Klair barely kept his rage in check as he ran from the town. Only after the city markers did he sweep an arm before him and with a curse downed a huge pine. The great trunk shattered under the force of his magic and splinters went flying.

Its companion met a similar fate. His stomach rumbled and he ignored it.

He ran into the forest that neighbored the road marking his path with debris. Bigger trees shattered and large stones went flying. The air filled with havoc as birds and creatures fled from the tirade. He continued running, crying so hard he couldn’t see. A pounding in his head rattled his thoughts and blackness tugged at his mind but he pushed himself on. He paused briefly and threw up twice.

He started running again as branches tore at his arms and legs and was reciprocated in kind.

When a small pine made the mistake of being in his way, he gouged the earth with a slap of his hand uprooting the tree totally. His scalp buzzed and he let the irritation fuel his wrath. Fighting the looming unconsciousness, he suddenly stopped within a small and beautiful grove within a high concentration of trees. Very methodically, he slammed his palm toward each tree encircling him. Through a succession of rotations he downed them making the circle wider and wider around him. He bent over but only had dry heaves now.

Klair dropped to his knees and with a mighty slap, hit the earth. The ground buckled so fiercely he toppled over and several more trees tumbled.

He yelled up at the sky as he grabbed his hair and began yanking. Strands went flying and he scratched so hard he scalp and fingers bled. He bellowed, frantically looking for a new target. A bird screeched in fright and was so loud to Klair’s enhanced hearing he gripped his ears with bloodied hands. He fell to the ground sobbing as dirt caked his wet face. He gripped a collection of twigs so tightly they broke apart. Klair forced himself to stand but couldn’t see and he began to stumble. Certainly he had enough fury to fuel—Fight it! Fight! He crumpled to the earth as unconsciousness finally claimed him.

It was late afternoon when he woke. He was a mess and his head throbbed when he tried to move and his body shook with fever. This happens nearly every time you use too much… but I shouldn’t have to pass out each time, he complained. Useless, stupid, magic!

Getting up, Klair stumbled forward, forcing himself to ignore the shakes and fever as he took turns between running and walking, moving further and further away from Merrsain and throwing a succession of magical blows to shatter more trees. Dry heaves were much more painful than the alternative but his anger was not satisfied. Let the magic kill him for all he cared. He intended to appease his fury without further unconsciousness to get in the way. Build up my endurance mother? See my endurance!  For the most part he traveled in the denser parts of unoccupied forest to release his anger fully. When hunger pinched his belly he regretted not taking one of the parcels of supplies.

It was on the dusty paths of the deep woods, while he was searching for edible roots that he reached deep into a crevice and was bitten. “Sands,” Klair murmured, twisting his hand to shake off the sting and the result was a spit of swirling dust rising from the ground. He leaned back rubbing grit from his eyes. Did he just create a dust devil? His second try was intentional as he twisted his hand abruptly. The third dust devil was a good six steps in length and carried small twigs and dust. When it slammed into him, it coated his entire frame with dirt. Where was that fancy trick when I needed it against Trenny, he scolded himself.

The day’s tirade was not as intense as before and only determined pigheadedness spurred him on. Only hours later did he crumple to the earth in exhaustion.

Rage consumed him in the days that followed as he sought out any target. He narrowed his focus by spouts of concentration. His targets became fellow travelers along the road. Pebbles were placed precariously under a foot tripping more than one man. Off the trails he found and occasional homestead that acquired mysterious holes in their storage sheds with the contents of their wares spilled out to the elements. Klair only had to concentrate to make certain tasks reality and would walk deeper into the woods to pass out and wake up later to continue the tirade. At some homesteads, he would skip entirely and later in the day find fences to destroy and the feet of livestock stuck in the mud formed so hard, farmers and ranchers would have to get picks to dig them out. Streams were clogged by large stones redirecting their paths.

Most of the damage was in the dense forest with majestic trees shattered to kindling and an occasional homestead.

Waking up from the latest moment of unconsciousness Klair remained sprawled on the ground staring up into the sky. He played the gathering at the assembly hall in his mind. He wished he could recall individual faces but couldn’t remember details. “Ban both,” came to mind. Even Loginna rejects me and I thought we might eventually get together. She was just pretend only interested in me bedding her. Glad she never got what she wanted.

Maken, the man whom he most feared, was the most fair of all.

It took a six-day to travel from Shersheek province to Koova the capital of Terrang province. It took longer because of the sickness caused by high magic but each spout of magic lengthened the time between the magic and the payment for using it. In the spawn’s wake, fourteen homes became the dubious recipients of his anger. They experienced a series of toppled water bins, damaged fences or walls, and compromised irrigation systems.

