by Paul Collins
‘But they were born here.’
‘I was born in Skelt, yet don’t feel inclined to go back there. But do go on. All this intrigues me.’
‘We fought linkriders, the Preceptor’s army, lindraks and deadmoon assassins, potent wizards, angry farmers and paraworld monsters. I was alone and on the streets after my family was murdered. I was making a living as a scribe, then I fell in with them. Zimak was light of finger, and a Siluvian black-band master at kick-fist. That came from wearing a dragonlink, of course.
‘Daretor was a huge and superlative swordsman, who had lost his sword skills to another dragonlink. Thus he hated all dragon links and despised those who wore them. He had vowed to destroy them. He put honour before all else, including commonsense. It was his obsession that forced my hand. Had he not been so damnably honourable, I wouldn’t have worried about Zimak having his kick-fist skills thanks to a dragonlink ring. Daretor, on the other hand, might have killed Zimak.’
‘Is this bad?’ asked Lady Forturian.
A well of despair washed over Jelindel. For all she knew, she had killed them. There was no guarantee that the pair had landed anywhere. They were probably trapped in some paraplane, drifting endlessly with no anchor. ‘Oh, you just need to know them, I can’t explain,’ she said, miserably.
‘Hmm. But what do you want?’ Lady Forturian asked, offering Jelindel another biscuit.
‘To be graded an Adept 10, to have a nice position somewhere, doing experimental magic. To be an adventurer and discover the world for myself. To be free.’
‘Get the first, and you can have the rest – in moderation,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘No one is truly “free”, Jelindel. An Adept 15 is as bound to his duties as his inferiors. More so, I suspect, for there is always someone wanting to topple you from your high perch. A fact I learnt from D’rudar’s teachings. But an Adept 10’s accreditation is not too lofty a goal for one so able.’
‘Settling down long enough to get the first is a problem. It would need three months of serious study.’
Lady Forturian’s eyes flickered. ‘Are three months such a burden if they lead you to your goal?’
Jelindel bit her lower lip. ‘There is a large reward on my head – three hundred gold oriels now. The last attempt on my life was a few weeks ago in D’loom. I had intended to travel on a passenger vessel, and leave the continent for a while. But it was too late. I fled on the first ship to leave port.’
‘How very interesting.’ Lady Forturian steepled her fingers and regarded Jelindel. ‘Well, perhaps I can help. I want your story – or at least the part concerning how the dragonlinks mailshirt was put back together, then destroyed. Everything. Names, places, spells, charms, monsters, and whatever pictures you can draw as well. Spend three months helping me to transcribe your story in the mornings, and in the afternoons I shall tutor you for your Adept 10 grading. Then I can give you the tests and if you pass, accredit you.’
Jelindel gaped. ‘That seems a very unfair bargain for you. No story I could possibly tell would repay such a fee.’
‘On the contrary, my dear child. Your rendering of the mailshirt story will give me the only book in the world with a full and authentic account of that adventure. I shall call it Dragonlinks. I will be the envy of every skald across the land. What do you say? My certificates are highly regarded.’
‘I am tempted, but staying here for three months is out of the question. I think I know who’s collecting the pentacles, and he’s on the Dragonfang. It sails at daybreak and the tide waits for nobody.’
‘It waits for me,’ Lady Forturian said, carelessly.
‘I know it’s very generous of you and – what do you mean?’
‘My dear child, I can make this house stand still in time.’
It was morning, and Jelindel was getting ready to leave. The house looked considerably more tidy and better organised than when she had arrived three months ago. Outside the front door, only a single night had passed. Jelindel was now an accredited Adept 10. She had spent months studying the magic of paraworlds travel, minor properties of questing spells, slowing her pulse rate to around 60 for inner calm and focusing power, and other sundry abilities in keeping with her new rank.
