Rustling onto the timbers of the oaken drawbridge, the coach slowed to a stop. Laedron peered through the window at the murky water below the bridge—a great moat built centuries ago to dissuade foreign armies from attacking. A variety of plants and moss climbed the walls from the water's edge, and it seemed as if the slime hadn't been cleaned away since the moat had been filled. Every once in a while, the water parted enough to reveal spikes meant to impale anyone foolish enough to cross without speaking to the guard.
The coachman spoke to a heavily armored guard as similarly donned others inspected the cab.
Laedron watched the men creep by the window. “It seems this is customary at the gates of any city.”
“Yes, the guard is vigilant about anyone getting inside that shouldn't. Unfortunately, they're not as worried about the low quarter.”
“The low quarter?”
“Where the poor live, near the old city. It's named for the flooding that occurs there on a constant basis.”
“Is it close to the sea?”
“Yes, but that's not why it floods. That side of the city had always been swampy. When they added the walls and the moat, the added weight lowered the land even further, and the rainwater always collects at the lowest spot.”
“Why don't they move somewhere better?”
She smiled. “It's not so simple. They're poor, Laedron, hardly able to afford what they have. The rich keep them where they are, as do most in powerful places. Some are slaves or servants, and others scrape along the bottom of the barrel of life, lucky to see another day.”
The wagon rocked forward to the end of the bridge, through the gatehouse, and proceeded through the city streets. The street widened into a market square with vendors selling all manner of goods. Laedron had heard of exotic merchants traveling to the capital to sell their wares, and the stories were confirmed by the sight of those clearly not of Sorbian origin gathered there. The only similarities the square shared with Westmarch was the general shape and purpose since it differed in terms of its massive scale, thousands of people of all walks of life, and organized design. Another prominent difference he noticed was the large number of armed guards patrolling the area.
“We won't be coming to the market here, I'm afraid,” she said, seeming to read his mind.
“Why not? It could be fun.”
“Perhaps.” Narrowing her eyes suspiciously, she scanned the crowd. “Thieves are thick in places such as this. We'd be best to avoid it.”
He slouched in his seat and folded his arms. “Yes, madam.”
“I'm sorry to make this trip boring for you. I know matters of politics are hardly interesting to a young man such as you. Trust me, I'd much prefer to avoid it myself.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Cheer up, my boy. We'll find something to do, I promise. Just not here. Not in the open like this.”
He nodded. “All right.”
The coach slowed as it entered a busier street, and other wagons and carts merged onto a single road leading away from the market. Drivers slung insults and shook their fists aggressively, which only seemed to make matters worse.
Like a bolt of lightning, one structure drew Laedron's attention. His eyes traced the columns along the building's face; gold and silver garnish adorned its rich marble exterior. “What is that?”
Ismerelda's eyes remained locked on her fingernails. “That, Laedron, is the Wardhouse of Morcaine, seat of the Heraldan Church in this city. You won't find friends there of late, I'm afraid.”
He leaned away from the window when she finished, hiding his face behind the curtains.
“They're just ending their morning ceremonies. We have a little time left before we are required at the enclave.”
“Do I have to go?”
“Of course. All sorcerers must attend, and you aren't exempt for newness.”
Closing his eyes, he imagined a great, stuffy chamber filled with old men in decorative robes buzzing back and forth at one another through the afternoon and how boring it would be to sit in some creaky wooden chair for hours on end, forced to listen to all that useless chattering. He'd heard stories of how ordered assemblies were conducted, in the circles of men and sorcerers alike, and found it difficult to feel anything except disdain for the entire process.
The coachman opened his door and the porters scurried to the trunk to retrieve their bags. Emerging from the cab, Laedron observed a small but sturdy lodge.
“Madam Ismerelda, a pleasure, as always,” a rather snooty-looking fellow said as he approached from the double doors. His clothes were impeccable and his nose turned high in the air. “I hope your regular room will suffice for you and your... gentleman.”
“Gentleman?” She turned to look at Laedron. “No, by the Creator! He is my student.”
The man bowed. “Very well, madam. Allow me to escort you to your quarters.” From the man’s dress and speech, Laedron thought he must be the innkeeper or a host of sorts.
She turned to the coach driver. “Wait here for us. It'll be worth your while.”
They passed the threshold, and the hallway opened into a lobby only a bit larger than the doorway. The interior was garnished with stone and marble, and it had a smattering of fine furniture spread across the floors. Behind a small checking desk in the back, a curved stairway led to the second floor, and they followed the man as he ascended.
