“One day.”
“Yes, one day.”
“So you’re finished? I’d like to see your wolf in action. I think it would scare most people, though.”
Caldan nodded. “That’s the idea. But before I show you, there is one thing we have left to do. It has been a day of secrets revealed. Let us see if we can unearth another.”
“What do you mean?”
“The trinkets. Come, walk with me.”
“But your construct?”
“Leave it there.”
As Miranda slid off the bench he took her hand. Together they walked across the packed earth to the giant hammer powered by the waterwheel. Caldan pulled a few levers, and wood creaked and ropes groaned as water began turning the device.
“Caldan, you can’t!” gasped Miranda, divining his intent.
From his pocket, he drew out the trinket ring he’d found secreted in Joachim’s residence. He had no idea of its function, or its worth. Ghosts of ideas had come to Caldan of how trinkets could function, but none of the trinkets he’d ever seen had showed signs of crafting patterns. On the outside. Many had symbols whose meaning had been lost in antiquity, but they were a far cry from the complex designs required for sorcery.
“The alloy that trinkets are made from is incredibly strong, and I think I know why. It’s to hide what’s underneath.”
He took the ring and placed it on the anvil, slightly to the side of the cutting edge of the hammer.
Miranda took half a step forward. “Caldan . . .”
He looked at her and smiled. “Sacrifices have to be made, if we’re to survive and disentangle ourselves from the warlocks. This will be the first.”
“People have killed for trinkets, and you’re just going to . . .” She made a chopping motion with one hand.
He nodded. “I have to know if I’m right.”
“Why? Isn’t guessing their design enough?”
“No.” Caldan paused, though, struck with a sudden sense of guilt. He was about to destroy an invaluable relic from before the Shattering.
You do what needs to be done, he told himself.
He struck another lever with the palm of his hand, and a rhythmic thumping filled the air. The immense hammer climbed slowly, tick by tick as gears turned. It rose above both of them, then halted, poised over the giant anvil underneath. One side sported a cutting edge of smith-crafted hardened steel. He could feel the warmth of the earth beneath his feet and a gentle breeze on his face, smell the scent of Miranda close to him. An orange light was cast by the massive forge to his left, and the heat was oppressive, even though it was banked for the night.
With one finger, Caldan pushed the trinket ring until it was balanced over the opposite cutting edge on the anvil. He hesitated again, struck by a sense of loss and mortification. He shrugged, held his breath . . .
And released the hammer.
Down it came. Fashioned to flatten the heaviest ingots. Bladed to cut through hot steel. Heavy and immutable, as if it could crack the world. And with a flat metallic fracture, it split the ring in half.
The two pieces bounced off the anvil. He’d been expecting something more . . . a burst of power.
He didn’t have to wait long.
He took a step toward the one half of the ring on the ground and gagged on an overpowering stench of lemons. He reached for his well and shielded himself, throwing himself in front of Miranda as he scrambled to expand it to protect her. He didn’t have time to sigh with relief as his shield extended over her.
Thunder echoed in his bones. There was a geyser of coruscating fire. Caldan shut his eyes tight against the brilliance. Sorcery battered at his shield, working to crumble his wards. Heat cracked the stone of the floor as the air swam in waves. Caldan groaned and drew more from his well, strengthening his shield.
Miranda clutched him hard. He thought he heard her scream over the tumult.
Eventually, the lights and disturbance subsided, leaving them surrounded by scorched stone and blackened, smoking wood.
Caldan searched the ground for the sundered ring pieces. They were steaming, but dull and lifeless, as if whatever forces they’d contained had left completely.
At a safe distance, bleary-eyed apprentices stared with shock and horror at the destruction wrought on their masters’ premises. Caldan grabbed a pair of tongs and picked up the halves of the ring, depositing them in a crucible he found nearby.
He dragged Miranda away from the hammer and anvil, as his shield was still being assailed by something, presumably the residual heat. They staggered farther away, and only when his shield didn’t have to draw extra from his well did Caldan cut his link.
