Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Graegor picked up one of the candles. It was heavy, the wick blackened but the top only barely bowled, and it smelled of heather. Heather for tranquility. He suddenly understood what his mother had meant when she had talked about the market for her candles. This one could have come from her workshop.

  “My mother is a chandler,” he told Fiona as he put the candle back.

  “A very good one, I’m certain, m’lord.”

  Back upstairs, Contare, Karl, and the steward were seated at one end of a very long dining table covered by a bright white cloth edged with lace. The chair at Contare’s right was empty, and the old sorcerer gestured Graegor toward it as he followed Fiona into the room. “Thank you, sir,” Graegor acknowledged as he sat beside Karl. “You have a very nice home.”

  “Thank you. There are larger houses in the outer neighborhoods, but I prefer staying close to the Central Quarter.”

  One of the maids served Graegor iced tea, and the other brought in the midday meal—cold crab salad and a wider assortment of fruit than Graegor ever knew existed. After meat-thanks, Contare’s steward started talking again, in Mazespaak, and since Graegor could only understand a few words, he let his eyes wander around the room as he ate. The furnishings were sturdy but graceful, with walls hung with Tolandish-style paintings of landscapes, a patterned carpet on the floor, another crystal chandelier with a fan, and, of course, many potted plants. A cold fireplace stood a few feet behind Contare’s chair at the head of the table. Graegor imagined the room would be quite cozy and festive on a winter Solstice night, with twenty or more people at the table and food served in course after course. The scene in his head grew more clear and real, with steam from hot soups rising in clouds, and a burst of laughter from a group of couples near the end of the table ...

  He looked back at the old sorcerer. Contare seemed completely focused on the steward, but a few minutes later he said, in Telgardian, “Richard, Graegor doesn’t speak the island tongue yet. Why don’t we wait until evening to discuss this?”

  “Of course, sir,” the steward agreed, his blue eyes flicking to Graegor and his hands at the edge of the table. He was very nearly bald, and his collar seemed too tight, especially compared to the more relaxed necklines Graegor had seen people wearing outside. The sense of him was like a tightly wound spring. “My apologies, my lord.” He sounded sincere, but he obviously wished he could have a long, uninterrupted talk with his master.

  “None necessary, Magus,” Graegor said, having no wish to alienate him.

  “I understand you come from Lakeland, my lord,” Richard said.

  “Yes, a village southeast of Farre.” Whose duke was also named Richard. Graegor didn’t know if that would make it easier or harder for him to remember.

  “I have traveled the area, and I found it beautiful country. Is your village by chance near Long Lake?”

  “Yes, right on the lake in fact. It’s called Rock-in-the-Lake.”

  Karl choked on an ice chunk. Richard raised his eyebrows as Karl wiped his mouth on a tea towel, laughing. “Rock-in-the-Lake? What a great name. No wonder you didn’t tell us.”

  “One of the newer settlements?” Contare asked. “The south end of the lake?”

  “Right. The centennial is in a couple of years.”

  “I helped to establish some of those artisan villages around Farre.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. It was an ambitious project, and it took a while for the guilds to come around to the idea.”

  They talked about Lakeland and about the journey to Maze Island, but rather carefully avoided mentioning the events that had transpired in Chrenste. Eventually, Contare pushed back his chair. “Why don’t we go to the Hall?” he said to Graegor and Karl. “I think we’ll walk, Richard, so no need to ready the horses.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Richard inclined his head. The maids brought their cloaks to the foyer, but Karl waved them off since it was so hot outside. Graegor declined his as well, but when he stepped outside and squinted into the high sunlight, he thought that maybe the hood would have been a good idea.

  The street beyond their own was broad and noisy, and on its opposite side ran a high, curving wall. The street curved with the wall, and as they followed it, Contare said, “This street is called Davidon’s Walk, and it loops all the way around the Central Quarter. The wall breaks at the entrance, up ahead there.”

