Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Graegor sighed. “The priests are going to want to talk to me, aren’t they.”

  Karl barked a laugh, smothered it, and bowed his head to apologize, but he was still grinning. “I’m sorry. You sound so very mournful.”

  “I’m a little tired of talking about it.” Several of the archpriests in Chrenste had asked him if he had seen visions or had prophetic dreams when he had released the magic that had changed the Flame. He had lied and told them he hadn’t, and it never felt right to lie to a priest.

  “It’s important to them,” Contare said mildly—as if it wasn’t important to every single L’Abbanist on the face of the earth. “But you won’t have to do it today. You’ll be meeting enough people without adding a layer of priests.”

  “You may not remember everyone’s name,” Karl told him. “But don’t worry. You’ll sort them all out.”

  “I hope so.” Graegor had forgotten the names of the caretaker and his wife on the first day, but was too embarrassed to admit it.

  The stable was the most solid-looking structure in the complex, set back furthest from the beach. Graegor helped the caretaker saddle the grey for Contare, the roan for Karl, and the pinto for himself. The caretaker and his wife stood by the stable to see them off, and Karl led the way to a break in the trees.

  Graegor had found no actual paths in his prior wanderings through the forest, and they didn’t follow one now. Instead Karl guided his horse in a vaguely easterly direction for a while, then turned more south at a point with no obvious landmark. The songs and flutterings of birds and the buzzes of insects were constant. Evergreens stood side by side with oaks, cottonwoods, and palms, and mounds and gullies rose and fell along their way. Small animals moved through the branches overhead. Moss and mulch muffled the tread of the horses’ hooves, broken only by a splash through a streamlet or a click against an exposed rock.

  Contare glanced back at Graegor. “Different from Lakeland, yes?”

  “Not completely, sir, but yes,” Graegor agreed. “It’s warmer, and I don’t recognize a lot of the plants.”

  “Some only grow on this island.” He raised his arm to hold away a low-hanging branch. “We’ll come to a better path soon. I don’t maintain this one too well.”

  It was only a few more minutes before they emerged onto a well-worn track running at an angle to their course. They continued southeast, and piercing rays of the sun broke through the line of trees.

  “If you go along the track back that way,” Contare pointed behind them, “you’ll pass the break that leads to Josselin’s forest house. This way, we’ll pass the spur to Natayl’s manor in a few miles. Near a cove on the east coast, Pascin keeps a cottage where he likes to fish. In fact all of us have homes scattered over the island.”

  “No regular people live outside the city?”

  “There’s a few people who hide out around here. But they don’t cause trouble, and Josselin and I don’t bother them.”

  “But there were towns and farms here, though, a long time ago.” He had heard stories about Maze Island’s great purge, and he hoped Contare would elaborate, but the subject seemed to sadden him.

  “A long time ago, yes,” he allowed. “The Seventh Circle tore them down.”

  It didn’t seem to be the right time to ask why. “Are there a lot of animals here?” Graegor asked, to change the subject.

  “A wide variety, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. A few are unique to the island, like the clawless otter and a subspecies of the green nogga.”

  “Any big predators?”

  “Some. We allow a little hunting to help control the population, but nature largely takes care of itself. You’ll see many wolves, but there are pumas and bears too, and even some alligators in the marsh.”

  “Alligators?”

  Graegor thought he’d kept the worry out of his voice, but Contare heard it, and said, “Surely you’ve never been attacked by an animal.”

  “No, sir. Does our magic keep them away?”

  “Yes. Wild animals pick their fights carefully. With us, they know they’d lose.”

  Before long the track led out of the forest and became a well-defined road over small grassy hills that gradually stepped higher. To the east, Graegor counted nine distinct mountain peaks. The sun shone with brilliant force, and all three of them pushed their grey cloaks back from their shoulders as the temperature rose, but pulled up their hoods to combat the glare.

  “How far is it?” Graegor asked after they had been riding for well over an hour and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back.

  “From the beach house to the city is about twelve miles,” Contare said.

