Lesson of the Fire

by Eric Zawadzki

  What does it mean that Nightfire has kept Erbark away from me?

  Sven ran a hand through his hair and down across his unshaven face.

  They want me to know I am utterly alone — like the final stick of firewood in the house. Once I am used up, the fire will go out.

  But who are they? And why are they doing this to me?

  A thousand fragments of stories from his youth and a thousand histories from Nightfire’s library flooded him with replies.

  Even alone, I still have Seruvus’s memory.

  The thought hung in his mind for a long moment, hummed like a single plucked string.

  Seruvus knows I am innocent. My enemies are no more worthy to judge me than Weard Darflaem’s murderous apprentices.

  Suddenly, he knew. Sven rose to his feet and started pacing, his thoughts a blur of fragments that he had to draw into a pattern like myst.

  This happened to Weard — the first wizard, the first Guardian. He gave Marrish’s gift to anyone who came to him for instruction, and the magocrats killed him for it. The Law came later. The magocrats made it to keep the other Mar weak enough to control.

  Sven saw shapes floating at the edge of his vision — flickers of color and movement like after images of the myst. He hadn’t tasted torutsen in spans, and the morutsen should keep him from seeing the magic, but here it was. Green motes spun around cyan, pulled away and gathered together into the shape of a man.

  Sven blinked, and the vision vanished. Had it even been there?

  “Who serves the mundanes serves the gods,” he murmured, reciting a passage from Weard’s teachings. “To serve the gods, the Guardian must serve the mundanes and bring them Marrish’s gift.” Warmth spread through Sven’s limbs as the words left his lips. He fell prostrate before the fire. “I will serve you if you will make my hands big enough,” he whispered. “I will serve you.”

  Sven slipped out of consciousness. In his dreams, he saw nine gods, but they all spoke with Brand’s voice. Try as he might, Sven couldn’t understand what they were saying, so they kept talking louder and louder until they were screaming nonsense at him. Were they warnings? Threats? Demands? He couldn’t tell, and he suddenly realized he had shut them out of his house, refused them his hospitality.

  An unseen hand knocked on Sven’s door. His eyes opened. Outside, the sky was grey with coming dawn.

  “Enter, immortal patrons. I am ready to receive you,” Sven said without stirring.

  The door opened, and Katla stood in her amber cloak. Fraemauna’s full moon hung over her shoulder, the goddess’s yellow face looking down at him.

  “Sven?” Katla called in a measured voice that betrayed fatigue. “Master Nightfire wishes to speak with you.”

  “How many times must I offer myself as tribute to him before I am worthy?” Sven asked through dry lips even as he stood up.

  Katla looked startled to see him this way. She spoke gently. “You should shave before you meet with him.”

  “Wizards shave because it was a way to curry favor with the Giens back in Imperial times. The Giens could not grow beards, so the wizards chose not to,” Sven told her, and then he burst out laughing. “Is that not ridiculous? The Gien Empire fell centuries ago, and we are still shaving! Why?”

  We cling to old ways we no longer understand — like Bera’s Unwritten Laws. But the magocrats trust the traditions and will kill anyone who breaks the laws the traditions have spawned.

  “I will help you, if you need it,” Katla said slowly.

  Sven tilted his head and studied her face. You are no more a slave to tradition than Brand was, but do you think you can make a difference in a fight against three reds?

  “I will not refuse you. I will need all the help I can get in this battle against Dinah and Domin.”

  Katla looked confused, but then her eyes widened. She smiled at him — the secret smile of siblings collaborating in mischief. “It is not yet the time, Sven.” Her smile grew feral, full of hate long fermented and well-nurtured. “But they will pay for Mother and for Tortz. Of that you may be sure.”

  Is that what this is about — revenge? No. If I would serve the gods, I must serve the mundanes as Weard Darflaem did.

  Katla led Sven to a chair and started shaving him, the razor cold against his trusting throat. He sensed his vulnerability, then, knew she had him completely at her mercy. He yielded to her unpracticed hand even as she cut him half a dozen times. She winced at every mistake, but he did not.

  She is doing the best she can with the hands the gods have given her.