  The Central Quarter was the heart of the city. From the entrance—a marble arch thirty feet high—a huge, open market spread out onto, and crammed itself into, every available space, petering south to a long granite wharf at a curving bow of the river. Dozens of small barges and lines of carts were being loaded and unloaded with barrels, bundles, and baskets. As they went deeper into the swirling noise, Karl pointed out theaters, chapels, taverns, and a famous brothel. Graegor noticed that the buildings inside the quarter were older than those outside, and more likely to be built of stone rather than wood. Contare easily moved through the foot traffic, frequently greeting people by name and receiving everything from deep, trembling bows to whooping, good-natured catcalls in return. Music was everywhere—mandolins, flutes, drums, voices—and a sweet citrus smell lifted above all the other scents of perfumes and spices and cooking.

  And it was hot. He was sweating again.

  They finally reached the other side of the plaza, and the crowd thinned as they came to a wide break in the row of shops and stalls. There was no gate, but a large guardhouse stood nearby, and the men snapped to attention and saluted when they saw Contare. Beyond lay a wide, green lawn, and the paved path crossed it to meet a circular courtyard. Above the courtyard’s many-colored paving stones stood a ring of flags ... the Ring of Flags.

  Graegor’s eyes widened as they approached and the nine flagpoles seemed to grow taller, and taller, and taller. He couldn’t believe there had ever been trees so tall. And on the flags themselves, he could see each device clearly—Telgardia’s Pearl, the sky-blue teardrop on a field of purple; Khenroxa’s Flame, orange on a field of green; Thendalia’s Icicle, and all the others. They had to be as large as spinnakers to be so plain at this height.

  “The poles are two feet thick,” Contare said softly as they paused in the middle of the granite courtyard. “They extend twenty feet below ground and three hundred feet above. Earth magic holds them steady. We’ve had several earthquakes since they were raised, and not one has come close to falling.”

  “How long ago ... ?”

  “It was a Second Restoration project, so about six hundred years. The poles have protective oils on them, and we replace the flags every year, at the spring Equinox. They get pretty tattered up there—we have wet and windy winters.”

  Beyond the Ring of Flags was the even more famous Hall of Councils. The white marble cylinder gleamed so brightly in the sun that Graegor could not see any of its detail until they had reached the steps leading to the massive cedar doors. Bas-relief sculpture climbed up the doorframe, and high above his head were square stained-glass windows in every color. Lining the terrace at the top of the steps were brightly colored pots holding everything from mosses to bushes to slender trees.

  Before they started up the steps, the impossibly tall doors swung silently open. Two magi wearing grey cloaks emerged, deep in discussion. They took the stairs at an angle away from the main path, toward another marble building. They did not even seem to notice Contare, and Graegor saw Karl throw a quick glare after them.

  What struck Graegor first as they walked through the doors was the silence. The courtyard had been quiet, but the noise of the plaza behind them had carried over. Here, inside the foyer of the Hall, the stillness was as absolute, and as grandly peaceful, as an empty chapel. Marble-floored corridors curved away left and right, and in front of Graegor, an arched alcove with a tasseled carpet held a large wooden table, beautifully joined into a sweeping half-circle. Globes of soft light, seemingly attached to nothing, hovered above the table, and behind it a grey-haired woman with a magi
badge on her cloak looked up from a stack of papers and books.

  “My lord!” she exclaimed in delight, and stood from her chair to scurry around the table and greet Contare with a hug. She spoke to him in the island tongue, her hands clasped with his, and his answer made her laugh. She and Karl greeted each other just as affectionately, and then she turned to Graegor. She bowed low, even though her wrinkled face still held a smile. “My lord,” she said again.

  “Graegor, this is Maga Filek,” Contare said. “She is one of the receivers you’ll always find here at the door. All of them are very helpful, but she is the best.”

  “It is good to meet you, Maga Filek,” Graegor said slowly in Mazespaak, and Filek’s smile deepened.

  “Always at your service, my lord,” she said just as slowly in Telgardian, then looked at Contare and said something in Mazespaak that made him chuckle.

