The Steward and the Sorcerer

by James Peart

  Scrot Manch looked back the way he had come and saw the tall figure of Karsin Longfellow approach through the scrub. The Steward’s head was bowed over his elegant frame, his features pinched tight, brow knotted in concentration. It was impossible, Manch reflected, to know what the other was thinking, now as much as always. Manch was unsure what the real reason for this meeting was, but he felt sure it had little to do with the illegal practice of sorcery. There were rumours of his private battle against the Druid of Fein Mor in which Manch felt sure he had enlisted the help of magic users though there was no evidence to support this claim. Yet how else would he do battle with the Druids? In this world you needed to match fire with fire. He was not afraid of Longfellow, his feelings about him caught somewhere between frustration and envy, the former due to his inability to advance to higher office and the second because he grudged Longfellow’s decisiveness and ruthless intelligence, coveted those dark virtues for himself. It never once occurred to him that of the two he was the better man. He was wary of his Steward’s power, certainly, and it was the reason he had gathered clandestine support to make a stand against Longfellow when the Steward was up for re-election, which was soon. Men and women he could trust to remain silent until the moment to act arrived. He had the backing of nine council members as things stood- voting members, many of them in key positions on the council- and maybe that was enough.

  Longfellow came to a stop a few feet from where Manch stood. He adjusted his robe around his frame and took in his surroundings, the view of the city and hills afforded by the bluff.

  “Good day, Scrot,” he said heartily, as casually as if the two were embarking on a nature walk together.

  “Good day, my Lord,” Manch replied. “It is a good one. A clear day. Unambiguous.” If this were intended as a jibe its effect was lost on Karsin, who merely nodded his agreement, smiling.

  “It is good to have these things out in the open like this,” Manch tried. “It lets us know where we really stand against nature.”

  Karsin’s grin broadened. “What nature would that be?”

  The Vice-Steward matched his smile with one of his own. “The nature of magic, for example. Isn’t that what you called this meeting about, to discuss the spread of outlawed sorcery? By the Druid Daaynan, perhaps?”

  Karsin traced a line in the soil with his foot, running it over and back. “Well, yes, it is true that I have had problems dealing with magic practitioners in the outlying regions, but my control over that is well in hand, and it doesn’t really concern you.”

  Scrot was unable to contain his impatience, nor could he hide his growing anger at having his time wasted. “What did you call me here for then?” he snapped.

  “Come here with me, Scrot,” Karsin said, beckoning the other with an outstretched arm toward the edge of the bluff. Manch walked with him close to the drop, careful not to tread on the weak shelf of soil and loose rock at the precipice.

  Karsin peered with him over the bluff. “Do you see that down below? What is it, tell me.”

  “It- it’s the Utukum Valley.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” Manch squinted, thinking this was getting silly, “Brinemore, I suppose.”

  “Brinemore,” the other exhaled. “And what does that mean to you?”

  “The greatness of our citizenry? Civilisation. The means to advance yourself as a...”

  “Ah! Advancement. Now look closely at it. See the outlying settlements, the parks, the guarded border gates, the taverns, shops, and markets. The city’s council buildings, the administration at its very core. The very centre of power.” Karsin moved right up against Manch, grasping the Vice-Steward’s neck between his winding thumb and forefinger, shoving him forward to unbalance him, leaning close to whisper in his ear: “now why should I share any of that with the likes of you? Tell me!”

  Manch broke free of the Steward’s grip, stepping quickly away from the precipice. He glared back at Longfellow. “You’ve gone mad! That’s the only explanation. You led me up here to...to what? Throw me over the side? Are you as crazy as you are power-hungry? Don’t you know I would never let you do that? Never.”

  Karsin laughed, a thin, high, unearthly sound that caused the hairs on the nape of the Vice-Steward’s neck to rise. He started back down the path he had walked to get here. “Wait,” Longfellow said, his laughter softening, “I wasn’t about to do that. I just wanted you to be clear on one thing, Scrot...”

