Derudin submerged a sealed glass tube containing a grey liquid into the water and waited patiently, as did the six apprentices in attendance.
“Two and a half degrees,” Derudin announced. “A fair amount of power to have transferred over the course of several minutes, albeit to the wrong destination. You may sit.”
Toblin waddled back to his chair, cape swinging, and sat with the others. There were two rows, each of eight chairs, with no table or surface in front upon which to write. Derudin told new apprentices that any lesson they sought to remember should be stored in their minds and not upon paper. Mindlessly transcribing words, he found, was a good way to ensure the writer had no time to discern their meaning. Nor was there much to remember, in fact. Of the countless Ancient Laws, only the first three pertained specifically to mages.
“And who would like to try next?” Derudin did not need to look up to know whose fingers would be raised. As he added cold cellar water to the bowl to equalize its temperature with that of the surrounding air, he envisioned what he would see when he turned to face them. Sture and Signy, he predicted, would both have their index fingers raised as high as they could stretch them to show their over-enthusiastic zeal for demonstrating their talents. Both could light a candle within a few moments, and both were eager to show that they could do it more quickly than the other. The same noble blood coursed through the veins of the two cousins, each twelve years of age. They looked more like twins than cousins, both with their bright blonde hair and air of authority—learned from their noble parents no doubt. Neither was particularly impressive, in Derudin’s opinion, but they at least had focus, which was more than he could say for the remainder of the students. In Derudin’s day, a child of twelve would be expected to be able to call lightning—not that any actually met those expectations. Save for one, Derudin remembered with unabashed pride.
“Flow the heat from the hearth into your eyes and throughout your body. Let it fill your veins or lungs or stomach. The path each mage uses is different, but it must flow both in and out again, directed to your intended target… Directly to your target. Focus is the goal of this exercise as it takes very little power to light a wick.” Derudin let his gaze linger on the pewter pot that held the cellar water. The engravings were impressive, but it was the condensation that captivated him. With the fire burning, the warm Adeltian fall felt more like the mouth of a volcano. A dip in the Rivervalian springs would do these old bones well, he thought, but that was not to be.
Turning to face the class, Derudin saw that both Signy and Sture had their fingers raised as far as possible without separating from the hand.
“A mage is a conduit of power, nothing more, nothing less. This is the first of the Ancient Laws. You are not the creator of the power, only that through which it flows. Remembering, no, understanding this will help you maintain focus.” Derudin had certainly said as much before, complete with his self-correction, but repetition was the only tool he seemed to have left at his disposal.
An odd flicker caught his eye as Derudin moved to accept Signy’s request. He shifted his gaze toward the end of the front row where the girl in the plain dress sat. Nine or ten years in age, she had attended classes for over a month now, never having volunteered for an exercise. Since Derudin was not in the habit of forcing such things upon a student, he had never seen her demonstrate her abilities in any way. She was a peculiar thing to him, with her stark-white hair which reached just past her shoulders and was worn always down, never up in the way most girls were doing lately. But fashion, it seemed, was another thing she did not exercise, as her clothing appeared oddly plain even to a man who wore nothing but grey robes. Her index finger was slightly raised, her hand still resting upon her lap.
“You may stand and attempt to light the candle,” Derudin told the white-haired girl. He was not in the habit of acquiring names of students until they showed some form of ability, or at least failed enough that he felt compelled to regardless.
She rose and walked toward the table.
“Have no fear of drawing too much power from the fire in the hearth. If you transfer more than the candle can contain, the water will absorb the rest. You can only draw that which you can dispense—you mustn’t worry about excess energy being left in your body and burning you to ash. That happens very rarely.”
Some of the children laughed quietly at Derudin’s humor. Perhaps that joke was not appropriate before her first demonstration.
“Just focus on the smallest bit of fiber at the very top of the wick, not the full breadth of it. And do not be discouraged when nothing happens at first. No one is expected to light a candle on their first attempt.” Feeling a bit guilty for having caused her peers to laugh, Derudin attempted to ease her mind more than he was apt to on a pupil’s first effort.
The girl faced the candle, but Derudin could see her eyes were closed. It was common for some to close their eyes to achieve better focus, but he figured it was more like to be due to her embarrassment. He could not tell if she attempted anything, but after a moment a few bubbles came out of the water, a thing noticed by all.
“She projected a fart into the water!” While Derudin tried to make sense of it himself, Sture had been the first to wager a guess.
The five seated children burst into laughter, especially Toblin who seemed to be relieved that there would be a new person for his classmates to harass instead of him.
“Silence.” Derudin did not need to speak loudly to get their full attention, and the laughter ceased. “You have done well, though I believe you have managed to boil some water rather than light the candle. In any case, it was a fine first attempt. Please have a seat.”
The young girl, now thoroughly humiliated, returned to her seat. Tears looked as though they would burst forth at any moment.
“Boiling water is perhaps more difficult than lighting a wick,” Derudin explained. “In fact, it is quite more difficult when attempting to boil but a small portion in such a large bowl. What is your name, young apprentice?”
