Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  The old man—the sorcerer—Lord Contare—studied him as if he was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Then he asked, “How old are you?” His blue eyes were mild but focused, his posture relaxed but not casual.

  “Fifteen,” Graegor said after a moment. Then: “How old are you?”

  He had expected some reaction to the rudeness of asking this question of an elder, but the sorcerer said, “I am five hundred and two years old.”

  Graegor knew that, knew it in his head, but it couldn’t sink in. Five hundred. Five hundred and two years old.

  “When did you last sleep?” the old man asked then.

  Maybe I’m sleeping now. Maybe this is a dream. “Three days. No.” How long had it been? He forced himself to count the nights since he had woken at Rooster’s Table on spicy chicken pie day. “Four.”

  “When did you last eat?”

  “Yesterday.”

  The old man nodded, then gave the collapsed colonnade an appraising look. “We are staying at a very nice inn near here. I would like you to join us. You can sleep all you want, eat and drink all you want. I will answer any question you want to ask.”

  It was incredibly tempting and too good to be true. Graegor wished he could get this sense of purple and blue and other colors out of his mind, wished he could stop seeing the power of the sorcerer ...

  ... or, that he could open himself, empty himself entirely, to make room for these feelings, for this new light cast over everything he thought he knew. He could not take it in.

  He stood there, his quarterstaff still braced to his cheek. The old man looked at Graegor from his seat on the ground. After another long pause, Graegor slowly sat down on the ground as well. He held his staff across his lap and looked at the old man from the other side of the crack in the earth.

  The earth he had cracked. I did this ... a sorcerer’s power ...

  The sorcerer nodded toward the chapel. “Are you an acolyte here?”

  Graegor shook his head.

  “Where are you from?”

  “A village. To the southeast.” Because he wanted to be the one asking questions, he said, “Can you really change yourself into an eagle?” This was one of the most fantastic of the stories about sorcerers, one hadn’t believed for years.

  To his shock, Lord Contare nodded. “I can.”

  “You ... you can shapechange? You can fly?”

  “Yes. I chose the eagle because it’s my family’s crest. There are many eagles living among the cliffs south of Volney.”

  “You’re from Volney?” God, what a stupid thing to say—everyone knew that the sorcerer was of the house of Volnette.

  “Actually,” Lord Contare said, “I grew up a few miles west of there.”

  Five hundred years ago. “Oh.”

  “It was a country house that my mother preferred. She found the city unpleasant.”

  “So does my mother.”

  The sorcerer smiled. “And you? Do you like the city?”

  “Do you?” Graegor asked immediately.

  “I like this one well enough. I wish Duke Richard would employ more street sweepers, though.”

  After seeing how the bluecloaks had treated the city’s lower classes last autumn, Graegor didn’t think the shortage of street sweepers was the duke’s worst fault. “I ... I’ve never met him.”

  “I am unsurprised. He tours Lakeland less than he should, so he likely never came by your village.”

  “No one ever came by my village.”

  The sorcerer looked at him searchingly. “Ah.” There was much of the now I understand wrapped in that single syllable. The old man was so calm, his eyes bright and sympathetic but without pity or condescension. He was the sorcerer. He had met everyone, understood everyone.

  The quarterstaff felt warm across Graegor’s knees and under his hands. Wood often felt warm to the touch, he knew, but this was different. The sorcerer again noticed what had caught his attention, even though he hadn’t moved or looked away. “Is that purpleheart?” he asked.

  Graegor nodded.

  “An heirloom?”

  “No. I bought it here.”

  “The magi of the south often keep groves of purpleheart trees.” A pause. “There was once a grove in Chrenste as well, but the Rohrdals burned it when they usurped the throne.”

  “Why?”

  “Torchanes magi had planted it.”

  It made sense. The Rohrdals would have destroyed anything that gave aid and comfort to magi of the true royal house. “Did the Carhlaans plant a new one when they took over?”

  “No. Their House is ancient, but they have never been strong in magic.”

