by C. Night
The
Eighth Born
The
Eighth Born
Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles
C. S. Night
Copyright © 2015 C. S. Night
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1514769417
ISBN 13: 9781514769416
Dedication
For Z.S., who inspired this whole story.
In loving memory of John, who worked so hard to help get Rhyen on his feet.
Table of Contents
Part 1 Ikha
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part II Avernade
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part III Corn
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Part 1
Ikha
Chapter 1
Summer was fading into autumn, and the golden fields were overhung by a dark azure sky that promised rain before morning. The setting sun splashed final golden rays across the horizon, and the light caught at the wheat and barley, causing the grains to glisten like gems set across a crown. A few birds flitted between the branches of the trees on a nearby hill, and distant bells echoed, carried along a wind so light that the leaves scarcely swayed.
As the sun slipped over the hills, the final tides of sunshine swept across the tall grasses and played over the face of a boy, almost a man, while he dozed, half propped against a tree, his book in danger of sliding straight off his lap and onto the dusty ground. In the glow that follows the sunset, Rhyen stirred. He pried one eye open and, taking in his surroundings, he stretched, yawning. His book finally fell from his knee and landed with a soft thump. Ruffling his hair, Rhyen reached for the book and turned it so he could see the cover. It was a handsome leather volume covered with intricate carvings of a whimsical nature, and Rhyen was staring at it when he suddenly realized that he was very, very late.
He jumped to his feet, hissing curses under his breath as he yanked his rucksack from the convenient knot in the trunk where he had hung it earlier. Rhyen shoved the book into the bag and snatched his hat from the ground, cramming it onto his golden hair and taking off for Ikha at a full-out sprint. The bells gradually became louder as he tore down the hill and across the fields. Their clanging reminded Rhyen just how late the hour was, and he ran even faster still. When he reached the city he tore through a few back alleys and arrived at the gates of the Academy. He waved frantically at the watchman as he sidled through the service gate, but the guard remained seated, and watched him pass, a bored expression on his bearded face.
Of all the days to be late, Rhyen thought as he skidded to a stop in front of the water pump. He pulled on the lever a few times and splashed the icy water roughly over his face, soaking his shirt in the process. He groped in his pockets for a handkerchief but missed it—he must have dropped it as he ran through the wheat. He used his shoulder in its place, wiping off most of the water, but managing to replace it with grasses and dirt instead.
Rhyen flew into his dormitory, walking as fast as possible without running and ignoring the students who, looking up from their books and scrolls, threw him expressions that suggested his breathing was too loud. When he reached the staircase he flung caution aside and darted up to the third level, where his best robes were hanging across his bed, ready for his Naming ceremony. He tried to pull them over his head while kicking off his pants at the same time, got tangled, and had to waste precious moments sorting himself out. Finally, he had the robes on correctly and his graduation cords tied about his waist, and, remembering to check the mirror, he used his recently discarded pants to wipe the smudges from his face. Without a backwards glance, Rhyen dashed away, down the staircase, and through the hall, where he returned the disapproving looks with glares of his own.
As soon as he reached the cobbled courtyard, he slowed to a fast walk and tried to control his breathing. His heart continued to race, keyed up as it was by nerves and excitement, and he marched toward the Hall, uncomfortably aware that tonight his future would be decided. It was the eve of his 18th Name day, the anniversary of his birth and the time for his apprenticeship to be determined. He had been a student at the Academy in Ikha for eight long years, studying with other gifted children the various histories, sciences, and writings necessary to become a magic wielder. On his eighteenth Naming, he, like all other students, would have to leave the Academy to pursue an apprenticeship. He would be presented with choices of those who deigned to take him on, and tomorrow pick one, and then he’d be off. That was assuming, of course, that at least one master would consent to apprentice him, and with another great swoop of nervousness somewhere in his stomach, Rhyen quickened his pace.
How well a student performed in their studies greatly influenced the decision of apprenticeship, and in this regard Rhyen was reasonably confident. He had, after all, written numerous papers on the subjects of history and magic wielding, and had been in contact with master-level magicians, helping to compile research on various topics. However, the other aspect to apprenticeship selection was the level of magic a given wielder possessed, and this is what worried Rhyen most.
He knew that he was at least as talented as his peers, and suspected that he had more capacity than some, but the extent of his gift was unknown to him. Magic would occasionally burst out of him, just like any of the other students, but he never seemed to do the same things as they all did. Rhyen had seen several classmates, frantic over their studies, make the small flame of a candle increase to a bonfire-sized blaze, while other students shrieked and pushed their chairs away from the table. The most Rhyen had ever done at the Academy was start a small flame in his hand, completely by accident, and he hadn’t even noticed that he had done such a thing until a helpful peer upended his goblet over Rhyen’s hand, which, as the goblet was filled with rum (smuggled in, of course), did nothing to help the situation, although Rhyen appreciated the thought behind the gesture all the same. However, he had had to spend the next several weeks without eyebrows, as they had been singed completely off, and had to entirely re-write an essay he had been penning, which had been reduced to little more than ash during the fiasco.
Nevertheless, some students hadn’t displayed any outward signs of talent at all, although as a rule all enrolled in the Academy had magical tendencies. This made Rhyen feel slightly more secure in his level of wielding ability, but as he hadn’t yet begun his practical magical education, he had no real way to gauge the extent of his gift. It was this unknown factor, therefore, that underscored Rhyen’s fearfulness. He didn’t know how much talent he had, so he didn’t know if he could be expected to apprentice to a master-level magician, a wizard or witch, or (although the mere idea was laughable as it was rare to the point of nonexistence) a sorcerer.
