One at a time the wizards assented. Once again, they all vanished, except Rotiaqua.
“Are you certain this is the right course?” she asked Zhimosom once the room was clear.
“Certain?” he asked. “No, not certain, but I feel this is the best approach. It will not be easy on either of us, I fear.”
“Did you help him at the river? Or was that all his doing?”
“Only a touch. He did most of it himself. I supplied ideas and concepts, mere hints of what he could do. I supplied no power to assist him. It was all his doing.”
“I taught him to draw power from the fireplace and the room around him,” she explained. “He extinguished the fire and froze one of the pots hanging in the fireplace. He managed a single copper coin out of the effort.
“I had to relight the fire and restore the pots to room temperature before we were spotted. A priest showed up shortly after that, asking about the boys.”
“Do you think he suspected?” Zhimosom asked. His oversized white eyebrows contracted across his wrinkled brow.
“I am sure he did,” she replied. “I was carrying some pretty strong shields. Regardless, we got out of there as quickly as we could.”
“This explains your presence in the forest instead of a comfortable inn, I take it?” Zhimosom asked with a smile.
“We all have to make sacrifices,” she said. “We left abruptly and are making good time.”
“You sent the boy northward?”
“Yes, he’s on the trail alone tonight.”
“I think I’ll allow him a good night’s rest tonight. I’ll contact him tomorrow.”
“You’re not tired already, are you?” Rotiaqua asked.
“Only slightly,” Zhimosom replied. “But I fear the worst is yet to come.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. It’s what keeps us young.”
Rotiaqua’s form faded into mist and vanished from the chamber. Zhimosom sat at his table in contemplation with only the flickering candle light to provide illumination.
“Nothing for it,” he muttered, pulling another heavy book from the shelf behind him and opened it on top of the one already there. It held maps of the known world, illustrating where each town and village might be found and what the political and social conditions were at each location.
“So, my boy, where will we send you?” he asked himself.
He contemplated the map for a while, flipping the heavy pages back and forth, pondering. Finally, he slapped the book shut and returned it to the shelf from which he had extracted it.
“I hope we both survive this, young Lorit,” he muttered as he extinguished the candle and pushed his chair back.
Lorit made his way through the Muistur Forest, keeping to the minor trails. Each night, he spent time practicing with the staff that Rotiaqua had given him. Just when he was starting to feel restless, the forest abruptly ended. Lorit looked down the hill on a town that was several times larger than Mistbury Tye was. The main street was straight and dotted with buildings that spewed smoke into the early afternoon sun.
The temple of Ran sat in the center of town, as always. This one was larger and more elaborate than the one in Mistbury. Lorit scanned the area for a likely place to get some food that he hadn’t killed himself and for a place to sleep that wasn’t hard ground.
He made his way down the narrowing lane toward the first of the taverns. Carts lined the street, selling vegetables, nuts, bread, and the occasional smoked or hanging meat.
“Care for some fresh bread, son?” called an old woman standing behind a dilapidated cart filled with a few meager loaves of brown bread.
Lorit was reminded of Shandyl, who’d first pointed him toward the stables in Mistbury Tye. He examined the loaves and decided on one that looked particularly fresh.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied, taking the proffered copper and quickly stashing it in a hidden pocket in her dress.
Lorit strolled down the market street, breaking off chunks of bread and eating them as he went. It was only slightly stale but tasted delicious after several days in the forest with nothing but game and a few roots to eat.
On the corner was a young man about Lorit’s age. He stood on a discarded crate so that he was visible above the thronging crowd. The young man wore a long brown robe with the hood pulled back. It was secured in the middle by a stained and frayed red rope. He waved his arms wildly and flicked his hand. Suddenly, there was an apple in his outstretched hand.
Lorit stopped to watch the show, leaning against the building across the street corner. The young man gestured once more. There was a flash of thick black smoke and the apple disappeared. The sparse crowd surrounding him departed as the young man called after them, “Magic, sirs and madams. Magic performed right before your very eyes!” He gestured toward a battered copper cup on the ground. “Surely that’s worth a copper or two?”
One or two individuals stopped and tossed a copper into the cup. Most just walked away.
Lorit crossed the street and walked up to the young man. As he approached, the youth stepped off the crate. He was about Lorit’s height, fair of face with short brown hair. He turned as Lorit approached.
“Magic, kind sir?” he asked.
“Sorry, not today,” Lorit replied.
“The name is Enat,” the young man replied.
“I am interested in how you do that. Care to share?”
“Sorry, a wizard is sworn to secrecy,” Enat replied. He reached down and picked up the battered copper cup. He rattled it a bit then poured the coins out into his hand. He pocketed the coins, then the cup, and stooped down to pick up the crate he’d been using as a stage.
“Are you a wizard?” Lorit asked.
“Yes! I’m a free wizard, although I’m only an apprentice.”
“Where did you learn?” Lorit asked, following Enat as he started down the street.
“I pick things up where I can,” Enat answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I want to learn magic. Can you show me where you learned these things?” Lorit asked.
