Merchant of Alyss

by Thomas Locke

  “What the earl describes is what I heard as well,” Trace said.

  “And I,” Joelle said. “It was . . .”

  “Beautiful,” Shona said. “And terrifying.”

  “Enough.” Bayard pointed at Hyam. “A library, you say.”

  “Only two of the scrolls are complete. Actually, the two together make up the only complete spell.” Hyam silently amended, only two of those he could read. But he would leave that bit of news for later. “The rest refer to scrolls we do not have, and continue where the last left off. They are also numbered. The numbers do not match.”

  Bayard asked, “How high do the numbers go?”

  “In the thousands.” Hyam indicated the tables. “The division you see here is not arbitrary. These represent four different entities.”

  “Signifying what?”

  “The first table here contains legacies of cities and ruling clans that no longer exist. The central table is spells of warcraft. Dread powers are described. Plagues. Ghouls. Mental enslavement. Tempests that create terror in the hearts and minds. Thankfully, sire, not one of these spell-scrolls is complete. Perhaps the intention is to carefully guard any reader from knowing everything required.”

  Trace said, “If other war scrolls should fall into the enemy’s hands . . .”

  “Burn them,” Bayard snarled. “Burn them all.”

  Joelle spoke up from her place by the rear wall. “Sire, the Ashanta have already sent word to their Emporis banker, instructing him to pay whatever is required to hold this trader until Hyam can journey there.”

  Bayard asked, “Have they inspected these scrolls?”

  “Twice. They also do not discern the script that Hyam has described. But the air of this chamber is enveloped by a force they have never sensed before.”

  The earl indicated the third table, which held far fewer scrolls. “And this third lot?”

  “Spells of healing and protection and binding. The only complete incantation among all these scrolls describes the making of a large shield. Big enough to go around a group, perhaps an entire camp.” Hyam glanced over at the master mage. “No mention is made of an orb.”

  Trace cried, “What, none?”

  “Not in any of these documents, not once.”

  Bayard demanded, “Tell me what this means.”

  Trace said, “One of two things. Either the orb’s application is taken for granted. Or . . .”

  “These were intended for use by spell casters without access to an orb,” Hyam finished.

  Bayard looked from one to the other. “I thought that was impossible.”

  Trace replied, “We instruct our young apprentices using simple spells where they draw upon their innate abilities. It forms part of the test for who is gifted. One such spell involves shielding the mage from their own force. But to protect an entire company, not to mention wield powers of warcraft, I would call that an impossibility.”

  Hyam thought back to his earliest introduction to magic, when he stood in an oval field at the forest boundary, caught up in what he did not understand. But he did not speak.

  Bayard walked to the last table, which held just the two miniature scrolls. “And these?”

  Hyam unfurled one of the slender golden cylinders. “I have no idea.”

  Bayard turned to his cousin. “You know this script?”

  “Never seen it nor heard of its existence,” Timmins replied.

  “Nor, according to Joelle, have the Ashanta.” Trace opened one and waved it gently. The surface writhed like ripples across a pond. Light weaved and danced. “Myths speak of this process, where gold is melted by magic and woven into a fabric as sheer as silk and flexible as water. And beyond the grip of time.”

  The two scrolls were filled with downward strokes, like they had been etched with a blunt trowel. Some of the dashes were short, others long, some narrow, others almost round. Nothing else. A series of perpendicular furrows.

  Bayard returned to the tables holding the Milantian scrolls. “One thing seems clear enough. The only way we can determine whether the scrolls are valid is to try the shield spell.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Hyam agreed.

  Trace warned, “May I remind you this is Milantian magery we are discussing.”

  “Only if the spell actually works,” Hyam replied.

  “Of course it works,” Trace countered. “Else why would they hide it?”

  The earl said, “We must know if these scrolls hold true power!”

  Trace frowned, but remained silent. Hyam took that as the only agreement the old man would offer. He felt the thrill rise within him. He had yearned for this moment since first realizing the spell appeared to be complete. A faint spark shot from the first scroll to his fingertips. “Sire, perhaps you should step well back.”

