This was where it would all end. On a bridge, overlooking a sacred river. Here, so close to the mountains, the water flowed with vigor. Its pure emerald tone shared none of the tar-black thickness of the same river near its delta, due to people overusing magic and corrupting every potent source.
So people like me, the pitiful souls who had lost their connection with the arcane, came here, near the spring of the most sacred river of all.
How did I get here? How had I failed my life so badly? Over forty, and nothing to show for. Where or when had it start derailing? Probably when my mother died. I was a wreck for at least five years then, using the darkest magic to keep me numb and even dipping in necromancy to bring her back. I wished I hadn't. No one should witness their own mom trying to bite off their neck, and no one should have to end their undeath in the most gruesome way.
After that, Doris left me of course, and brought the kids with her. I was alone, a poor sucker who used to have great ambition. My grit, I knew, would be more than enough to make a great archmage out of me. Everywhere I would go, people would recognize the purple robes and adulate me. They would come to me and ask me for services that I would grant, and receive an ever-growing dose of love and adoration.
Now, I couldn't even evoke a spark of light to amaze children or scare away the packs of rabid dogs that scavenged this forsaken town.
My reasons for coming to Keshi were not dissimilar to the throngs of middle-aged men and women who had lost their power and their lives. But unlike them, I had no hope of finding my magic back by practicing some laughable poses and seeking the wisdom of some hack mystic.
I climbed over the railing, heard the gasps of two women, ignored them, stared down at the frenzied white water and stepped into the void.
How easy it would have been, less than a decade ago, to call upon the mountain wind and command it to slow my descent. I didn't even try. Time slowed down, as they say it does when nearing certain death. It seemed as if I was suspended in mid air for the longest time, inches above the roaring current, detailing* the rough texture of the rocks that waited to paint their surface a bright red. After a few seconds though, it became clear that I was suspended in mid air. I looked above at the bridge, annoyed, but also relieved in a way I had not expected. The two women were shouting in panic and waved their arms at the invisible street. Those two were clearly not my saviors.
I turned to the southern bank of the river, sensing a fleeting knot of power like I used to be able to detect. It meant someone was using magic. A bald man—or woman?—sat on the polished pebbles, glaring at me openly. Their face hid no smile, nor any expression that trahir* their motivation for saving me. Then, the corner of their lips turned upward, ever so slightly, and I was suddenly released and swallowed by the ice-cold water.
I felt my buttocks scrape over the sharp rocks and I bumped my knee on a boulder when I tried to bring my feet in front of me. The strong current carried me over a few hundred yards, uncaring, its teeth biting into my skin mercilessly, its whirlpools pulling me under and keeping me there until my vision blacked out and I thought everything was over, before it finally spited me back out and allowed me to take in a long gulp of air. The furious white slowly gave way to deep emerald, the river's way of signing a truce.
My limbs sore and bleeding, I swam towards the shore and the river vomited me on a sandy bank before turning sharply toward the east.
I hiked back to the bridge, wet and cold, wanting to confront my unwanted savior. My relief was all but gone. I refused to become a dead weight for others to lift out of my misery.
The bald person still sat on the river stones, staring at the rapids as if no one had tried to jump to its death a few minutes ago. Their skin looked as smooth as the polished pebble they caressed with their spindly fingers.
"Why did you do it?" I demanded, my shadow blocking their sun**.
They turned slowly and when their eyes met mine, I suddenly felt ashamed of what I had done.
"Only a short-sighted monkey bites the hand that just fed him." I couldn't say if the voice was feminine or masculine. It was neither and both at the same time.
"And what if the monkey didn't want food in the first place?" I asked. I would show him I was able to play the riddles game too.
They laughed. "You must be from a faraway land, if you have seen monkeys who refuse food."
"I am no monkey." I turned to go.
"That, you are not. Monkeys do not jump over bridges, craving for death."
I stopped to see if they would say more, hoping they would say more. When they didn't I resumed climbing the steep bank to the streets above, but they spoke again right before I was out of earshot.
"The magic is not gone. Never gone."
My anger flared and I strode back to them, fuming. "How would you know? You know nothing about me. You have no idea how much pain I feel, constantly, how much I struggle. Every. Single. Day."
They nodded. "I do not." They got to their feet. "But the magic? It is never gone."
How would you know? I wanted to scream.
"How else would you have known it was me?"
I remembered sensing the knot of power. And I looked around the bank. We weren't alone as I had previously thought. Families crowded the opposite bank, and the streets overlooking the river were filled with merchants and passersby. Yet, I had never doubted one second the identity of my savior. I had sensed their magic. It could only mean one thing: They were right. My magic was still there, inside me.
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