The Phantastical Tale of Aster And His Red Gem

By Scott Petty

Death: the only certainty. Someone should really do something about it.

 

There seemed no escape from grief after Aster witnessed the death of his mother. Grief shadowed his every step until he discovered a talent for crafting culinary delights. The praise for his

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writeous Ink
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986535210

Scott Petty

Scott ventured into the realm of writing in the second grade, when tasked by his teacher to create a short story (complete with illustrations). This assignment birthed a love for the written word, and for story telling. There have been many attempts since. Now, Scott has transitioned from hobbyist to professional author. He was raised in Sacramento, CA. He received a bachelor's degree in communication studies with an emphasis in public relations. A position in social media marketing was his attempt to reconcile the love writing with a need to be "practical". After being laid-off, practicality was thrown aside and the dream became a goal. Scott now resides in Salt Lake City, UT, works managing a sock store and writes and improves his craft.

Book preview

1. Of elements & Aloofness

There were no stains upon the land, for the land was what it was in all times and all seasons. Perfectly attuned to exist. Mortals, on the other hand, were walking stains. Stained inside, staining outside. Like Aster, for example.

At the moment Aster reached an important, life-altering conclusion he had existed in tangible form for just over a couple of decades, if one measured time in such a fashion, and most mortal beings did. The impetus for his decision was the cascading, haunting repetition of the waves continuously brushing into the cliffs that dropped their foundations far into the water.

It was the edge of the world as Aster knew it. At the crust of a land called Thuidium Aster stood, cringing at a sound that most would have considered musical; those people knew their grief began and ended somewhere far from the unceasing swoosh of waves climbing onto rocks.

The tune rising up from below was but a noxious clamoring of grief that yanked at Aster’s attention, pulling him away from the task at hand: depositing egg shells into the compost heap. He was drawn to that spot, the last spot upon which she stood before casting herself off this very precipice. The thought that stung, like salt to the eyes.

Oren joined his son in silent reverie, one that didn’t last long. He intruded upon the melody of the sea. That was a fine breakfast you prepared. Never had eggs cooked like that. Nice of you to still stop by and make your old man a meal.

It’s not a chore. Food had never been a chore. Consuming, it, crafting it, and serving it were akin to putting a painting on display.

No, but when you spend a lot of your day cooking at the Den it just makes it special when you offer your time and talents.

Consider yourself my assayer. That way it won’t seem like a free ride.

Assayer, huh? Oren let the word hang upon the incessant tune of water colliding with rocks.

Aster put his attention upon the sun, letting his eyes reach up towards the stunning brilliance, powered by the souls of the enlightened. If the tales were true, that is.

Is she up there? Aster placed a hand against his forehead to mitigate the glare.

Oren remained attuned to the ocean. I’m sure she is. She was probably one of the most enlightened person I knew.

Even after what she did? There was a prayer in his tone—not a curse—and pleading in his eyes.

Oren stopped staring at the ocean. His eyes, the color of deep waters, went soft and crinkled at the corners. Even after all that, I don’t doubt that both Life and Death saw how bright her soul was, how full of enlightenment.

A flutter of a smile passed across Aster’s lips. Not that he sustained the expression, but there needed to be at least an attempt to let his father know he accepted the words of consolation.

The feeble attempt at a smile didn’t pass muster with Oren. You’re better served not standing here listening to this tune all day. The waves pushed against the land. The land stood resilient. I’ve done all I can to try and cure this sadness of yours. Teaching you magic helped for a while.

The expression failed to lure Aster’s attention away from the ocean’s perpetual give and take which, from atop the rocky pillars, looked like a gentle sway.

Remember the first spell you learned?

Aster sighted inaudibly, hoping to signal his disinterest in whatever point to which Oren was leading. The spray of the tide, crunching bits of sand and pebbles underfoot filled the wordless moment with meaningless sounds.

You really tried to sing that spell, Oren mused with the tune of laughter in his voice.

Didn’t cut it, did it? Aster turned slightly giving himself over to the reminiscence.

You thought magic was just for mommies and daddies.

The chuckle felt like a refreshing breeze. Aster relaxed his cheeks and let a smile trace across his lips. I mean, what can I say? As a kid you don’t see the world how it really is. I don’t know if every kid dreams of one day having powers. Aster looked into Oren’s face. He looked long, excavating past the tender blue eyes, past the deep lines possessing his forehead and the corners of his mouth. Too bad not every kid had parents who taught them that magic was within reach with just a bit of effort and study.