  All the Falmouth wizards clustered about the cavern’s entrance. None wanted to miss this application of Milantian magery. Such an event could well form legends and minstrel tales. If Hyam succeeded.

  The spell was laborious, three scrolls in length, with weavings of the hands to start the process. As Hyam chanted the initial words, the droning cadence swept him up, filling the vast chamber. It seemed as though his voice rose in volume until it echoed and rang against the distant stone. Faint streams of light emanated from his fingers, forming a tapestry of pastel hues. Joelle stood just inside the portal, watching him with grave eyes. He wanted to shout, to sing the exultation of doing magic again. But he dared not interrupt the spell-weaving.

  He completed the first portion, drew his knife, and scarred the flagstone with the opening inscription. Trace moved closer so as to watch Hyam’s motions. Each syllable formed a drumbeat that echoed and resonated through Hyam. A trail of fire followed the blade.

  When Hyam completed his walk around the dais, he drew the final talisman like a knot upon the first drawing. Instantly the flames that had followed his knife were doused. As he straightened, Hyam felt as though the cavern still resonated with his voice.

  The earl called over, “Is that it? You’re done?”

  “I am, sire.”

  Bayard muttered, “What a waste.”

  Hyam saw the same dissatisfaction reflected on all the other faces. “You did not see the fire? What about the noise?”

  Bayard shook his head. “All I heard was the scrape of your knife. As for fire . . .”

  Trace called, “Wait, sire. Everyone, stay where you are.” The old mage stepped forward.

  Hyam warned, “Careful.”

  The earl’s senior wizard crossed the scarred flagstone, hesitated, then reached out one hand. To Hyam the cavern’s torchlight appeared to quiver slightly, like an unseen wave rippled the air separating them. Trace pushed harder. Then stepped back and said, “Remarkable.”

  Bayard demanded, “The shield exists?”

  “It does indeed, sire.”

  The earl strode across the cavern, touched the solidified air, and said, “It feels cold.”

  “Like ice,” Trace agreed.

  “You know of no such spell?”

  “Not even with the orb’s application. And to have this done by spell alone, I have never heard of such a thing.”

  Hyam said, “The scroll’s final words warn that no magery should touch the shield’s exterior. Which suggests it may be more than simply defense.”

  Trace said, “Sire?”

  Bayard nodded. “Test it, then.”

  “Clear the room, everyone.” When the chamber was emptied, Trace shut one of the double doors and locked it into place. Then he called, “Ready?”

  “The smallest spell you can manage,” Hyam replied, and stepped behind the central podium.

  Trace pulled the second door over to where it partly shielded him. Then he wove together a ball of light and cold fire, no larger than his hands. He sent it scurrying across the flagstones.

  The instant the ball touched the shield, the entire chamber beyond the shield was engulfed in crimson flames.

&n
bsp; 4

  As soon as Hyam left the wizard’s cavern, exhaustion struck. Joelle and Shona half-carried him to the kitchen, where a cook served up gruel laced with meat, standard foot soldiers’ fare, all she had that was hot and ready. Hyam ate with the savage need of a wild animal. He was not even aware Joelle had left the kitchen until the moment she returned with Adler. They guided him out the pantry exit and almost tossed him onto the saddle of a waiting horse. Warmed by the kitchen fire and dulled by the meal, Hyam dozed his way through the city, out the front gates, down the road, along the white-stone lane leading home. He managed unaided the walk from the stables to his bed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  When he awoke it was well past dawn, of which day Hyam had no idea. Joelle lay there beside him, her eyes soft and welcoming in the early light. Later they fell asleep again, carried by birdsong through the open window. Hyam’s last thought was how he would remember this melody for the rest of his life.

