human. Though they are only midway through their fifties, they are already beginning to resemble Rindan in age. The discrepancies between human and dwarven lifespans will never not shock him.

They snort. “You’d know that better than me, old man,” they say, plucking a piece of dried apple from the plate and rolling it between their fingers. “We’re in rough shape, Rindan. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Rindan pauses, knowing full-well they are not talking about him or themself.

The Wayfarers’ future has long been in question, even before Amali became Grandmaster. Rindan has seen much in his two centuries at the Spire, but the passage of time has proven one truth: the Wayfarer Order is waning.

Even in his early days there were fewer magiani found, and from their numbers fewer recruited and trained. Rhesainia was changing and cultural views radically shifted public opinion of the Order. Where once they were saviours and protectors, now they were little more than a necessary evil. Families once proud to enlist their magiani youths were afraid: afraid of the repercussions, afraid of the backlash, afraid of what their children would become. Their reach was diminished, hampered by laws made by governments that feared what they could do.

With fewer recruits each year, the number of Wayfarers slowly shrank. Of those who completed their training, more and more refused inauguration, filling the ranks of the Order’s blacksmiths, artisans, and physicians. With many of the trained Wayfarers travelling the continent in pursuit of work, there were fewer masters available to train new recruits. And on and on it went, until the overall numbers were so diminished, the modern Order could not hold a candle to the Wayfarers of the past.

With their resources stretched to a breaking point, Amali made a decision. As their first significant act as Grandmaster five years ago, they called for a temporary halt on all recruitment. The Spire has not seen a new recruit since. And though their decision is respected, it has not been taken well by all.

“You know the solution,” Rindan says slowly. “Return to recruitment—”

“It’s not a solution. More recruits won’t fix our loss of Alassar weapons, our dwindling resources, or our strained relationships with Rhesainian governments. Brissa is talented, but even her sharp tongue can’t fix what’s already broken. Continued recruitment will only prolong what’s already happening.”

“Then what do you propose?”

Silence settles over the table, interrupted only by the slow gurgle of the water pot.

Amali pushes their unfinished plate away and rests a hand on the table. “If I become the last Grandmaster, what would you think of that?”

“You can’t honestly be considering ending the Order—”

“I’m not. Not in any official capacity, at any rate. But change is coming, whether we like it or not.” Heaving a sigh, Amali grabs their crutches and drags themself upright. “Water’s ready,” they add, nodding at the bubbling pot.

“Yeah, I see that.”

Chuckling to themself, Amali hobbles their way to the door. Rindan ignores them and putters about the hearth. He carefully ladles boiling water into his mug, watching the tea leaves swirl as they sink to the bottom.

“Rindan.”

He looks up. Amali stands in the threshold, leaning heavily on their crutches. They flash him a grin, a mischievous gleam in their eyes.

“I had Tiva leave you a gift. Hope you like it.”

Rindan scowls.

Cackling with laughter, Amali limps through the doorway and disappears, the sound of their crutches hitting the flagstones fading into the distance. Grumbling with annoyance, Rindan takes his mug and heads for the back door. Though he would normally return to his office and continue work, his conversation with Amali has left him uneasy. He could use some fresh air.

Mug in one hand, he pushes the door open and trundles outside. The latest bout of warm weather has encouraged the Spire’s residents to seek the outdoors and the grounds are bustling with activity. The sky is a clear, vibrant blue without a single cloud in sight. The mountains rise high above the walls, their snow-capped peaks sparkling in the golden afternoon sun.

Leaning comfortably against the kitchen’s outer wall, Rindan blows on his tea and observes the spirited racket unfolding before him.

Dessa Meryst—once his apprentice, now the former instructor of several active Wayfarers—walks a good-natured pony into the paddock. His current apprentice is the youngest recruit, a half-melusine child of fourteen or fifteen. They hang onto the fence, two feet on the lowest rung, their eyes wide with curiosity and apprehension as they sway excitedly in anticipation of their first lesson.

Sirin Torvar, the Order’s long-standing physician, strides through the garden with a gaggle of bored trainees in tow, stopping to point out medicinal plants. When the dwarven woman rolls up her sleeves and kneels in the dirt to demonstrate proper harvesting, she all but disappears into the vegetation. Her peculiar broad-rimmed reed hat bobs up and down as she takes what she needs and prunes the rest, working her knife with the speed and precision reserved for her surgery table.

Tiva Anzar, a recently inaugurated Wayfarer yet to take her first official contract, has taken over the archery range for the afternoon. Her bright voice echoes through the grounds as she leads a casual competition with her friends among the older apprentices. Each line up in turn to take their shot, clapping each other on the back at the perfect hits and whooping with good-natured laughter at the misses.

But none of it can compare to the lively commotion of the sparring ring. This summer has seen the homecoming of several established Wayfarers, warriors who have returned to enjoy a much needed reprieve from their work across the continent. Most have their own regimens honed through years of practice, and not even the most well-intentioned break is enough to interrupt the habit. It comes as no surprise that with the streak of good weather, they would gravitate to the ring to spar against each other.

A dozen Wayfarers hang at the edge of the sparring ring, sweaty and tired from their personal bouts. Most are in various states of undress, forgoing shirts and shoes in the heat. Some douse themselves with water, others chat conversationally as they observe the opponents in the ring. Though the previous bouts have drawn a fair amount of attention, this is nothing compared to the current opponents. Everyone from open-mouthed apprentices to practiced Wayfarer masters to the Spire’s non-combatant magiani have all gathered to watch.

