Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  He nodded toward Rossin. “Will he be able to ...” He wasn’t sure how to finish.

  “I don’t know. I’ve been talking to him, but I don’t know if he understands.”

  “Does he know Mazespaak?” He himself did, and so did she, and this was the first actual conversation they’d had since they’d both achieved some fluency.

  Ilene was shaking her head. “I don’t know. A little, maybe. My lady told me that it’s been hard for Lord Lasfe to teach him anything at all.”

  Apparently Lady Serafina wasn’t as closemouthed as Contare was on the subject of other sorcerers. “Do you know how Lord Lasfe got him to come back?”

  “After the attack?” Her eyes in the light were the color of violets. “He found him deep in the forest. They fought with magic, and Lord Lasfe won.”

  What winning that fight must have cost the weakened elder sorcerer, Graegor could not even guess. “I hope he’s all right.”

  “Lord Lasfe? I think he is. My lady does not seem worried.”

  “As long as he doesn’t have to keep chasing after him ...”

  “Oh, no. My lady says that once Rossin lost the fight, he wholly accepted Lord Lasfe as his master. Like in a wolf pack. He’ll do what he’s told from now on.” Her gaze shifted to Rossin again. “Like a slave again.”

  There was something in her voice that reminded Graegor of the rumor that she herself had been a slave. Could that actually be true? He opened his mouth to ask, but fortunately realized how boorish such a question was. Suddenly very uncomfortable, Graegor made a show of looking over the walls.

  “What is it?” Ilene asked after a moment.

  “Um, nothing. If you sense anything along the walls that’s unusual, it might be a clue about what we’re supposed to do.”

  “Yes. I’ll try.”

  “How is your mother?” he remembered suddenly. “She was hurt.”

  Ilene smiled. “She’s completely healed. It was good to see how worried my father was about her.”

  Graegor didn’t know what to make of this remark, so he said, “I’m glad she’s all right.” The star rose with him as he stood. “If you need the light, just call me over.” And I’ll try not to kill it by accident.

  “Thank you.”

  He walked slowly along the cave wall, running his hand along it in up-and-down sweeps, trying to find any bumps or dips that could be levers, like those that worked the trapdoors in Castle Chrenste. The cave turned out to be larger than he had thought, curving wide to his left, and he again missed his quarterstaff. It would be useful for tapping along the rock.

  He stopped at a big crack that started at the floor in a handful of weeds and disappeared toward the ceiling. He tried to lift his light higher, to reveal more, but it wouldn’t rise much further, and it dimmed when he tried too hard. Push down and let go. Push down and let go. He tried keeping it where it was and extending his sight into the darkness above, but that, too, threatened to snuff out the star. He couldn’t sustain it while working any other magic at all—so how was he supposed to enclose it in a water globe?

  Ahead he saw a vague outline of grey against black, and within a few steps the shadow was revealed as Daxod. He was facing the wall, his hands folded at his chest, and his eyes opened as the purple light fell across his shaved head.

  No. I will not help you.

  Graegor nodded to him, ready to keep moving. But Daxod spoke, so softly and his accent so heavy that Graegor barely understood him: “Did you find something?”

  “Yes. I think so. I can’t tell for sure.”

  Daxod paused, and just as Graegor was about to move on, he asked, “Where?”

  “Where?—Oh. Back here.”

  Daxod followed him to the crack, peered at it, then set his hands to either side of it. He breathed deeply, and an impression of summer green touched Graegor’s shields. After a few seconds, Daxod murmured, “Basalt.”

  “Basalt?”

  “Differences are small in the stones on this island. Most are basalt.”

  Which was interesting, but ... “Is there any magic there?”

  “There is earth magic throughout.”

  Don’t I know it. “Right, but the older sorcerers didn’t close up a passageway, or anything like that?”

  Daxod considered, and said, “No.”

  After an awkward pause, Graegor said, “I’m sorry. I know you said that you ... that you weren’t going to help.”

  Daxod bowed his head long enough to let out a breath, then looked at Graegor. “No. I am sorry. I will help, so we get out.”