The constant illness of the last few days of magic made it hard to keep anything down when he tried to eat. His mother taught him how to harvest from the woods but if he got any weaker, he wouldn’t have the energy. Being physically weak also brought a familiar depression. Klair continued to force his magic, finding it harder to crest his emotions to a sufficient level to fuel it. Ironically in his fury he learned more control in order to hit an intended target. After the day’s havoc, he’d lie in the dirt, panting in fever scratching at the welts on his scalp and rubbing his bloodied hair against the ground. Headaches became his constant companion.

The pain behind his eyes was so intense he would often end up in fetal position, whimpering. His growing sense of sight, hearing, touch,—increased as well and didn’t dissipate. Day and night he stayed awake from the constant sensory overload. The normal quiet of a mouse scampering amongst leaves became a storm of sound.

He staggered on a road now and the bouts of unconsciousness became his only rest. He once slept in the rain and woke up coughing and sniffling, his whole body shaking with the shivers.

Only after several days did the rage within him seep away. He woke to one chilly morning to look about him in complete calm until guilt blossomed within him. I did exactly what the people feared, he told himself. You’re as bad as the crazed wizards rumored to still wander around Hurric pass. See what you’ve done? He looked up into the canopied sky as he blinked at the water pooling in his eyes. You deserve to be banned from everywhere. You should be killed… How much did he destroy in his fury—proving him capable of Kapawn treachery?

You’re worse than the Seiun. They want to enslave everyone you just destroy people’s livelihood for no reason. You hurt your own land and your own people. Better to stop yourself now before you become a full monster. He patted around the tops of his boots. Tarrant taught him it was always useful to have a dagger in his boot for all kinds of uses. It helped harvest roots from the ground and now useful for slicing wrists, Klair thought. Shards! It was gone, sometime during yesterday’s rage. Now you’ve lost everything. A deepening depression settled upon him.

Alone. So alone.

He sat up and rocked while sitting on the ground, wishing the thundering pain in his head would dissipate.

I don’t know any of the people who I just hurt. The rages came so easily, his mother and Tarrant seemed to be the only ones who could constantly calm him. He clenched his mouth tight against the sob that threatened even as shame enveloped him.

He yelled at the world, slamming his fists against his legs and arms. Klair’s gaze settled on a large stone resting against a pine. Attention riveted, he lifted it up and it wobbled under his fleeing power. Move it closer, land on me, crush me. The stone was only a few steps from him. It’ll be the end—

Suddenly drained of all energy, Klair passed out and the stone dropped to the earth, just short of his head.

On the afternoon of the fifth day, Klair crossed a tilled field occupied by a series of plants including hop cones. Klair chewed on a wild carrot with one hand and held an onion with the other. The bright spring weather shined warmly upon him. The seed pods lining one furrow waved in the afternoon breeze. He staggered to a stop and dropped to the dusty earth.

The crop of Hop was still a distance away from him.

*****

He woke only a few hours ago, so why be so tired now? I need more sleep. Twice he used high magic to force himself to unconsciousness just to sleep against the enhanced hearing and smell. He never realized the forest to be so full of wild life until he could hear all of them, intent upon their unique tasks all at once. Klair wasn’t certain to what range his senses extended. How do wizards stand it? He wondered.

Klair heard of a wizard’s razor thin temper—now I know why.

His head buzzed and he leaned down in the furrow. “Nice warm sun,” he murmured and a good reason for traveling south rather than west to the nation of Blade. The continent held three nations; Anvil to the north, Fist to the southwest and the country of Blade to the southeast. Since the war between Anvil and Fist; Blade broke all communication with the warring nations. I suspect they wouldn’t even let me in through their borders.

The sudden sleepiness wasn’t natural. He looked around him. The Hop pods were in bloom. The air was slightly clouded from the concentrations of pollens.  Their fragrance… Mother uses them to help people sleep but I’m still far way they shouldn’t—

He forced himself to stand, lurching away. His smell so precise by their very presence… I’ve got to get out of here. Head nodding he pressed on, until he found a road and with a change of breeze. The buzzing in his head stopped and his head finally became clear again. No more headaches, he hoped.

*****

Only upon entering the city of Koova, crowded with people, did Klair permit true depression to settle about him.

I’m an outcast and with the damage I’ve done, I deserve to be banned.

Observers would see him as a wanderer, hair stringy about his face and shoulders as he walked the streets with no apparent destination. One of the village beggars rested a hand on his arm. “Have you come from an infected city?” the man whispered.

Klair wanted to ignore him. But any human contact was… “I’m from Merrsain.”