Darius Avennor spars the way he fights—with supernatural grace and pinpoint accuracy. Though  he prefers archery above all else, trouble will befall any enemy who assumes he is unfamiliar with other weapons and combat styles. He was a quick study during his training, hungry to learn and never satisfied. While those habits ran Brissa ragged when he was a youth, they have since transformed him into an unparalleled warrior, a keen hunter, and an expert diplomat. In only a decade, he has amassed more accolades, more rewards, and more notoriety than any other active Wayfarer. With his quick wit, natural charm, and genuine compassion, it’s no surprise that he is beloved by everyone who comes to know him.

If the Order had a golden child, it would be him.

Rindan sips his tea, carefully checking its temperature. Though it has cooled off enough to drink, it is still too warm for his liking. He swirls it absently, occupied by the spectacle happening in the sparring ring.

Always one for the dramatic, he muses.

Darius rounds the ring on agile feet, sizing up his opponent with a sly grin on his face, his pace measured as he waits for an opening. His brown hair is tied up in a loose knot and he is shirtless, his bronzed skin glinting in the sun. The display has earned more than a few blushes and gapes from the watching apprentices, some of whom are overly taken with him. He is fighting Brin Algar, one of his contemporaries and a friend since their early apprenticeships. If anyone is capable of defeating him, it would be Brin. The half-aeda is nearly as acclaimed as Darius himself.

They spar with spears today, the edges blunted for training. The spear is just one choice in a rotating line-up of weapons, chosen each morning by drawing lots. It has caused a bit of a stir among the apprentices, quickly becoming their daily entertainment before they are dragged away for their own drills.

Rindan tests his tea once more, lost in thought. It seemed only yesterday when Darius, Brin, and the others were a band of snotnosed youths with big attitudes and even bigger dreams yet to be served their first taste of reality. Shit… how many Wayfarers has he seen pass through these halls? Hundreds? He’s lost count, but he is certain that if he put pen to paper, he would remember all their names.

“Drawn out of your refuge by the excitement? Or has the fine weather finally convinced you to take a break?”

Brissa Varyn appears in the kitchen doorway, hands resting loosely on her hips. She is dressed in a light silk serithan and her bountiful, red-gold hair twisted back in a thick braid at the nape of her neck. Instead of a traditional sash, her skirts are cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt, to which she has attached a utilitarian satchel. Though she has always preferred aristocratic clothing when not at work, he has never thought of her as a noble. Her shoulders are too broad, her arms too defined, her raw strength too evident. While she puts in the effort to say otherwise, it has been six decades since she last looked the part of a Vestran aristocrat.

Not that he would ever tell her that.

“You too?” Rindan mutters, lowering his mug. “Sero said almost the same.”

“We only tease you because we love you.”

“Ha.” He lowers his mug. “Let me enjoy the sunshine in peace, would you?”

She shoots him a fond, but aggravated smile. “I know there’s a pile of reports on your desk that isn’t getting any smaller.”

“That implies you’ve seen my desk recently. Thought you were done stopping by my private quarters.”

If she’s bothered by the comment, she doesn’t let it show. “I did. Twenty minutes ago. Looking for you. But Rindan, if you need assistance, I’m sure there are others who would be willing to help you. Amali or I, or even Sirin—”

“Sirin’s up to her elbows training new physicians, Sero is injured, and you have your own responsibilities to tend to,” he interrupts gruffly. “The unfortunate nature of deskwork is that it never ends, even if you ask politely. The reports aren’t serious for the most part. It’s grunt work. Nothing an old man can’t handle.”

“Stop that. You’re not old.”

“Two hundred years is plenty old, Brissa. Even for a dwarf.”

A chorus of shouts cut across the grounds. Darius flies across the sparring ring and executes a perfect leap, knocking Brin flat on their back. He lands on top of them, pinning them to the ground, his spear held inches from Brin’s face. Darius breathes heavily, a smirk on his lips and blue eyes gleaming with triumph. His hair has loosened from its knot and hangs about his face, plastered to his neck with sweat.

“Show off,” Rindan grouses.

Brissa smiles. “A flair for the dramatic never hurt anyone.”

“It’s wholly unnecessary—”

“Darius is Arathian. It’s in his blood. Besides, it’s good for the apprentices. No one enjoys the tedium of daily drills. A little friendly competition—however flashy—may give them the inspiration they need to focus on their training.”

“It’s a distraction. Look, Tiva’s going to shoot somebody because she’s too busy looking over her shoulder—”

Brin groans and taps the ground, signalling their defeat.

Whooping cheers burst around the ring. Darius withdraws, leaping gracefully onto his feet, and extends a hand. Brin grabs it and allows themself to be pulled up. They clap Darius on the back and sheepishly runs a hand through their hair as they rejoin their friends.

“This is daily training, not a performance!” Rindan bellows.

Darius plants his spear in the ground and leans on it. “Who says it can’t be both?” he shouts back, grinning from ear to ear.

“Doesn’t matter when you’re setting a bad example!”

He throws back his head, his good-natured laughter echoing across the grounds. “Then come join us yourself, old man!” he calls, backing up to the centre of the ring and spreading his hands in invitation. “Show us how it’s done.”

“Darius!” Brissa calls, a hint of admonishment in her voice.

He drops the act and stands up straight. “Sorry, Master Varyn,” he says, bowing his head. Even after ten years, a single word from her is enough to instill respect.

She smiles and raises a hand. Catching Rindan’s eye, she nods toward the kitchen door and disappears through the threshold. With a weary, accepting sigh, Rindan pushes off the wall and hurries after her. Brissa Varyn waits for no one.

Gods, I’m going to need another cup of tea for this.

Part 2 will be posted in October.