Frägnyn was not used to anyone lending her a hand, and under Aeshanúl’s tutelage, she had long since lost any hope that would change.
Cooking was fine, and finally having a varied and substantial diet was the greatest gift she could have ever received in her life. She had never felt the need to practice magic, but now it had become almost an obsession.
Well, not “practice magic,” because magic wasn’t practiced. It was invoked. By all the gods, even her own thoughts echoed in the voice of her mentor. And besides, gods didn’t exist, so there was no use going around saying “by all the gods.”
At least gathering ingredients gave her some peace of mind. Of everything Aeshanúl taught her, the art of collecting materials for cooking was the only thing that didn’t turn him into a strict and severe teacher, bordering on sadistic. Frägnyn was convinced the old cook took pleasure in tormenting her.
But cutting a mushroom, pulling a root from the ground, harvesting a fruit, or carefully choosing the best aromatic leaves—these turned Aeshanúl into a gentle teacher.
Sometimes she looked enviously at the apprentices of the other orders. The young Sorcerers, always immaculate and buried in their books, while she was covered in dirt and wearing an apron stained by countless broths and sauces.
She even envied the other Druids, whose earthy appearance came from a different kind of training—wilder, more natural.
In the crumbling, cold, and dark castle, Frägnyn often saw the novice Ethereants and had even caught sight of a Corsair apprentice. They were always tired, always bruised from the harsh training, stained with blood (their own and others’), and yet, she would have given anything to train as they did.
“Frägnyn!” a young Ethereant called her from behind. “This is amazing! Is there any more?”
“Chärsian, one plate is enough,” another, older Ethereant scolded him. She had already learned that this was his father. “Frugal eating is key for the Ethereants.”
“Oh, come on, Cárk. If the boy wants to eat, he should eat. He’s growing, let him be,” Aeshanúl chimed in, for whom food was also sacred.
“And she needs to learn how to fight, but you don’t see me undermining your authority, do you?” Cárk replied sternly.
“Well, if Frägnyn comes with us to train after I have another plate, everyone wins,” Chärsian proposed. “And I’m not a boy anymore,” he added.
She blushed with embarrassment; not only had no one ever complimented her cooking like that, but it was also the first time anyone had invited her to train outside of Aeshanúl’s teachings. Contrary to her expectations, the cook laughed heartily and served Chärsian more.
From what she had heard, the boy had been born and raised in the Valley, and the castle was all he had ever known as home. A few years ago, he had convinced his childhood friends to join the order of the Ethereants. To Frägnyn, it came as no surprise, as Chärsian had a way of expressing himself that drew everyone’s attention. According to Aeshanúl, his aura was one of the strongest he had ever sensed.
“Follow me,” the young Ethereant told her once he had finished. He was much younger than her, but still, he had no trouble giving orders. “Have you met Ylänna? She’s one of the greatest sorceresses alive. She promised to teach me the secret of magic!”
“Aeshanúl says magic is like cooking,” Frägnyn found herself saying, though she instantly regretted it.
“Well, that makes a lot of sense,” a woman seated by a window said.
“Ylänna!” Chärsian exclaimed joyfully. “I barely noticed you.”
“That’s because you’re too eager, little Chárs.”
“I’m not little anymore,” the young Ethereant protested. “This is Frägnyn.”
“I know, Aeshanúl’s apprentice. Your cooking is delicious,” the sorceress praised.
“Thank you,” she replied, her eyes still fixed on the ground.
“But let me tell you, magic isn’t like cooking. Well, maybe it is. A more accurate comparison would be to say that a spell is like cooking,” Ylänna explained, apparently realizing it wasn’t wise to contradict her mentor. “Have you heard of the Enären Web?”
“No, mistress…”
“Chärsian?”
“The Enären Web is the network of magic that flows through all creation and holds it together,” the boy explained. “We can’t see it, but we can feel it. If you close your eyes and focus, you’ll see what I mean,” Chärsian encouraged, closing his eyes to prompt her to imitate him.
Frägnyn tried, but she felt nothing.
“Don’t feel bad if you can’t perceive the Web,” Ylänna laughed, as if she had read her thoughts. “Chárs has been here all his life; to him, magic is natural and normal. But he’s right. The Web of Enären, the Ethereal Plane of Magic, surrounds us. It flows through us, connects us, nourishes us.” She too closed her eyes and took a deep breath, wearing the warmest and sincerest smile Frägnyn had ever seen.
“Who is Enären?” the Druid wanted to know.
“You don’t know who Enären is? I’m going to have a word or two with Aeshanúl,” Chärsian grumbled.
“Depending on who you ask, Enären is either the Ethereal of Magic, or simply the plane of Magic, Frägnyn. It’s the entity responsible for all magic in creation.”
“But Aeshanúl says gods don’t exist.”
“That’s because Ethereals aren’t gods.”
“We’ll talk about them later. Now, tell us the secret of magic!” Chärsian interrupted impatiently. Ylänna laughed again.
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, little one. That’s why I asked Frägnyn about the Web. Now, let me continue… and don’t interrupt me!” Ylänna warned, stopping the young ethereant with a gesture, as if she knew what he was going to say.
