Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  Contare finally ate the piece of pepperoni he’d been holding. His blue eyes were hard, and Graegor could sense his master’s power rising, like the distant rumble of thunder. Then Contare shook his head irritably, and the storm moved off. “Two hundred of them foolish enough to burn the ferry means at least another thousand within shouting distance of Orest who were too smart or too scared to join them. The momentum needs to be broken. Expelling them will only band them more tightly.”

  Karl nodded. “How?”

  “Strike the shepherd,” Contare said flatly. “The sheep will scatter.”

  “Brandeis?” Karl asked in surprise.

  “No. Brandeis is not the one pushing this. We need to discover who among his inner circle claims to know his mind, who issues orders in his name.”

  Karl picked up one of the half-dozen stacks of paper in front of him. “Understood, m’lord. Through what channel?”

  Contare considered, tapping the edges of the duke’s letter against the tabletop. Abruptly, he stood up. “I need to go to the office,” he said. “There are some older dispatches I have to re-read.”

  Karl stacked the stacks crosswise to prepare them to go back into the pouch, and Graegor slowly started to stand up, but fortunately Contare waved him down. “No need, Graegor. I want you to read through that outpouring of neighborly love. Take note of anything anyone says about the ringless ones, the shovel-men, the battle, the duke’s attempts to rid Lakeland of heresy, and so on. I want to know what ordinary people are thinking.”

  “Yes, sir.” He would read each letter carefully, no matter how much he wanted to rush through them to get to Jolie’s. Maybe hers would be near the top.

  “This will not get out of control.” With that, Contare strode from the room, and Karl quickly followed.

  Graegor gathered up his letters and took them to a comfortable chair in the parlor next to a sideboard where he could set them in stacks. He settled in the chair with his feet up, and reached out with his power.

  The earth magic lay beneath him, beneath the house, beneath the city surface. After an entire day in the labyrinth to practice, he had become good at lighting the water globe and connecting it to a thread of earth magic, and it was only the work of a few moments—and only two false starts—to have enough light to read by.

  He had more new skills after that long day. He’d watched Arundel melt a huge slab of ice, and now he could heat up stones in his hands. He’d seen Ilene move air through crystal pillars, and now he could blow out a candle across the room with a single thought. From Rossin he’d learned to hold his breath underwater for a count of a thousand ...

  Fantastic. Now if you could just get Tabitha to like you.

  Graegor shook his head irritably and picked up a letter. Take note of anything anyone says about the ringless ones, the shovel-men, the battle, and the duke’s attempts to rid Lakeland of heresy. He had a job to do, and by the size of the stack, it was going to take him a while.

  The letters from his neighbors thanked him for the gifts, claimed to have known that he would do great things, asked him questions, and sought favors. Over half were penned by Master Rumstad, serving as scribe to those who hadn’t had the chance to benefit from his teaching—or who wanted to make the best impression. A few more, from children, were in Audrey’s handwriting. Ted’s letter was one of these, and it made him smile as it listed all the times in their childhood that, he was now sure, Graegor had done magic without either of them knowing it. Ironically, he didn’t include the freak wave at Solstice. Craig’s letter tried to make a joke of the fight at the tavern stable: “It was dangerous to even talk to you, ha ha ha!” Lukas’ letter also referred to the fight, generously offering to let bygones be bygones and noting that he had, in fact, been right that Graegor had used magic. Chervis’ letter, like many others, asked if he had meant to turn the Eternal Flame purple or if it had been an accident.

  Some people mentioned wanting to elect Graegor’s father as their first mayor, but he was refusing to even consider it—which was no surprise. The baker’s letter said that he had asked Graegor’s father if he had known that the family had Torchanes blood. “He asked me how he could possibly have known that,” he wrote, “but he never denied it. That’s your father, keeping everything close to the vest!”

  Indeed. So close, Graegor was willing to bet that his father had never told his mother about it. Was she upset about that? Had they argued about it, and that was why they hadn’t come to Maze Island? Graegor had gotten to meet Tabitha’s father; why couldn’t she have gotten to meet his parents, his sister?

  Master Jarl had sent a letter too. He’d written it himself, and while it made no mention of the apprenticeship agreement he’d thrown in the fire, it was full of strangely perceptive comments about the political impact of the return of the Torchanes family to the Telgard nobility. This was not a side to the saddlemaker that Graegor had seen before, and it was bizarre enough to make Graegor forget about holding a grudge. He put the letter in the stack that he would answer soon.

  A letter from Pritchard’s son Lien asked worriedly if something bad would happen to him since, he confessed, he used to pretend that the purple quarterstaff was his. The next letter, from Pritchard himself, was the first that went into any detail about the river battle—but not the battle itself, actually, but the ringless ones’ motives for burning the ferry. It was understandable, Pritchard thought, that they would be frustrated, since their leader had committed no crime deserving of imprisonment, and burning the ferry was certainly preferable to burning Orest. It was hard to tell if Pritchard actually sympathized with the heretics or if he was merely trying to be fair to both sides. Graegor decided to set the letter aside for Contare.