Cool air wafted over them, and they both gasped for breath. Apprentices ran up, babbling questions and exclamations.
“What happened?”
“Are you both all right?”
“ . . . the masters are going to be right pissed off . . .”
Caldan didn’t answer them. Turning to Miranda, he jerked his head toward the door they’d entered from.
“We should go. The warlocks would have sensed what happened. They’ll send someone.”
“Did it . . . did something come out?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Let’s go.” But it made no sense that trinkets had stored power. It would be a finite resource, and he’d never heard of trinkets failing to function and turning lifeless. Quiss might have an idea of what happened. He’d have to ask.
They pushed past the hands and bodies of protesting apprentices. Caldan grabbed his engraving crafting and sorcerous globe and shoved them in his pocket. He sent his sorcerous sense out and linked to the metal wolf. Six strings were enough to make it rise and leap off the workbench. He sent it barreling past wide-eyed boys and girls and out the side door.
“Run!” Caldan said to Miranda. And they did.
AS THEY LEFT the walls of Riversedge behind, Caldan held the two halves of the trinket ring in the palm of his hand. He discarded the crucible to the side of the road. The metal alloy that the ring was composed of had begun its life in a similar crucible, when it had been melted to be cast.
Caldan glanced around and, seeing they were alone on the road, brought out the sorcerous globe. Soon it lay glowing in his other palm. He peered at the broken halves of the ring. All four cut sections were the same. An outer layer of silver alloy, the rigid metal no current sorcerer could replicate, but inside was another, darker metal. A ring within a ring. A crafting within a crafting. He’d been right. Trinkets were merely complex craftings that were concealed inside objects.
Caldan snorted softly. Merely.
But the outpouring of energy when the ring had been cut meant there was more to this puzzle than he’d first thought. Somehow they also contained a source of power. It was the only thing that made sense.
The warlocks would surely come to investigate the damage wrought at the blacksmith’s and evaluate the lingering sorcery.
And the apprentices will be able to give a description of me and Miranda.
Caldan laughed bitterly to himself.
“What’s wrong?” asked Miranda.
Caldan shook his head. “Nothing.” The warlocks had another reason to kill him now. As if they needed more than one.
CHAPTER 41
A young woman with gaunt cheeks and thin limbs came to his cabin and bade Caldan to follow, saying the new leader of the Five Oceans Mercantile Concern needed to talk with him. He left Miranda to sleep and followed the woman, but when Caldan arrived, Quiss was nowhere to be seen.
“Wait inside,” the messenger said. Her hollow eyes were almost as dark as Miranda’s.
The door closed behind him. A tiny window let in a faint light, enough to break the blackness up into shadowy shapes. After a few moments, he found his eyes adjusting, his Touched abilities kicking in, and he took the opportunity to examine his surroundings. Bare. It was the only word he could come up with. Some clothes were neatly folded and stacked on a stool. The bunk hadn�
�t been slept in, and as dawn was about to break, that meant the sorcerer had been up all night.
Caldan turned his back to the window and sat on the bunk. It creaked under his weight, and he shifted until he was comfortable. As Miranda was still asleep, and he had no idea how long Quiss would be, he might as well make use of his time.
One by one, he tested the craftings he had in his possession, checking them for any weaknesses that might have appeared. The last thing he needed was for one of them to have developed a flaw and to fail when he needed it. His power coursed through his shield medallion as he checked the links, buffers, anchors, and focuses. All seemed fine. His alloy was strong and resistant, and his smith-crafting was up to the task. More than adequate. His beetle was showing signs of wear, though: metal discoloration and a slight warping of the thinnest sheets. Caldan wasn’t surprised, but he was disappointed. The metal he’d had to use was too soft, and he’d known it wouldn’t last long. But still, it had served him well so far; saved him and cel Rau and that Vasile fellow from the jukari. The Bleeder Mahsonn’s craftings he still had, but only one would be of use when he could control more strings.