The innkeeper opened the door to a suite. “We have only one other guest staying with us this week, madam. He won't be any trouble for you, I'm sure.”
Nodding, she entered the room before turning to the man who had led them there. “Thank you, Carlson.”
Laedron shuffled in behind her and examined every detail of the luxurious lodgings in amazement; to see another place as rich as this, Laedron would be hard-pressed to find one other than Ismerelda’s home in Westmarch.
He was relieved when he found two separate bedrooms and two lavatories. He appreciated the charm and class of the place, especially when he walked onto the private balcony overlooking the street. She came near the open doorway, and he stepped back in.
“This should fit.” She laid a robe across the bed. “You can't go to enclave dressed in such a manner because they demand formal garb.”
Taking the robe in his hands, he raised his eyebrows. “It's a bit flamboyant.”
“Flamboyant is what they like. If you think this is bad, wait until you see the archmage. He has a train.”
“A train?”
“Yes, and people to carry it for him.”
“Like royalty?”
“He is considered the most venerable amongst us. The Circle expects no less.”
He shook his head. “I'd hate to dress up like some king or duke, especially considering how long this meeting might last. I'll already be sweating profusely in this thing.”
“It'll be all right. I'll come fetch you in a few minutes after you've had a chance to change.” She walked into the living room and closed the door behind her.
He spent the better part of ten minutes trying to figure out how to wear the dress robes, each time ending with his head in a sleeve or a leg in the neck opening. His hair became disheveled and his face red with frustration.
“Let's have a look,” she said, opening the door. His anger turned to embarrassment as he stood there in his undergarments.
“Having trouble?”
“Y—yes...” He stuttered and held the robe close to conceal his body. “Damned thing!”
She walked over to him, then tried to take the robe. “Now, now, Laedron. We'll get you fixed up.”
“It's fine, I'll figure it out.”
She tugged on the end of the robe. “I'll help you. Give it here.”
“It's quite fine,” he said, refusing to release it.
She snatched it away. “Give it here, Laedron.”
His hands immediately clasped over his crotch.
“Lift your arms.”
He shook his head.
“Lift your arms so I can
put this over your head.”
He stood there and refused to lift his arms, clasping his hands tightly.
“Look... I've been around for hundreds of years. Do you think I've never seen what you're concealing? Your underclothes will hide everything well enough.”
He took a deep breath and raised his arms, but refused to look her in the eye. Feeding the sleeves around his arms, she pulled the remainder down his body. His head popped through the top as the bottom hit the floor, and she tugged at the robe and swatted away specks of dust.
She took a step back and looked him over. “Now you look a proper sorcerer.”
“I don't feel any different.”
“Haven't you ever heard the clothes make the man?”
“I've heard it, but I don't believe it.”
“Come along. We must be off to the enclave.”
The coach driver helped them into the cab, and they approached the university not long after. The building was constructed entirely from travertine, and each face was adorned with runic symbols and ornate statues of mages from ages past. Having seen very little of the city, Laedron figured the only other structure larger in Morcaine was the royal palace.
“Now, remember,” she said, stepping to the ground, “keep your chin held high and don't speak unless spoken to. And never stare.”
“Yes, madam.”
They made their way through the foyer and were greeted by a sea of mages of all ages, genders, ethnicities, and skill. The vaulted ceilings were colored to resemble the night sky and extended several stories. Every flicker of the torches and lanterns set about the walls reflected on the incandescent paint of the stars, which caused them to twinkle in a realistic fashion.
Ismerelda led him through the crowd to a veranda which connected the first structure to the next. Passing through the covered walkway, Laedron could easily tell the next building, constructed of both stone and heavy timbers, stood even taller than the one they had just left, and young men in red and black robes patrolled the grounds outside. A sentry stood guard at either side of the huge doorway.
“Who are they?”
“Warders.”
He eyed them. “Why are there so many?”
“The enclave is a big thing in the world of Circle mages, my boy. The Warders protect the grounds while we meet because there are so many important people within.”
“Is it always like this?”
“Yes. Well, I should say it has been for a very long time. Arguments would turn into heated arguments, and from there rose the practice of the magic duel. The first function of the Warders was to stop that barbaric ritual.”
Nodding, he walked through the narrow passage behind her. It quickly opened into a wide assembly room with terraced seats extending high all around it.
“There must be a thousand seats in here,” Laedron said, glancing at his surroundings.
