Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Back out of the market, around a corner, up the street, past the grey chapel with the blue dome. Panic clawed at his throat. His quarterstaff hit the corner of a cart and his grip on it was so hard that the momentum spun him completely around. When he steadied himself he was facing an intersection, and he took the new street, but then he realized he shouldn’t have, because there were only a few people. He heard shouts from behind, and he wished he could shrug off his pack because it was slowing him down. He had to get away, they had swords, they were going to kill him—

  And then, another mistake—what he’d thought was a street because of its breadth was actually the courtyard entrance to a cloister. The wrought-iron gate was standing open, and with no other choice, Graegor dashed through it, yanking it shut behind him and praying it had a latch-lock. It did, but it was broken, and the gate just banged open again, but he had no time to go back. He could hear boots pounding the cobblestones behind him. The cloister grounds were deserted. There was a colonnade between the priests’ dormitory on his left and the cloister chapel on his right. He had to make a decision fast. The chapel—if he could get inside, maybe get out another door, maybe hide—

  He left the paved walkway to run at an angle across the muddy lawn to the heavy chapel door, but when he threw himself at it and pulled at it, it wouldn’t open.

  Graegor turned, sweeping his eyes across the grounds, but the two men chasing him had separated, one coming straight down the colonnade, the other following Graegor’s path across the lawn. It was over. He set his feet and held his quarterstaff in both hands, his mouth dry and his blood afire. He wasn’t tired from the run—he could have run all day if he hadn’t trapped himself—and he was ready to fight.

  They slowed, and each came to a stop ten or twelve paces away. Their swords weren’t drawn—yet. Each took time to catch his breath, and each lowered his hood. Graegor’s eyes widened at the man on the right, the one with the orange hood. It was the white herald! It was the man the bluecloaks had captured! He’d grown a black beard, and there was a scar on his forehead, but it was the same man, with the same hollow cheeks and unsettled expression as he looked intently at Graegor.

  The ringless ones had been expelled from Farre—everyone knew it. If he threatened to tell the bluecloaks, would that help? If one of the cloister priests came out and Graegor told him these two were heretics, would that scare them off?

  “It’s all right,” the man said, his voice low but only barely controlled. “It’s all right.” He seemed to be trying to reassure himself as much as Graegor. His companion, cutting off Graegor’s escape route to the left, was glancing uneasily across the lawn, down the colonnade, up at the stained glass windows in the stone walls of the chapel and the dormitory.

  “What’s all right?” Graegor barely recognized his own voice, it was so rough. The quarterstaff felt light and smooth in his hands.

  “It’s all right. Don’t—don’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not.” And he found that he wasn’t. He still wasn’t tired or hungry, and now that the fight was upon him, he wasn’t afraid.

  The man with the orange hood nodded. “Good. That’s good. You shouldn’t be. We just need to tell you some things.”

  “Fine. Tell.”

  “Not here, we can’t talk here.”

  “Oh yes we can.”

  The other man came forward a step, gesturing back the first man, who seemed grateful. This man had a grey hood, and was the one Graegor had first seen watching the tavern. If he was as agitated as his friend, he gave no sign. “My name is Rond,” he said, as if this were a business meeting. He nodded toward the other man and continued, “This is Ahren. We’re from Orest.”

  Graegor had no intention of returning the introduction. “Good for you.” He’d once asked Pritchard about Orest, and Pritchard had said that it was about a hundred miles downriver. It was a basilica-chartered city, but these two didn’t look like priests, and they definitely weren’t comfortable on the cloister grounds.

  “We very much need to speak with you, but what we have to say is not for anyone else’s ears. Will you accompany us to a house outside the city where we can talk?”

  “Why should I go anywhere with ringless ones?”

  At the deliberate slur both men grimaced, and it was a visible effort for the grey-hooded man to speak softly. “Yes, we’re white heralds. You speak from ignorance of our real purpose, so we forgive you.”

  The orange-hooded man gasped and stared at the other. “Forgive? You just—”

  The grey-hooded man made a shushing noise. “A poor choice of words,” he said to Graegor carefully. “I meant to say, we understand that you don’t know anything about who the white heralds are. We will tell you, but we can’t talk here.”

  Graegor curled his lip. “You just chased me all over the city—why should I believe anything you say?”

  “We couldn’t lose you again,” the first man said, almost to himself.

  “Again?”

  “When the bluecloaks had me. I told you to follow me but you didn’t.”

  The absurdity of this complaint made Graegor bark out a laugh. They stared at him as if he was crazy, and he raised his quarterstaff. “Leave me alone.”

  Then the grey-hooded man drew his sword. “We can’t. We must bring you to Orest to meet the man who sent us.”

  The orange-hooded man was aghast. “Rond, you can’t, he’s—”

  “I know!” Rond glared at him, but his sword was still pointed at Graegor. “Do you think I don’t know? I won’t hurt him, I swear it.”

  No, you won’t. Graegor swung his quarterstaff and struck Rond’s sword hand as hard as he could.

  Both men jumped, but Rond held onto the sword. Graegor swung again, this time at his head, hoping to stun him long enough to break through between them, get back through the gate and to the street again. But Rond ducked and jabbed, and Graegor leaped out of the way.

