Tales of Vyscher Book 1

Prologue

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A/N - I hate having to do this, but since NovelHD has already started to pirate some of my books, here we go. These works are mine. My poor little brain came up with the plots and characters, and I'd really prefer you to not steal them. If you're reading this on a site that is NOT Wattpad then it is most certainly stolen.

Thanks!

Loiosh

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The young boy sat at an old wooden table staring at the wick on the candle, his silver eyes narrowed in concentration. He muttered the words that the elderly mage had taught him, and then moved his hands through the air in the prescribed patterns, scattering the pinched sulfur as he did so. The wick stared defiantly back at him, evidently unmoved by his attempt to incinerate it. His head was throbbing with the stress of concentrating at something he obviously wasn't good at. His sigh of frustration would have blown out the wick even had he lit it.

Across the room, a young girl of identical age was moving her hands through different patterns, as small sheets of purple flames shot out of her fingertips, alighting several candles at once. The boy lowered his head and stared at the table. He had done this so many times now that he could see the familiar patterns in the grains of the wood, and the odd shapes made by dried wax, wine and who knows how many other liquids. His mind usually found silly shapes in the pattern, like the one that looked like a bearded dwarf, or another like a beady eyed goblin.

His thoughts were interrupted by knuckles rapping on the table next to him, causing him to jump in surprise. "Again, young Fehrys! Keep trying!" said the old mage sternly.

He didn't know why anyone bothered to make him keep going, the best he had been able to achieve was a few silver sparks floating out of his fingertips and falling to the table. He never even made the candle warm, let alone got it lit. But he dutifully concentrated again and again while he mouthed the words that sounded so silly in his mouth and waved his hands over and over. It looked amazing when his sister did it, but with him he looked the fool. His mind felt like it was running into a stone wall, nothing worked.

The silver eyes he had been blessed with were a sign, the mages said, as any oddly colored irises were usually a portent of greater magical abilities than those without. His sister had stunning violet eyes and thus her magic was tinged with violet hues. Shockingly violet like the flames or the purplish shield she could conjure. His one-time silvery sparkles were just a cruel joke compared to her efforts. The only saving grace was that after the lesson was lunch, and then after lunch he could go back to his sword lessons, where he felt much more at home. Then it would then be his sister's time to complain.

But first, he had to wiggle his fingers about until they were cramped. What a waste of his time.

He sighed again in frustration and got back to work