  Then there was one from Master Baldwin, who hoped “very strongly and fervently” that Graegor would do something about these heretical sects, who had no interest in contributing to the common good. Graegor set this one aside for Contare as well, since it likely represented the opinion of the town elders. Master Baldwin also wanted to give his personal guarantee to Graegor that the gifts the townsfolk were sending were of the very highest quality and would be excellent examples for Graegor to show to the traders and brokers on Maze Island. Graegor had actually been quite relieved that the quality of the crafts was as high as he remembered, and he was even a little ashamed of himself for worrying that the workmanship would seem too provincial to him now.

  It was far into the night, and he had gotten through about half the stack, when he again found a letter written in Audrey’s hand. Thinking it was from another one of the children, he checked the bottom for the name and was surprised to see that Audrey herself had signed it. Happy that she had written him another, longer letter, he went back to the top.

  To Graegor,

  I am going to sneak this letter into the package because I do not think Mom or Dad would like it if they read it but I think you should know. When your letters first got here Mom and Dad read them before I came home. They let me read them and I thought that we would go to see you on Maze Island. But they said that there were too many things to do at home and that there would be so many people on Maze Island for the Equinox that you would not have time for us. They said that you were not the same person anymore and that you had important things to do now.

  They let me read the king’s letter about us owning a city since we have Torchanes blood. They said that when I am older I can decide if I really want to go there and become a duchess. For now I have to stay here since I am too young. When they thought I was asleep I heard Dad say that he was not going to be a duke and that he might tell the king that I am not going to be a duchess. Can he do that? Mom cried like she did after you left. I think that they do not want to go to Maze Island because they think that you will keep me there. Since I am going to be a duchess I need to meet important people. I think that they think that if I leave home I will not come back.

  I wanted to see you so I tried to leave by myself. I thought that if I could get to
Chrenste I could ask the king and queen for help to go the rest of the way to Maze Island. I took some of the money you sent us and walked to the river to try to get a boat. But the magus who brought your letters found me and took me home. Mom and Dad kept me in the house for days and days with only Grandmother to talk to.

  The town made packages for you. But when the magus was going back down the river with them, there was a battle and the packages sank. The town made more packages. I know you will be sad when we are not there for the Equinox so I hope our packages and our letters get there before then so that you know why we are not there.

  I like to read letters so please write to me a lot.

  With love from Audrey.

  Graegor sat up straight in his chair. He read the letter again. He got up and paced the room, the soft purple-white light of the water-globe trailing behind him. He held the letter directly under the light and read it a third time. Then he dropped it on the chair and looked up at the ceiling.

  There was so much to be angry about, he didn’t even know where to start. He wasn’t the same person anymore? He wouldn’t have time for them if they came? He would keep Audrey on Maze Island against his mother’s wishes? His father would disinherit Audrey just because he didn’t want to be a duke?

  How could his parents think any of that? How could his mother? His father was always ready to believe the worst about him, but he’d thought his mother knew him better. The fact that he’d bought the charter for the town, the town she loved so much, should have told her how much he cared, how much he wanted to do right by them. He’d made a mistake by not visiting them on the way to Chrenste and telling them in person, he knew that, but he’d thought they’d forgiven him. He thought their beautiful gifts were how they were accepting his apology—but they weren’t accepting it at all, they weren’t happy, no one was happy.

  I thought they hadn’t come because they were nervous about the city ...

  And Audrey, trying to come here alone!—He’d joked to himself that she might have done just that, but he really hadn’t expected her to try something so stupid. Thank God Magus Hugh had found her before she’d found a boat. Graegor would have to personally and significantly reward him for that. What if Audrey had been caught in the middle of the battle? The timing was wrong, but still, anything could have happened to her.

  His father had known about their Torchanes blood. There was no question in Graegor’s mind now. He had known about it and rejected it. And now he would never forgive Graegor for claiming his heritage, since it had disrupted their simple lives by Long Lake so thoroughly.

  But how was that Graegor’s fault? Should he have refused what Contare had offered him just because his parents preferred to live in quiet obscurity? Maybe he wasn’t the same person anymore, but he didn’t think he was too different inside. He wouldn’t have been too busy for his family if they’d come. There was so much he wanted to show them. He wanted Tabitha to meet them.

  Breon’s blood, would you stop thinking about her! Sometimes it felt like she was taking over his mind—like looking in the mirror and seeing her face instead of his own. He’d never thought about anyone—anything—so constantly. Every thought circled back to her.

  Just keep reading the letters. Keep reading. Maybe someone else wrote something else that will explain more. Maybe there’s another letter from Mom. Maybe Audrey misunderstood. She’s smart, but she’s only nine.

  After he told himself this over and over, the tense set of his shoulders gradually relaxed, and he could sit down again. He picked up the next letter in the stack and kept reading.

  It was hard to concentrate. His mind kept skipping back to Audrey’s letter, and his eyes moved over the lines of the next few letters without understanding what he’d just read. He forced himself to go back and read them again, slowly, searching for hints of what people thought of the ringless ones. But the heretics did not generate much comment at all. He supposed that meant their point of view hadn’t taken hold on Long Lake, with the possible exception of Pritchard. More noticeable was the fact that most of the people who mentioned his family wrote about how excited Audrey was. The lack of descriptions of his parents’ reactions told its own story.