  “She said you’re a very handsome boy,” he translated, and because Graegor sensed that Maga Filek wanted him to be embarrassed, he ducked his head, and her light laughter filled the entranceway again. After all the predatory noblewomen he had endured—and with whom he had managed to never be alone—in Chrenste, he could let a nice old lady have her fun.

  She and Contare exchanged a few more words, and then he bid her goodbye and started toward the right-hand corridor. “Let me show you the Council room.”

  A few doors stood ajar in the left-hand walls as they followed the corridor, and more of the glowing globes rested near the right-hand walls, above statues set in alcoves. Graegor paused at one, then stopped fully, staring. She was ... it was a gleaming white sculpture of a naked girl. She was sitting on a rock, one leg crossed over the other and her arms lifted to her hair as she brushed it. There was a softness about the statue—maybe a trick of the pale light—that made her seem somehow alive, her half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips ready to open fully ... the small, perfect cones of her breasts straining against the stone that held them still ...

  “Graegor?” Karl called back to him, and he shook himself and hurried to catch up, his heart pounding and his face flushed. Karl raised an eyebrow at him. “What, you haven’t noticed the nude statues in the gardens all over town?”

  “It—it just caught my eye,” was all Graegor could say.

  “Like a hook catches a fish.” Karl grinned. “It’s called Corinnia at Nightfall, in case you were wondering. From one of those sad northern stories. In the end she loses everything but her beauty.”

  They passed a staircase, and when they had come halfway around the circle, they reached another giant set of doors, this time on the inner wall. These doors glided open as silently as their counterparts had, and they entered the Council room.

  Graegor barely breathed as he stepped into the hush. Fifty feet above his head was Nuru’s Diamond—an enormous, intricately faceted glass disc that formed the entire ceiling. The afternoon sun poured through it to spread rainbows around the walls and a cone of yellow light across the Table.

  The Table, as he had always known, was perfectly round, six paces wide. It was high, he saw as he came closer, its top nearly reaching his chest. Though the Hall had been built by the Sixth Circle at the First Restoration, and rebuilt by the Seventh Circle at the Second Restoration, the Table dated back to the third generation. Unlike his quarterstaff, the Table truly was thousands of years old. It was crafted from the trunk of a single tree, and he could see the ancient age-rings, almost too close together to count.

  At nine points around the Table were chairs as large as thrones. The backs were nine feet tall, and at the very top of each was mounted a clear crystal as large as his fist. At each place at the table, a mosaic symbol had been affixed to the ancient wood, the thumb-sized tiles bright with that sorcerer’s two colors. He walked slowly around the Table until he found, between Khenroxa’s Flame and Thendalia’s Icicle, Telgardia’s Pearl: the teardrop-shaped blue jewel in the center of a circle of purple. “Purple for royalty?” he asked Contare softly, only now putting the pieces together.

  “Purple for the night sky, and yes, for the Torchanes kings.”

  For my family. “But the Carhlaans are the royal family now. Shouldn’t the purple be changed to green?”

  Contare gave a little shrug. “The Sixth Circle designed the emblems at the First Restoration, and they balanced the colors among all the races—as you can see. You could petition the Circle to have the Telgard colors changed. I didn’t, for I saw the purple as a memorial to Zacharei and Augustin, and to all the Torchanes kings since Carlodon who built our kingdom.”

  And who gave us four of our sorcerers ... no, five. Me. “Like the purple roof tiles and curtains in Chrenste,” he said. “Showing you who remained loyal.”

  “Not exactly. There is no rebellion here, and it is no insult to the Carhlaans to revere our history.”

  Graegor didn’t answer. It was still messy in his mind, the idea that his family and the Carhlaans had once been rivals, even enemies.

  Contare then gestured to the throne-like chair and asked softly, “Would you like to try it out?”

  Instantly, unequivocally, Graegor shook his head. There were so many mistakes he could make, so many things he could destroy. His power was still too much for him. He didn’t even want to pretend that chair was his yet.

  He looked beyond the emblem that represented his people—represented him—to the very center of the Table, to the nine-pointed star. This, too, had lived in his mind through songs and legends all his life. It was not enameled, or carved, or painted; its lines glowed silvery-white with Maze Island’s earth magic.

