Chapter Eight
Toreg glared at the young apprentice before him. It had been a minor mishap, but the sorcerer of seacraft was in no mood to be understanding. Toreg had been striding down the hall bent on his own thoughts when he had rounded a corner. The apprentice, apparently over-anxious to complete some errand, had been running nearly full tilt from the opposite end of the passageway. The sudden appearance of the water mage in his path had been too much for the young man, and try as he might he only succeeded in averting a full collision in lieu of a glancing blow which had slammed both men against respective sides of the hall.
“Apprentice ...” Toreg said, through gritted teeth, “who is your master?”
“It is Jacindra, sir,” the apprentice responded. “I’m sorry sir, about running into you ... I didn’t mean it, you just came out of the blue.”
The apprentice’s apology and attempt at explanation only aggravated Toreg further. “Do not try to make excuses for yourself, Apprentice. That is the practice of a commoner not of a mage,” Toreg said with disdain. “If you intend to become a wizard you must learn not to flinch from your own responsibilities. To do otherwise is cowardly, and brings shame to the Art of Magic.”
The apprentice reddened in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mage Toreg, sir,” he said, tightly. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been running.”
“Quite true,” Toreg said. “Now rest assured that Sorceress Jacindra will hear of this incident in detail before the morrow. In the mean time, walk a little slower or I’ll send you to the kitchens, understand?”
“Yes, Mage Toreg,” the apprentice said, grimacing. An amalgam of frustrated emotions washed across his face, but the young man held his tongue.
Toreg dismissed the apprentice and continued on his way, scowling at everything in his path. The water wizard had been in a foul mood upon leaving the dinner, and this happening only succeeded in aggravating it. Between Morcallenon, Jacindra, and Regecon, Toreg was amazed with himself for keeping his temper at the table. The three of them had achieved new heights of incivility during the discussion. Regecon, a moron on his best day, just seemed to revel in flaunting his authority over Toreg, all to come to the defense of that miserable rotten thief. A thief of all things! They had tried to hide his identity as such at the dinner, but Toreg was no fool. He could spot a thief, just by the way one looked at him. A man from Pallernia indeed! Could Regecon be more of a fool? And Morcallenon ... he was hardly better. The old fossil had come to Arcalian’s defense despite the former guild master’s obvious guilt. And Jacindra, of course, set him up playing the fool about Aristoceles’ death until Toreg made his usual remarks about the philosopher’s ineptitude; then the diviner sprung it on him. I think they planned it together. Made me look like a jackass.
He rounded another corner.
It’s because of my father, he thought. All three of them came from noble lines—Morcallenon was the youngest son of a count, Regecon the second son of a duke, and Jacindra the daughter of some other blue-blood. But not Toreg. The thought that his feebleminded guild master was sprung from the loins of a duke while he was son to a fisherman, a man who wound up dead on the gallows for treason, was beyond endurance. If gods existed in this cursed universe, such a thing proved their unrighteousness.
Toreg came upon his room still stoking his foul mood. Producing his key, he unlocked the door to his room and took a final look at the empty hall behind him. A flaming duke, he thought. A gods-accursed flaming duke. With that he slammed the door and went to bed.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 9