The Adventurers Guild

by Zack Loran Clark

“Is it working?” Zed whispered.

  Mother Brenner steepled her fingers. “Pollux is doing an excellent job.”

  “Is it magic?” Brock asked.

  She inclined her head in consideration. “In truth, no. Strictly speaking, magic comes from”—she waved her hands in the air—“outside. Pollux is drawing upon his own life force—his anima—and adding it to your friend’s own.”

  “And anima is totally different from mana?” Brock asked. “So you wouldn’t be able to use it to fix the wards around the city?”

  Mother Brenner startled, and Alabasel Frond sprung from the wall. “Brock!” she barked.

  “Sorry,” Brock said, affecting a sheepish shrug. “Was that a secret?”

  “Frond, what is he talking about?” the Mother asked, and there was ice in her tone.

  Frond stood in stony silence.

  “Lotte?” Brenner tried.

  Lotte shot a glance Frond’s way, a moment of hesitation before she bowed her head in respect. “We’re not exactly sure what happened, Mother. But the monster that did this to Jett seemed to create…or exploit…a weakness in the wards.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Only some hours ago,” Lotte answered.

  “Hours!” Brenner cried, her voice warbling with outrage. But she took a breath and her noble bearing settled over her again. “Alabasel,” she said. “I’m disappointed in you. We allow you a certain amount of autonomy, but this—”

  “You allow?” Frond growled.

  “You should have notified the king’s council at once.”

  “What happens outside the walls is of little interest to anyone but us,” Frond said. “As your High Guilds have made very clear in the past. We’re looking into it.”

  “It’s bad enough you put your greenest apprentices in harm’s way. You have no right to gamble with the lives of every single—”

  Pollux cried out as if suddenly in pain, and the golden light extinguished as he pitched forward. Lotte sprang to her feet and caught the healer, who was limp in her arms.

  “What happened?” asked Liza.

  Mother Brenner crossed the room and touched Pollux’s cheek. “He’s fine. He used up everything he had, but he’ll be all right with some rest.” She turned to regard Jett, and there was trepidation in her gaze. She placed a palm against his brow, and it emitted a soft, subtle glow.

  When she lifted her hand again, she closed her eyes as if overcome with grief. She stood, entirely ignoring the adults and crossing the room to stand before Brock and Zed and Liza. She touched Liza’s shoulder gently.

  Brock felt his mouth go dry and his stomach constrict. A high-pitched voice asked what was wrong, and he wasn’t sure if it had come from Zed or Liza.

  “Your friend will live,” Mother Brenner said. She smiled so sadly as she said it that Brock wanted to make a joke about it, wanted to laugh at the gulf between her words and her expression, but his laughter died in his throat.

  “He will live,” she repeated. “But I fear he will never walk again.”

  “Ow,” Zed said to no one. He was standing in an empty hallway, leaning beside a thick wooden door.

  It was the morning after the initiation party, and Zed had a headache. His teeth ached from the accumulation of so much sugar. His mouth was thick and tacky, and his tongue tasted bad.

  The guildhall was mostly empty this morning. Zed had seen only Lotte up, and the encounter was as brief as it was unsettling. The quartermaster had been standing at the end of the apprentice quarters’ hallway, staring hard at the door to Jett’s room. When Zed closed his own door, Lotte had glanced up at him. She wore a grave and guilty expression that twisted a knot in Zed’s chest. Then she nodded, opened the door, and disappeared silently inside.

  Jett.

  The whole thing felt unreal. Never walk again? Just yesterday the dwarf had been tromping around, easily lugging a pack that was nearly twice his size. How could things go so wrong so quickly?

  “Hey.” Jayna approached from the far end of the hall. Her red curls were in disarray, but Zed had a sense that he looked far worse. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  Zed tried to groan, but burped instead. “Too much ambrosia,” he said sheepishly.

  Jayna smirked. “Well, it’s good that you like it, I suppose. There’s nothing better around here for rejuvenating your magic. Once you start casting real spells, your appetite will triple. Using mana takes a lot of energy.”

  The girl paused and her face became serious. She reached up and began fiddling with the silver moon hanging from her neck.