It seemed to her that the more she learnt the less she knew. Lady Forturian had hinted at a great many specialised areas of magery: weatherworkers, firemakers, earthmovers, shapeshifters, conjurers of illusion and reality. They were in the realms of High Adepts, those attaining Adept 12 accreditation and above. There were darklings, too. Those who studied the arts without teachers, a dangerous practice, although, as Lady Forturian pointed out, Jelindel herself had been such a novice. Most darklings, however, erred to the more arcane brotherhood of magery. These were the wild cards that upset the balance between good and evil.
Jelindel felt no different from the Jelindel who had walked through the door three months ago. Yet she knew, like a bird about to leave the nest for the first time, that everything was about to change.
She was washing her face when Lady Forturian approached with a small amberwood box. She opened it to reveal three pentacle gems. Jelindel recognised them instantly: water, air and fire: moonstone, sapphire and ruby.
Jelindel had told herself on numerous occasions over the past months that nothing Lady Forturian did ought to surprise her. Still, she stared at the gems with disbelief.
No larger than Jelindel’s thumbnail, the gems were small enough to be mistaken for pendants. They were rough-edged and multi-faceted, every cut reflecting a distorted image. The closed pentagram was minutely etched on each of them. They were shimmering as though some hidden but powerful magical source fuelled them.
Jelindel realised that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly. How odd that, like the dragonlinks, these pentacle gems also glowed when brought together. Was it a property of all magical artifacts that they responded in this manner, as though gaining strength in numbers? There was no discernible power emanating from the gems. Yet Jelindel knew that, used wisely, they were more powerful than any bauble the charm vendors sold at market places.
‘Would you like to borrow one?’ Lady Forturian asked, casually.
‘I – I – I couldn’t,’ gasped Jelindel, mesmerised by the sparkling gems on their bed of black velvet. Even as she said it, her hand reached out and picked one. It was warm to the touch, like living tissue.
‘Nonsense,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘You will, because in return I expect you to bring me the other gems and leave them here, where they can be kept out of the hands of fools, charlatans, and members of the aristocracy. There is an Adept in Mordicar, our Duke’s brother as it happens, who has two – the spirit and an earth, I believe. He has mounted them in a very precisely measured ringstone circle. He needs three more. The Preceptor of Skelt – or is he now Emperor? – it’s hard to keep up with such men’s follies, is travelling to join him with a gem of his own – an air, I believe. A freelance agent is bringing him another, and yours will make five. Use the one in your hand to arrange a meeting with him, then steal the other four.
‘I have something else for you.’ Lady Forturian took a pouch from her robes and emptied a dozen blue, teardrop gems into Jelindel’s hand. They were the size of pearls and as smooth. ‘These are drones.’
‘I used one once. They look too pretty to be called drones.’ Jelindel scooped up the gems and returned them to their pouch before pocketing it. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say nothing,’ Lady Forturian said. ‘They were invented in some paraworld, but I studied one and learned to grow my own. They can be used to store power, even though they cannot generate it themselves. Set up a bridge to a paraworld with the pentacle gems, then replace the gems with these. They will hold the bridge intact for a few hours while the power slowly drains away. Then they will collapse, but by then you will have escaped, is that not so?’
‘I should expect so,’ Jelindel said, slowly. ‘The paraworld paths are called transition gates, too,’ said Jelindel.<
br />
‘Oh, yes. Bind one to yourself, as I have shown you, so that when you go to the paraworld you can return without a bridge. All the power you need to return will be stored within the pentacle gem.’
‘That was how I flung Daretor and Zimak into a paraworld. I used one of these. But the daemon that gave it to me mentioned that they’re dependent on weight ratios. How will I know if I have them right?’
‘When used in conjunction with D’rudar’s engine, their power is enhanced a hundredfold. Just don’t try bringing back more than necessary. The gate will collapse with disastrous effect if it gets overloaded.’
‘I think Daretor and Zimak will be more than I can handle,’ Jelindel said, ruefully.
‘Well then, I have nothing more to tell you in that case. Be off with you, and bring back five pentacle gems when next you visit.’
‘What? You give me the gem just like that? No contact, no bond, just trust?’
‘Jelindel, you have lived with me for three months, while a single evening passed outside. You ought to know what will happen to anyone who crosses me. Would you really like to risk that?’