Enat continued walking without replying for nearly a block. Finally, he turned back to Lorit and said, “Why do you want to learn these things?” He waved his arm through the air encompassing the whole world. “What will you give to learn these things?” he continued, holding his free hand out as if accepting coins.
“I have nothing to give,” Lorit replied.
“How about your staff? That looks like a nice staff for a wizard.” He eyed Lorit’s staff longingly.
“No,” Lorit replied clutching it closer to him. “Not my staff... I have meat fresh from the forest.”
“I don’t need any meat,” Enat replied. “But there is one thing I could use your help with.”
Enat reached into his sleeve and pulled out a roll of parchment tied with a red ribbon. It was stained and flattened from wear. He untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. It contained strange symbols that Lorit did not recognize.
“Do you know what this is?” Enat asked Lorit.
“I’m not familiar with these symbols.”
“I’m sure you’re not. These are the ancient runes of the Free wizards. They carry power beyond most people’s understanding. They’re sacred and passed only from master to apprentice.”
Enat guided Lorit down the alley off the market street. It was dark and dingy with debris and discarded crates strewn about. They dodged the trash as they made their way along.
“Where did you get that?” Lorit asked.
“Where do you think I got it?” Enat answered. “I stole it.”
“Stole it! Where did you steal it from?”
“From the old priest. That’s where we’re going, to get more of these,” he said as he rerolled the scroll and tucked it back into his sleeve. “That’s where I need your help.
“I need you to help me sneak into the old man’s place and gather a few more of these. They’re valuable and powerful, and he’s senile and won’t miss them,�
�� he explained. “The priest is old and decrepit. His magical powers are all used up. He can’t run after us. We can take whatever we want and make off with it before he can summon help.”
“I’m not sure about this,” Lorit answered. “We shouldn’t have to steal to obtain magic. It should be freely given.”
“Have you ever seen a priest give anyone anything?” Enat asked. He stopped and confronted Lorit, hands on his hips.
“No,” Lorit replied. “Never.”
“Well, there you go.” Enat turned and headed down a side street that was lined with dilapidated buildings. Gnarled old trees shaded the street and gave it a dismal gloom as the day faded.
They waited in the shadows as, one by one, the lights came on in each house. Lamp light flicked in the windows as the occupants prepared for the night. When dusk had set in, they crept up to the house Enat had pointed out earlier.
“I will open the door, sneak in, and get the documents. He keeps them in a drawer in his study,” Enat explained.
“What am I supposed to do?” Lorit asked.
“You keep lookout.”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Lorit looked the house over. It was old and ill maintained. There was light coming from only one window, and by the flickering, it appeared to be the fireplace.
“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Enat whispered. “You just keep a lookout and holler if anyone comes.”
“I still don’t like it,” Lorit answered.
“You want to learn magic, don’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t think this is the right way.”
“You’re free to go if you want to, but then there’s nothing for you when I get out,” Enat finally declared. He turned and headed for the door.
Lorit decided to wait and watch even though he knew that what Enat was doing was wrong. He crouched beneath a bush just to the side of the house, where he could see the walkway and the door.
He saw a figure approaching, far up the street. The priest wore a long robe and carried a staff. Lorit wasn’t sure if the figure was headed for the house or just passing by. He waited silently, hoping for the best.
“You, there!” a voice yelled. “What are you doing there?”
Lorit froze, trying to decide the best response as he scanned the area for an escape route. Suddenly, he felt as if ropes had been wrapped around him and were slowly tightening in place. He struggled, but was unable to move his arms or legs, and fell over as he lost his balance. He tried to shout out, but something seemed to cover his mouth.
The figure strode over to where he lay and looked down at him. “I will be back in a moment for you. For now, just rest there while I check out the house and see what your friend is up to.”
Lorit could hear the door open. The figure called out again, “Whatever you’re looking for, you’ve decided to look in the wrong place.”
Lorit struggled against the bonds, but was unable to make any headway. He lay there and listened. At first, there were a number of crashing sounds, as if Enat was winning his escape, but they suddenly died down. He could hear the voice again from inside the house say, “Well, well, well. We’ve finally caught the little thief.”
Lorit heard the muted sounds of a struggle, but no response from Enat. The voice continued, “We have your friend outside all trussed up and ready for the patrollers, but for you, I think something more is in order.”
There came the sound of a raging fire and muffled screams from the inside of the house. The light emanating from the windows flared brightly and subsided. After Lorit’s vision recovered, the only light remaining was the flickering of the fireplace.
He could hear the sounds of footsteps cross the house and knew the priest was on his way back outside to deal with him at his leisure.
The patrollers arrived shortly and claimed Lorit. They trussed him with real rope and tossed him into the wagon. The priest stood watch over the process. “Take him to the temple and turn him over to the guards,” he instructed them. “We have some special interrogation planned for this young man.”
“Yes, Father, we’ll transport him there straight away,” the patroller responded.
“And make sure he arrives unharmed,” the priest added. “I reserve that for myself.”
“Right away,” the patroller replied. He jumped up into the seat of the wagon and jerked the reins. The horses lurched forward, throwing Lorit off his knees onto his side.