As Caldan worked, his thoughts turned to the Touched. They were greater heroes than they themselves realized. Ostensibly an elite fighting force to the rest of the emperor’s army, they quietly went about their missions, content to use their abilities to defend the empire. And the story the warlocks sold them was a tough one to refuse the call of.
You are unique.
Gifted.
You must use your talents for good.
We’ll tell you how to use them, for the empire brings order and peace, and isn’t that good?
Look—these trinkets will help you. Just do what we ask.
Miranda was right. There was only one way to free themselves, and that was to go far away from the empire. And she’d shown him the path . . . But could he do it? Was it possible to fool the warlocks? He could think of only one thing that would convince them he’d died, and that was his trinket ring. His fingers ran along its surface, feeling the patterns in the metal.
Amerdan, Kelhak, warlocks, hide, Caldan said to himself. He snorted. Hide. What a path he’d set himself on. The monks had taught him better than this. Change what you can. Help who you can. Then, if you’re still alive, think of yourself. And Miranda.
The door opened without any precautionary knock, and Quiss entered, looking harried and weary. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were red-rimmed. His clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them, but Caldan doubted he’d snatched any time to relax. He fairly reeked of sorcery. And as he entered the cabin, Caldan’s skin prickled. There was a lingering miasma surrounding Quiss, much like the heavy, charged air of a thunderstorm.
Quiss nodded to Caldan. He removed the clothes from the stool and placed them on the floor. In one hand he held slices of bread around a thick wedge of cheese. He took a bite and chewed slowly, thoughtfully.
“You’ve found Amerdan,” stated Caldan.
Quiss squinted at him in the dim light, then nodded. “I’ve detected bursts of sorcery far from here. Nothing unusual in these turbulent times. There are vormag all around us with their primitive, twisted workings. But these were . . . different. Focused. Complex.”
“Could it be another of Kelhak’s sorcerers?”
“No. They are not so reckless. This close to the emperor and the warlocks, they wouldn’t risk it.”
“You sound certain.”
“I am. The crafting was too complex, even for them. It had to be a trinket. We followed the scent”—Caldan’s ears pricked up at the word scent; could Quiss and his companions smell sorcery like he was able to?—“and divined enough of the working to know it could be Amerdan. The stench of someone’s well being ripped from them is quite unique. And overlaid on that were multiple wells being opened at once. Another lich.”
“Bells had only one well,” said Caldan. “Her own. This I know for a fact. If she knew how to steal wells from other sorcerers, then she would have had many more. I fear you’re right. He has to be using a trinket, as we surmised. Nothing else makes sense.”
Again, Quiss nodded slowly. He rubbed his chin, looking troubled. “If this trinket has been fashioned to use coercive sorcery . . . then it’s an abomination.”
Caldan gave Quiss a sharp look. Did the kind of sorcery a crafting or trinket used make a difference? In his eyes, it didn’t, but in Quiss’s it obviously did.
“We know where he is,” said Caldan. “There’s no point delaying. We should confront him.” He made to stand.
“He is within the forces of the jukari and vormag.”
Caldan stopped. “Then he is attempting to control them, somehow.”
Quiss nodded. “We think so. The emperor’s Quivers and warlocks have pushed them back. The jukari are retreating now, and soon they’ll be scattered. I’ve given orders to assemble a team. Some of the mercenaries will accompany us. We’ll strike as soon as possible.”
“How? They have to be miles away. It’ll take time to find him again, even knowing where he is now.”
“There is a way,” Quiss said, “to travel there quickly. It’s not without cost, but in these times, such trifles matter less and less.”
He was talking about a special kind of sorcery. Kelhak had used it, as had the emperor, and Caldan had surmised it was an ability confined to those with multiple wells, but it seemed that wasn’t the case. Which meant raw power was needed. “What do you need me to do?”