  Sven watched the fire in the hearth burn as the blood trickled down his neck. The bottommost block of peat sat on the ashes of its predecessors. The flames licked the blocks above it experimentally.

  “I should not tell you this,” Katla whispered as she wiped the blood off his face with a hot towel, “but Brand returned to Tortz last night. He confessed. He defended you. He … ” Her voice cracked.

  He burned, she meant to say. Sven looked at her with wide eyes. His screams were more than a dream. They were a message.

  Sven looked back at the fire, and she followed his gaze silently.

  When peat burns, it brings warmth and illumination to the people around it, even as it is used up. For what purpose do Mar burn?

  Her green eyes fell, and her voice softened as if she was embarrassed to speak words of comfort in the face of his loss. “You have nothing to fear from Volund, now that I am here. He has wasted too much of his energy on this inquisition.”

  “What a waste of energy,” Sven murmured.

  Katla nodded.

  Heliotosis’ icy breath moaned as it passed over the prison entrance outside. Katla stood and helped him up. Sven followed her numbly, took the boots from her hands and clumsily stomped them on.

  The lesson of the fuel. Sacrificing itself to warm and illuminate others — being a source of energy. The name my colleagues gave me at the Academy, the name I took when I earned the green — Takraf means energy. And I am the fuel for the fire.

  His own name struck him like a cold wind. It came from two words that had been a part of the language since before the Gien Invasion — tat and kraft. The first meant “act” or “deed.” The second meant “divine or magical strength or power.” Sven nodded as he began to understand.

  Katla sighed, eyes wet. “Brand was the sort of idealistic fool who once thought he could get away with anything. He chose a path he could not leave. He knew it, but he did the right thing, in the end.”

  Everything in Sven’s line of vision had faded away to a blur. The lesson of the fuel. The lesson of the fool. Brand, brand — “a mark made by fire.” Marking the Mar with the gift of magic.

  Uneheilich gave Marrish’s gift of magic to Weard Darflaem.

  Darflaem: “Flame in the darkness.” Flame in the darkness: “Night fire.” Nightfire.

  Weard Darflaem taught the Mar to use magic.

  A flame in the darkness, bringing warmth and illumination to all. A torch. A brand. A Brand. Weard Darflaem was the first Guardian. He died without completing his mission.

  “He passed the tests,” Katla told him as they left his home.

  Sven was unsteady as he walked. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. “He?”

  “Erbark. Nightfire raised him to three degrees of apprenticeship away from the green,” Katla said, clearly abandoning the pretense that he was still under an inquisition. “All your apprentices passed the tests. Only some of Brand’s could not.”

  My hands will be large enough to finish what Weard Darflaem began. I will serve the gods by serving the mundanes. I will be their Guardian. My apprentices will pass the gods’ tests.

  A warmth spread through Sven’s limbs. He looked up at the sky, thought he perceived a face in the clouds. Her, the sun, shone down, setting the snows on fire with her light. He had the distinct sensation of being surrounded by friends and allies.

  “There are lessons to be learned from fuels,” Sven told
her.

  “Yes,” Katla murmured, her green eyes suddenly distant, sad. “Fire is pitiless.”

  Green is for Energy.

  Sven laughed suddenly, stupidly. “What a waste of energy!”

  Katla looked at him, her face a mask of concern. He detected anger there, too, but not directed at him. “You have been through a lot, Sven. You may wish to let others speak on your behalf today. Come.”

  She led, and he followed calmly, at last understanding the purpose of his life. Softly, he whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to Marrish and his other patrons. It would not be easy, but at least he would know the reason behind the trials. More tests sent by the gods.

  Chapter 26

  “When one wizard kills another, the local dux receives the power of life or death over the wizard. If the crime took place beyond the borders of the duxy, however, the only compensation a dux may demand is a weregild, which is monetary compensation paid by the murderer for the loss of a vassal, the maximum value of which is directly proportional to the rank of the deceased magocrat.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Vangard’s Rules in Practice

  The living area of Brand’s home had been converted from a schoolroom to a courtroom. Nightfire’s lined face looked grave as Sven entered with Katla. He was sitting in a rocking chair, which spoiled this effect somewhat. The ancient red with the gold and silver ring sat on a three-legged stool to Nightfire’s left, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane. Dux Volund Feiglin stood next to the stool, leaning against the wall near the hearth where a fire burned too much peat and the remnants of … is that a broken crib?