The wagon bounced Lorit around uncomfortably for some time before it came to a stop. The patroller stepped down from his seat and came to the rear of the wagon, where Lorit lay. Two temple guards arrived. One carried a brass lantern that illuminated the wagon.
The first guard rolled him onto his back. “Cut his legs free,” he said. “I’m not carrying this prisoner all the way to his cell. He’s walking.”
The temple guard pulled a long knife from his belt and sliced through the ropes that held Lorit’s feet together. The circulation resumed with a tingling prickly pain. They hoisted him to his feet and set him down. The pain was almost overwhelming. Lorit fell to the ground, his sleeping legs unable to support his weight.
They jerked him up by his arms and half dragged him up the stairs and down a hallway much like the one Lorit had secretly visited in Mistbury Tye. Down, near the end of the hallway, was a heavy oak door flanked by two more guards, who pulled the door open as Lorit arrived in tow.
Inside the room was a rustic bench made of old splintered oak. It was set against the back wall with chains draped across it. They were attached at one end to the solid rock wall. The free end of the chains contained heavy shackles that were quickly and tightly placed around Lorit’s wrists and ankles.
After securing Lorit, the guards turned to leave. Before closing the door behind him, the guard turned to look back at Lorit. “Have a good night’s rest, boy. Tomorrow will be a big day for you.”
The door closed, and the room was plunged into darkness. Lorit was unable to lie down due to the length of the chains. All he could do was sit with his back against the cold stones and try to rest.
As uncomfortable as it was, Lorit managed to go to sleep long after they left him alone. While he slept, he felt the contact from Zhimosom. This time it was fuzzy and immaterial. He could barely make out what the wizard was saying.
“You have managed to get yourself into trouble, haven’t you?” the wizard asked.
“It seems so,” Lorit replied. He lifted his arms to illustrate the predicament he was in. “What can you do to help?”
“I can do nothing directly,” Zhimosom replied. “They have shielding in place at the temple that’s particularly effective. Were it not for the rapport we already have, even this conversation would not be possible.”
“How will I get free of this?” Lorit implored.
“That is entirely up to you. You have all the tools you need to escape. Just remember, while you can shield your image from the guards, it will not work on the priest.”
“Do you have any ideas about what to try?” Lorit asked. He was frustrated that Zhimosom wouldn’t come right out and help him free himself. He was certain that Zhimosom would not have had any trouble getting free of the temple.
“Consider the structure of your prison,” the wizard answered. “That will be the key you need to free yourself.”
The image faded from view, and Lorit was left alone in the cell once more.
“Get up,” the guard yelled, poking Lorit in the ribs with the blunt end of his spear. “Can you believe this? The kid can sleep in the dungeon!”
The other guard unlocked the shackles from his feet, then his wrists. They brought out a short chain and shackled him again. The only way to proceed was for Lorit to shuffle along, stooped over, taking short steps that came up sharply, as he reached the limits of the chains binding his feet.
They proceeded down the hallway Lorit had seen the previous night. They turned partway down the hallway and entered a chamber lit with a single torch
in a holder on the wall. In the middle of the room was a table with more shackles fastened to either corner.
The guard freed Lorit from his chains, bound him to the table, and left him there, exposed.
Soon a priest entered the room and bent over Lorit. “Good morning, son. My name is Danthon. What’s yours?” he asked in a smooth voice.
Lorit remained silent, glaring at the priest.
“How impolite,” Danthon said. “I’m sure your mother would be disappointed in you.” He raised his staff, placing the knobby end next to Lorit’s head. There was a warm, tingly feeling in his temple, and Lorit felt a slight tugging sensation.
“Yes, Shyenn would be so disappointed in you, Lorit. Wouldn’t she?”
Lorit struggled against the bonds that held him to the table. All he accomplished was bruising his wrists.
“Who’s been helping you, boy?” Danthon demanded.
“What, you can’t pull that from my head?” Lorit asked. He’d feared that his every memory was exposed to the priest. Now he knew that some were still safe.
“Not at the moment, but there’s always tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that,” he remarked. “I’m a patient man.”
Danthon pulled up a stool. He leaned on his staff and peered into Lorit’s eyes. “We’re going to have plenty of time together.”
He raised his staff and passed it over Lorit from head to toe. As the staff passed over him, Lorit felt waves of excruciating pain, as if he were being seared with a red-hot iron.
“I may not be able to pull it from your mind,” he continued, “but I wager I’ll eventually get it through your parched lips, if only to relieve the pain temporarily.” Once again, he passed the staff over Lorit’s body, and again the wracking pain followed its course.
Lorit bit down hard and stifled his scream; he yearned for release. He knew that showing weakness was not going to help him and would probably just cause more pain.
The torture went on for the entire morning until Lorit lay there twitching and convulsing from the pain and the anticipation of more. Suddenly Danthon pushed the stool back and rose. He turned to the guard and spoke, “Clean him up and feed him. See that he gets decent food and plenty of water. I want him recovered by this afternoon, so we can begin again.”
Foundling Wizard Page 8