Chapter 1: Quest
Omen Daenoth stared hard at his pony-sized cat. Tormy had grown rapidly in the last six months — going from a fluffy, thirty-pound kitten to a robust adolescent that Omen was no longer capable of lifting. He looks like a Shindarian tiger — without the black stripes. Must weigh at least four hundred pounds.
Utterly silent for once, the large cat balanced on his furry toes and stretched his long, orange body in an effort to reach a thick leather-bound book high on a shelf in the section of the sprawling library designated as off limits.
The Divine Library of The Soul's Flame, nestled in the realm of its namesake, had become Omen's latest refuge. He loved the quiet calm, the mythology-inspired art of the concave ceilings, the storytelling mosaics of walls and floors, and the smoke and vanilla scents mingled among the endless collections of books and scrolls.
While Omen's ability to focus had improved with Tormy's arrival, he still had needed to contend with the constant distractions at home in Melia — friends inviting him out, his sister asking to play with Tormy, his father piling on new fields of study, his mother surprising him with random magic quizzes, and Tormy "feeling peckish" and sweetly demanding second breakfast, pre-lunch snack, after-lunch nibbles, afternoon pudding, before-dinner appetizer, tummy-settling post-dinner digestive, or late-night test breakfast. The library had become his place of concentrated, uninterrupted study — until now.
Tormy swiped at the thick book again, catching its edge and scooting it a quarter inch off the shelf. Omen held his breath, watching and waiting for the inevitable.
They were alone in the Divine Library of The Soul's Flame. Unable to take his eyes off Tormy's antics, Omen absently chewed on the tip of his quill, even as he pushed the scroll he'd been reading aside.
Tormy's claw caught the golden-lettered spine of the thick tome. The book tilted forward, hung suspended in the air for an infinitesimal moment, and then plunged to the floor with a loud thump. Omen thought he heard a brittle crack in the mosaic tiles. I think Tormy just fractured the antler of the constellation of the Fallow Deer. Hope Etar doesn't notice.
"Read this one, Omy!" Tormy squealed. The cat's sweet baby voice had deepened as he had grown, but his joyful enthusiasm still imbued his every word.
The cat pushed the enormous leather-bound tome across the gold-and-cream mosaic, passing more of the myriad of constellations and artistically-rendered calculations that made up this section of the floor. Diffused light from gleaming crystal ceiling orbs illuminated the long fluffy orange and white fur around the cat's ears and ruff.
Omen set aside his quill as he rose. He rolled his stiff shoulders back, blinked to clear his vision, and quickly crossed to Tormy's side, hoping to spare the ancient volume grievous mistreatment by the floor.
Tormy proudly planted a silken paw the size of a dinner plate on the book's textured cover.
He's so pleased with himself. The big kitten had been trying to help him study all day. Omen crouched down to look at the book, waving Tormy's paw away. He recognized the language the book was written in: Sul'eldrine, the Language of the Gods.
"The Book of Cats, by the Architect," he read the title — upside down as it was facing Tormy — out loud.
"I is thinking this is the bestest book ever!" Tormy's amber eyes widened with excitement. His whiskers flared.
Curious in spite of himself, Omen opened the cover and glanced at the first few lines written inside. "It does appear to be a book about cats," he told Tormy. "But it's not what I'm supposed to be doing, remember? I'm learning my spells."
"I is knowing!" Tormy seemed undeterred as he pushed his nose into the pages and then turned several of the sheets of parchment with one paw, claws carefully sheathed. "You is doing this spell!" He planted the same paw on the page for emphasis.
Omen turned the book. He recognized the lines and strokes of the pattern — a magical spell, just like the ones he'd been studying. There was a drawing of a mouse above the pattern — no doubt the reason for the cat's interest. Clever cat — he recognizes it as a spell!
The books stacked on the desk behind him were filled with magical patterns his mother had determined "beginner level." The bulk were spells she believed Omen should have learned long ago. "Remedial," he grunted under his breath. To his burning embarrassment, his mother had called his lessons remedial.
"You're not really supposed to cast spells from books, Tormy," Omen explained to the cat — this was a lesson his mother had drummed into him early on. "I have to memorize the patterns first, internalize them. When you cast a spell out of a book or from a scroll you can't really control the energy properly."
Tormy's excitement did not dim. His pink ears perked forward, his long fluffy plume of a tail flicking uncontrollably. "I is not knowing what that is meaning," he purred. "You is casting my spell for me?" The cat's hopeful tone made Omen pause . . .