“Only a few short of it.” She pointed to the stairs. “We're above halfway up.”
He followed her, glimpsing the others dressed in their finest robes. Don't stare, he repeated under his breath; he didn't want to be an embarrassment to Ismerelda. They reached their seats after a few moments, and another young mage caught his eye.
Seated farther along the row was a young man, probably about Laedron's age and of a similar build. His robes were immaculate—perfect, layered silk dyed in hues of gold and purple. Laedron scanned the mage's features and felt some familiarity. Where have I seen him before? he thought.
“No staring.” Ismerelda prodded his arm.
“I'm sorry. I think I know that mage.”
“No matter.” She spoke sharply. “Staring is an uncouth practice of commoners and isn't welcome here.”
“Yes, madam.”
After what seemed like an eternity, and not before the wooden bench had become painfully uncomfortable, the archmage appeared on the platform below. The congregation took their seats, and the room grew still and quiet.
“Mages!” he proclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the room. “We are upon the eve of some interesting changes. Terrifying changes.”
“A new Grand Vicar was anointed in the halls of the theocracy only hours after the last had gone from this world. A 'Tristan' has taken the throne of the Heraldan church.”
A few whispers passed between the others, but Laedron remained silent. He didn't want to encounter Ismerelda's ire by being outspoken in this place. The archmage paused as the doors flew open, and a man adorned in rich black robes with silver embellishments entered with his entourage in tow.
The archmage glared at the man. “I'm glad you could make it, Victor. We were just beginning.”
“I wouldn't miss it for all of Sorbia,” Victor replied with a sneer, taking his seat on the bottom row amidst a sea of whispers.
Laedron couldn't contain himself. “Who is that?”
Her words were low and rapid. “Victor Altruis. He was passed up the last time they selected an archmage.”
“But why?”
“Shh.”
The archmage spoke again after the whispers ceased. “We have some important decisions to make about our future. Some of you are from lands that do not accept the sorcerers' ways as quickly as here in Sorbia. Some of you may be better off relocating here.” He paced along the platform, eying the congregation each time he turned. “It's difficult to see what our next step should be. I've thought long and hard about these matters, and there's no easy solution.”
Victor leaned forward. “I have a solution.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“We do away with this church's lies and its followers. The same they'd do to us if given the chance.”
The entire assembly went into an uproar. Picking select comments from the roar of voices, Laedron could tell some were clearly in support of Victor's idea, but most expressed fear of a war with the Heraldans.
“Silence!” the archmage shouted. “We'll get nowhere without order!”
“We'll get nowhere by just sitting here and doing nothing. The time for action has come, Tobias, and your cautious pace has left the whole Circle in danger!”
“I will not abide insolence. You are banished from these chambers, Victor Altruis. Get out!” A few Warders came to his side, and the archmage, his face flushed with anger, sneered at Victor.
“You'll have no trouble out of me.” Victor bobbed his head to his retinue and exited.
Tobias patted his forehead with a scrap of linen and tried to compose himself. What Laedron had once thought would be nothing more than a tired sermon had been transformed into a vicious match of words and emotion. He was afraid, though; Victor wasn't the only one with an imagination of how dangerous those changes appeared.
After a long pause, Tobias spoke again. “It is unfortunate we did not provide food and drink to better enjoy this evening's entertainment.”
The congregation let out a quiet laugh at the archmage's humor, but it seemed hardly enough to put everyone at ease.
“The day may come when we need to take up arms against the church, but this is not the day. We mages of Sorbia are under the protection of the crown, so I invite everyone who comes from outside our borders to stay here at the academy.”
“Smoke, master!” a Warder yelled as he ran to the exit. “Smoke from beneath the door!”
The archmage cast a glare at the Warder. “What do you mean?”
As he finished speaking, Tobias looked at the puffs of smoke passing under the heavy doors. “Creator... Everyone, out of this place!”
The Warder pulled on the door to no avail. With others joining him, he turned to the archmage. “It's no use! It's chained from the other side.”
By that time, Laedron could see flames passing through the spacing between the boards of the doors and the wooden frame high in the walls of the building. Ismerelda looked at the two groups trying to pry the doors open on either side of the hall.
Laedron's breathing hastened. “What will we do, madam?”
“W
e're getting out of here. Follow me.” She made her way to the top of the gallery and pushed through crowds of panicked people trying to reach the bottom floor of the assembly hall. To get any closer, Laedron would have had to climb onto her back.