“Has it been hit?” He knew what the man was asking. He wouldn’t have, had he not seen Maken’s map and notes. The beggar wanted to know if Klair noticed any unexplained problems. We have ten missing hunters, he thought. Merrsain sent out a second party to investigate two six-days ago and Klair’s mother turned down his pleas to accompany them.

Ironic that a beggar new more of the challenges facing the entire nation than most the populace.

“Not yet,” Klair answered. How many know about what’s going on? On our leaders and we rift raft. Maybe since they were located on the outskirts of the continent closest to Monta Mountains they were some of the last to know of events occurring from the interior of the land.  

The stranger reached in a dirty bag, pulled out a dry half loaf of bread. He broke off a third and pressed it into Klair’s dirty hands. “Be safe,” the man murmured.

You don’t even know me yet you share your food—

“You too. Th-thank you.” Klair’s gaze followed him as the other lost himself amongst the crowd. He looked down at the first normal food he’d had for a six-day. Now a generous beggar sustained him.

I never asked him, where he was from. He held the bread close, warmed by the other’s compassion. The cold rain, two days ago washed much of the mud away from his rescue of the child at the canal. Save the child and I’m the one to pay the price, he thought. Klair pulled a hand through his disheveled hair which was splotched in various shades of brown and red from the last dying session. He sat against a wall and devoured the bread then rested a little before heading down the main street.  He looked about for the beggar thinking, I should ask him what he knows. The man was nowhere to be found.

On a second story of a nearby building, a homeowner draped colorful flags from her windows. Small siren whistles tied at the ends of the flags, acting as weights, caught the slight breeze and began a musical shrill. Their music sounded like an army of shrieking sirens. Klair wanted to yell, irritated, he raised his hand to.

NO! No. Stop attacking. These people didn’t ban you. He covered his ears hurrying further down the crowded street. I hate market day.

Koova’s village square was much larger than Merrsain’s. Some of the carts positioned around the rim no longer bore wheels but looked permanently implanted into the hard soil. Klair remembered last fall when a spice wagon arrived his village from Koova. His mother said the city’s chief export were spices and lumber and Barron, an herb which enabled all working Kindred women to avoid pregnancy while practicing their occupa­tion. No one ever bore a child while taking it with one exception: Klair.

What herb could prove stronger than a Kapawn wizard? The village of his conception would have executed her, had his mother not shown gave clear evidence of routinely taking Barron. It was a monthly ritual attended by the village elders and Kindred’s employers. Her pregnancy was blamed on a bad batch of the herb. She was banned. Had it not been for the mercy of the other Kindred letting her stay from place to place she may have starved. A midwife of the city who attended upon the Sheets agreed to let Norah be mentored as her assistant. Norah pursued her new occupation with a passion.

Klair shuffled down Koova’s rutted street, his feet through the rising dust. What did he care of his appearance now?

As he entered the market square, he heard an oath behind him and looked back. An old woman was struggling to lift a heavy parcel from the back of her wagon. The weathered wagon with bark peeling from the sides was loaded with similar sized bags and pots. The scents permeating from the wagon identified their content as all kinds of herbs. If the old woman can’t lift the big bags she should make them small. He continued to watch her labor as she held a parcel close to her chest as she lifted it from the wagon to carry it to a booth several feet away.

She should park the wagon closer so she doesn’t have to walk so far. He shook his head. He suddenly smelled the aroma of scent wood and smiled, thinking of his mother. The scene before him took on a new twist. What if this was my mother in her older years?

The woman returned to the wagon for a new parcel.

He stepped toward her, hearing himself asking. “Matron, may I help you?”

She looked up aged eyes widening at his intrusion, used to being ignored when labor needed to be done.  Klair stopped his advance, sensing her worry. He gentled his voice, extending a hand, “Matron, May I help you unload your wagon?”

“At what cost?” she countered.

Klair shook his head. “At no cost… for… for my mother’s honor, Matron.”

She stared at him and after a moment smiled, her gaze taking in his disheveled form. Her bleached hair combed back and braided in long strands. Her dress hung on her thin frame. “Come on then.”

Klair was soon by her side and gently took the parcel from her arms. She nodded to his act, head wobbly.

“Call me Gram, boy. Ya got some muscles on ya so apparently you’ve worked before.” She patted the old wagon. “Help me safely move my pods over there,” her wrinkled hand pointed to a series of shelves a dozen steps away, “and I’ll buy your breakfast.” She squint­ed at him. “Can you work boy?”

“I can work.”

Again the cackle. “Then get on with it.”