The girl took a moment to calm herself, and Derudin remained busy with his thermometer so she would know she had the time.
“Eaira,” she finally responded.
“Well, Eaira, you have a good deal of natural focus. And what is more, you showed incredible restraint in taking so long before demonstrating your natural gifts. Sture, would you be so kind as to remind us what the second of the Ancient Laws is?”
Sture looked befuddled at first but regained his composure as he stood, reciting the second law with his usual authority. “A mage’s conductance comes from focus and is amplified by continence.”
“Before you sit, let everyone know exactly what that means.”
Sture’s look of confusion quickly returned, and his eyes wandered around the room as if looking for the answer.
“It means,” said Derudin, “that without both focus and continence, or, in simpler terms, concentration and self-restraint, you will not be able to transfer power effectively. One is born with focus, but restraint must be practiced. Some of you probably saw it as a weakness that it took Eaira a month to finally do an exercise, and you could not be more mistaken. Restraint should be practiced in all things if you are to truly be a mage.”
Derudin glanced at his thermometer to see how much heat had been transferred into water, but the level of the grey liquid inside refused to budge. That is odd, he thought. Even practiced mages would have transferred some heat into the surrounding water. He then noticed water pooling around the bottom of the glass bowl and looked toward the pewter pot to see if the condensation had run from the sides, but it had not. He noticed, instead, a tiny trickle of water leaking down the back of the glass bowl itself, out of what must have been a pin-sized hole. His attention snapped toward Eaira, and he hoped he was hiding his amazement better than he was feeling it.
“But even with extreme restraint, a mage is useless without natural focus,” Derudin continued. “The Dawnstar radiates more power than we could p
ossibly fathom, but because it does so in all directions, devoid of focus, we can bathe in its rays for hours with no more ill-effect than some reddening of the skin. A true mage must have the ability to direct power toward the smallest of targets, in the smallest of rays.” He looked at Eaira and gave her half a smile as he noticed her spirits had been lifted. I now have a theory as to why you always wear your hair down.
TITON
So filled with exhilarant warmth, Titon had been unable to feel the sting of the cold, salty spray off the Frozen Sea. In all of Titon’s fifteen years, he could not remember a time in which he’d felt more accomplished, and he was not alone in that feeling—at least for the duration of their coastal travel. The spirits of the men had all lifted upon reaching the fabled shores, realizing they were not to be clobbered to death by boulder-hurling giants.
Galatai believed they had no reason to come west due to the lack of greenery along this coast and the unfishable nature of the violent, icy waters. It was thought, as previous journeys had demonstrated, that nothing lived here that would make the voyage worthwhile, and it seemed as though that thinking may have been correct. As they walked south across these massive mountains, the tops of which were made flat by some unexplained force, there were no signs of life. No crabs scurried into the cracks of the rocks, no gnats pestered their eyes, no gulls called from the sky…not even snow survived on the boulders, darkened with wetness and bereft of powder.
The men got their first taste of battle, however, in the most unexpected fashion. They’d come upon an enormously rotund creature that resembled an old mustached man with widespread eyes, flippers for limbs and two huge teeth, each near half a man in length. The beast was no match for their bows and axes and came to a quick, albeit gruesome, death. The men were elated to find the fat and meat they butchered was quite edible, and the few who protested at first, claiming that it might be cannibalistic to eat such a creature, came around soon after they smelled the fat sizzling over the fires.
With full bellies and enough meat left to last well over a week, they turned east. Titon led them inland after he’d determined they’d followed the sea for long enough. He’d calculated the distance based on the hours spent traveling and their paces per hour, but with a stick shoved into a crack in the stony ground and some thoughtful looks, Titon pretended to glean cryptic knowledge from the Dawnstar based on the shadow cast. Let them think me a mage. What could be the harm? Having read about magecraft, Titon was convinced it was nonsense, but he thought the men in their party were like to be the type who might believe in such foolishness.
“How much farther do you think?” Decker asked him. The two were at their usual place at the front of the pack.
“I cannot say for sure.” Titon did not meet his brother’s gaze, instead looking forward. “As I have mentioned, there is no way of knowing how far the flat rock spans between the Frozen Sea and the canyon that is home to the Dogmen. We are the first to travel this way.”
“Yes, but you must have some idea. We have been walking east for several days now. We are not lost are we?”
“Of course not,” said Titon tersely. Of course we are lost. I just told you, no one has ever traveled these plateaus.
Titon had given up using the term “plateau” as it only seemed to incite mockery. It was becoming increasingly vexing to Titon that the knowledge he had gained from his study of Dogmen books, the ingenuity he had used to devise a method for them to descend the cliffs—the very essence of that which made this raid possible—was the object of constant ridicule. Now that they headed inland and were faced with another journey of indeterminate length, the thrill of having found the Frozen Sea was sapped from him by the childish impatience of those around him. I expected as much from the others, but not from you, Decker.
“We are only a few days’ travel from the canyons,” Titon said, hoping it would be true. “I am quite sure of it.”
