Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  He picked up the quarterstaff and flexed his fingers around it, remembering how it had spun over his head, in his head ...

  Something was nearby, something he couldn’t see, could only feel, except he’d never felt colors like this before—before yesterday. The sense of it was sky-blue, against a sense of purple so dark it was almost black.

  Purple—purpleheart. The purple flame in his head. Power ... his power.

  “Graegor?”

  He turned. Lord Contare and Magus Karl were back in the common room, the magus holding a chair at the table for the sorcerer. Lord Contare gestured to another chair. “Shall we eat, and talk?”

  Graegor nodded, then blurted, “It’s purple.” He was gripping the quarterstaff hard, but he didn’t mean the purpleheart, and he knew that Lord Contare knew what he did mean. “And yours is blue.”

  Lord Contare nodded. “Yes.”

  Graegor set the quarterstaff back in his room and joined the sorcerer at the table, and neither spoke as Magus Karl served them. Lord Contare only took some bread and butter, but Graegor nodded at everything the magus offered, his mouth watering. Beef. He hadn’t had beef since leaving home. Chicken was more the rule for him these days, or maybe pork, when he was lucky enough to get meat at all. There were fresh peas still in the pod, potatoes creamed with milk and garlic, and slices of apples and cheese—and that filled his plate, so the rabbit and the other dishes would have to wait. He very nearly forgot to recite his meat-thanks before applying himself very seriously to the business of filling his empty stomach.

  He finished so quickly it was embarrassing. Magus Karl had left the room at some point, and Graegor was about to reach for the bowl of diced peaches when he saw Lord Contare looking at him. The sorcerer was sitting back in his chair, and although he wasn’t smiling, amusement lingered in his eyes. He had a seamed, weathered face, but not quite like other old men Graegor had known. He seemed more vital, more ... ready. It was a visible reminder of the power that had slowed his aging for so long. It was a visible reminder of five centuries as Telgardia’s sorcerer.

  Telgardia’s sorcerer poured Graegor another glass of water, then one for himself. Graegor murmured his thanks, hoping that while he’d been eating he hadn’t forgotten his table manners, but suspecting that he had come off as a pig.

  “Do you smoke?” Lord Contare asked. “I can send out for some tabac.”

  “No, sir. My lord. Thank you.” He’d tried once, with Ted and his brothers, but the pipe stem had tasted horrible, and inhaling had made him choke. “Do you smoke?”

  “No. Very few of us do. There is a region in Medea which grows a very fine leaf that Lord Natayl imports, but he’s unusual.”

  Graegor nodded. He had heard of Lord Natayl, of course. He knew all the sorcerers’ names—everyone did. All eight generations, stretching back hundreds and hundreds of years, and all nine sorcerers from each of those generations. Seventy-two names he knew as well as the names of the people in his village. He’d grown up playing at magical fights, taking turns with the other children pretending to be this sorcerer or that, creating and destroying wonders upon wonders. He’d played Circles of Magic, and Fire-Water-Earth-Air, and Sorcerer-Says. Craig had always cheated at that game, never staying under “mind control” for the whole time he was supposed to be ...

  Lord Contare said, “I meant it when I told you that I would answer any question you want to ask.”

  Graegor nodded. “Sir.”

  “Is there anything you would like to ask me?”

  Yes. Graegor hesitated. “What happened ... back at the cloister? Did I really ... I mean, that crack in the earth ... how ...” He couldn’t even find the words for it.

  “Your power joined with the earth’s own magic,” Lord Contare said. Something in how he spoke made Graegor think he was simplifying, but that was fine. Anything that could be kept simple at this point was welcome. “Essentially, you tried to lift up the ground.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

  “That’s good.” It bothered him that he hadn’t thought about that before now. “The priests, will they be able to fix it? Rebuild the wall and fill in the crack?”

  “The damage was impressive, but should be reparable.”

  “Should ... should I help somehow, my lord? It was my fault.”