‘There is no question of my double-crossing you,’ Jelindel said. ‘How long do I have?’
‘Months, years, whatever. Keep them for your own experiments if you like, but make sure that only I get them at the end. Oh, and a neatly written account of both your journeys and your experiments. I must have a full and true account.’
‘The bargain is sealed,’ Jelindel said.
‘Accepted. Oh, a word of caution. If, as we both suspect, there is a pentacle gem on board the Dragonfang, you need a cloaking spell for this one. Otherwise the moment they come within range of one another, they will glow.’
‘I’ll hide it and the drones the moment I get on board.’
Jelindel paused, her hand on the doorknob. Lady Forturian had summoned her here, hadn’t she? She had called to Jelindel in a dream all those weeks ago. And now she had placed into Jelindel’s care a valuable pentacle gem. Not to mention three months of intense tuition and an accreditation. Why?
Lady Forturian placed her hand over Jelindel’s and opened the door. ‘I am not a power unto myself, Jelindel. There are others … like me. We’ve been watching your progress with interest,’ she said kindly. ‘Be true to yourself and have faith in your powers. Enjoy your new self,’ the woman added mysteriously.
Jelindel thanked her and stepped through the door into the real world.
Jelindel closed the door behind her. ‘Enjoy your new self’. What a funny thing to say, she thought. And ‘others’ were watching her. She was still pondering Lady Forturian’s choice of words when all power left her and she staggered against a tree. She caught herself from falling and eased down the trunk to the ground. Everything was different, yet the same. She took a deep breath and almost gagged on the richness of the air. On it she smelt a plethora of flora and fauna. Her body shook with her suddenly heightened senses.
She ducked her head as a bird flew towards her, then swerved away. She had sensed its approach before she had even seen it. And there it was, nesting in a nettleberry bush. It was virtually hidden, yet fully revealed to her suddenly keen eyesight. The bird screeched a warning, protecting its territory. The sound was almost too shrill, and Jelindel found herself instinctively shielding her ears.
She sat testing her senses. Sniffing the air like a hound, she smelt the presence of wild boar in the undergrowth. From further afield she caught a whiff of alarm as a small animal sought refuge from a predator. She strained her ears and heard a flutter of wings, and heard the squeal of a rodent as its life was snuffed out.
And, most miraculous of all, she realised that colours were more vibrant. It was as though everything she had ever seen in the past had been smeared with dust, and now it was wiped clean. She could clearly see the helkro bird that swooped towards her, despite its excellent camouflage.
Warily, Jelindel stood. Her senses were still reeling as her mind worked through what was happening to her. So this was what it was like to be an Adept 10. She thought back to the Adepts she had unwittingly defeated in the past. No wonder they seemed so … omnipotent. Armed with not only magic, but heightened sight, hearing and smell, they could almost predict what their opponents were planning to do before they acted.
It had been pure chance that both Jabez Thull and Longrical had virtually defeated themselves when matched against Jelindel: Jabez’s defences had been weakened by the events leading up to his death, and Longrical’s vast power had been drained by the dragonlinks mailshirt that Jelindel had been wearing beneath her clothes. And Morgat. How she had beaten the Dean still mystified her, although powerful resonances from the mailshirt may have helped, and Morgat had been far too over confident.
On their deaths, their slave spirits had been released, but Jelindel had set them free. If becoming a High Adept meant enslaving beings from paraplanes, perhaps she would never reach past being an Adept 10.
As she made her way back to the port, Jelindel reflected on a great many things. If being an Adept 10 altered her so, then how must an Adept 15 feel? But that line of thinking was wrong, she soon realised. She was an Adept 10 at the behest of a wonderful woman. She had been bestowed with a gift, and she knew that such power was not to be abused.
She slowed her pace while she considered the ramifications of her promotion from an untrained Adept 9 to that of an accredited Adept 10. The latter held responsibilities, which she must fulfil. With this realisation, she dampened her extrasensory powers, reining them in to be released when needed. They heeded her call, slowly at first, then more willingly. Colours dulled, sounds diminished and scents became muted. Her control was ragged, but in time she would fine-tune it.