A day later they reached the promised canyon edge and peered over the cliff they were to descend. It was a sight that no doubt would have been awing had they been able to see anything but a bottomless river of fast-moving mist. The scent of rain that hung in the damp air, normally welcomed by Titon, seemed to forebode them somehow drowning in the thick, swirling vapors.
All ridicule ended, for the moment, as Titon instructed the men on how to use the rope system he had invented. It would allow them, in theory, to be safely lowered, one at a time, to the canyon floor. Many men had died attempting similar descents in the gorges of their homeland, but that was due mainly to the inability of the man being lowered to communicate with those lowering him. The screaming winds, loose rocks, and unknown depth of the descent were also much to blame. Titon’s three-rope system, one harnessed to the man to be lowered by those above, one static that the man could climb down under his own power, and the third thin line for communication, made the very difficult task quite possible in his estimate.
“I will go first,” said Decker, securing the harness rope to himself. “Titon, you will need to stay at the top as long as possible to make sure these fools understand your complex system.”
There is nothing complex about it, Titon thought in annoyance, but he knew Decker to be right. The boys they called peers had a glazed-over look in their eyes when Titon had first explained it, and their only hope of learning was by example and repetition.
“I suppose if it supports your weight it will support anyone,” Titon admitted. “Remember, if you run out of rope or simply cannot descend farther, it is five quick tugs, and we will hoist you back up. If you give five tugs and the rope is slack, we will assume you have made it to the bottom.”
“Yes, I remember. Make sure those that will remain know the system well enough by the time you must descend so that they do not cost us our only working mind.” Decker glared at the four. “You hear that Griss, Galinn, Hallon, and Dicun? I know your names, and if you drop my brother you’d best jump after him. It will be a better death than the one you will suffer at my hands.” Decker looked as if he meant it, and even Titon felt the chill induced by his brother’s words.
Those Decker had addressed nodded their understanding, Griss doing so with a smirk.
“Good,” said Decker. “I’ll see you four in a week or so. As for the rest of you… I’ll see you at the bottom.”
Decker disappeared over the edge with mirth on his face, and his descent continued as planned without complication. It seemed the only communication Titon felt through the thin line was one tug, urging them to keep lowering him. Knowing Decker, he was probably pushing himself with his legs, recklessly swinging as far from the cliff face as possible, growing bored with the methodical rate at which they lowered him. Titon had no plans of allowing the men to increase that rate, however. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a quarter, Titon felt two quick tugs.
“Halt!” Titon had given the command in a panic, having momentarily forgotten what the signal actually meant.
“The harness rope is slack,” said Dicun, one of the men lowering Decker. Titon had intended for those who were to remain at top be both the first and last to handle the ropes, therefore giving them plenty of practice while also allowing them time to rest before it was Titon’s turn. “Should we take in the remainder?”
“No,” Titon said with more harshness than he intended. “He gave two tugs meaning to wait and only that.”
They waited for a moment, then Titon thought he felt three tugs. As Decker had descended, the tugs became far less precise. They felt like long stretches that blended into each other.
“More slack…I think. It was three tugs.”
“You want us to give more slack or not?” growled Griss.
“Yes, give him about a man’s length of slack,” said Titon, and the three on the harness line complied.
“He has tugged thrice again. More slack, another man in length. He must be on a tricky ledge.” Titon now hoped the bottom would not be so much farther that multiple quick tugs became indi
scernible—that, and they were running short on rope.
Several minutes passed with no communication from Decker and no motion on any of the ropes.
“Did he fall?” asked Griss.
“Of course not,” Titon snapped. “The rope would have gone taut.” Ignorant fool. Even so Titon, found himself picturing a short drop to a lower ledge incapacitating his brother or separating him from the communication line.
As Titon was about to ask the men to bring tension on the harness rope in hopes of eliciting some response from Decker, he felt an unmistakable five tugs on the line.
“Five tugs. He has either made it or needs to come back up. Slowly take in the slack until you feel tension.”
Dicun, Griss, and Galinn took their time retrieving the rope, but since no tension was felt for some time, they sped to haul the empty harness. It was too soon to celebrate, however, not knowing for sure that Decker had made the bottom.
“Arron and everyone else who goes after him, remember to hold tension on the communication and the static…er…the climbing rope after you descend so that the harness rope does not upset their placement,” Titon instructed, realizing now that that may become an issue. Arron was next in turn to go down, decided unanimously. “And do slow tugs, not rapid ones. They tend to blend in to each other at a distance.”
Arron and the others nodded.
“The feck is that?” Galinn was the man lowest of the three pulling the harness rope back up, and the first to spot the blood red color.
Attached to the harness was a bundle of flowers.
“That bastard wanted the slack so he could give us a gift from the bottom,” Titon cried with relief.
The men cheered, but Titon knew it was for Decker and not for the victory of his rope system. Decker simply had a way with these men that befuddled him, but even he had to admit the bouquet was a welcome surprise that would put the men at ease, or at least embarrass them to the point of feigning it when it came time for their descents.
The Axe and the Throne (Bounds of Redemption Book 1) Page 16