  Manch half turned to the Steward yet maintained his stride. “You’re unstable. You’re unfit for office. My first step on arriving back will be to have you removed.”

  Karsin’s laughter faded to a harsh burr. “Who will you tell this to, I wonder? Your friend and my chief military adviser Drak Poel?”

  “That needn’t concern you.”

  “Poel is dead. As is Bron, Poon, the chief of the Home Guard and my principal trade adviser.”

  Drake and Alba? Manch thought, his head spinning. Together with Poel and the other two, they were his main confidants in his bid to have Longfellow removed from office. Even if he hadn’t done what he claimed, how did he know who was supporting him? It was supposed to be a secret, by the Gods.

  “It was an attack on Brinemore’s ruling elite by those with the use of magic who hold a grudge against the council. It happened not two hours ago. I brought you up here to Dram’s Peak to question you as I suspected you of orchestrating the manoeuvre. You came flying down the hill instead talking of a conspiracy to murder you.”

  Manch glared at him, catching something in his expression that made him start. For a moment he spied past his own self-interest and read the truth in the Steward’s eyes.

  “But- but it was you! You’re a sorcerer or you have links with sorcerers.”

  “That’s what you told me when I accused you. No one will believe you, you know. Now listen to me carefully, Scrot. This can go either way. The way I just outlined or one in which I had your full support in finally putting an end to this accursed sorcery in the Northern Earth. I’ve chosen you as your family has had a bad experience with it and people will believe you want to assist me in ridding the lands of their influence. The best thing you ever did was conspire to have me removed in secret. Nobody suspects you wish me gone or have any issue with me whatsoever. You were careful to confide fully only in Poel and Bron,” here Longfellow swept his arm to one side, “and they are gone. What remains is our friendship. I need you, just as you now need me. Will you help me?”

  Manch looked at him steadily for a long moment, his mind reeling. With an effort, he calmed himself, making an attempt to assess what the other was telling him with dispassionate logic. His support structure removed, he was alone again with Longfellow, subsidiary to the other’s grand schemes. This one made sense, however. A world without magic was enticing, regardless of how it was accomplished. It had been his ticket to public office and he could use it now, as before, to further his aims. What was more, the timing was good, even if the opportunity had been created by the dangerous individual that now stood before him. It was said that elected service was a spear and politics was knowing when to throw it. It was politic to do so when the attacks still featured largely in the public’s awareness.

  His eyes never once leaving the Steward’s, he nodded his agreement. “I will.’

  23.

  Tan Wrock sat in the ordered space of his private lodgings and reflected on the events of the past day. His dwelling lay in a large guesthouse on the remote outskirts of Brinemore that took in mostly day-borders and whose owners were currently absent, scaling the north face of Mount Jarret. Traffic to and from the guesthouse was frequent and an extra face would not be noticed. He sat in the comfort of his living room, sipping ale from a glass and thought. He would need to move soon, further away from Brinemore. Longfellow would decry the attacks on the five council members as the work of sorcery and however invisible his own talents might be, he did not trust the Steward not to point the finger at him. He needed to be
long gone when that happened. He pondered the dispatching of the five. It had been a simple matter involving the tracking of their whereabouts and employing a small use of the Thrust. Almost nothing, really. Merely a suggestion planted deep in the consciousness- he called it an echo- that rebounded against the walls of the mind until it became intolerable not to obey it. In each case it was over in a matter of minutes.

  The same would not be the case for the one who called himself the Raja.

  He had earlier used the Thrust on Iridis and had discovered that the other was close to Brinemore- another hour or so and he would arrive at the outskirts of the city. Tan had been careful to use his magic sparingly. He had sent it out in tiny waves that would avoid detection, careful not to trip the lines of power that circled the Raja. He knew he could push a lot further- unlike with the Druid- and perhaps penetrate his mind entirely, reaching past the impressions he received to discover what he was thinking, but what would the response be? Could he influence the Raja in time- before the other was able to react? And what would that reaction be? Only by pushing further could he answer this and by then it might be too late. He did not want to give away his location and have the other cut a path toward him instead of the Steward.