  “I have already made an anonymous donation to help them fund the repairs.”

  “But is there something I can do?” He didn’t like someone else paying for his mistakes.

  “Well, you are my heir, so my money is yours. That makes the donation as much from you as from me.”

  Graegor hadn’t thought of that. “Oh! ... Thank you, my lord.”

  “Not at all.”

  This was definitely something that Graegor could start thinking about too much, so he quickly changed the subject. “Are we ... sir, you said that we’d be going to Chrenste?”

  “I would prefer to start back downriver tomorrow. But that depends on you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you want to go to Chrenste?”

  What does that have to do with it? “I have a choice?”

  “Indeed you have a choice.” Lord Contare said this as if it was obvious. “I cannot and will not force you to do anything.”

  What did this mean? That he had to choose to be Telgardia’s sorcerer?—Everything he’d ever heard about it said that sorcerers were born to it, they didn’t choose it. “My lord, does that mean someone else would become the sorcerer if I didn’t?” Was he the first one Lord Contare had asked, or had there been others?

  But Lord Contare shook his head. “No, you are the only one. If you choose to refuse this duty, Telgardia will be without a sorcerer once I am gone.”

  “So I don’t have a choice.”

  “You do. If you decided to sit down in the middle of the street outside and never get up, nothing on earth could move you. The wisdom of such a decision is debatable, but it would be your decision.”

  Graegor didn’t know why Lord Contare was insisting on this when it was clear that only one choice made any sense. If he was Telgardia’s new sorcerer, then he had to go with Lord Contare to Maze Island, so that he could learn to use and control his power—power that could cause earthquakes, and riots, and freak waves.

  Good God. Great Lord Abban. I am Telgardia’s new sorcerer.

  “I’ll go with you, my lord.” He spoke carefully, fairly sure that this is what the sorcerer wanted to hear. He was right, because Lord Contare smiled.

  “Excellent.” With that, he poured himself another glass of water.

  Graegor saw the peaches again and served himself. “Did these come from a hothouse, sir? I mean, since they’re out of season?”

  “I’m sure they did. On Maze Island, we have many orchards, and there are always some kinds of fruit in season. Pears, apples, oranges, kiwis, too many others to name.”

  “I’ve heard that it gets very hot there.” So many things to ask this man, and here he was, talking about the weather.

  “Yes, it does. The fruit trees like it, but even though I’ve lived there for a long time, the heat can still bother me if I don’t shield it out.”

  Graegor hesitated. “Sir?”

  “Yes, Graegor?”

  “Why ... why do sorcerers live for so long?”

  Lord Contare nodded, like Graegor’s schoolmaster used to do when someone asked a good question. “As you probably know, the Sorcerers’ Star appears several months before the next generation of sorcerers is born. It’s not just a sign; it’s a direct cause. The comet affects particular babies in their mother’s wombs, and it awakens the potential in them to become sorcerers. Before the Star appeared nearly sixteen years ago, my magic kept me from aging. I looked about twenty. But once you were born, I aged very quickly, and now I believe I look about sixty.”

  Graegor stared at him. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

  “Not to worry. Pretty ladies still smile at m
e.”

  “But if I weren’t born, you would live forever.”

  “Not true, actually.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We know because it’s been tried. Darion was the third Kroldon sorcerer, and when the Star came, he spent the next twenty years killing any Kroldon child he found with any spark of power. But it did no good. He aged just as quickly as the others in his Circle. In the end, his successor, Michail, found him, and killed him.”

  This disturbing tale was not one that Graegor had heard before. “That’s not usually what happens,” he said quickly.

  “No, usually the story is somewhat less dramatic.” Lord Contare gestured to encompass the room and their conversation. “The elder sorcerer will take the younger as his apprentice, and pass on everything he has learned.”

  The irony of it made Graegor laugh, and at the sorcerer’s raised eyebrow, he said, “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just ... no one at home would believe this apprenticeship.”