  “Purpleheart are magical trees?”

  “No. But some kinds of wood and metal have an affinity for magic. The Torchanes kings wore crowns made of purpleheart, many centuries ago.”

  “Did King Breon?” This was not something he had heard in any of the stories about his childhood hero.

  “I believe so, although he was not a magus.”

  Graegor smoothed his hand over the polished grain. “Did Torchanes magi have staves like this one?” Maybe this one wasn’t newly made. Maybe it was old, very old, and remembered the power of the hundreds of magi who had carried it.

  “They may have. After all, you do.”

  After all? His eyes darted back to the old man.

  “They were Torchanes,” Lord Contare explained. “Like you.”

  A light flickered in Graegor’s mind. “Like me?”

  Lord Contare just nodded, but the light was steadying now, and Graegor found himself coming up with the explanation: “You mean—there must be lots of people descended from them, they ... they always had a lot of children, half the country could be ...” He was babbling, and stopped, but the Lord Sorcerer was nodding again.

  “Yes, many Telgards have a drop of the royal blood. But it seems to me that you are from the senior paternal line. If not for the Rohrdal coup, you would be a prince.”

  The royal blood. The senior paternal line. A prince.

  Saint Carlodon. Saint Davidon. King Breon. Sorceress Khisrathi. Sorcerer Roberd. Prince Augustin.

  Torchanes.

  “How do you know?” He heard his voice crack, and his next words came out a near whisper: “And why didn’t I know?”

  Though he was ten paces away, the sorcerer heard him. “I don’t know why you didn’t know,” he said, almost as quietly. “I know because your magic feels the same as that of the Torchanes princes I once knew. I am certain that you are of their blood.”

  Torchanes princes ... of their blood ...

  The horses were whuffing again, pulling against the reins the brown-haired magus held. Graegor watched them and thought about the horses back home, especially the old black with the white patch on his forehead whose name was Lightning. Had he named the horse when he was small? Had his father? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t think. “Lightning-struck,” he said, thinking how appropriate it was to have a name that described exactly how he felt.

  Lord Contare said, “Torchanes means ‘lightning-rider’, actually. Over the centuries it has become mistranslated.”

  Graegor said nothing, could say nothing. There was nothing to say.

  He heard a shout from high up. At one of the broken stained-glass windows in the dormitory, two priests were staring out at the chasm that had appeared in their cloister lawn. The magus with the horses shouted something back to them, and they withdrew, probably coming down to see.

  Torchanes power. Torchanes magic.

  His hand was shaking. He pressed it to the quarterstaff to keep it still. Lord Contare watched this, then tipped his head toward the magus holding the horses. “Magus Karl and I will be going downriver to Chrenste to meet with the king.”

  “The king?” The idea of meeting with the king reminded Graegor that Audrey had wanted to meet the queen.

  “Yes. It would mean a great deal to me if you would join us.” Lord Contare paused, and his voice grew soft
er. “You would be going home.”

  “Home?” I have no home!—Had it only been two days since he had shouted those words at his father?

  “Your ancestral home. The fortress that Saint Carlodon built.”

  The fortress that Saint Carlodon built.

  Where Saint Davidon had held the gates against the Thendal sorcerer. Where the magus King Mugarth’s sacrifice had ended the terrible drought. Where Sorceress Khisrathi had cast her bloodspell. Where King Breon had ruled an empire across the sea. Where the Hierarch had knighted a thousand peasants before the Last Siege. Where Queen Selena’s gardens had grown lilies all year round.

  And—the very last Torchanes story—where Prince Augustin had found his parents and brothers and sisters murdered in their beds.

  There was no room for this in him. The doors were barred, the windows shuttered, the house full to bursting.

  He heard voices nearby. Some priests were clambering over the rubble of the colonnade that the earthquake—his earthquake—had brought down.

  “Graegor.” Lord Contare was still sitting on the ground, but now he leaned forward to gently catch his attention. “Would you like to come with us to the inn?”