  It was hard to remember that Daxod was only a few months older than he was. Graegor had left home just two seasons ago, but Daxod had been married—had been with his wife throughout a pregnancy that had killed her. The pain of it suffused every line of his face, like the earth magic that suffused the island’s bedrock.

  “Not your fault,” Daxod said, mostly to the ground. “Not the Aedseli’s fault.” After a long, even more awkward moment, he looked back at Graegor. “They say you changed the color of the fire. The fire your people worship.”

  “Well, we don’t really worship the fire,” Graegor started to explain, but stopped. Theological fine points were best left for another time. “Yes, I changed it to purple. But it was an accident. It’s not what I meant to do.”

  “Then you meant to do what?”

  Open a door. “I was ... I was trying to tap the earth magic beneath the castle.” He found himself using the same words he had used in his letter to Audrey. “But Sorceress Khisrathi’s spell was already there. I think that the earth magic, her spell, and my power all came together to change the Flame.”

  Daxod nodded. “The spell answered your call and caused a chain reaction.”

  Audrey had probably thought Graegor’s explanation patronizing as well. “Yes.”

  “Your people, are they afraid of you for what you did?”

  “I ... I think they wonder what it means. Not knowing might make them afraid.”

  “Do you know what it means?”

  Graegor had talked to a lot of people about what had happened to the Flame and what it meant—Contare, Darc, Adlai, Jeff, Karl, other magi, priests, people at parties. He was sure by now of only one thing: everyone was just guessing, from the Hierarch to the smallest child. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t.” Daxod seemed disappointed, so Graegor added, “I’m sorry.”

  Daxod shook his head. “My people, they wonder what I mean. Toland gave no men to the Circle, never. There are many questions.” After what Daxod had been through, he deserved answers, and Graegor wished he could give him one.

  “What does Lady Malaya say?” he asked instead.

  Everything about Daxod seemed to grow colder. “She says I am her son.”

  Graegor’s eyebrows shot up. This was a rumor at which he and Jeff had scoffed, since sorceresses could not have children. “She said that?”

  “She said that to everyone in our country.”

  “But why?”

  “Prophecies tell of a child, a special one. If she says the prophecies come true now, maybe our people will think it is good. But some of our people are afraid.”

  It was very strange to think that the people of the far-off southern continent had prophecies that seemed to be about the One. Graegor hesitated, then had to ask: “Is it true? Are you her son?”

  Emphatically Daxod shook his head, even as his words contradicted the gesture. “I do not know. My father always said my mother died in childbirth.” Like mine almost did, Graegor remembered. “But men do not go into houses where births are, so he was not there. The midwives died soon after that, when the Kroldons came.”

  So no one can prove or disprove it now. But Lady Malaya could not possibly have hidden a pregnancy from her Circle. Surely Contare would have told him about such a huge exception to the rule. “I don’t believe her,” he told Daxod firmly.

  Daxod said nothing, but looked up at the crack in the wall again, first blin
king, then squinting hard. Graegor was about to ask him if he saw anything new, but they both turned as soft footsteps approached them.

  Koren appeared under Graegor’s light. Her short red hair was pushed back from her face with a headband, making her eyes look even larger. She was so small—he couldn’t stop being surprised by it. The top of her head didn’t even reach his collarbone. “I found something,” she said. Her lilt was still strong, but the words much clearer than they had been two months ago when he had first spoken to her. “It is ... it ... I do not know the word.” She tried several different words in Khenroxan, fluttering her fingers near her head as if to get the wheels of her mind turning. It would have been easier if they could use telepathy, but he didn’t think Koren would want to try that again—not here, not now.

  When Lady Josselin had returned to Maze Island near midsummer, she had invited Contare, Graegor, Jeff, and Rose to her townhouse to meet her apprentice. As he had with Borjhul, and with Arundel when they had first met, Graegor had tried a telepathic link with Koren. But when their hands had touched, the result hadn’t been the careful exchange he’d experienced with the other two sorcerers, or the burst of light that had bonded him to Tabitha. Instead, his mental shields had struck against Koren’s like a clapper against a bell, giving them both terrible headaches.