  There was no sign of Erbark or Erika — or anyone else, for that matter.

  They think I am alone, but I am never truly alone.

  “Weard Takraf, stand before us,” Nightfire addressed him.

  Sven obeyed without hesitation.

  “You have been accused of very serious crimes, including capital offenses. Do you understand?” Nightfire asked, voice deadly serious.

  Sven nodded. “I accept any trial to which the gods subject me, master.” He raised his hand in salute. “By the Oathbinder and my patrons, I will be worthy of this trial.”

  Nightfire rocked back slightly, frowning. By the fire, Volund failed to suppress a small, satisfied smile. His shadow from the fireplace flickered against the wall. The ancient red leaning on his cane remained utterly neutral and utterly still, as if made of stone. Who is he?

  Suddenly, Katla was at Sven’s side. “Weard Takraf cannot defend himself in his present condition.”

  “Who will represent him then?” the ancient red asked.

  Even in his dazed state, Sven recognized the rhetorical question. Only a wizard could represent a wizard, and all but one was already involved here. Did Nightfire choose to bring my sister, or did my patrons? He wasn’t sure there was any difference.

  Nightfire spoke. “Weard Katla Duxpite, you will speak for Weard Takraf. Dux Volund Feiglin brings these accusations. Master Brack will speak for Dinah and Domin. As Master Nightfire, I will speak for Seruvus and the Law.”

  That’s Brack — the dark wizard who commands the Mass?

  Katla saluted. “By the Oathbinder I swear to defend the accused as best I can.”

  “Dux Feiglin, bring your accusations against Weard Takraf,” Nightfire said.

  Volund stood up but didn’t move away from the fire. “Weard Takraf has broken Bera’s Unwritten Laws. He has broken his oath of fealty to the Duxy of Flasten. He has broken the Morden Accords by setting himself up as a dux on the Morden Moors.” The dux took a sharp breath and said nothing for a long while. When he spoke again, his voice and hands shook with rage, and he had to lean against the wall for support. “Finally, he and his accomplices murdered fifty-one of my magocrats, including Weard Arnlaug Saugen.”

  “What of all the mundanes who marched with him?” Sven asked mildly. “Or do their deaths not matter?”

  Katla gasped. Nightfire frowned.

  Volund took a step forward, his face twisted in rage. “You will pay as Brand did!”

  “Peace, both of you!” Nightfire said. He shot a glare at the dux. “And if you touch the myst again before this trial is over, I will administer the morutsen personally.” He took in the whole room. “That goes for all of you. Weard Duxpite, speak for the accused.”

  “Yes, master,” Katla said, sounding embarrassed, almost contrite. “I regret the outburst. Weard Takraf, please have a seat over there and say nothing without instruction from me.”

  Sven opened his mouth to object. He could certainly defend himself against these ridiculous accusations. Katla placed a finger to his lips and leaned in very close to him. Her whisper was so soft that he still had to strain to catch all of it.

  Swind’s whisper, he thought with a small shiver. Our father’s gift.

  “I will save you from this, Sven, but you must trust me.”

  He nodded once and meekly obeyed, taking a seat on the pile of black cloaks by the door. Perhaps they had once belonged to the mundanes who had already been executed — victims of Brand’s folly and the Law that had delayed Weard’s dream for so long. Who serves the mundanes serves the gods.

  Katla turned to Nightfire and Brack. She stood tall, with shoulders back and jaw set. With a voice that flowed from gentle to hard and back again, she attacked Dux Feiglin’s accusations ruthlessly — seeking and exploiting vulnerabilities like an ochre systematically testing magical defenses.

  Brand, Erbark and many others had testified that Sven had not been involved in teaching magic to mundanes. He would have brought the crime to Nightfire, but Brand held him prisoner through a combination of blackmail and direct threats of force. Even as a captive, Sven had worked tirelessly to bring Tortz into compliance with the Law — an impossible task under the best of circumstances, and yet only a handful of Brand’s illegal apprentices had failed the inquisition.