  “Eleven as the eagle flies,” Karl put in with a grin at the sorcerer.

  “One of the first things I should teach you here,” Contare said, and for a wild moment Graegor thought he was going to finish with “—is shapechanging”, “is keeping yourself cool when it’s hot. And warm when it’s cold.”

  Graegor finished the water in his bota and slung it back onto the saddle. “I’d like that.”

  “Here.” Contare passed over his own bota, and Graegor accepted it gratefully.

  “We’re almost halfway there,” Karl said.

  Graegor pointed toward the mountains. “How high are those?”

  “Less than a thousand feet,” Contare said. “By Khenroxan standards, they’re barely hills.”

  “How high are the mountains in Khenroxa?”

  “The volcanoes are all over fifteen thousand feet high. Most of the navigable passes are at least five thousand.”

  Graegor stared at him, stunned that five thousand feet was considered navigable.

  “The highest mountains in the world are in Kroldon,” Contare went on. “Baki Nildag is estimated at thirty thousand feet.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Twice. The view is arresting.”

  The view of the city, when they came to it, was also arresting. Karl and Contare stopped at the top of a hill, and Karl gestured grandly as Graegor pulled up next to them. It was larger than Chrenste—three times larger—even five times larger. The sun glittered from hundreds of domes and spires and towers rising from the floor of a valley formed by two rivers. A white wall enclosed the entire city, like a string around a barrel, and another wall ringed the central quarter. Graegor tried, but couldn’t make out individual buildings there—the Hall, the Library, the Academy grounds—for here was the brightest reflection of the sun, which blurred everything near it into gold.

  But all around the central quarter were other famous places. A sprawling palace with high arches and turrets crowded up to the far wall to the south; that had to be where the Aedseli sorcerers lived, and where Sorcerer Barack had called the first Council before the Hall was even built. Just north of the inner wall, a white dome marked the center of the L’Abbanist faith in the city, the Basilica Ecumenica of Saint Davidon’s Word. To the north and west, two pale, enormous structures stood, one oval, one round—the Hippodrome and the Colosseum, where the races and the games had unfolded for hundreds of years. Graegor caught his breath at the thrill of an imagined scene of horses thundering past tens of thousands of screaming islanders. He hoped he could see that soon.

  The only buildings outside the wall were a few warehouses set to one side of a widening in the larger river before it looped into the city’s western quarter and out again. Between the two rivers, he could see the fruit orchards, and at the horizon, the forests that gathered against both rivers before they met the sea.

  “How many people live here?” was the first thing Graegor could think to ask.

  “Somewhat over half a million,” Contare said.

  “My God.”

  Karl chuckled. “We’re dazzling you with big numbers.”

  “We didn’t pass any farms—how do you feed everyone?”

  “Almost none of Maze Island itself is cultivated, but we own farms and pastures throughout the archipelago,” Contare explained. “Barges come i
n every day. See the hills on the north side of the city? Under those are the great warehouses.”

  “I’ve heard of them. Is it true that magic keeps the food inside fresh for years?”

  “It’s closer to months than years, but yes, a long time.”

  “Ice will keep forever, though,” Karl said, “which is nice when the weather’s hot like it’ll be today. There’s an underground passage from one of the icehouses straight to the Hippodrome, so that there’s always cold water for everyone.”

  Ice-cold water sounded really good at the moment. “Are there races today?”

  “They were yesterday,” Karl said. “Windsday is race day, and Firesday is games day for the summer season.”

  “Karl, stop it.” There was no heat in Contare’s voice, but he did sound wearied. “I don’t want to lose him to the games the very first week.”

  Karl assumed an innocent expression. “It’s all part of his education, m’lord.”

  “Right.”

  “And wouldn’t you rather have him see the Hippodrome first as a spectator rather than as the main attraction?”

  “What?” Graegor stared at Karl, who pretended not to notice his alarm. Contare shot Karl a look of mild disgust before turning to Graegor to explain.

  “We’ll be presenting all our successors to the public at the Equinox. You aren’t expected to do anything but stand there and look nice, like you did in Chrenste, so don’t let Karl scare you.”