Klair carried the bag to the stall, pinching his noise from the smell of the parcel when he rested it on a table. “What’s the stench?”

“I sell herbs. What you smell? Garlic boy, garlic. It may stink as sin but nothing better to spice up the cooking.”

Two days ago was the last time he used magic so he felt a slight lessening of the sensory overload. I might be able to sleep tonight. It took over a span to transfer the bags and bowls of the white-balled herb and other seasonings to their new destination. Granny con­tributed a great deal of scolding to ensure the items were lined up just right on the shelves. Curiously, he felt a series of strange sensations as he handled the individual pots. Was he having an allergic reaction to herbs? One made him feel sleepy, another seemed to slow his movements, and a third gave him renewed strength. Why would they affect him so? They looked and smelled like normal herbs. It made him think of the hop pods from yesterday. Are all herbs going to bother me now? Could I have slept to death, he wondered. At that moment, that thought didn’t sound like too bad of a possibility.

“When we gonna eat,” Klair asked, his diction falling easily to match the old woman’s.

She merely cackled, a sharp pitter-patter on his ears, “When the chores are done.” She pointed a wrinkled finger toward to the wagon, “sweep up the wagon and put it all in this bag.” She threw him a weathered cloth sack; the bottom end tied in a big knot.

Klair began untying the knot.

The women yanked the bag away. “What ya doing? Keep the bag as is, as is.”

Klair nodded, yanked the bag back and headed for the wagon.

Granny’s laughter followed him. “Catch on pretty good, boy,” she said.

Klair used a worn hay broom to sweep the wagon coughing from the dust by the time he finished. He felt suddenly sleepy which was quickly replaced with a surge of energy. They were similar sensations he felt in the hoppy field but to a smaller degree. Hopefully, it was just the weariness from six days of travel that made him more vulnerable to the effects of herbs?

Granny rearranged all the bottles and bags and the assort­ment made a pleasant display. She threw him a copper. “Eat well boy. Be here after market and maybe you can earn your supper.”

Klair took the copper and grinned.

She’s pretty gutsy to trust him like that. As he left her as she started yelling out the price of her wares, her voice mixing with those of her neighbors. Her tone was a little more chipper which he suspected may have been aided by him helping her.

Klair explored his options before buying his breakfast. He didn’t know when he’d earn money again and though the frying Kidder smelled irresistible, he opted for bread. A copper would give him two days’ worth.  Music filled the square from the center stage positioned on the far corner of the clearing. While he sat under one of the center’s shade trees he noticed the performers. Someone had transformed a wagon into a stage.

With the enhanced sight, it was easy to watch the performance from the comfort of the shade of the east buildings. Behind the performers stood a tall, thin man with a thick beard hung down his chest. The beard was braided, intertwined with green willows.

Klair stared. He never seen a beard so long and decorated. The merchant wove some kind of slick mat. Strangely, he didn’t call out as loudly as some of his companions, but there were people standing at his wagon looking at his mats. Curious, Klair stood up from the wall and approached the merchant.

He handled the slick willowy mat. It was pliable to the touch but plain. He looked up at the merchant who studied him. “What is their purpose?” Klair asked.

The man studied him only briefly. “You use these mats in place of the twined rushes to sit or sleep on.”

Klair pressed the pliable tubing between his long fingers.

The man thumbed a very thin mat draped against his leg. “These are best for floors to block the cold. Some have even said their homes are warmer because of them.”

“And smellier in summer,” Klair countered.

“Take them out and put in fresh summer mats,” the man countered with a grin. “Are you trying to appren­tice?”

Klair paused. He hadn’t thought to make such request, but quick scrutiny showed the man to be alone. “You have no children?”

The man looked to the ground and spat upon it. “Both of my sons died in the Kapawn/Seiun wars sixteen years ago.”

Klair added his spit.

The other grunted in appreciation and extended a hand of friendship of Klair. “Name’s Nallock.”

“Klair,” they briefly touched the backs of their palms together.

“I have no son to offer my business. My daughter has already married. I will employ you for a six-day.”

“I don’t know if I want to be a mat maker,” Klair admitted.

The weaver nodded. “You’re honest.” He looked at the pile of willows resting on the bed of his wagon. “It’s high season. You look like you need money and I need a second pair of hands, even if only for a six-day.”

Klair nodded, his mood lightening for the first time since leave Merrsain. He likes to talk, that means I won’t have to. He seems nice enough. He pressed his fist against the wood plating of the wagon. He offered two short knocks with his knuckles. “Done,” he said

Nallock placed his fist near Klair’s and gave two additional knocks confirming the contract: “Done.”

Could this be my new home? Klair wondered.