You may have had a slight advantage with me being magically adept and all, but you put in the work to learn the words and the rhythm, and now it’s time you did something with all those lessons. Give yourself a goal, Oren concluded.

Goal.

The word struck a chord, mightier than the churning of the sea. For a moment, goal had more texture and bulk than that one haunting word: mother. Yeah, you’re right. Aster peered into his father’s eyes as his mind clung and clawed to the word goal. I need to do something. Make something.

Oren returned Aster’s smile, one that hung loosely upon his face.

That’s what I need, isn’t it? The question poured out like it was asked by a six-year-old who had just found his way back home right before the sun finished setting.

You’ll know best what you need, Aster. Oren’s smile tightened. But if you still fancy your old man wise, I would say it’s the right direction.

Wise is how he fancied the old man. There were these moments when he faced his father and, try as he might, he couldn’t help but revert to that little boy who saw all the answers tucked back away in a maze of lines, creasing Oren’s face enough to showcase the abundance of days that have graced his visage.

The wide array of possibilities threatened Aster’s enthusiasm, as did the sound of waves incessantly crashing against the fathomless pillars. Okay, old man. Let’s hear your suggestion.

At which point Oren directed them back towards the small cabin, a dwelling which some would call humble if they were genuine. Maybe even quaint, if they were of a more condescending nature. The porch welcomed views of the sandy yard and the cliffs. Just beyond the doorway the smell of breakfast still clung to the air. The woven upholstery of Oren’s simple armchair, in shades of olives and branches, tickled Aster’s fingers as it always had. Had the room ever changed? Had the table been any longer or shorter? The very grain of each plank and beam were familiar friends, names written in letters that only Aster knew. All told, the cabin looked fixed in time, a memory that could be recalled without subjectivity, cool and as soothing as aloe upon a burn.

I’ve been absent-mindedly whittling these, Oren explained as he tossed a small satchel to Aster. Or maybe not as absent-mindedly as I thought.

Basically you were fated to create… Aster reached in and retrieved a small, wooden disk just shy of an inch in diameter, the face of which sported a textured graphic. Tokens? It was the only word that found its way out.

S’pose you could call them that, Oren said. Fated? I guess. If you believe in such things.

Aster ran his finger over the disk in his hand, brushing away the notion of some predetermined outcome. The natural texture of the wood still held sway, but had been carved away until aught but what looked like a mountain remained. The others were fashioned similarly: a flame on one, swirling clouds on another, and the last image looked like enlarged drops of water.

Ok, what’s your game? Aster dropped the wooden disk back into the bag.

I think it would make this goal of yours a bit less daunting if you, pardon the pun, had one element of it decided for you.

Element. Good one, Dad. What makes you think I need an elemental element at all?

You’ve been brought up in the Magic of Life, the songs that allow us as mortal beings to have some control over the world around us. Use it. Get lost in the everyday application of your education and see how far you can take it. The potential for magic is in everyone so you never know what some unsuspecting individual will create. Invent, discover it before some other country boy does. He sat back and waited.

And wait he must for this proposal, this plot, did not feel comfortable at first mention. Sure, Oren’s idea was sound, echoing with reason and logic. Did Aster really feel inclined to take flight from his native pain and grief, strike out on a pursuit that would leave the familiar, no matter how unpleasant?

The actually unpleasant in place of the potentially worse. Or better? That is what Oren tried to offer, was it not? A sign pointing away from the cliffs and the mournful surf.

That’s when the smile cracked, a slow unhinging of lips that had been sealed tightly together by the consternation of weighing options and philosophies. A sense of resolve stole over Aster the same way a warm air stirs the sap.

Go into the kitchen, Oren said as the smile broke upon Aster’s face. Don’t look this way until I tell you to.

The game played out. Aster heard Oren shuffle the small disks around, wood scraping against wood, then summoned Aster. They sat there in a neat little row, face-down. Pick a couple.

Why two? They taunted Aster with innumerable potential, the likes of which was almost too frightening. The selection of these tokens awoke a sense of finality.

One seems a bit too narrow a scope. Three seems too broad, Oren explained. He leaned forward on his little throne; it had always been his throne. As far back as Aster could recall Oren had occupied that very same chair. He probably noticed the trepidation worming across Aster’s face. This isn’t a threat or a consequence. Think of the two disks you select as your inspiration.