  Contare led the way down the road. For the first time, other paths joined theirs, as well as other people. Most of them were leaving the city for what seemed like leisure—young men and women on foot or on horseback with baskets of food and cheerily yipping dogs, and a few carriages and wagons with older people or families. There were many Telgards and Khenroxans, a few Adelards and Thendals, and a couple of Aedselis and Tolanders. Most waved to Contare, and he waved back, but only a few bowed and said “my lord” or showed any other signs of respect.

  “Don’t they know who you are, sir?” Graegor asked Contare curiously when another group had passed.

  “Some know me personally, like the couple in the open carriage with the blue seats back there. Their niece is a maga at the Academy. Other folks see the badges on our cloaks and assume we’re all magi. And some people just wave to everyone.”

  The gate was only ten feet wide, and the guardhouse and tower looked barely wide enough for two men to stand inside. Both guards directing traffic through the gate came to full attention and saluted when they saw Contare. “Welcome back, m’lord,” the guard on the left said with a sort of formal warmth. He and the other guard wore light chain mail shirts, helms with leather flaps to keep the sun off their ears and necks, and white surcoats. They held tall, tasseled spears, the points mirror-bright, and they looked at Graegor with great interest as he passed.

  The street beyond the gate was wide and paved with large square tiles. Graceful homes rose on each side, two and three floors high, with fruit trees, fountains, mosaics, flowerbeds, statues, topiaries, and sundials beyond low front walls. The street did not grow noisy until they reached an intersection that hosted a small market, a singer’s stage, and a small but beautifully tended chapel. They rode up the thoroughfare for a mile or more, passing shabbier, then more stylish, homes, and seedier, then more refined, markets and chapels and craft districts, before climbing a slope and passing a guardhouse. The guards there, dressed and armed identically to those at the outer walls, also bowed immediately when they saw Contare and welcomed him home.

  The street joined a major boulevard alive with the noise and color of shop stalls, street theater, and carters selling food—scoops of peanuts, skewers of hot meat, bowls of fruit ices, cubes of cheese. Cats sat on porches, sleeping in the sun or grooming themselves. Thin metal poles extended up from some rooftops, for what purpose Graegor couldn’t guess, but he decided to wait until they were somewhere less crowded before he asked. Contare’s horses proceeded at a steady walk through the foot traffic, and since there were so many people, few gave them a second glance. It was hot, but the urban odors were markedly less pronounced than they had been in Farre or Chrenste. Graegor frequently saw older men and women in white tunics sweeping debris from the street and picking up garbage—and shooing away doves and crows—with sharp-pointed canes.

  And there were magi here. He could sense them, like he’d sensed the magi to whom Contare had introduced him in Chrenste. But it was different—more distant, more diffuse, and at the same time just more, because of course there were more magi living here. They harmonized with the island magic that was always in the back of his mind, and shaded its white with their hues.

  They came to a quiet street paved with blue-grey stone cobbles and lined with elegant townhouses faced with marble. As they stopped near the middle of the row, several people emerged and came down to the street. In short order Graegor was introduced to Contare’s steward, housekeeper, groom, cook, and two maids. All of them were Telgard magi at least as old as his parents, and Graegor forgot their names immediately. His head hurt from the ride in the sun and his skin itched with sweat. The groom took their horses, and the steward spoke rapidly to Contare as they followed Karl up the stairs to the front door. Graegor saw curious faces poking out the window of the adjoining townhouse as he was ushered inside.

  The foyer had a high ceiling from which hung a crystal chandelier, its lamps glowing softly even in the daylight coming through the windows. A mosaic of interlocking circles inlaid the floor. On the right a staircase led up; on the left a corridor passed through the house to what looked to be the kitchen at the back. Graegor felt a draft, and glanced around before realizing that it was coming from the chandelier—or, rather, from something attached to its underside, spinning.