Frägnyn was starting to suspect that the sorceress really had a mystical ability to see the intentions or thoughts of those she was talking to. In the Valley, anything was possible.
“Alright. If magic is a web, then summoning magic is like weaving. Mastering the art of Summoning is like pulling the threads of the Web of Enären and doing with them as you wish. You can weave a scarf, a blanket, or even unravel them to recreate the wool of a sheep or the fibers of cotton. A spell, on the other hand, is a step-by-step guide to extracting a specific thread from the Web, winding it into a ball of yarn, and then crafting a specific garment from it. In other words, your new ball of yarn will only allow you to knit a skirt and nothing else. In that sense, Aeshanúl is right: it’s like a recipe.”
“So I have to learn how to knit?” Chärsian asked, confused. Frägnyn felt the same way.
“Only if you want to,” Ylänna teased.
“None of this makes any sense,” the young ethereant complained, but the druid apprentice believed she was starting to understand the sorceress’s words.
“Well, actually,” both turned to her as she began to speak, “I think I get it. If we draw magic from the Web, it’s like pulling on a thread. Or many threads, and with those threads, we weave spells.”
“Exactly!” Ylänna praised.
“But that’s not the secret of magic… I already knew that,” Chärsian complained.
“Then I have nothing left to teach you,” the sorceress replied with a playful grin. “You need to pay attention. Look.”
The woman pressed her fingertips together, then slowly pulled them apart, revealing fine threads of white light connecting them. With a series of swift, agile movements, she twisted the threads, intertwined them, adjusted them, until they formed an orange, glowing crystal.
“A fire crystal,” Chärsian murmured, mesmerized.
“Highly volatile and explosive,” Ylänna confirmed.
“It’s not a spell,” the young man added. It was a statement, not a question, and it made perfect sense to him. “I thought only ethereants could summon magic like this, in its pristine state.”
“Anyone who understands how to access the Web of Enären and harness pure magic can do it. The difference is that ethereants are the only brotherhood, or one of the few, that intertwine with the Web from the beginning of their training. The rest of the orders learn magic through spells.”
“Like following instructions,” Frägnyn added. “Like a recipe.”
“Precisely. While the ethereants study the principles of magic, we learn signs, words of power, movements, all kinds of techniques that other summoners have perfected over the years. Magic comes to us through our predecessors, who have already woven the fabric we must work with,” with each word, Ylänna played with the crystal until it finally disappeared between her fingers, like a flame being snuffed out. “As a druid, dear Frägnyn, you will connect with the Web of Enären through nature, through the Ethereal Türma. You will learn to channel the magic flowing around you, make it flow through your own being, and achieve incredible things.”
Chärsian was lost in thought, staring at the mountains visible through the window.
Frägnyn remained pensive too. Something had awakened within her. She thanked the sorceress for the lesson and the boy for inviting her to join, then hurried out of the castle, down its countless steps, and into the forest where Aeshanúr was gathering mushrooms.
She knelt and looked at her dirty hands, her apron splattered with stains, and smiled. Each splash, each bit of food scattered on the fabric, was an indication of her training, a testament to Aeshanúl’s teachings. Like a grimoire of spells, her apron reflected her mentor’s years of experience woven together with her first steps.
And then there was the forest, the place where the old druid found peace. In nature, where magic flowed all around. Here, he was serene because he was in touch with that primal, invigorating force.
Something stirred inside Frägnyn, a sensation unlike anything she had felt before. Maybe it was just her imagination, but when she closed her eyes, she could have sworn she sensed everything around her. The breeze rustling the leaves. The fragrance of the flowers. The moisture in the air. The sound of her heartbeat. The ants marching in a line. The fluttering of birds. The roots of the trees.
And the threads of magic, like a calm, serene river whose magical waters flowed with intensity.
Without opening her eyes and guided purely by instinct, Frägnyn extended one hand while the other gripped her apron firmly. She couldn’t see the Web, but she was convinced it was there, right in front of her.
She tried to grasp the thread, but her hand closed around nothing. However, she could feel every fiber of her palm, the contact of her fingertips with the dirt particles that dirtied her skin. No, not dirtied. Coexisted.
Still clutching her apron, both hands clenched tightly, the young druid apprentice opened her eyes, expecting to find herself in a ridiculous position. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Around her, there was a circle of flowers that hadn’t been there before. Beautiful flowers, with vivid, intense colors. But it wasn’t the flowers themselves that surprised Frägnyn; it was their stems and foliage.
As if it were a web, each plant had extended numerous tendrils that intertwined and tied together. There were even small roots emerging from the ground, wrapping around her legs and knees.
She had no idea how she had done it. She felt that nature and magic were speaking to her; perhaps the Ethereals Ylänna had mentioned were there, trying to tell her something.
One thing was certain: Frägnyn was sure and convinced that the Web of Enären was real, and that magic was like weaving. And it was like cooking. But it was also like none of those things.
And then she understood that she had made her first summoning, not because she knew what magic was, but because she had woven her own web: with Aeshanúl, with Chärsian, with Ylänna. Maybe magic was about that.