  It was the only sensible thing to do, and Graegor nodded.

  Chapter 5

  The bed was enormous. As Graegor’s eyes blinked open and he lifted his head, he saw that he was sprawled across it almost sideways. The white sheets were the softest he’d ever touched, and the blue blankets were flannel but much finer than anything he’d ever used. The fat feather pillow had ended up on the floor.

  He rolled onto his back, then pushed himself to sit up, though his arms and legs felt very heavy. The door was still shut, his pack and quarterstaff leaning against the wall nearby just as he had left them, his cloak hanging on the hook above the latch. His boots, belt, and shirt were under the washstand bowl, where soap and a towel lay untouched. Between the heavy drapes over the window, the angle of the light was the same as it had been when he’d stumbled in. He must have slept an entire day.

  He stretched his arms as high as he could, and felt his shoulder pop. There was a sound from beyond his door, and he listened. Voices, two voices in the suite’s common room—Lord Contare and Magus Karl.

  I am Telgardia’s new sorcerer.

  Graegor let that thought sink in, considering his whole life in its light. The fight in Pritchard’s stable, the fight in the street that had put him in jail, the freak wave that had drenched the Solstice celebration five years past, Paul’s healing magic, the white heralds who’d chased him all over Farre ... the dark purple knot of power that had reached from deep inside himself to deep inside the earth, and shaken it. Earth magic ... he’d released earth magic, like Sorceress Khisrathi had when she’d set her bloodspell on the tunnels of Castle Chrenste.

  Torchanes. You’re going home.

  Sorceress Khisrathi was his cousin—seventy or eighty generations removed. He was descended from King Breon ... who was descended from Saint Carlodon. He didn’t know what about this punched him harder—that he was a sorcerer, or that he was a Torchanes.

  Magus Paul had said he had no magic.

  Torchanes. Lightning-struck. Lightning-rider.

  Had his father known? Was that why he’d tried to keep Graegor’s world so small? Because he’d rejected his royal blood, for himself and his children?

  Graegor had stood up without really deciding to, his thoughts feeding toward agitation. Wanting to move, not knowing why or to where, he ended up pulling on his shirt and reaching for the door. But then he saw his frayed sleeve, and the traces of mud on it, and he suddenly felt dirty and smelly.

  He needed a bath. Once he was clean he’d feel better. Lord Contare had said there was a bathing room downstairs. He knelt by his pack and tried to find his razor, but then gave up and shouldered the whole thing. A strong part of him wanted to take the quarterstaff too, but that just seemed stupid.

  When he opened his door, the voices stopped, and the two seated at the table in the center of the common room turned to look at him. Lord Contare wore essentially the same as he had yesterday, but in browns and greens instead of greys and blues. Magus Karl stood, bowed to Graegor, and quickly disappeared through another door.

  “Did you sleep well?” Lord Contare asked.

  Graegor nodded. Lord Contare gestured to the spread of food on the table, but Graegor shook his head. “If it’s all right, sir, I’d like to have a bath first.”

  “Ah, yes.” At that moment Magus Karl returned with one of the inn’s servants. Lord Contare asked him if the bathing room was available, and the servant said it was and asked Graegor to follow him.

  They went down a narrow staircase, then through a door to a tiled, windowless anteroom. Here there were thick towels, wax candles, a porcelain chamber-pot, and other luxuries that Graegor would have gaped at if the servant hadn’t been there. The servant looked dubiously at Graegor’s pack and said, “We have a laundry service, sir, if you would like to make use of it.”

  “Um ... yes.” From his pack he fished out his two spare sets of clothes, which he hadn’t had a chance to wash in weeks, and dropped them into a basket that seemed made for the purpose. As he turned, he caught sight of himself in the tall mirror, and with disagreeable surprise he stopped and really looked.