The first disk felt smooth but solid. Aster gripped it between his fingers, studying the emblem upon its face without revealing it. Oren blithely gazed on, not begging to see which token had been selected. It was as if he let Aster discover and process every step in his own way, at his own pace. The pieces were his to squeeze together; the picture was his to create.

All this talk of potential greatness was a concept that sounded enticing at first mention, but was not free from the density of responsibility. And work. The work that would proceed that shining moment. This wasn’t such a terrible activity. It was merely wood after all. Possibilities were a beautiful thing. That thought alone ignited curiosity. Relief, like invisible hands, untied all the muscles that had been knotted up by every question. From jaw to shoulders, even down to the toes that now wiggled free of doubt. Nothing in the form of crystalized ideas, but at least there was a sense of heading.

One more, came the urging from Oren.

A deep breath. A finger that bobbed as it hovered over the three remaining tokens. First, it circled the very first one. Then it loomed over the last one. Would he be better served selecting the two that had been placed next to one another? Their uncharacterized backs laid there with a rampant, almost mocking, stoicism. Oren continued in his patience—he had an admirable store of it—and leaned toward Aster, moving him to decide.

His finger landed on a token. He slid it closer and lifted it to inspect its character and absorb the impact this little image would have. Small as the carved image may have been, light though the wood felt, these were more than mere emblems, ideas and notions. The concepts reached down and struck roots where neither distraction nor criticism could wither.

Well?

Aster cleared away the unchosen tokens. He set his two down and flipped them.

Mountain.

Flame.

Earth, Oren noted. His body relaxed back into his seat and gave his own hands a quick glance. And fire. That’s a tricky mix.

A little bit. The mystery of this coupling roiled behind Aster’s eyes. He knew the potential of each element on its own—the power and passion of fire, the consistency and weight of earth—but together? How would they harmonize?

A quite passed across Oren’s face. It will be interesting to see what you’re going to create with those two.

His smile, an inspiring gesture, held a world of confidence.

Creation. A ponderous word Aster tried to balance behind his glassy stare which he held on his way out of the cabin. He even missed the sudden incline of the path and nearly planted his face into the dirt; he quickly looked back to see Oren standing motionless on the porch, watching. Aster tucked the thought away until he was back on level ground. The dirt path rolled on towards Lamiston.

The town was a collection of structures of the residential and commercial variety, looped by a wall more decorative than defensive. Buildings mingled in a miniature maze, with a handful hugging what was affectionately referred to as the town square, though there was nothing square about it; it was a rotund space, to match the rotund layout of the hamlet. Most of the walls were made from materials that shown white: sand, crushed shells, all mixed into a paste that dried taught and tough.

Aster ducked into the Hart’s Den, the primer watering hole in little Lamiston. The only watering hole, in fact. No human settlement could qualify as civilized without the presence of such a place. The Hart’s Den, where the social of Lamiston congealed to revel in the mundane, speaking of the trivial as if it were fantastical.

The flow of conversation sat about the tables and chairs undulating in its usual rhythm. All the sounds muffled into a sort of fog as Aster entered the kitchen, third in line of places where he invested most of his time; home and Oren’s took the top two spots, respectively. Back here though there was that same sense of sanctuary.

The fires burned intensely. Not forge-intense, but crusting bread intense. Melting the cheese intense. The air tingled with aromas that practically tasted, as if a bite could be taken out of the air. Was there a need to actually eat when the scents were so bold?

Hardly.

Aster danced about mixing this, kneading that; he flayed. He seared. Each time he sent a plate out, the sounds that snuck back into this little oasis were merrier and merrier. The cheers were enlivening. Yet, they didn’t stick as much as they used to. They evaporated, no longer caramelizing.

For a moment, the dance stopped and the kitchen waited in silence; waited for orders for more culinary art to spring from pot and pan. The heat from the stove fires drove sweat from every pore. Lately, delving into the culinary arts didn’t take Aster far enough away from the memory of her death, from the bemoaning tide. Her ghost followed him down his escape route, into the kitchen, molding and souring the fragrance of herb and spice.

It was time to put on a brave face—the face of one soaking in passion for food—and slink away from the stove to see what the crowd thought of their meals. Not that everyone in the Den came to eat, but a good deal ordered fodder with their libations.