  “Are you sure?” Lord Contare asked, genuinely curious. “The timing of your birth must have made some people wonder.”

  “Well, the magus we had—the healer—he said I had no magic.” That annoyed Graegor. “He lied to me.”

  “Not necessarily. Did he attend the Academy?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Only Academy-trained magi learn to sense a sorcerer’s shielded magic, and not even they can always do it.” Lord Contare frowned slightly. “Have you heard of rogue magi?”

  “Yes, sir—but no, Magus Paul isn’t one.” But he had to be honest, so he amended that with, “At least I don’t think so. He never talked as if ... well ... maybe I’m not sure what rogue magi are. I thought they were magi who didn’t like sorcerers.”

  “They are. Some go further than that, though, and want to be rid of us entirely.”

  “You mean kill you? All of you?”

  “Yes, kill us. All of us.”

  Graegor’s heart started beating rather fast. What if Ahren and Rond had been rogue magi instead of white heralds? What if they’d tried to kill him with magic, so that Telgardia wouldn’t have a new sorcerer?

  His alarm must have showed on his face, because Lord Contare spoke firmly. “You must not worry. The rogue magi may think that this is the time to strike, since I’ve grown old and you’ve yet to be trained. But think about what you did to protect yourself—without any training at all—when those white heralds tried to take you.”

  Graegor ate in silence for a time before asking, “Is my magic also what keeps me from getting sick?”

  “Yes.”

  “And from getting lost?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about ... what about in a fight?”

  “You can move and react very quickly. Your senses become extremely sharp.”

  Yes. Exactly. “I felt that way even before a fight, once. A few days ago. Everything looked so clear, and I could smell things so strongly ...”

  “That happens to us often.” Lord Contare suddenly smiled. “You do not seem to be a picky eater, but many sorcerers are. All our senses can be greatly enhanced.”

  Graegor found himself grinning back. “My mother wouldn’t let me be a picky eater.” He nodded at the food as he reached for the platter of rabbit. “And right now I’m really hungry.”

  “We can go without food for a long time, or without sleep, and not suffer much. Going without both at the same time is much more difficult.”

  That reminded Graegor of something else. “Sir, something else strange happened, the morning you found me. I think ... I think I went into a trance. I could see in the dark ... when I came out of it, I didn’t feel like I’d been sleeping, but I felt better, a little—not as hungry or tired.” He remembered a word he’d heard once. “Was that regeneration?”

  Lord Contare raised his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I kept trying, but I just couldn’t. I sat in a tavern and looked at the reflection of two candles in the window.” He told Lord Contare about the shades of black, the beetles and the stars and the mouse. The sorcerer seemed particularly interested in how clearly he could describe the imaginary mouse-city. He nodded for a while once Graegor had related everything he could remember.

  “And you felt better afterward?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then yes, I believe it was a regenerative trance, although most of us have to be taught how to induce it. We can use it to build up energy reserves in a short time. But it only delays the need for sleep or food—it doesn’t replace it.”

  “Why did it happen?—I mean, why couldn’t I just sleep?”

  “I don’t know. There are aspects of different phenomena here.” Lord Contare’s expression remained thoughtful, the wrinkles in his forehead more pronounced and his blue eyes more intense. He idly twirled a soup spoon around his fingers, and Graegor noticed that the sorcerer’s hands did not seem old. There were no age spots, no inflamed joints, no hint of stiffness or weakness.

  “Do you have vivid dreams?” Lord Contare asked then. “Dreams you remember after waking?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never remembered my dreams very well.”

  “Nightmares?”

  “Well, my mother says I used to wake up screaming at the top of my lungs, but that’s when I was a baby.”

  The sorcerer lapsed into focused silence again, and seemed troubled. It made Graegor uneasy, so he asked another question. “Do most sorcerers have nightmares?”