  Besides the letters from all the people in his home village, there were half a dozen from his grandmother and other relatives, including two long-lost cousins; many from farmers outside the village; some from other Lakeland woodwrights in his father’s guild—but, Graegor wasn’t surprised to see, nothing from his father’s former apprentice Hagan; and a long one from Johanns about their new brokerage arrangement. There were hundreds of letters in the stack, and near the very bottom was Jolie’s.

  It was in Audrey’s hand, written on the same plain mill-paper as many of the others, and it was short.

  To Graegor,

  Thank you for the pretty bracelet. I will wear it for special events and I will think of you. I hope you like the cheese we are sending.

  It was a big surprise to learn that you are the new sorcerer. I am happy for you. I know you will be good at it because you are smart and you work hard.

  I am glad I saw you before you left us. I am sorry if I said or did anything that made you upset. May Lord Abban bless you and keep you safe.

  From Jolie.

  I will think of you. That would be more encouraging if it wasn’t a standard phrase in thank-you notes.

  Before you left us. That made it sound as if he had died.

  I am sorry. Why was she apologizing? His letter to her had been full of apologies—so was she just being polite, and returning the apology? Was she scared that he, the sorcerer, would take offense otherwise? Was it a backwards way of rejecting his apologies? Or was she genuinely sorry because she thought that what happened that final night was somehow her fault?

  Audrey had written out the letter for her. How many of the words were actually hers? But for the fact that Jolie had signed her name herself, he’d be tempted to think that Audrey had made it all up, just so there would be a letter from Jolie in the pouch.

  He closed his eyes. He could worry over every word and phrase, wondering what each one really meant, but in the end it didn’t matter. The girl he’d once loved was lost to him forever.

  He had to talk to Tabitha or she would be lost to him too.

  Her presence in his mind was faint and silvery, like forest mist. She was asleep—it was the middle of the night. Maybe he could wake her ... Contare and Jeff had both woken him with a telepathic “shout” before ... no, no, what was he thinking? He couldn’t wake her up—that would be stupid, spectacularly stupid. He had to wait until morning. When was morning?

  He got up and went to the clock. It showed some hours yet before sunrise. And it was Godsday, the day of rest, the day that most people didn’t get up until hours after sunrise. He had to wait at least until she had woken up. It was the one thing he could always tell for sure through their bond—whether or not she was awake.

  The thought of so many hours before he could see her was nearly unbearable. Worse, there was no guarantee that he would see her, because she might tell her servants to send him away. Again. If she did ... if she did ...

  If she won’t see me, I’ll take it up with Lord Natayl. He owes us that. He needs to explain why he did this to us. He didn’t know how he could accomplish that when Contare couldn’t—but he would do something to make Lord Natayl tell him.

  Stop it. Stop, stop, stop. The purple core of his power was whirling. He whispered all the calming prayers he knew, over and over, to slow it back down. He pictured holding his quarterstaff in his hands, still and quiet and calm. Stop. Stop.

  It’s all right. It’s all right. You’ll go to see her as soon as she’s awake. Until then you can’t do anything about her. Sit down. You still have letters to read.

  He picked up Jolie’s letter from where it had fallen on the floor and set it by itself next to the other piles. He sat down and read the last four letters, all from people he hadn’t known well.

 
; He looked at the eight or nine stacks of letters and moved them around a bit. Quite suddenly he realized that there was an important one missing. Magus Paul hadn’t answered Graegor’s letter to him.

  But there had to be a letter from him. There were letters from every adult back home, and from almost all the children. And Magus Paul was one of the few people outside his family to whom he had written an individual letter, to which he’d expected an individual reply.

  Maybe the letter had gotten stuck against the waterproof lining of the pouch. He checked thoroughly, but the pouch was empty.

  Paul had not studied at the Academy and was not Circle-bound, so he owed no formal allegiance to Contare or to Graegor. But surely courtesy demanded that when the Lord Sorcerer offered his greetings to you, magic-user to magic-user, you honored him with a reply. It felt a little odd to be so offended about it, because he’d never thought of himself as prickly, but it was impossible to take Paul’s silence as anything other than a deliberate snub. Coming as it did so soon after the rogue magi’s fireworks attack, that snub took on a meaning that Graegor did not like at all.

  He needed to tell Contare about this—and he wanted to check in with him, in case he had something else for Graegor to do. He closed his eyes and reached for the mental link with his master.

  Contare answered quickly. “I was about to call to you. Have you finished reading your letters?”

  “Yes, sir. Most of them don’t mention the heretics or the battle at all. And in most of the ones that do mention it, it’s only in passing.”

  “I suppose that’s encouraging.” A pause. “On the other hand, it could mean that no one wanted you to think they were sympathetic.”

  “There are two letters that I’d like you to read. They could be saying something more than they seem to be.”

  “Who wrote them?”

  “One’s from Pritchard, the tavern keeper, and it sounds like he is sympathetic, but I can’t tell if he’s serious. The other one, from one of the town elders, is definitely the other way. I’ve set them aside for you.”