The kitchen door swung open and Aster took a gander at the mass of patrons. A hail of cheers greeted him as he surveyed the tables. The closest bore empty plates and a heap of resounding praise to heap for the cook.

Practically melted in me mouth, said the stodgy fellow who ran the local stables as he foraged crumbs of bread from his beard.

His mate let loose similar praise. The tenderness of ripe meat, the crunch of sweet vegetables. The words infused themselves into Aster’s mind. He let them; didn’t question their authenticity.

Aster drifted to a final table which still bore signs of a meal. I just wanted to see how you’re enjoying the food?

You know I’m a fan, Aster, the local surgeon began. Your creations delight. I was just wondering, is there any way to spruce up the flavor a bit?

Uh, what do you mean Sereona? Aster wrapped his arms around his own body as he braced for a bit of criticism. His eyes darted down towards her plate and quickly scanned her food. It had a generous amount missing so it must not have been that bad. All the elements were there: meat a tad rare, vegetables glistened with trace amounts of fat, salt sparkled like stars. What was the matter here?

It doesn’t taste bad, she hastily added. I just sometimes have a yearning for something to surprise my mouth. Maybe give my tongue a kick.

With a solemn apology, Aster vacated the tavern floor and retreated back to his kitchen. Yes, it was his. Not Twiggy’s, who owned the whole establishment. Before he stepped into this kitchen, years ago, it sat cold and dusty. Aster fed it life, filled with warmth and the delightful aroma that still hung in the air even though the cooking had stopped for the night.

Then why did the last review sting so much?

Aster leaned into the counter and scanned his dried herbs. He marveled at all he had collected. Still, they weren’t enough for absolute praise?

2. Of Complex Magic &Water

‘A kick’. The phrase echoed in Aster’s mind. He wanted to reach in, yank it out, and stomp it into powder. Maybe he could sprinkle that on a dish.

The realization snapped Aster to attention. Kick. Fire. Earth. He fled the kitchen. Cut through the mash of calls and laughter and made a clean escape from the Den. The cool night air breezed by him whipping up this idea into a stiff peak.

The night could not pass quick enough. What hours remained until the break of day would be filled with the gathering of books of lore and learning from off a shelf. Aster hauled them out into the open and combed their combined knowledge, looking for the key words. They vaulted off the page, words like heat, furnace, soil, and structure. Such words, simple in and of themselves, sent Aster soaring and chased away all thoughts of sleep. He weighed the new information against spells he had already learned, considering how best to leverage each in this pursuit.

All the cogitation and research—searching inside and out—was the goal Oren mentioned, the usefulness that would lead his mind away from those haunted cliffs.

Lamiston’s round town square vibrated with the calls and chatter of bartering. Priula guarded her bushels of leafy green vegetables more fiercely than a mother-hawk, all while squeezing every possible mint from Vetch, who seemed to think she was being too protective.

Aster breezed by the exchange glancing over at Durian and his woven stuff, blankets and shirts of captivating make. Aster smiled at the homely man. No time for shopping. Aster gently secured his hand around the precious cargo, wrapped in moist burlap cloth. Ahead was Oren and his skins of water weighed down by whatever contingent of mussels he managed to scrape off the rocks that morning.

That’s a giddy stride you have, he called as Aster approached.

How was the harvest?

Just cut the small talk. You aren’t here to check on my stock. What’s going on with you?

Now that his father had given him approval to dispense with the mundane pleasantries—harvests and weather...all so functional—Aster had to keep from flexing his excited muscles; he didn’t want to crush the prize before it had been declared.

The time to declare was now.

Aster unrolled his fingers. Upon his palm, atop the moisten burlap, sat two conical shapes colored in a swirling blend of orange, red, and brown.

Oren examined the offering before slowly lifting one from Aster’s hand. They fruit or something?

Yeah, Aster said, assuring himself as much as Oren. When I’ve got them perfected and figure out how to actually give them seeds, Aster finished rather lamely as he bit at his thumbnail.

Oren gave the tender fruit a gentle pinch. And this is where you arrived with fire and earth? He squinted, eyeing the creation as his lips shifted this way and that.

The skepticism Oren laid down upon the offering squelched Aster’s pride, which had been stirring just out of sight. Instead, the corners of his mouth folded in quickly.

A chuckle escaped Oren, gruff sounds that shook the air between the two men. I should not be surprised that your mind went right to food. He clasped a firm, fatherly hand upon Aster’s shoulder. Glad to see you applying all that magical instruction to something you love. Now, tell me what I’m in for. Oren dangled the novel bit of fruit before his eyes.