Quiss fixed Caldan with a stare. “Come with us. Use sorcery. Fight. I don’t know what will happen, but your abilities could prove invaluable. You are growing, Caldan. Becoming dangerous. There are always choices. But some are less palatable than others.”
Here, among Quiss and his people, Caldan was safe from the warlocks. But he couldn’t hide forever.
He needed to see Miranda, to tell her what he was doing and say good-bye. But . . .
“When do we leave?”
GATHERED ON THE grassy slope of the riverbank in the dawning light, the host Quiss had gathered waited for others to join them. A small enough group, though, one that hopefully wouldn’t draw the notice of the emperor’s forces. Caldan stood to one side, one hand always near his craftings, the other resting on the buckle that dropped his sword from his back to his hip. Five mercenaries stood in a knot to one side, huge, hardened men wearing mismatched armor dented and scored from many a fight. And carrying too many weapons to count: swords, daggers, axes, and javelins. Each one also had a rectangular shield, tall enough for them to lean on when they rested. The mercenaries kept to themselves, speaking in hushed tones occasionally. A little away from them waited two emaciated sorcerers, obviously Quiss’s colleagues. The brown-haired woman looked wan and sickly, her face pale and gaunt. The man was scarcely better, though he at least wasn’t as thin. The woman looked like a strong breeze would blow her over.
Caldan had brought his wolf simulacrum along in case he would need it, guessing the chances he would were good. Not wanting to startle anyone, he directed it to stay a short distance away, hidden behind a tangle of blackberry bushes. It could follow them at a discreet distance and help him when he needed it.
Approaching from the ships, a large, middle-aged man walked toward Caldan. He was covered in a voluminous robe tied about his huge paunch with a sash. He smiled at Caldan and ran a hand through graying hair.
“I’m Mazoet Miangline,” he said, bowing politely from the waist.
Caldan couldn’t sense the man’s well, but there was something else: a sorcerous blurring around his mind. His well hadn’t just been disguised, as he’d sensed Simmon’s had. It was totally obscured in some fashion.
“You’re with Quiss,” Caldan stated. He looked the man up and down. “But you’re—”
“Fat?” Mazoet said with a wry smile. “Some of us cope with change better than others.”
Caldan wasn’t sure he understood Mazoet’s meaning. “Is Quiss coming?”
“How,” Caldan ventured, “do you conceal your well?”
“You are a curious one, aren’t you? Quiss told me as much. Very well, it’s a simple thing. Coercive sorcery, of course. Does that bother you?”
It didn’t—not really. But he thought back to the first time he’d encountered a hidden well: Simmon. Had the master known coercive sorcery? Or perhaps he didn’t realize it was related? He wished Simmon were still here. He might have been blind to what the empire used him for, but he had been someone Caldan felt he could have counted on now. Not like the men he was surrounded by. Still, he didn’t want to antagonize Mazoet, so he just said, “Not as much as it used to. Now I know more about it, is what I mean.”
“Good. Then let’s begin.”
“Begin what?”
“Learning how to block your well.”
“Really?” Caldan blinked.
“You want to learn, right?”
“Of course! But . . . out here?”
“No one will see. The mercenaries won’t know.” Mazoet gestured to the two thin sorcerers. “My friends won’t care. We have time, so let’s get started.”
Caldan opened his well and sensed Mazoet’s was already open. It had to be, for the man was suffused with power. He cast his senses over the other two sorcerers and found they were the same. There was no reason for them to be holding on to their power, and yet they were. What was he missing?
“It’s quite simple, really,” began Mazoet.
Caldan linked to his coercive sorcery crafting and prepared to follow Mazoet’s instructions. And in the end, it really was simple. A basic pattern, a web of threads arranged a certain way, anchored around your well, covering it. Three strings were required, which meant it was beyond most journeymen sorcerers and even masters. But not warlocks and Quiss’s people. Bells had told him coercive sorcery required a lot more strings than three. And if she was wrong about this, then she could have been wrong about many other things.
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