  “The Bond of the Circle,” Contare said, his voice still very quiet. “It has endured since the third generation. When we close the Eighth Circle, you of the Ninth Circle will renew it, and add your power to its light.”

  Graegor realized that he had been feeling something ever since entering the Hall—something building so gradually he had hardly sensed its strength; and now, for the first time, he felt what he could only call magic—a tingling pressure against his mind, ancient, neither passive nor aggressive, but there, like crystal shimmering with the entire spectrum of color. It was the star. No, not the star, but the Bond itself—the Bond of the Eighth Circle. All nine sorcerers were linked, each to the others, a union that strengthened them, protected them ... and the rest of the world from them.

  He looked at Contare again. He seemed no different, his blue eyes mild, his back very slightly bent, his well-made but ordinary clothes a bit rumpled, and his white hair somewhat disordered by the wind. He even had his hands in the pockets of his cloak. There was nothing even remotely threatening about him. But his power at that moment was palpable, deep and strong, and Graegor found himself unable to look away. Something was coiling inside him ...

  “M’lord,” Karl said into the stillness, and broke the tension that had been rising around them. Both Contare and Graegor looked at him, but he was looking at neither, his eyes up as if he was looking through the high walls. Then he bowed his head to Contare. “Lord Henrey sends his greetings.”

  “Let’s go see him, then,” Contare said with a nod, and they left the Council room. Graegor felt a rush of relief as the doors sighed closed behind him.

  They climbed the staircase they had previously passed, and at the landing they came to the famous mural that wrapped the inner wall with the legends of the generations of sorcerers who had gone before. As they made their way down the corridor, Contare and Karl pointed out various depictions to Graegor, who let himself stare with gaped-mouth astonishment at the incredible level of detail. He could see every feather on every bird, every leaf on every tree, eyes in the smallest face. One part of the mural was dedicated to the Fifth Circle, and Graegor stopped and looked at the scene of Sorceress Khisrathi for a long time. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted back, her arms raised around the cloud of her hair. Behind her, showing through her as if she was a spirit, was the grey castle on First Hill. She was casting the bloodspell ... the bloodspell tha
t had risen to the call of his blood, his magic. It had tumbled a cliff into the sea and had transformed the Eternal Flame into Torchanes fire.

  “Come along.” Contare continued up the corridor, and Graegor tore his eyes from the mural and followed. They passed a closed door bearing Khenroxa’s Flame, and a little further along they arrived at an open door. Graegor heard someone say, “He’s here!” and then more people crowded into the reception area.

  It was obvious which one was Lord Henrey, Contare’s First Minister. He looked actually older than Contare. He had obviously been a large man in his youth, and still towered over almost everyone else by half a head, but he was more bony than bulky now. His grey hair was very thin, and his blue eyes were sunk into his face. When introduced, he bowed formally from the waist and looked frankly at Graegor. “Welcome, my lord. It is good that the Torchanes name lives again.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Contare introduced Graegor to the two assistants, polite and quiet men somewhat older than Karl, one short and the other tall. Then they went into the office’s main workroom, which was much larger and had three tables—left, right, and under the square window—stacked with papers and books and curious objects. Doors opened to the left and right, leading to Contare’s and Henrey’s private offices. Bookshelves and cabinets lined the walls, a blue and green carpet lay on the floor, and once again, potted plants were everywhere and a fan spun overhead.

  In Contare’s office it was much the same, with shelves covering the far wall from side to side and floor to ceiling, filled with books and scrolls, figurines and miniatures, instruments and tools. At Contare’s gesture, Lord Henrey and Graegor sat down on one side of a big table, built of honey-toned maple and covered with neat stacks of paper and books. “This is where we conduct the business of the Council, as you may have guessed,” Contare told Graegor as he took his seat on the other side. “I have left this work in Lord Henrey’s entirely capable hands, but of course there is a lot to discuss now that I am back. I will not be turning over these duties to you for some years yet, but it’s not too early to start to make you familiar with them.”