  “But that’s not what I meant,” Jayna said. “How are you feeling…about your friend?”

  Zed sighed and gazed at his feet. “You heard?”

  “Liza told me this morning.”

  “Liza’s already awake?” Zed asked, blinking back up at her.

  Jayna leaned a bit closer. “She’s been hitting practice dummies in the yard for at least an hour now,” she said, her voice hushed with either terror or admiration.

  The girl bit her lip. “What Frond said yesterday morning was true. People die around here. But for what it’s worth, the guildmistress doesn’t give up on anyone. That statue in the receiving hall? The boy who got turned to stone? Frond said it took three men to carry him back, remember? What she didn’t say was that before those three men arrived, she’d dragged him through the woods for two days. Alone. All to get him safely home.”

  “Did you know him?” Zed asked. “If he was petrified last year…”

  Jayna frowned. “Yes,” she said. “I knew him.” She coughed, and Zed decided to let the subject lie.

  He glanced at the door that towered beside them and reached for the handle. “Should we go in?”

  Jayna grabbed his wrist.

  “Not yet,” she said. Her face was bright with a sudden intensity. The girl leaned in, and her voice fell to a whisper. “Just listen. I didn’t want to say this in front of your friends, but there’s something you should know about Hexam. The man is dangerous.”

  Zed’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

  “If you’d truly joined the Mages Guild, they would have taught you about the different kinds of spells. About forbidden magic. It’s incredibly important that you never—”

  “Jayna, what are you tittering about out here?” Hexam’s irritated voice blared from right above them. “Oh, for the love of mandrakes, get up off the floor, you two. And stop that screaming.”

  The master archivist hefted Zed and Jayna from the shrieking tangle they’d made of themselves following his sudden appearance. He was surprisingly strong for someone so wiry. As he set them on their feet, strange colored lights blinked out from within his chamber.

  Hexam grunted. “Is it Feyday already? Then I suppose you want a lesson. Very well, come in.” He turned and stepped back inside.

  Jayna pressed her finger to her lips. Say nothing. Then she followed the archivist over the threshold.

  The office was a dimly lit room that reminded Zed more of Old Makiva’s tent than the rest of the ramshackle guildhall. Like the trophy room, it was packed full of monstrous remains. Claws, teeth, and other sharp body parts that Zed didn’t have names for lined the walls, carefully installed on ornate plaques. There was a large display table covered with nothing but skulls, each labeled and arranged by size. The largest of them—a titanic yellow oval with two curling tusks—took up a quarter of the broad tabletop. Brock had to see this place.

  The room was lit by a constellation of glowing orbs that hung from the ceiling. Each was a different color and size, and they all pulsated at disparate rhythms, dimming and then flaring gently back to life. The colors in the room shifted with them, sometimes green, or blue, or burgundy.

  Magic. Zed felt a thrill of excitement that was laced with dread. Jayna’s unfinished warning still hung in the air.

  Hexam sat at his desk, his belt of keys jangling, and waved a hand in the direction of two guest chairs. Jayna to
ok the seat on the right. Zed followed, sitting at the left.

  “Jayna,” Hexam began. “Remind me what your last assignment was.”

  “You had me memorize the Wizard’s Shield spell.”

  “And did you?”

  Jayna nodded, her red curls suddenly indigo as the light in the room shifted.

  Hexam rubbed at his beard. “We’ll test your Shield later. If it’s adequate, then I think we can move on to something more complicated.”

  The archivist’s gaze turned to Zed. His lips pulled into a tight frown. “I don’t suppose I’d be lucky enough that you received some magical education before today?”

  Zed hesitated, then shook his head.

  “I didn’t think so. Then let’s start at the beginning. Jayna, instruct us—what is magic?”

  The girl sat up a little straighter. Despite her warning about Hexam being dangerous, Jayna still seemed eager for his approval. “Magic is the use of mana to create any number of physical or numinous effects.”

  “What is mana, and where does it come from?”

  “Mana is an invisible and supernatural force possessed by all spell-casting creatures. It is developed by establishing a controlled connection to the plane of Fey.”