  Now, with a frustrated expression, Koren gestured for them to follow her. They passed the spot where Graegor had found Daxod, then went around a small outcropping where the floor was uneven. On the other side, Koren pointed to a spot on the wall about a yard off the ground, and Graegor knelt beside it, figuring it was the easiest way to get the unreliable light down as far as they needed. At first he thought it was just a shadow, but when Koren traced her finger around it, he realized what he was seeing, and he touched it too. “It looks like a keyhole.”

  “Keyhole,” Koren repeated. “Yes. Listen, too.” She pounded the heel of her fist next to the keyhole, and the thump had a distinctly metallic sound.

  “How did you find it?”

  “My hands, on the wall.”

  “Can I look?” Daxod asked, and Graegor shifted back a bit while Koren stepped aside. As he had with the crack in the wall, Daxod put his hands on either side of the keyhole. Again, green light passed against Graegor’s shields, and it found its way into his image of the see-saws on the stickball field, as new grass on the packed dirt.

  Daxod said, “Strong magic is behind the rock. Circle silver.”

  Thaumat’argent. “Is it a spell?” Graegor asked.

  “I do not know. It is a device.”

  “A lock?” Koren suggested.

  “If a lock, a strange lock,” Daxod said dubiously.

  “What is it?” Arundel’s eager voice came out of the darkness behind them, and the four of them inspected the hole, hit the wall around it, and discussed how it might work if it was a lock. Then Graegor saw Tabitha standing behind them, watching. He hoped she wasn’t still angry with him.

  Arundel excitedly gestured her forward and told her what they’d found. She just nodded, and then Ferogin was there too, asking with sour politeness for everyone move aside so that he could take a look. No one moved very fast, but they did move, and Ferogin crouched beside Graegor. “Shine the light right on it.”

  Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord. Graegor moved his head to position the light, then moved again as Ferogin pointed, and several more times, until felt like a bird with his head bobbing around so much. But eventually Ferogin gave a sharp nod. “Right. It is a lock, but the door is somewhere else—as is the key.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Arundel smiled at Koren. “Well done.”

  “Is that the door?” Daxod suggested, pointing back toward the cave entrance.

  “No,” Ferogin said at once. “Too easy. More likely we’ll have to make our way through a labyrinth.” He seemed to have put aside his earlier annoyance at the idea of overcoming challenges together. “This must be what Pascin was doing last month. He kept leaving for the whole day, and he wouldn’t tell me why when he got back. I bet he was here, constructing this.”

  “My master disappeared once or twice as well,” Arundel remembered, as Graegor was thinking the same thing.

  “Pascin was probably in charge.” Ferogin turned to Graegor. “It’s time we had more light.”

  “Jeh. But I can’t do any other magic while the light is going.”

  “Then you must be doing something wrong. Are you sure you understand how this is supposed to work?”

  “Are you sure you understand how it’s supposed to work?” Graegor was tired of Ferogin’s constant hints that he was stupid.

  “I’ve studied it.”

  “Well, something’s missing when I try it your way. What do you think it is?”

  “The power is ready to be unlocked. You’re just not pulling it through correctly.”

  “Wait,” Arundel cut in. “Let’s think this over for a moment.”

  “I’ve thought it over for more than a moment,” Ferogin told him.

  “Indulge me,” Arundel said, with—finally—a tiny touch of impatience. “I’m wondering if it’s earth magic that he should be pulling through, not his own.”

  “No,” Ferogin said quickly, to Graegor’s silent relief. “Not earth magic. I’ve watched Contare, and he uses his own.”

  “Maybe he uses his own to trigger the earth magic,” Arundel said.

  “Yes,” Tabitha said suddenly. “Do you really think that Lord Contare sustains all the light globes in the Hall with his own power?”

  “He doesn’t,” Ferogin said, exasperated. “They aren’t the same thing.”