The words were a crank spurring Aster’s mind into a passionate whirl. The other night I served up what I thought was a perfect dish. Had the meat cooking for hours, seasoned with fresh herbs. Flawless, right? And the person goes: would be nice if it was flavored with a kick. There was no need to fill in the rest of the events, the moments of mental illumination. Oren understood.

He chuckled again as he wrapped an arm around Aster’s shoulders, drawing them closer together. Let’s have it, Aster. There’s no idea or thought that you have that will sound ridiculous to me.

Oren’s voice had enough assurance to shoo away the insecurities buzzing about this creation, vultures waiting for a peck at the dead, or dying, idea. Try it, Dad.

Oren withdrew and put the fruit to his nose, inhaling deeply to pry from it a hint at what would meet his taste buds. No such luck, so he dared to bite into this foreign food-thing. The skin broke, breached by teeth.

He chewed and for a moment it looked as though he were consuming another failed attempt. This was the fifth incarnation, but the first Aster had ever shared with another soul. It obviously wasn’t a scolding mess—unlike that first round, the memory of which sent shivers down Aster’s own tongue—but it was perhaps too bland, too heatless, from the lack of expression on Oren’s face as he finished the one bite he had taken. Then came the sign, one that eased Aster’s mind: Oren swallowed his bite and in no time his mouth elongated into an exaggerated O-shape.

He didn’t expel it from his mouth, a promising turn for this version of the fruit. After some rapid breathing to usher in cooler air, Oren said, I think I get what you mean about heat. Well done kiddo.

That good? Aster sniffed at his own sample before bitting.

In that bite was his answer: yes, that good. The oily juice leaked and rolled back toward his throat, the impact of which released a swell of heat. Not without a chorus of flavor. First a precursor playing at the taste buds like tendrils of smoke escaping a campfire quickly chased by a phantom sweetness, the subdued sweetness of an apple or a peach.

Aster alternated between smiling and wafting out the burn. That’s not bad, he wheezed. Pretty obvious that fire is present. I think that’s what I’ll call it. Fire Fruit.

Aptly named. Not that there’s so much heat. Flavor comes through. Since they don’t have seeds are you just going to churn out these Fire Fruits individually on request?

No, Aster replied. Preposterous idea, trying to create one fruit at a time. Did Oren believe that this was for amusement? Bringing an entirely new variety of edible plant into the world just for the sake of doing it? His brow furrowed, as if weighing the various possible ways to respond. His heart was in this and he wanted—no, needed—Oren to understand this went beyond amusement. This isn’t a trick, Dad.

Then what is it?

The market bustled around them, but in that moment the streaks of people crissing and crossing faded; the sounds of their chatting dulled. All that was left was the sound of the ocean nudging up against rocky cliffs.

It’s a creation, Aster said.

The wry smile Oren displayed meant he seemed to discern what his son thought, felt, even though but three words had been spoken. He bowed his head for a moment. He may have been worried about his son’s state, silently taking inventory of all the times he could have done better by the boy; a father alone bears a world unto himself.

The market played on. The buyers bought. The sellers sold. The town was alive and Aster wished to feel that way, more intimately. It was then that a word popped into Aster’s mind, a word he had heard spoken by someone. Maybe he read it while studying some other matter. Martese, Aster declared.

Which declaration pulled Oren right out of whatever thought on which he’d been stewing. Say again?

That’s what it’s called, right, when you bond with a particular element?

Oren offered a tentative nod.

I’ve researched until I’ve gone cross-eyed. Papercuts from all the pages I’ve turned. I’ve ached from all the experimenting. The way I see it, if I can bond with earth then I’ll be in the right state to make this plant fruitful. The rite of the Martese is what makes that happen. Aster’s eyes fixed on his father, as if waiting for approval. And like all the other times, you’ll be there to help guide me through it?

Oren’s lips tightened as he led Aster away from the square and towards the Hart’s Den. A low swell of voices rolled through the great room as they entered. Lamps flickered here and there. Wooden chairs grumbled against the wooden floor.

Whatcha serving up today, mate? Came a random call as Aster and Oren maneuvered through the tavern.

Not a thing, Clay. I’m just a regular patron at the moment.

Glasses raised in honor of empty plates as Aster and Oren skirted all the noise to hold congress in a booth as far away as possible from the main body of the tavern.