  “Half right,” Hexam grunted. “The Silverglows aren’t listening in on us, Jayna. And you aren’t doing yourself any favors by ignoring the truth. Now: What is the difference between wizards like yourself and a sorcerer like our pointy-eared friend here?”

  Jayna faltered. “I…I only know a little, Magus.”

  Hexam sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I’m not a magus anymore, Jayna. And no, I don’t suppose the Silverglows would have taught you that in your first few months.”

  He turned his gaze to Zed, then back to the girl. “Then this lesson is for both of you. The difference between wizardry and sorcery is one of science versus art. Of nurture…versus nature. A sorcerer’s mana is innate. They are born with it, and this forever shapes how they use their magic.

  “Wizards memorize their spells, which are developed through careful experimentation. If performed accurately, each spell is distinct and its effects are certain, as wizards benefit from the breadth of study and experience of those who came before them. But a sorcerer approaches magic like a singer approaches a tune. Many of their spells have no formal names, and the effects can tend to be…disorganized. Their magic can be honed with practice, but they will only ever become as powerful—or their range as extensive—as their talent allows. Some are forever amateurs. Some are virtuosos.”

  His chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Tell me, Zed. What drew you to the staff you picked for your initiation?”

  Zed’s ears flushed. It was the first time Hexam had said his name. He hadn’t been sure the man even knew it. “It…smelled weird,” he admitted. “Like rotten eggs. But more than that, I felt something strange coming from it. A pull.”

  Jayna let out a yelp. “Oh, no…” she moaned.

  Hexam shot the girl a glare. “Be quiet, or you’ll leave here without a new spell.” The archivist turned back to Zed. “That smell is called sulfur. I believe that you may have a natural gift for sensing magic, Zed. Wizards must perform a Descry Mana spell to do so, and it’s complicated spellwork, even for me—with many rare and expensive ingredients. Historically, high concentrations of mana have been said to have a…scent to them. Most say it smells minty. That’s wizard magic, culled from a connection to the plane of Fey. But there is another kind. Of the six planes beyond our own, two are close enough to have developed true magical traditions. Mana can also be drawn from Fie—the infernal plane. This is the magic of witches and warlocks.”

  Zed experienced a sudden sensation like falling. His stomach lurched, and the blood all rushed to his head. Dark magic was illegal in Freestone, ever since Foster’s betrayal. Anyone convicted of being a witch or warlock was executed. He turned to Jayna, but the girl avoided his eye. She wouldn’t so much as glance at him.

  “Wizards can’t use this kind of magic,” Hexam continued. “The two types of mana do not mix well. But a sorcerer, whose power comes from neither plane…”

  There was a clatter as Zed abruptly stood, knocking his chair over. “But I didn’t know!” he pleaded. “It’s not my fault! The staff was right there on the wall—nobody warned me!”

  “Oh, for crying—sit down!” Hexam shouted. The sheer volume of his order jolted Zed out of his panic. “You’re not in any trouble, lad.”

  As Zed righted his chair, the archivist cast a sidelong look at Jayna. “This is your doing, I expect.”

  The girl narrowed her eyes. “Dark magic is forbidden for a reason,” she said. Her voice was stern and imperious. “It’s erratic and addictive and dangerous. It corrupts all who—”

  “You are excused, Apprentice Jayna. Use the next few days to practice your Shield.”

  Jayna glared at Hexam for a long beat, then stood with a chirp of frustration. She still wouldn’t meet Zed’s eye as she hurried to the door. When she threw it open, however, there was a figure hunched on the other side. Zed recognized him from the party: Fife. The boy nearly fell over, his ear had been pressed so firmly against the door.

  Fife righted himself with an embarrassed smile. “Ah. Sorry to, uh, intrude, Hexam.”

  “What do you want, Fife?”

  “Frond needs the new apprentice. All the new apprentices, actually. The ones who can walk, anyway.”

  “We’re in the middle of a lesson,” Hexam said impatiently. “Can it wait?”

  “Well, no…” Fife said. “They’ve been called by the king himself, you see. He’s holding a council on what happened outside the wall.”