  Tan wondered what the Iridis’ strategy was. Would he approach Brinemore directly, subverting everyone he came into contact with using that famous touch of his, or would he favour a subtler tack and attempt to misdirect his quarry? He hardly needed to. Yet as things stood the other was only aware of Longfellow as a threat to his plans for the Northern Territories. Tan preferred it that way.

  He considered the Steward of Brinemore. Longfellow was not defenceless against creatures of magic. He had found some way of summoning them from...who knew where? The Windwalker he had called into being- the first Faerie creature he had sent to dispatch the Druid while he was still in Fein Mor- was not drawn from the world of Faerie, or not precisely. It had been a crossling, featuring some characteristics of Faerie and others belonging to a time or place not known to the Northern Earth. And despite this the Druid had bested it as well as the four others who had been sent afterward. But the Steward could make more appear! He needed Tan to use the Thrust on the creatures that he dragged out of whatever oblivion they hailed from, and he would need him now after drawing a creature of such power that not even the Druid or the Raja would be able to stand against it.

  After those two were dead, Tan could turn this creature on Longfellow himself. He could set it loose on him, making sure it rendered his body to pieces, tearing him apart limb from limb. He might even watch.

  Tan Wrock sipped more of his drink, smiling, shivering in anticipation of the pleasure it would bring him.

  24.

  Beneath a fortified inner tower of a small castle in the north-west of the city, standing behind black cellar doors pitched against the tower, was the Steward of Brinemore. It was normally dark here, visibility reduced to almost nothing. There were things moving around, creatures impossible to sense other than by their foul odour and the occasional scratching sounds they made. The rank air of the keep disturbed him, permeating the scented dust he had sprayed against his tunic, prompting him to crease his nose in distaste. In one hand he held a torch- rags soaked in flammable liquid and lit- and waved it about to illuminate his surroundings until he saw a set of narrow steps leading further down beneath the keep. He negotiated the steps cautiously as if it were his first visit though he knew the way well, had in fact been here more than twenty times over the past year. Many problems of office had been solved by coming here, the solutions to such problems drawn from what lived underneath the tower. And many secrets had been kept, the silence of the party or parties involved permanently guaranteed.

  The steps coiled for some time before straightening and flattening, finally decanting the Steward onto the floor of a vast room made of flagstone rock. At one end of the room stood a closed door made of heavy oak, joined to the edging with large metal hinges. He cast the torch about, illuminating the shade and as he did so a thin, short figure detached itself from a shadowed corner to the right of the door wearing a dark blue broad-cloak, its hood lowered to reveal the wearer’s face. He recognised the aquiline nose, the sunken cheeks, the cruel twisting mouth. But most of all the eyes: placid on the surface, yet alive with some deviant intelligence beneath.

  “Tan,” the Steward acknowledged. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to wonder if you were coming at all, my Lord,” Tan Wrock said, the words giving lie to the respectful, oddly formal tone he used whenever addressing the Steward. Was that how he always talked, Longfellow wondered? At home, relaxing with friends, unwinding with a pitcher of ale? He smiled to himself at his private joke. Perhaps, he mused, Wrock would not look so cheerless if he had a friend or two. “I am sorry for that,” he said without sincerity, “but there were items I needed to handle before coming here that took me longer than expected.”

  “Is the matter involving the Vice-Steward dealt with?” Wrock asked.

  “He’s on my side, for now. Later, I can’t tell. Are you ready for this business?”

  “I am.” Wrock stepped forward in front of the door. Near one of its hinges was a metal pad on which there was a combination of brass studs. You needed to press the studs in a particular sequence to open the door. Only Longfellow knew the code. He motioned Wrock to stand aside, then approached the door, pressing the sequence of buttons, cupping his free hand over the pad so Wrock couldn’t see what he was doing.