  The sorcerer shook his head, and seemed to shake off whatever was bothering him as well. “No more than most people. However, sorcerers who do have vivid dreams also usually have prescience.”

  This was not a word Graegor had heard before. “Sir?”

  “Prescience. The ability to see glimpses of future possibilities.”

  “Like fortune telling?”

  The sorcerer smiled. “No, not quite. Fortune tellers will say that they can tell you how many children you’ll have, or if you’ll become rich, but that’s not what you can learn from true prescience. The future is always changing. The choices you make today affect what happens tomorrow in ways you cannot imagine. Prescience shows you what might happen. If you don’t like what you see, you can make choices to try to change it, but some possibilities are less flexible than others.”

  “Less flexible? You mean that some things will happen, no matter what?”

  “Well, for example, the sun will rise tomorrow. At least, the probability that it won’t is very small, so it’s a more inflexible future than what food on this table you’ll be eating next. You have an equal probability of choosing any of these dishes, so if you had a vision last night that you were going to eat duck, you could change that future by not choosing the duck.”

  “I think I will choose the duck.” Graegor reached for the platter. “How can you tell if it’s a vision or just a regular dream?”

  “It is difficult to tell. The Kroldon sorcerer, Lord Oran, is prescient, and he tells me that he takes all his dreams seriously.”

  Graegor nodded, for Sorcerer Oran’s twelve prophecies were known even to L’Abbanists. “My lord, do you ...” He felt awkward whenever he came close to anything that could be considered a personal question, but he had to get over it. This man had just become the most important person in his life, and the more Graegor knew about him, the better. “My lord, do you have prescience?”

  “I don’t. No Telgard sorcerer ever has. This is one reason why I find this spontaneous trance of yours hard to categorize. This could be how the talent manifests in a Telgard sorcerer.”

  “But how could a dream about a city of mice be about the future?”

  “Honestly, Graegor, I don’t know.”

  Graegor thought about that as he ate more duck. Like everything else, it raised more questions than it answered. Once he swallowed, he went right to the heart of it all: “Sir, what is magic?”

  “Ah-ha. The question.” Lord Contare sat forward, his hands clasped
and his forearms resting on the edge of the table. “Most simply, magic is energy. Gen. It is similar to the light and heat of the sun, or the electromagnetic field that pulls the needle on a compass to north, or the vibrations that bring sound to our ears. It is part of the earth, part of nature, part of every animal’s and human’s body and brain.”

  “If everyone has it, then why can’t everyone use it?”

  “Many very intelligent people have tried to answer that question. Something is physically different in the brains of magic-users, but there is great debate about what that ‘something’ is. We do know that magical abilities run in families, as other talents do. The Torchanes bloodline has produced five sorcerers and hundreds of magi.”

  “So it’s like being tall, or being good at singing.”

  “Correct. However, that undefined ‘something’ also interferes with childbearing.”

  “Right, sorceresses can’t have children.” It was one of those things that everybody knew.

  “It affects magi women too. Often they have trouble carrying babies to term. Unlike tall people and good singers, magi remain rare.”

  Graegor nodded slowly. “Magus Paul said that only one in a thousand people has the magi gift.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Why are sorcerers so much stronger than magi?—Or are they?”

  “We are. Your question is the subject of another great debate. We know that sorcerers have much more native magic energy, gen, than magi do, just like magi have much more than ordinary people. We also know that sorcerers can tap into earth magic, but magi can’t.”

  Earth magic ... Graegor definitely wanted to know more about that. “Is earth magic more powerful?”

  “Yes. By several orders of magnitude. Earth magic is bound into the planet’s crust and atmosphere. The mountains, the plains, even the lakes—they all give the earth magic a different color, or texture, or however you care to think of it. What’s curious is that the people living in those lands show related variation in the gen with which they are born. And their gen can be a source of power for their magi and sorcerers.”

  “Have there always been magi? Even before Sorcerer Carlodon?”