  Soon after, Hyam found his awareness rising in bodiless form. This rare freedom carried a soft whisper of exultation, but not enough to awaken him. He was aware of Joelle rising from the bed. He sensed Bryna’s arrival and observed as Joelle conversed with the Ashanta Seer. He knew they spoke of the scrolls and what he had read. He felt the affection between the two women and knew how good it was for Joelle to have this friend, this link to the race that had banished his wife for the crime of being half human. Very good indeed.

  Joelle left after a time, and the isolation freed him to travel further. A few languid breaths, and Hyam was swept away.

  He was transported to an unknown island rimmed by cliffs and froth. A small beach of slate-grey pebbles was hammered by relentless surf. Hyam had no idea how large the central mountains were, for he had no frame of reference. The island contained neither house nor castle nor animal nor ship nor men. Trees clenched the cliffs like living sculptures. The central peaks seemed very high, with tight vales so deep their bases were lost to shadows. The broader meadows were curiously formed, with great brownish lumps of some mottled stone dotting their expanses.

  Then one of the brown knobs chose that moment to move.

  The beast rose on wings large as an ocean-going vessel’s main sails. It swept up, up, and came to hover directly alongside where Hyam hung in the air above the island’s highest peak. The dragon’s hide changed colors now that it was removed from the meadow’s camouflage. The scales glinted a ruddy gold, with diamond patterns repeated along the edges of both wings and the long spear-like tail. The eye close to Hyam burned with yellow fire, fierce and intelligent. Hyam felt the beast’s gaze strip away his dream-like ease, such that his heart hammered and his breath rasped. He was not afraid, simply as alert as he had ever been in his entire life.

  The dragon spoke.

  Hyam was certain it was speech. The timbre was low as a war drum and swift as a volcanic rumble. Tight staccato bursts. When he remained silent, the dragon emitted a final chattering burst, one that carried the force to rock Hyam’s vision.

  “I have no idea what you want, or why I am here,” Hyam said.

  The dragon erupted, its wings beating at him with the force of twin furies. Hyam spiraled away, a human leaf caught in a tempest of wind and roars.

  The dragon chased after him, bellowing in rage. Hyam was falling and had no power to halt his descent. The dragon tucked its wings in tight and fell as well, catching up with Hyam. The beast blasted him with fire.

  The inferno carried such power Hyam woke up screaming. He fell to the floor and slapped at the flames he had left back at the island. The agony was fierce nonetheless, almost as strong as the sense that he had failed at something vital.

  When Hyam finally steadied, he found the house still empty. He devoured another meal. Afterward he bathed, and as he was dressing he heard a familiar voice call from the front garden.

  “You’re awake. Good.” Meda stepped through the open front door. “You’ve been summoned.”

  He was already moving, grateful for a reason to run from his dream. “By whom?”

  Meda followed him down the white-stone path. “Everyone.”

  The black walls of Falmouth Port predated the struggles of ten centuries past. Before the Milantians had invaded the realm, the city had served as a warrior’s bastion and defended the realm against desert invaders. More recently, after the Oberons lost the crown to the realm’s current king, Bayard had accepted defeat on the condition that he be granted this fief.

  Bayard was known far and wide as an honorable man. When dark forces began swirling about Port Royal and the king’s court, newcomers flocked here, eager to swear fealty to the earl of a forbidden realm. Ships arrived throughout the fair-weather season, carrying both refugees and seasoned troops who refused to serve the unnamed shadows. Newcomers brought tales of strange happenings and feral beasts that prowled the forests. Now even the best-traveled routes were threatened. They spoke of a ruler who was never seen and royal edicts that troubled everyone of good heart.

  The road leading to Falmouth’s main gates was lined with shops that had immigrated with their owners. The structures served cobblers and armorers and leather workers and smiths, bakers and butchers and fruiters, taverns and inns and bordellos and gambling dens, fortune-tellers and healers and midwives. The Earl of Oberon’s strict oversight was more lax beyond the city walls. A new mayor oversaw what had come to be known as Lesser Falmouth. Two women shouted good-natured insults from upstairs windows but went silent as Hyam and Meda passed. He pretended not to notice.

  As they approached the city’s main gates, Meda said, “Something’s changed about you. The shadows have lightened.”