“Once you're beyond this wall, slow your descent. You remember the way I showed you in the coach?”
“I... I remember,” he replied, drawing his wand with a trembling hand. Ismerelda’s calm demeanor struck him as odd, and he wondered how she could remain complacent.
With a wave of her hand, a flick of the rod, and a few words spoken in haste, Laedron was made incorporeal; he could see through his body as if he were a ghost. He looked at Ismerelda while she repeated the words and waved her hand in a steady motion. Without a second thought, he jumped through the wall.
Once outside, he felt whole again and fell toward the ground, but was quick to cast a spell to keep his body from slamming into the stone walkway. Ismerelda appeared and floated down beside him.
Gathering his wits, he noticed the chaos around them. The Warders were engaged in battle with foreign soldiers, their spears held high and dressed in the silver and gold garments of the Heraldan church.
“Theocrats? Here?” Laedron asked, looking to Ismerelda.
“It can't be helped. We must escape these grounds.” She led the way around the circular structure to a row of topiaries that extended the length of the far walls. “Behind the bushes, Laedron. We follow this to the end and go over.”
While they crawled through the briers and brush, Laedron saw the battle raging across the courtyard. The Warders and theocrats were locked in an epic struggle of magic with fire and flashes of lightning exchanged between them. It was clear the Warders were losing; the theocrats had surprise, and their tactics relied on those dispelling offensive spells while a row of spears in perfect formation impaled any near enough to stab.
“They're being massacred,” he said, feeling powerless to stop them or save anyone.
She sighed. “We cannot stop this now. There are too many.” They reached the end of the wall, where just beyond lay freedom. “You first, just like before.”
With the casting of a spell, Laedron floated over the partition and onto the street. Ismerelda appeared only moments later to a shouting from up the road.
“Mages! Halt!” The soldiers approached with clanging of armor and heavy breathing.
“Go, Laedron. They only saw me as I topped the fence. Return to our room.”
“I won't leave you. Not now.” He held his wand at the ready and took a defensive stance.
“Now is not the time for heroics. I can hold them off for you to escape. Go!”
Before darting to the nearby alley and hiding, he looked at her one last time. He peeked around the corner to watch, hopeful that she would have another trick up her sleeve to escape with him.
She spoke as the troops arrived. “What do you intend to do, priest?”
The leader stepped out front just beyond the line of spears. “Your heresy is over, witch. Now, you die.” The priest, his features twisted with hate, wore decadent robes of gold and silver and held an old staff in his hand.
“It would seem no one ever taught you manners. Let's see if you know a bit of magic.”
She brandished her rod, and the soldiers moved back a few steps. The priest returned to the center of the formation. Laedron clenched his fist and rooted for her, but made sure to keep from revealing his position. Swaying her hands, she manifested sparks of brilliant white in the air around her. She plunged the rod at the theocrats, lightning passing through each and arcing to the next. The first soldier exploded, blood and gore erupting onto the others.
The priest waved his staff, drawing circles above his head until blue energy enveloped him and the remaining soldiers. He continued to chant as the troops, each bathed in a glistening light, lowered their spears and pointed them toward Ismerelda.
With a flick of the wrist and a shouted phrase, she unleashed a stream of fire onto the soldiers. The flames flowed around them harmlessly, and they pressed forward unaffected; the priest maintained his dispelling, and her power was apparently not strong enough to penetrate the shielding. She quickly scanned her surroundings and cast a spell, and the nearby lamppost took flight. The iron pole slammed into the enemy priest, and he faltered. The shimmering light faded from the soldiers, but they were within striking distance.
She let out a scream when pierced by the first spear. Taking a few steps back, she held pressure on the wound, blood squirting between her fingers and down her hand. Then, she fell to her knees and gasped.
Laedron looked on, powerless to do anything, as the priest approached Ismerelda. The shimmer surrounding the soldiers faded away as he tilted his head downward.
The priest took Ismerelda by the throat and spoke in a sinister hiss. “You were saying, heretic?”
“Your church is a lie, priest.”
“I think not. Such are the words of witches.”
“I knew Azura. Personally.” She spit a mouthful of blood on his pristine robes.
He smiled. “And who cares if you did, Uxidin? That's in the past.”
Her face told of her surprise. “How can you be Heraldan if you know otherwise?”
“Because they're easier to use.” He leaned closer to her. “The church is stronger than the Circle, Ismerelda. You chose your allegiances, and you chose them poorly.”
