Once he had finished his eggs and the loaf, Cyrus followed Sylven upstairs, and through the dark archway across from his room. A long corridor sat beyond the stone, with a dim light illuminating the end. As they grew closer, Cyrus's eyes widened in disbelief.
The corridor opened into a large stone hall, with a steepled roof, and a great circular glass window. Outside, the city of Galeden bustled beneath the clear blue sky. The sunlight streaming through the glass revealed a series of strange scorch marks, piles of ash, and warped statues that resembled molten waterfalls, scattered throughout the room. A pile of broken crates and empty barrels sat beside the door, the wood twisted and glistening.
'What happened in here?' Cyrus wondered, carefully stepping around a basin filled with bubbling black water. A puff of steam rose from the surface, yet there was no fire to heat it.
As he scanned the room, the statue of a beautiful nude woman caught his eye, her sleek skin covered by a layer of frost. Despite the warmth of the room, shards of ice encased from her legs and feet, and a veil of mist rolled from the crystals.
'That's odd… I wonder how the magic keeps it so cold?' Cyrus thought. He hesitantly approached the statue, and drew his hand through the mist. Particles of ice clung to his skin as goosebumps ran up his arm.
"You'd be wise to leave that alone. Unless, of course, you wish to lose your fingers to frostbite," Myrel warned. He stood at a desk set within an alcove, lined with vials and jars. "It's a spell I cast three months ago, and I still have yet to figure out a way to disperse it."
Cyrus moved a few steps back, and wiped his fingers off on his trousers. "Is it really that dangerous?"
"More than you might think," Myrel said, rummaging through the bottles. He twisted open a jar, and sniffed its contents with a frown. "Most magic is. That particular spell I discovered while translating a scroll from the kingdom of Ildrain, and it nearly killed me to cast it. Fortunately, I had Sylven here, and he pulled me back in time."
"Though I nearly lost my arm in the process," Sylven said, strolling silently across the room. Cyrus frowned. The young man walked with unnatural grace.
"Say, do you know what I did with the vial of ildrium seeds?" Myrel asked. "I can't find them."
"They're to your left," Sylven said. He reached over Myrel's shoulder, and picked up a small glass bottle filled with brown bead-like seeds. "Apologies. I reorganized your shelves after you summoned a whirlwind in here."
"Did you? Well, I suppose it does look better," Myrel said. He made his way to the center of the room, his large form outlined by the sunlight. The floor rippled as he raised his scarred hand, waving it through the air. "Wriese steone."
Cyrus stumbled back as the floor shook beneath him. From the center of the room, a circular slab rose, grating to a stop at Myrel's hip. The old man grinned as he set down the vial and his books.
"A bit surprising to see, isn't it?" Myrel asked.
"That's a bit of an understatement," Cyrus said. As the room stopped shaking, he studied the floor, now noticing a spider web of lines, evenly spaced. "Do all of the tiles move?"
"If we need them to," Sylven said. He sat against the table. "The walls move too, allowing us to experiment with different spells. It's come in handy a number of times."
"Does anything ever go wrong?"
Sylven chucked. "Of course. I once fell into a pit six meters deep, because we forgot to put the floor back. I nearly broke my arm trying to catch myself
"Yes, it was quite the lesson for both of us," Myrel said. He unhooked his cloak, and draped it over the table, then gestured towards Cyrus. "Come here. I want to show you something."
As Cyrus approached the table, Myrel popped the cork off the vial, and dropped two seeds onto the table. They were covered in coarse brown bristles, and emitted a pungent aroma. After separating the seeds from one another, he glanced at Cyrus.
"The first thing you need to learn about magic is how to control it. That begins with calling forth the aether, and more importantly, cutting it off. Spells help with that, creating an order for the magic to follow. Eisren Ilvine."
The air beneath Myrel's hand rippled as the seed trembled, then sprouted roots, and a thin green stalk, which grew a few centimeters before slowing to a stop. Cyrus leaned against the stone, the rough grains digging into his palms.
Beside him, Myrel pulled back his hand, the wrinkles under his eyes deepening. "There. It's a simple spell, which calls the seeds aether forth to help it grow. Would you care to try it for yourself?"
Cyrus glanced at the second seed, and took a deep breath. "I suppose just trying it wouldn't hurt anything. What do I need to do?"
Myrel's grey eyes swirled. "Calm your breathing, and search your mind. You should feel something similar to a candle's flame, flickering within the depths of your thoughts. It'll be faint at first, so you might need to search for it."
"It helps if you close your eyes," Sylven said. He walked around the table. "It helps me to focus."
"Heh. Right, focus…" Cyrus tentatively held his hand over the second seed. His heart hammered in his chest, loud enough for him to hear as he closed his eyes, searching his mind for the spark of aether.
"Eisren Ilvine."
A hush fell over the room as both Myrel and Sylven held their breath, watching closely. Cyrus peeked open an eye, waiting for something to happen. A second passed, then another, and yet still no movement. As a minute slipped by, Cyrus frowned, and glanced at Myrel.
"Did I say the words wrong?"