Page 81 of Into the Isle

A few initiates in the rows in front of me muttered among themselves.

Gudleif slashed her hand through the air and everyone fell silent. “It is true. It’s not because I am stronger of body than him, of course. But I am strong of mind. I am learned. I am capable of twisting the runes to do my bidding, in ways that many can only dream of.”

You’re also a bit full of yourself, aren’t you, Hersir Selken?

“You too can become powerful. Each of you has the inherent ability to summon magics beyond your understanding. To this day, in Mimir Tomes, researchers work tirelessly to discover lost runes, hidden shapes, and ways to amplify our abilities.”

Her eyes glanced to the side—abruptly enough that it caught my attention. I furrowed my brow when I saw her looking at Magnus Feldraug in the front row. His trench coat ruffled when he went still at her piercing gaze.

I gave Randi a “what-the-hell-is-that-about?” look.

Magnus was a gods-damned initiate, like me. How in Odin’s name did everyone seem to know him? What am I missing here? The mystery of that tattooed man continued to intrigue me.

I was brought back to Hersir Selken’s forceful lecture when she cleared her throat. “You have all brought your textbooks, I take it. You won’t be needing them today. Your homework will be to memorize the runes that make up our alphabet. Once you know them by heart, and have them embedded in your soul, you will be ready to Shape them.”

She made a gesture in the air with one hand, crossing her fingers in odd ways I’d never seen before. I’d seen people Shape, but never so quickly.

As she moved her fingers, and everyone stared in silent stupefaction, the air lit up with slashes of white light, and then darkened deeper than the night sky, until a rune was Shaped before her.

All at once, the fabric of the air ripped open. Before I could blink, she reached into the jagged space of nothingness and twisted around to flip her hand on the wall behind her.

Blackness as dark as ink splattered on the empty, beige wall in a semi circle. It was dramatic because sunlight was pouring into the room from behind us through a window, but when it met with the shadow, it was completely swallowed up, darkening the room like an eclipse had arrived.

The shade was soundless, formless. It folded in on itself to take a different shape. I gasped—along with other students—mesmerized at the visual, which looked like a Rorschach test.

“The power of runeshaping stems from two basic principles: a ‘source,’ such as an element like fire and water, or even light and shadows”—she gestured at the wall—“and a ‘directive,’ which tells the source how to interact.” She moved her hands some more, and the shadows danced and moved, chained to her control. It wasn’t like she was making shadow puppets on the wall—she was literally making an entire shadowy scene play out before us.

The shadows separated and turned into silhouettes of dark trees. A portion of the ink-like substance settled high over the trees, looking like the moon or sun.

With a quick jerk of her hands, the shadows vanished, and waning sunlight returned to the wall behind her.

I had the urge to clap at the remarkable display of control and power. Yet no one else did, so I stayed quiet.

“The beauty of Shaping is that the directives are nearly infinite. It’s rare to discover new sources . . . but new ways to bend those sources?” She smiled—a sign of excitement and roguishness I deeply appreciated. A fondness for learning I related to. “The possibilities are exquisitely endless. For instance, let’s say you wanted to summon fire.”

My brother Damon could do that, though I doubted he knew much else about it—how his powers really worked. All he could do was reach into an element and draw its power into him, which was incredibly useful on its own. Imagine what he could do if he learned to wield his power through mechanics and learning.

I felt a tinge of guilt, since I was here and he was still at Selby Village. I wondered what Damon had been doing ever since he discovered my treachery; if he wanted to kill me, join me here, or what.

Maybe he’s still searching for a way to get here. I scratched the back of my neck. Or, more likely, he’s drunk in the town pub again, chasing skirts.

“What realm does fire stem from?” Hersir Selken asked, clasping her hands behind her back and beginning to pace in front of us.

“Muspelheim,” a student called out.

Everyone knew the answer to that one—the land of Surtr, the greatest of the fire jotunn and guardian of the fiery, primordial, elemental realm of Muspelheim.

“Yes,” Selken said. “In order to draw upon that source, you cast a rune to summon it.” She made gestures in the air again, the slashes lighting up so easily it made me yearn for that kind of power.

When the air ripped open, she reached in and presented a small ball of flame on her palm. It rested there, sizzling, crackling, smoking.

“Now we must give it life—a directive. Say we want it to grow?” She gestured with her off-hand, and the fire gained life and burgeoned like a blacksmith’s forge. “Or shrink?” More finger waggles, and it sputtered. “Or say we wanted to align it along the length of a blade—to turn a sword’s edge into a fiery, unstoppable weapon?”

I blinked wildly. Holy shit. We can do all that?

“Or . . . say we wanted to throw a fireball?”

With a few more finger movements, she lashed out toward the sea of students with her palm. The blaze grew and expanded toward us.

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