A unique bit of magic, the Martese. Oren mused before he gulped down the last bit of his beverage. He sighed, releasing the pungent tang of fermentation all over the enclosed seating. Haven’t a clue what the words are, what implements are needed. Are you sure you need to go through it? There are other ways, other spells—

Ones that give life? Aster cut in abruptly. I’m sure this is the best way forward, Dad. From Aster’s experience, the Martese was a ritual much discussed but hardly practiced, not among the average practitioner, at least.

All around them the noises of the tavern mounted into a jovial cacophony. Aster leaned in toward the table. Who else do you have in your inventory of powerful friends and associates?

Oren knocked his small glass receptacle against the table, hammering out his hesitation. Since you’re so fixated—

Dad, I’m not fixated. This is just what I need. You always told me that it’s the healthiest thing in the world, for a person to have a goal. The best, truest form of validation is accomplishment. Your words.

I believe that is what I tried to teach you.

You regret hammering that lesson into my head?

Oren scratched his chin. Not so much as regret it, no. I just wonder if it was the only lesson I should have taught you.

The chatter washed over them, words that had been mashed together into indecipherable tunes. All the tiny noises joined in together to compose a background scene.

Oren’s eyes bore down, shifting like he searched for a specific word on a cluttered page. His lips went narrow, hanging in a slight frown as he assessed what he saw. Aster lowered his cup of water and waited for some pronouncement of wisdom. Instead, Oren patted Aster’s hand. I just hope I didn’t mess you up.

No, Dad. You didn’t. I’m just glad you’re at least still around helping me. The gap in their conversation was flooded with more dun. I’m not too old to still have your help, so is there anyone else you know who is familiar with the rite of the Martese?

Oren’s focus retreated into his small cup. His eyes dulled as his glance swam in an empty receptacle, no longer reading or searching. One hand slipped away from the earthen mug. Since there wasn’t more drink in which to hide: There is. Well, there was. This person I knew years ago.

Oh? Let’s hear it.

The request, applied with as causal, bordering on inquisitive, tone as possible must have rocked Oren for his brow tightened and lips faded. There’s another way. Find some patience, boy.

Boy? The label stung. He hadn’t used it since years ago. It was a smack on the head without the touch. It was a leather belt released and folded. Even though Aster was in his second decade of living, it still stung more than both.

Oren’s mouth opened and then closed. Look, Aster, just let me find someone I can trust to help you, ok? He made to pat Aster’s hand, but knocked his little cup against the table one more time before abandoning the booth and their conversation.

Aster would try to heed Oren’s council and wait for the right mentor. That didn’t mean that he had to be unproductive. This was an opportune time to dig that well, a task that had been on his list of intentions for some time.

Wait. Patience. Cumbersome words. Pixee had to notice his meandering gait as they walked the mile or so past the wall of Lamiston proper. He stood at the bottom of the small hill that rolled up to his own front door.

She stood there with her head barely meeting at the height of Aster’s shoulder. Though, to be fair, Aster was a bit taller than the average fella. Why did you dye it that color? she asked, extracting the very thought from Aster’s mind.

The red door seemed like a good idea at the time, when he and Oren had built the place. It now looked obnoxious, like some sort of unearned luxury. Aster shrugged back at Pixee.

His house wasn’t large. Nor was it a hovel. It sat on a plot of uncultivated land. Short, coarse turf to the front and wild grasses and shrubs at the back. He had managed to clear away enough vegetation behind the house, giving him a band of just dirt right outside the back door.

Why am I looking at your patch of dirt, then? She crossed her arms over her chest and stared up at Aster.

I wanted to check and see if there was a water source, he said to her, explaining the purpose of her presence.

Under a waning afternoon, Aster knelt against the dry dirt. There would be plenty of sunlight left even as summer petered out and the days didn’t linger as long.

She joined him. And you don’t know how to do this?

Nah, not something I ever learned.

Most spells, from what Aster understood of magic, were simple enough to learn; if a person knew the right arrangement of words to chant, they could connect their intention to the energy that flowed through all the elements, elements derived from the essence of the Universe itself. Or so the tales told. The tales technically mentioned singing to the energy of each element, but that wasn’t a specific talent held by every human.

Not in a meaningful way.

Sure, every human voice could squawk out sounds. To make them harmonious, efficacious, with feeling and appeal? Therein lay the distinction. Fortunately, the