  They stood frozen. The first man, Ahren, had now drawn his sword, but by his face he clearly could not believe what he was about to do. Rond was studying Graegor, probably deciding how best to disarm him. Ahren had seen Graegor fight in the street, and undoubtedly had told Rond about it, so they wouldn’t underestimate him the way all the others had.

  Rond darted forward and swung the flat of his blade toward Graegor’s head. Graegor ducked and whipped the staff up to block, then spun it to push away Ahren’s sword flashing toward his knee. Both of them stepped back, and Graegor attacked.

  A whirling pressure grew in his mind as he let his reflexes take over. It was the third time now, and he knew how it felt to let the power rush through his body to thwart all their attempts to land a blow. He heard them call to each other to try to coordinate, but he was much too fast. Hot rushing winds tore through his muscles and nerves and bones, filling him with fierce strength, and he heard himself snarl like an animal as his quarterstaff hit their shoulders, their forearms, their knees, driving them into each other. They fell in a tangle, and their swords flew from their hands to clang like bells against one of the columns lining the colonnade.

  His head—it was spinning, spinning inside, his eyes were nailed to the white heralds’ ashen faces and his brain was pounded down into a hard, bruised, purple knot. His breath came short and fast, and a monstrous dark wave roared through his chest and shoulders and head and fell upon Ahren and Rond like a storm front—

  Horses, close by—he could hear the thump of hooves, could feel the weight of the iron shoes hitting the ground. Graegor shut his eyes tight, a mental scream rising inside him, pushing back at the crushing darkness—stop—STOP—

  A single enormous sound rang through his head like a thunderclap. A chasm broke open behind his eyes, veiled by clouds of mist, but deep, and dark, and old. Low moans soared up through the ground beneath his feet, rock pressing rock and stone grinding stone. The white mist rose thick and strong around his thoughts, and white stars pricked his eyelids and lit on his face, lifting up every hair on his body
. The earth moaned again, and set off rumbles in his ears and fires in his blood until everything around him was falling ... falling ... black pain cresting over him, breaking like a rain of hammers—

  “Open your eyes!”

  The voice was not his own, and he didn’t hear it so much as he sensed it.

  “Open your eyes!”

  He obeyed. The ground in front of him—was in front of him, in front of his eyes, two pieces of earth pushed up and crumpled over each other to nearly half his own height. Beyond, the colonnade roof had fallen in, slate and timber scattered halfway across the lawn. Graegor tried to keep breathing but his chest was so tight—

  Then he saw two riders, pulling up hard to avoid the forms of Ahren and Rond, who’d tumbled down the other side of the buckled slab of earth in front of Graegor. The horses tossed their heads and half-reared, their eyes wild, and the riders turned them in tight circles to keep them from coming down on the men on the ground. Graegor wanted to run but he couldn’t move because he could barely get any air, and his head hurt so much he thought it must be ripping itself apart.

  The rider of the first horse had thin white hair, and the rider of the second had brown hair pulled back in a queue. Both men wore grey and blue tunics and trousers and cloaks, and both now watched him intently, even as their horses snorted and tossed their heads.

  More ringless ones?—But they weren’t looking at Ahren and Rond. They weren’t bluecloaks. Shovel-men?—No shovels. Graegor felt the dark wave begin to climb through him again—

  “Please!” the older man called to him then. “Lower your staff!”

  Graegor was about to shout that it was lowered when he realized that it wasn’t. He was holding it over his head—he was spinning it, his thumb and wrist twisting impossibly fast. This was the whirling pressure in his head, this was the dark bruise flaring out with waves of pain—he lost his grip, and the staff tumbled to the ground.

  The world fell. Whatever that pressure had been holding up, holding back, now collapsed into itself and the earth crumbled before Graegor’s eyes. The two horses screamed and reared, and the line of tiny windows near the top of the chapel wall shattered into storms of stained glass. Graegor spun to the ground, and purple darkness closed over his mind as his arms closed over his head.

  What is happening to me!?

  It was a long time before all the noise settled, longer before Graegor’s racing heart slowed. When he finally thought he could move without shaking, he raised his head from his arms.

  The twisted mound of raised earth had disintegrated into a crevice that split the lawn in half. The entire colonnade and half the cloister wall had collapsed into a pile of rock and mortar. Every high window gaped open, shards of dark glass like smashed teeth all that remained.

  Graegor braced his quarterstaff on a patch of unbroken ground and forced himself to his feet. The white-haired rider was dismounting from his fractious horse and passing his reins to the other man, who caught them up without taking his wide eyes off Graegor. But the older rider was not looking at Graegor at all now. He swiftly knelt beside Ahren, and set his hands on his chest.

  Something touched Graegor, something ... blue. Something sky-blue touched the purple knot at the center of his head—touched it and almost softened it. As he watched, Ahren groaned, then sighed.

  Healers. The two riders were healers—magi healers. He could see the badges on their cloaks. They carried no weapons, not even belt knives.