  With most people he would have deflected the comment, for Hyam rarely spoke about himself. But Meda had been with him since the beginning. He replied, “The scrolls contained power. I feel it still.”

  Meda saluted the guards on gate duty. “Milantian power. That no one but you can read.”

  “The Mistress of the Long Hall near my home suggested my blood was tainted. Now I have read an invisible script written in a tongue most say cannot be learned.”

  Meda halted him with a finger to his ribs, rigid as a blade. “You may carry an unwanted legacy. It is true of many warriors. Someday if you’re interested I’ll share with you a few of my own shadows.” The finger stabbed his chest a second time. “But those fragments of your past do not make you. They do not describe you. Tell me you understand.”

  “You are a good friend,” Hyam replied.

  “I try to be.” She motioned them on. A few paces further, she said, “The earl is going to send a guard with you to Emporis. It’s not my rotation. But I want to volunteer. If you’ll have me.”

  Hyam intended to travel with the golden scrolls, in hopes a translation text might be found among the desert trader’s wares. But as the scrolls held Milantian magery, he could not request passage through the Elven road. This meant traveling through the badland fiefdoms, a prospect Hyam relished. He had not left Falmouth since the Battle of Emporis.

  Hyam replied, “I’d savor the chance to journey with you again.”

  Meda seemed to find enough closeness in the moment to say, “Joelle told me that losing your magic has been a trial.”

  They entered the inner keep, saluted the guards, and crossed the palace forecourt. “I did not know I lacked eyes until two years ago, when I discovered the realm of magic. I explored this new world with new senses for a few weeks only. Then I was blinded again.”

  “So touching these scrolls . . .”

  “There is a glimmer of light. Just a glimmer. But enough to make my heart sing.”

  Bayard paced the sunlit forecourt, ignoring the din of traders and troops readying for the journey ahead. Trace spoke with Joelle, who carried messages to the head wizard of the Emporis keep. The wolfhound Dama sprawled at her feet, panting in the heat.

  Bayard motioned for Hyam to join him and said, “I need your help.”

  “Sire?”

>   “My son is eight and not well.”

  Hyam nodded. All the city knew the earl’s only child was not responding to the healers.

  “Perhaps my wife and I will have another child. Perhaps . . .” Bayard waved that aside. “I have put this off too long. I intend to name Shona as my heir apparent.”

  “It is an excellent choice, sire.” Shona’s brothers shared their father’s passion and wanted nothing more from life than carrying on their father’s work. “Your niece dreams of carving her own place in the world.”

  “You understand. Excellent. But Timmins and his wife have sheltered Shona. She has never been beyond Falmouth’s borders. She does not know the world. She has no idea . . .”

  Hyam supplied, “What a ruler must face.”

  “Which is why I want you to take her on this quest.”

  “Timmins has agreed?”

  “Twice. And retracted twice. Last night I begged. Shona pleaded. But . . .” Bayard pointed at the gates. “Here they come now.”

  As soon as Hyam saw Timmins’s angry scowl and his daughter’s tears, he understood what Bayard had not asked. “Your cousin has become my friend during our time together, sire. Allow me to speak with him.”

  Bayard stepped away. “May you have more success than I.”

  Timmins had all his arguments ready and fastened his aim upon the earl. But Hyam stepped directly in front of him and declared, “Shona is leaving you.”

  “Her mother and I can’t allow . . . What?”

  “Not this year,” Hyam said. “Perhaps not the next. But the scribe’s life will not keep her. You and your wife both know this. Which is why you listened to Bayard at all.”

  Timmins drew his narrow shoulders back as far as they would go. “There is nothing wrong with my world.”

  “For you and your sons, it is ideal. For her?” Hyam glanced at the young woman. At seventeen, Shona was a rare beauty with a brilliant intellect, and the jewel of her father’s household. Hyam admired her for the strength it took to remain silent. “She wants more. You know this.”

  Timmins sputtered, “I know nothing of the sort.”