  By the end of it, Nightfire was nodding along with her. “You are correct, Weard Duxpite. Weard Brand Halfin has already claimed sole responsibility for this.”

  Brack said nothing, but he watched Katla with rapt attention.

  Katla struck the other deadly accusations. Sven had not sworn fealty to any duxy, least of all Flasten. Nightfire dismissed that charge as well. That downgraded the seriousness of the murder charges substantially. If Sven owed no fealty to Flasten, Dux Feiglin had no power to sentence him. It would then fall to Nightfire to collect a weregild on Volund’s behalf.

  “While Weard Takraf owed no fealty to Flasten, he knowingly killed magocrats who did. I cannot accept the claim that he did not know who his magical traps would harm at the time he designed and placed them,” Nightfire said, rocking a little. “As those wizards’ master, Dux Feiglin is entitled to a weregild from Weard Takraf as compensation for those losses.”

  Volund looked at Nightfire with unmasked fury but said nothing.

  Nightfire met Volund’s eye with a placid expression as he rocked gently. “Dux Feiglin, the next time you suspect a wizard outside of your jurisdiction has broken Bera’s Unwritten Laws, you will come to me immediately instead of taking their enforcement into your own hands. I alone am arbiter when it comes to judging the Law.”

  Sven could see the accusation on Volund’s lips — bias of a master for an apprentice. Nightfire frowned, and the dux’s words died in his throat.

  “If Tortz lies within the Duxy of Flasten, Dux Feiglin, justice is still yours,” Brack said, casting an irritated look at Nightfire. “And if it turns out that Tortz is not within your duxy, you will receive the maximum possible weregild. That much I can promise you.” The dark wizard turned his attention back to Katla. “Weard Duxpite, you have one further accusation to address before we can pass sentence — one that interests the Mass greatly.”

  “The Morden Accords, yes,” Katla said, and she sounded uncertain for the first time since entering the house. “In accordance with an agreement with the Mass, the Morden Moors are neutral terr
itory. Mar and Drakes may live there, but neither is to establish a duxy in the region nor add territory there to an existing duxy. Tortz falls north of the established boundary of the Morden Moors.”

  “Masters, that is not correct,” Volund said defensively. “The Grenz Verken shifted south only two years ago. Tortz has long been a part of the Duxy of Flasten.”

  Brack frowned at the dux briefly. “We will save the discussion for why you did not immediately relinquish your claim over Tortz for another time. Regrettably, she is correct on this count. Weard Takraf’s crimes did not take place within the Duxy of Flasten.”

  Sven blinked at that. Seruvus changed the river’s course just to place me beyond the reach of my enemy.

  Katla spread her hands helplessly. “The other communities within Weard Takraf’s so-called Protectorates possess superior magical defenses, but they do not fit the legal definition of a duxy.”

  “How so, Weard Duxpite?” Brack asked, his eyes intent upon her.

  “First, he exacts no tribute from the mundanes who live in the forty communities there. Second, no other wizard has sworn fealty to him as his magocrat. To my knowledge, Weard Takraf is the only wizard acting within the Protectorates.”

  “Weard Halfin admitted to helping him,” Nightfire observed.

  Katla shrugged this off. “He no doubt hoped Weard Takraf would reveal the secret of those defenses. I suppose you could declare an inquisition on every village in the Protectorates.”

  Nightfire barked a laugh and rocked leisurely in the chair. “There must be tens of thousands of people living on the moors, Weard Duxpite. Brack and I have better things to do than chase thousands of flimsy accusations.” At a look from Brack, though, he added, “I will, of course, send some wizards from my academy to investigate. If they find anything suspicious, I will take the appropriate action.”

  Brack nodded at this, satisfied. “Weard Duxpite, once Master Nightfire and I have finished our business here, I would sincerely like to speak to you.” He smiled at her — a knowing, calculating smile. “You may go now.”

  Katla saluted and left without a word.

  “Weard Takraf,” Nightfire said. “Stand before us and receive our judgment.”

  Sven rose and obeyed, deliberately ignoring Dux Feiglin, who was no doubt still fuming.