What a wonderful thing, Jelindel marvelled, as everything fell into place.
The Dragonfang was still at the wharf when Jelindel returned. The crew looked haggard, as if they had been drinking all night – which they had. Hargav waved as she boarded the ship.
‘How was your night, er, on watch?’ asked Jelindel, straining to remember three months back.
‘Quiet,’ grumbled Hargav. ‘The night dragged by really slowly.’
‘You don’t know half of it,’ said Jelindel. She sniffed the air. ‘Jad’s been cooking up a storm, I see,’ she observed. ‘My favourite. Rabbit stew.’
Hargav shook his head. ‘That was two days ago, Jaelin. Jad caught you scraping the bottom of the pan, remember?’ Hargav scrunched up his face in mimicry of the cook. ‘“I see you’re keen on cleaning pots, Jaelin!”’
Jelindel squirmed.
‘You’ll be lucky to get anything out of the galley this morning. It’ll be dry biscuits and water till he’s sober.’
‘Ah,’ Jelindel said, and went below. Alone, she carefully withdrew the pouch containing the drones and the pentacle gem. There were numerous places to hide them in the hold. Once satisfied that not even a Senior Adept could find them, Jelindel made for the galley.
It would take some getting used to the reek of perspiration that permeated the sleeping quarters. Only time would give her full control of deadening her now keen sense of smell. Also, the ship’s noises resounded through her mind like a thousand rough-shod hooves on cobbles. She heard her companions’ murmurings as they turned in their sleep, the grumbling of the men on watch, the ship’s rodents chittering as they fought for a crust of bread or an apple core, each part of the ship’s grinding joints as the Dragonfang prepared to cast off.
Two well-manned rowboats drew alongside and ropes were thrown to the crew. The thick-corded ropes slammed down on the deck like felled masts. Jelindel cupped her ears, barely drowning the sounds.
Studying with Lady Forturian had taught Jelindel that the higher Adepts enjoyed more than heightened senses. Gifted magicians could morph, levitate, replicate themselves, and even reincarnate, retaining all their previous knowledge and skills. Some, like Fa’red, turned to the dark side and worked as assassins and henchmen for megalomaniacs lik
e the Preceptor. While others transcended the mortal world and became gods – and why not, when longevity was merely an academic word? Some, like Lady Forturian, tried to maintain the balance between good and evil. It was a role that Jelindel knew would best suit her.
Jelindel stayed below decks until she felt the Dragonfang’s sails fill and the vessel surge forward. She could only ponder the mysterious ways of Senior Adepts for so long before succumbing to depression. There was too much to learn, and too many variables. Lady Forturian had readily acknowledged that what she knew of the arts would fill a thimble from the dam of magery. And it had taken her four lifetimes to acquire that drop of knowledge …
Chapter 15
PIRACY
Munching a dry biscuit, Jelindel returned to the deck. A stiff wind blew, and she breathed in deeply.
To aft, Jelindel could barely see the misted coast. She realised that without her heightened eyesight, the coastline would have been a thin splodge crawling along the horizon. She practised reining in her power. Sure enough, with a little exertion, the horizon blurred back to what it would look like normally.
Salt spray splashed her face but she didn’t mind. At two days’ travel, Mordicar was their last port of call. A navigator’s job on such routine trips was simple enough. She reported to the bridge on a regular basis, more out of boredom than to check the ship’s bearings.
The days were getting longer and the humidity more intense as they neared the equatorial port. The crew’s tempers would soon be tested, although a certain heat-induced lethargy usually dampened the worst flare-ups.
She eased her back against the gunwale and watched the mainland slip past. Then something to starboard caught her eye. Four sleek clippers with full sails were cutting through the water, heading towards them. There were other vessels about, of course, although these were randomly placed about the sprawling ocean. The clippers, edging closer as she considered them, were in formation, driving forward with purpose. Privateers or marine militiamen, it mattered not. Their quarry was definitely the Dragonfang.