  “One day you might tell me the combination,” Wrock said.

  Longfellow finished the sequence and turned to the other man. “I might remind you, Tan, that what lies beyond this door is for the ruler of Brinemore alone. A secret passed down from one Steward to the next. I’m both doing you a service and breaking convention by letting you in here.”

  “Doing me a service? And what of that which you want from me, the reason you bring me down here? Maybe I should leave you alone with these monsters, let you impose your will on them yourself. See how far you get.”

  Longfellow acknowledged this with a curt nod. “It’s true, I need you for this.” Perhaps only for this last time, he smiled inwardly. And as far as monsters go, I’m alone with you and I haven’t fared too badly.

  He pushed the door open and they stepped in to another chamber half the size of the adjoining one. The walls of this room were significantly different, the rock they were hewn from protruding from them like jagged teeth, the individual stones coarse and serrated and grimed with dirt. There was an unpleasant smell coming from somewhere behind the rock, entering the chamber like a reeking haze from gaps between the stones. Longfellow wrinkled his nose in distaste while Tan Wrock merely snorted. “This place is like a death-vault. It looks worse every time.”

  Longfellow closed the door and walked to the centre of the room, facing the wall opposite the entrance, gesturing Wrock to stand slightly to one side. Their movements carried an oft rehearsed familiarity, telling an observer they had visited here on many occasions. Longfellow stood in the mid-point of the chamber for some time without moving or speaking. Then, he lifted his arms, bowed and spoke, directing both limbs and voice toward the wall.

  “Ledislas, make yourself known! Come to me, creator. I have need of you once again.”

  Wrock looked on impassively, thinking- probably correctly- that the gesture and incantation were not strictly needed, other than to contribute to the Steward’s need for theatricality, but the spirit of the thing was valid, as he had witnessed several times before.

  “Ledislas, come forth!” Longfellow commanded.

  The air in the chamber seemed to shimmer abruptly and Wrock and the Steward were suddenly looking through the wall- past it- at a strange light that rose from the depths of the cavernous space beneath the tower. It was almost completely black, its sole illumination a thin iridescent outline of a figure that shifted at its centre. It wore its dark surroundings like shadowy robes that rippled around it
s form as it moved. The surroundings, the odd light, formed a perfect circle, growing in mass and size until it filled half the room. It stopped at the feet of the Steward who, like Tan Wrock, never once retreated or even flinched. The figure inside it considered the two men, its eyes barely delineated planes of light- thin and level- that slid back and forth between them before coming to rest on Longfellow, the being directing most of its attention on the Steward. Wrock, observing this from a close distance, contrived to look bored, yet his eyes never once left the figure. Karsin knew it as Ledislas, and the cocoon that housed it was called the Darksphere. It was an ancient construct, he understood, made of an ephemeral material unknown in this age, designed to protect a spirit whose history was said to trace back to before the beginning of recorded time, before even the age of Faerie itself. Wrock understandably knew little of this period and cared for it less. What mattered was that he could not control such a being. Its mind, or the closest thing it had to a mind, was too powerful, or too dissimilar. What it produced, on the other hand- wherever it got them from- could be influenced and this interested Tan Wrock more than knowing, for example, how the Stewards managed to tame a creature such as this. If he had reflected on it, he would probably have concluded that the being inside the Darksphere obeyed Longfellow out of some twisted sense of duty or agenda it kept hidden to itself.

  The figure glided closer to Longfellow across the rippling blackness, the cloak of its surrounds pulled tight about it, the flat beam of its eyes regarding Karsin, the waves of the Darksphere hissing and roiling in its wake.

  “What would you have me do?” it commanded, its voice soft, rasping, unearthly. Belonging, like this being, to another age and time.

  Longfellow regarded it coolly. “The last group of creatures- the Furies you sent me- were unsuccessful in their attempt to suborn the Druid Daaynan.” Karsin fell silent, allowing this piece of news to sink in.