  Good God. The overall impression was one of ground-in filth. His shirt and trousers were stiff with creases and wrinkles, and colors that had never been bright were further subdued under dust and dirt. The calluses on his hands and fingers were stained dull grey. But his face was the worst—the purplish half-circles under his eyes, the colorless week-old beard, the cluster of pimples across his forehead, the lank brown hair grown nearly long enough to tie back, and the overlying smudges of grease and grime. There was even a trace of a cobweb stuck to his left eyebrow.

  With sudden, itching revulsion, Graegor pulled off the rest of his clothes, down to the skin, and shoved them into the laundry-basket. The servant gave him a big towel and gestured toward the partially open door that led to the bathing room. The tub was not particularly large, but it was perfectly half-full of steaming water. Likely the servants kept replacing it all day so that it would always be hot for the guests; indeed this was a very nice inn.

  Graegor shut the door, set down the towel, found soap and a scrubbrush, and, after several false starts, managed to settle in the hot water without getting scalded. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d had a truly hot bath. Lukewarm was about the best they could manage at home, mixing cold pump water with a pot of water heated on the stove. And he hadn’t even had one of those in months—cold sponge baths were a servant’s lot in Farre.

  But this bath didn’t feel like luxury; it felt like necessity. He scrubbed his skin hard with the brush, and skimmed the used soap off the water to dump it over the side to the drain in the floor. After the rest of his body, he washed his hair and face twice each, then got out and went back to the anteroom to get his razor and hand mirror. He soaked while shaving, nicking himself only twice. He wished he could sharpen the razor, but he’d lost his stone. He did have a small pair of scissors, also somewhat dull, but good enough to hack two or three inches off his hair. After scraping his mouth and teeth with mint powder, he ducked his head underwater again to rinse everything off, and slicked his hair back so it would dry away from his face.

  There. He felt like something approaching a human being again. As he toweled off, it occurred to him that he didn’t have any clean clothes. This bothered him until he returned to the anteroom and realized that he did in fact have clean clothes—all of them, in fact, were clean, dry, and folded on a bench near his pack.

  How did they dry so fast? He picked up a shirt, and another one, and they were unmistakably his own. The rip in one cuff had even been mended. There was also another small pile of clothes that weren’t his, and at first he thought that maybe the laundress had gotten mixed up, but when he picked up the dark green shirt and shook it out, it
turned out to be brand-new, as did the brown wool trousers.

  It seemed that Lord Contare was still being very careful with him. He hadn’t known if Graegor would be more offended by new clothes (weren’t his old ones good enough?) or by cleaning up his old ones (didn’t he deserve new things?), so he’d done both. He’d probably even used magic to dry them, so that they’d be ready quickly.

  Graegor put one hand against the wall to steady himself. As mundane as his last hour had been, it suddenly felt unreal at this small reminder of who Lord Contare was and why he was here.

  I am the new sorcerer.

  There was such a strange quality to that thought—like he would never get used to it. Like in a few years he would find himself waking up in a cold sweat with exactly those words ringing in his brain, and they would unnerve him then even more than they did now.

  Prayer for Graegor had always been much more ritual than thoughtful. But as he rubbed his eyes to clear his head, it occurred to him that God would be hearing from him a lot more often in the coming days.

  He put on some of his old clothes, not thinking too much about it, and put everything else in his pack. He glanced into the mirror again before leaving the room. He looked very clean—and very young, with a startled cast to his blue eyes that made him think of a rabbit.

  It was the thought of rabbit, and other food, that got him moving again. He hoped there would be something savory left on the table.

  There was no one in the suite’s common room. The table had been cleared and reset, and Graegor counted at least ten dishes and platters as he passed on his way to put away his pack—vegetables, bread, sauces, fruit, cream, and yes, rabbit. It seemed that hot bath water wasn’t the only amenity kept refreshed for the inn’s guests.

  The door to the room he had slept in was closed, and when he pushed it open, he found that the bed had been changed and made up, but nothing else had been touched. His staff rested against the wall near the door, his boots and belt in a heap under the washstand. He put on the belt but left the boots, thinking he should clean them first.