  Now Jayna finally looked back at Zed. Her eyes were wide.

  “Fie,” Hexam cursed. “Alabasel will be in a fine mood after this one. All right, you can take him.” He cleared his throat. “Out you go, Jayna.”

  The girl hurried past Fife without another word.

  “Zed, before you leave…” Hexam stood from his desk and walked over to a wide bookshelf filled with ancient-looking manuals. “Jayna was right about a few things. Fiendish magic is dangerous, just as any blade can be dangerous. And it can be corrupting, as much as coin, or a title, or a fine suit of armor.”

  The archivist selected a book from the shelf whose leather binding was so tawny it appeared bloodred. Until the light changed, and it was green. He carried it over to Zed and set it on the desk in front of him. The title, Bonds of Blood and Fire, was imprinted neatly into the leather.

  “We in the Adventurers Guild are given leniencies that others aren’t,” Hexam said. His voice was soft, almost wistful. “Because we are called on to risk so much for this city. Risk is our lives, I’m afraid—and it is our duty. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter for today.”

  The sun was high as Zed made his way through the market, flanked by Brock and Liza. Frond walked far in front, moving briskly through the crowd toward the palace road.

  “Nice gloves,” Liza said to Brock.

  Zed glanced down. Brock was wearing a pair of leather gloves that came up past his wrists.

  “I’m willing to suffer for fashion,” Brock said with a shrug. “And I probably shouldn’t bleed on the king’s rug. I meant to ask Mother Brenner if there was anything she could do, but after Jett…” He glared forward at Frond’s back. “I’ll heal, anyway.”

  “What do you think the king wants with us?” Zed asked nervously. The events of this morning were still bouncing around inside his head. He’d stashed Hexam’s book under his bed before they headed out, but even having it there made him nervous. If what Hexam had said was true, then Zed had used dark magic—illegal magic—to fight off the kobolds. What if news of this had reached the king?

  “We were closest to the wards when the naga broke through,” Liza said. “He probably wants us to tell him what we saw.”

  “Well, I’ve seen plenty, and I’ve got plenty to tell him,” Brock said. He glanced over at Liza. �
�You must have met the king in court. What’s His Majesty like in person?”

  Liza frowned. “Stern.”

  “Coming from you…”

  “Oh, you’ll have plenty coming from me, if you keep that up.” Liza smiled prettily and cracked her knuckles.

  “Why did I stand between you two?” Zed wondered aloud.

  “My father says that the crown of Freestone grows heavier by the year,” Liza continued. “To lead one of the last surviving cities in the world…the pressure on the king must be immense.”

  “Speaking of immense pressure,” Brock said. “How’s your stomach, Zed? Get into any more of that ambrosia today?”

  Zed’s insides lurched. “I think I’m off sugar for a while.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” Brock smiled. “Just stay away from my socks.”

  As they made their way down the palace road, the crowd began to thin. When the noise of the market had finally died away, replaced by only a crisp quiet, Zed suddenly realized…He had crossed the boundary to intown. Large, stately homes fringed the clean, even cobbles.

  It was the first time Zed had ever entered the central district. Freestone’s peasantry weren’t generally welcome here, aside from sanctioned members of the Servants Guild like his mother. Loiterers were quickly encouraged by the Stone Sons to be on their way.

  While Brock and Liza continued to speculate about the king, their demeanors playful, Zed fell slowly out of step. His eyes darted around, taking in the peaceful houses and spacious streets. It was a place almost as foreign as the world outside Freestone’s walls—and yet he’d always lived just on the other side of the market.

  Up ahead, Brock and Liza seemed to have come alive with their new surroundings, their footsteps echoing blithely. Even with their scrapes and bruises, the two fairly radiated confidence and gentility.

  In contrast, Zed became aware of his own shoulders pulling inward, instinctively shrinking as small as possible. And he hated himself for it.

  Mom, he thought. Is this how you feel every day? The notion filled him with a desolate, heartsick feeling.

  Zed took a deep breath. He threw back his shoulders and hurried forward to catch up with his friends.