  The old man turned from Ahren to Rond. As he put his hand on Rond’s chest, Graegor felt the blue flood into his mind like cold water over a burn. He could feel this healing, like he’d felt Magus Paul’s, after the fight ... but this was stronger, so much stronger ...

  Rond started coughing, and the old man—the magus—sat back on his heels. The younger magus had backed the horses away, still trying to soothe their nerves, as both of Graegor’s attackers slowly sat up.

  “Go back to Brandeis,” the old man told them, and they looked at him in a daze. “Tell him this is not whom he seeks.”

  The two stared at him—at each other—very quickly at Graegor—and back at the old man. Ahren had lost all color in his face and looked ready to pass out again.

  “He will believe you,” the old man said patiently. His voice was not deep, but it was clear and firm. “Tell him that this is a message from the man who spoke to him on Saint Davidon’s Day.”

  Slowly, they got to their feet. Graegor stayed where he was, ten paces away and on the other side of the yard-wide crack in the earth. The white heralds looked around for their swords, but they had been buried beneath the ruin of the colonnade. Slowly, they edged around the magi’s horses, made it to the wrought-iron gate—and then fled. The magus stayed where he was, sitting easily on his knees on the ground, and now he was watching Graegor very carefully.

  At least the chapel and dormitory were still standing ... an earthquake, had to have been an earthquake, though Farre hadn’t had one in a hundred years ...

  He felt dizzy. He wanted to sit down, or maybe throw up. Leaning on his quarterstaff, he shut his eyes to try to break the spin, but the purple knot in his head only whirled faster. When he opened his eyes, white mist was pooling at his feet, and he was so close to the edge, the edge of the hideous gash splitting the cloister lawn ...

  What’s happening? He tried to speak aloud, but nothing would come out. The magus, the magus must be doing this, Breon’s blood, every inch of his skin prickled like the air before a lightning storm—the ground trembled—

  “Please stop.” The old man spoke quietly, but Graegor could hear him more clearly, see him more clearly, than anything else. He was very, very calm, holding himself motionless. “Please let go.”

  Let go. Without actually deciding to, Graegor found himself imitating that calm. Let go.

  Let go of what?

  “What do you want?” Graegor finally felt steady enough to ask. He opened his fists, first one, then the other, stretching his fingers, trying to keep them from clenching. His brain still felt beaten into a hard, bruised, purple knot.

  “I would like to talk to you,” the old man said from across the crack in the earth.

  Graegor snorted like the horses. “That’s what they wanted.”

  “Yes. They wanted you to meet their leader.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks you are the One who will come again.”

  The words were like a splash of ice water on his face. The idea was so ridiculous that his own sense of himself immediately eased, and he finally felt the coiled tension in his muscles releasing in a short, harsh laugh. Crackpots. White heralds, ringless ones, whatever anyone called them, those two were just a couple of crackpots, religious fanatics who wanted the prophecies to come true. He’d just gotten caught in the middle of it, gotten mistaken for someone else. “The One?” he said finally. “That’s what they think?” No wonder Ahren hadn’t wanted to draw his sword.

  “Yes,” the old man nodded.

  “So since I’m not the One, why do you want to talk to me?”

  “I would like to talk to you about magic.”

  Graegor felt the world go very, very still. Eventually he said, “Who are you?”

  The old man’s eyes were vivid blue. “My name is Contare Volnette.”

  Lord Contare.

  Lord Contare. The sorcerer. The Eighth Lord Sorcerer.

  Magnificent Carlodon, Sorcerer-King,

  Davidon next, who was Lord of the Maze,

  After came Aind, his flame everlasting,

  Urland, whose shadow will never be raised.

  Khisrathi’s bloodspell wed castle to crown,

  Felise, brought to power by none and by all,

  Roberd, who lifted the land that was drowned,

  And Contare the Wise, our voice in the Hall.

  There had never been a time he hadn’t known those lines, the chant all Telgard children sang before they could even count to eight. It beat in his head now, repeating, repeating,
as he stared the very last line right in the face.

  It had to be. No one would say it if it wasn’t true. No one would dare. This was the man himself, the man of the legends. This man had cast the pebbles that were diamonds and won back a king’s life. This man had rescued the children in Mor Siuleth. This man had taken goat’s milk and fed an entire army.

  Not just a magus. The sky-blue of the healing was a sorcerer’s power. Graegor held his quarterstaff tight in both hands, tight against his cheek, tight to the ground. He felt like he was going to fall—but warmth from the earth was filling him and holding him fast, heat rising from the torn stone in front of him.

  “What is your name?” the old man—the Lord Sorcerer—asked.

  “Graegor.”

  The old man seemed to wait for a last name, but when none was forthcoming, he nodded. “I’m pleased to meet you, Graegor.” After a pause, he settled himself on the ground cross-legged, his hands on his knees. It was the most unthreatening pose he could have chosen, and he looked prepared to stay there for a long time. He asked, “Do you live here in Farre?”

  It was a simple question, a pleasantry so bland as to be ridiculous in these circumstances, yet Graegor found himself at a loss to answer—yes, he was here; no, he had nowhere to live—so he didn’t say anything.