  “It’s a fan,” Karl said, noticing Graegor’s frown. “Five planks of wood, angled like this,” he tilted his hand slightly, “and spelled to stay in motion. See the ivy twisted around the lamps and the glass in the chandelier? And look—that metal finial is thaumat’argent, and that holds the intent of the spell. The spell draws the gen of the plant to spin the fan and light the lamps. To keep it going, you give the plant water and sunlight, and you reinforce the spell every week or so.”

  “That’s a great spell.”

  “This time of year it’s a real blessing.”

  “I saw metal rods on top of some of the buildings—are those thaumat’argent also?”

  “That’s right. We have one on the roof of this house. And there were a few in Chrenste too.”

  “What are they?”

  “We call them antennas. They extend our telepathic range.”

  “Fiona,” Contare looked up from his discussion with the steward to say to the housekeeper, “please show Graegor his room and the rest of the house, then bring him to the dining room and we’ll have lunch.” He smiled at Graegor, and something about his manner gave Graegor the impression that he had to placate the steward before the man burst with fussiness. Graegor grinned back at him and followed the apple-cheeked, wide-hipped housekeeper up the stairs.

  His room on the second floor was nearly as large as his room in Chrenste had been, and similarly furnished, but with brighter colors and lighter fabrics. The single window was a square sheet of glass with a wide sash facing the quiet street, held swung out by a rod set in the frame. A fan spun at the ceiling, at the base of a hanging pot of ivy, and other potted plants were scattered throughout the room. On a shelf by his bed was his gift from the Hierarch of Telgardia—a complete set of holy tracts, bound in leather with gold-gilt pages and lavish illustrations. Again, he’d traded up from his old life; the humble starter tracts his parents had given him were squished somewhere into his baggage, and he couldn’t help feeling guilty about it.

  The housekeeper—Fiona—suggested that he might want to freshen up, and she closed the door softly behind her. Graegor saw his purpleheart quarterstaff propped against the wall near the bed, and he smiled as he picked it up. Then he raised his eye
brows; he was accustomed to it feeling warm in his hands, but right now it didn’t. In fact, holding it seemed to be cooling his flushed skin, even easing his headache.

  Maybe it gave him, or helped give him, whatever he needed at the moment. A weapon to defend himself, a focus for his barely-controlled power, or simply relief from sweat and soreness.

  That, at least, was more useful than the legend that had grown around it. The Carhlaan servants who had seen him emerge, glowing, from the tunnels with the quarterstaff had immediately assumed he had retrieved it from some secret chamber deep in the castle’s heart. Their witness account had changed in passing from mouth to mouth, and the quarterstaff was now said to be thousands of years old and possessed of such power as to allow a Torchanes sorcerer to level mountains.

  Graegor’s answer to this was to deliberately treat the quarterstaff as if it was very ordinary. That was why he had sent it here on the ship with their other baggage instead of keeping it with him at the beach house; he hadn’t needed a walking stick or a weapon there. It would probably stay in this room most of the time, but he was glad to have it close by again.

  He splashed his face in the washbasin, then pulled off his cloak and shirt and sponged off with a wet towel. That felt good. The fan was nice, but he was looking forward to learning to keep himself cool like Contare had mentioned. His wardrobe held the clothes he’d gotten in Chrenste, and he put on a fresh shirt. Then Fiona reappeared and offered to show him the rest of the house.

  He saw potted plants everywhere as he poked his head into Contare’s large bedroom with its curio cabinets, the guest rooms with their stitched quilts, the spacious third-floor servants’ quarters, the formal parlor downstairs, the kitchen with its six-burner stove and brick ovens, and the small library stacked floor to ceiling with books, including complete sets of holy tracts from each of the four L’Abbanist kingdoms. Fiona took him down a flight of stairs to show him the root cellar, and then the bathing room.

  This was without question the most impressive place to bathe he had ever seen. It was lined in pale green and white tile, and potted ferns hung from the ceiling and surrounded the copper tank and tub, which glowed in the shaft of light streaming from the window near the ceiling. Towels, jars and, sponges sat on a shelf at the foot of the tub, next to a cluster of fat white wax candles.