Her eyes widened when he drove a dagger through her chest. Falling on her back, she turned her head toward Laedron. Her look told him of the betrayal she felt in the last moment of her life. He could do nothing but stare back as the light left her eyes, and the priest retrieved her rod from the ground.
“We'll have no more trouble from that one,” the priest said, turning to his men. “Back to the academy grounds.”
When he could no longer hear the heavy footsteps of the Heraldan troops, Laedron took off down the alley. Upon reaching the street at the opposite end, his hand struck the nearby wall. He wept as he leaned against the wall, trying hard to fight back the tears even as they flowed freely down his cheeks. He took a deep breath and ran into the street, but he slammed into an armored soldier and fell to the ground.
He glanced at the soldier's face, which was obscured by a gleaming, silver helmet. Scurrying to his feet, he took flight once again.
A powerful voice called out behind him, “Citizen of Sorbia, halt!”
He froze in his tracks, unable to continue forward. The voice commanded, and his legs obeyed.
“Come here. You have nothing to fear,” the armored figure said.
Laedron turned and saw the man’s plated gauntlet outstretched. He caught a glimpse of the man's cloak fluttering behind him—a heavy cloth dyed orange and black, the colors of Sorbia, and the soldiers with him were clad in a similar style.
With tears drowning his eyes, he ran to the knight and collapsed before him. “Please, sir. They've killed so many.”
“Who dares invade our country?” the knight asked.
“Heraldans, soldiers of the church, sir.”
“Begone from here, mage,” the knight said, looking over Laedron's robe. “Make yourself scarce.”
Laedron rose as the soldiers proceeded along the avenue. He made his way back to the inn where Ismerelda had rented their room and burst through the door. Ascending the stairs inside, Laedron stopped when the innkeeper called out to him. “Back so soon? Where is Ismerelda?”
“We were attacked,” Laedron said, trying to catch his breath. “She didn't make it.”
Carlson raised an eyebrow. “Attacked?”
“By the Heraldans. They killed her.”
Carlson squinted and turned to the window as armed troops marched through the nearby street at a quick pace. “Attacked by the church?”
“I don't have time to explain,” Laedron said, running up the stairs. “I have to get out of here!”
Once in the room, he rummaged through the bags, pulling his case free from the pile, a
nd then searched Ismerelda's bags for anything he might find useful.
“Where's the money?” he asked aloud, his frustration peaking. He scattered the clothing behind him, seeking a glimmer of gold or a flash of silver. He came to the last bag, his entire body hot and beads of sweat dripping to the floor. “It has to be that one.”
When he opened the last case, he traced the Uxidi runes besetting the covers of old magical tomes with his fingers, the parchment pages crisp and rough to his hands. He took the six books from the case and, hearing the door creaking open behind him quickly, stuffed them into his own bag.
“How will you be paying, sir?” Carlson asked.
“Carlton? Is that your name?” Laedron asked.
“Carlson... I'm sorry, but you can't stay here unless you pay.”
“Madam Ismerelda didn't pay?”
“We know she's good for it, sir. You, however, we don't know,” Carlson said.
“Then I'll be leaving,” Laedron said. “I can't afford this place, and I really need to get going.”
With his arms wrapped around his traveling case, he pushed past the man and left the inn. Arriving on the street, he eyed the nearby tall buildings which gave him a dark and ominous feeling, much more so than they had when he had entered the lodge. He was alone, left to fend for himself in the largest city he'd ever seen.
“One step, then two,” he said, looking at his feet. “The rest will follow.”
He walked along the wide boulevard, being careful to avoid the churches he saw along the way. Before an hour had passed, he sat on the curb and wept for Ismerelda and for the carnage he'd witnessed. He couldn't clear his mind of the image that haunted him: her lifeless body lying in the road atop a pool of blood, a dagger fixed in her heart. He remembered the hate he had seen in the priest's face.
Glimpsing the buildings and people, he realized he wasn't anywhere close to the eastern gatehouse that led toward Westmarch and his home in Reven’s Landing. His heart filled with rage and disgust for the church and that priest as he remembered Ismerelda lying dead.
“How far beyond the gatehouse would I walk? How can I walk a thousand miles home with nothing?” he asked himself, a feeling of hopelessness washing over him. “I can't stay in the city, and I can't go home. I'm stuck.”
Chapter Nine
Mixing with Thieves
The Circle of Sorcerers: A Mages of Bloodmyr Novel: Book #1 Page 9