  “They aren’t?” Graegor asked in surprise before he could stop himself.

  “They’re similar enough,” Arundel pointed out. “How do they sustain themselves?”

  “It would be very difficult for you to understand if I tried to explain.”

  “Even so, please try,” Arundel said. “Is it like the levers you were describing?”

  “Yes and no. Listen, I don’t work in metaphors.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because magic is complex,” Ferogin said, almost clenching his teeth. “The forces at work are not as simple as a lever, and the interactions between those forces are not always in balance.” He gestured at Graegor’s weak purple-white star. “Clearly something got lost in translation here, since he isn’t able to enclose it in the water sphere as he should. I’d rather not give him another metaphor—another oversimplification—and risk him directing his power in a way I didn’t intend.”

  Arundel looked like he was literally biting back words. Daxod’s eyes were fixed to the ground, his fists held closed. Tabitha said, with sweet sarcasm: “It must be so vexing, my lord. You’re the only one among us who is brilliant enough to know what to do, but you can’t actually do it yourself.”

  Ferogin’s eyes on her were cold. “Do you know the relationship between a bolt of lightning and a compass?” he asked. “Do you know how sound travels? Do you know why thaumat’argent can both block and augment our power?—Of course you don’t, you’re a fluffy decoration on Natayl’s arm. Try paying attention to what he’s teaching you. Unless we understand what we’re doing, truly understand it to the smallest detail, we can cause terrible damage. Since the world has seen such damage from Graegor before, you will pardon me for seeking ways to minimize the danger.”

  He’s right. Graegor had brought down a cliff while trying to open a door, and he wasn’t going to risk a cave-in while trying to make light. But he also couldn’t bring himself to openly agree with Ferogin after he had just insulted Tabitha.

  Arundel said, “These are good lessons, my lord, but they do not solve the problem. I too am convinced that we need more light. How do we get it?”

  Ferogin shrugged. “He could let the light die entirely and start again. And again and again and again. Eventually dumb luck might do it.”

  Arundel looked at Graegor, his eyes asking Graegor to
just agree and ignore the affront, and Graegor nodded. Arundel was relieved, and Daxod visibly relaxed the hard set of his shoulders. Tabitha did not react at all, her mind still as tense as her body. The silver threads that bound them felt knotted and stretched with all the emotion she was keeping inside. She was letting him feel that she was upset, but she wasn’t letting him reassure her.

  She’s not a horse—you can’t soothe her with calm thoughts. She’ll be happy if you make the light work.

  So, how? Since Ferogin wouldn’t give him a different metaphor, Graegor figured he had to try the see-saw image again—after all, it was working. He leaned against the rock wall, closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles. He could still feel Tabitha’s anxiety. The light was going out, and she did not like the dark. She was hoping very strongly that this time he would get it right.

  Ease her aside. Ease them all aside.

  The stickball field. The see-saws. The sandbags. The green grass ... Daxod. He started to imagine the field as packed earth again, but stopped. Rather than easing those colors aside, what if he let them become part of the picture?

  Once he thought of it, it happened ... the green grass of Daxod’s power spread to the edges of the field, each blade stirring in the wind. At the same time, Tabitha’s silver light lifted and filled the sky above him, becoming the bright overcast that foretold rain in the Lakeland spring. Arundel’s presence was a single white ray of light piercing the high clouds and falling across the field. Ferogin’s magic appeared alongside the trodden path as a row of lilac bushes in full bloom. And Koren’s power was the forest surrounding Graegor’s home village, tall evergreens with gravid branches dipping to the ground.

  His home. His family ... who still had not come, still had sent no word.

  No time for that. Just use the image. That’s all it is to you anymore, a backdrop for your magic. You never belonged there anyway.

  The grass, the sky, the sunlight, the bushes, the trees. The picture in his mind was very clear. He stood in the middle of the stickball field with an acute awareness of everything in front of him, behind him, around him. The see-saws were poised and ready, each weighted down on one side. He just had to start pushing down.