He had arrived at the Hall and
, as he raised his hand to the doorknob, a terrible thought came to him. What if he had such a small amount of talent that his apprenticeship did not merit even a magician? What if the wielding he had already learned would be sufficient for his ability? Rhyen felt his face grow hot at the thought. Even his older sister had apprenticed to a magician, and he felt he would die of shame if his powers did not at least equal hers. But then Rhyen remembered that he was already late, so he pushed his fears aside and pulled open the door.
The entry was a dimly lit, high-ceilinged chamber decorated with lavishly painted portraits of renowned sorcerers and esteemed masters of the sciences and histories. Candles burned from holders set deep into the walls. As Rhyen shuffled nervously inside and closed the door behind him, he was almost overwhelmed by the stiff pompousness of the place. He tip-toed across the entry to the grand double doors that led inside the Hall, and tried to quietly open one. The door was so immense that it didn’t even budge. Rhyen pulled more firmly, but still the door remained stolidly closed. In desperation he wrenched at the door, pulling with all his weight. When nothing happened, panic began to overtake him. What if he could not get inside? What if he was so late that they had barred the door against him, and he would not be apprenticed at all? Losing his head completely, he took a few steps back so he could run at the door and shoulder it open, but before he could do so he heard a dry voice from behind him.
“That is a push door. Honestly, after eight years studying under the greatest minds of the century, one would think that a rising pupil would at least have the sense to try the door both ways before panicking.”
Rhyen spun around and saw, to his intense embarrassment, his favorite teacher, Master Cazing, leaning his shoulder against the wall, arms folded and one foot crossed over the other, as casually as though he had been there the whole time. A split second passed and Rhyen’s face started to flush, but then he realized that Cazing was on his apprenticeship review committee. If he is out here then it might not be too late after all…
“Master! Is it over? Have I missed it?” Rhyen sputtered, moving forward and wiping the sweat out of his eyes. His hands felt cold and clammy.
Cazing wore an amused expression, and he looked into Rhyen’s wide, hopeful eyes. He grinned. “It hasn’t yet started, my dear boy, although it is very soon to do so, and I was beginning to worry that you had lost your way.”
Rhyen gave a shaky laugh of relief. “Not my way, Master, just the track of time. What should I do?”
“For starters, calm down. This is nothing to worry about! You don’t have to make any decisions right now.”
Rhyen couldn’t calm down. He paced back and forth across the entry hall. Cazing looked just as unruffled as ever. Rhyen glanced at him. He was now focused on filling his pipe.
“Can you smoke in here?” Rhyen asked, surprised. The Academy was usually quite strict about such things. Cazing raised his eyebrows in Rhyen’s direction, and Rhyen felt his face flushing again. Abashed, he said hastily, “What are you doing out here, sir?”
“Waiting for you, so I could listen to pointless questions, apparently,” Cazing replied, serenely blowing smoke rings across the entry.
Rhyen watched as they lazily undulated in their smoky trek across the chamber. After a few minutes of this, he was rather calmer. Cazing had always been his favorite teacher, and being in his presence made it feel like he was simply going to class, not a Naming ceremony. Behind him he heard the door open, and, nervousness welling in him once more, he slowly turned to find the very strict Dean of Students, Madame Boon. Her grey hair was wound into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her spectacles flashed from the light of the candle that she was holding. Her pinched mouth was pulled down in a judgmental glare. She sniffed loudly.
“Have you been smoking?” She glowered at Rhyen. “Really, boy, this is a place of study!” She clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes at Cazing, and huffed. “Students!”
“Youth these days,” agreed Cazing grimly, his pipe hidden behind his back. Madame Boon nodded approvingly at him, shot Rhyen a withering look, and swept back into the Hall. Rhyen’s mouth dropped open indignantly, and he half raised his hands at Cazing.
“Smoking is very bad for you,” said Cazing sternly to Rhyen. He looked to make sure Boon’s back was to him as he quickly stowed his pipe beneath his robes. The corners of his mouth were twitching, and he winked at Rhyen as he followed Madame Boon into the Hall. Still indignant, but unable to help himself, Rhyen grinned back.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered as he too followed.
The Hall was as impressive as always. A huge chandelier with thousands of candles hung majestically from the center of the ceiling, casting a brilliant light over the members of Rhyen’s apprenticeship review committee. They were, for the most part, older scholars, masters in the various subjects he had studied over his eight years at the Academy. They were all wearing their teaching robes, and the cords around their waists represented their discipline—green for Healing, red for Sciences, blue for Astronomy, and so on. Master Cazing, who looked to be younger than all the rest, donned the bright yellow cords of Ancient Writings and Histories.
Madame Boon turned sharply on her heel, her purple cords swinging from her hip, and gestured curtly at Rhyen to the chair in the middle of the room. It was sunk down a feet steps below the curved table that formed a half-circle around it. Gulping, Rhyen shuffled down the steps and sat rigidly in the chair, his hands balled nervously on his knees. The solemnity of it all made him feel like he was about to be sentenced to death rather than to an apprenticeship. The noise gradually died down as the teachers took their places at the table. When the silence was so complete that Rhyen could hear his own heart beating, Madame Boon cleared her throat.
“Rhyen Hyldhem, we faculty of the Academy of Ikha that constitute your apprenticeship review committee have called you here today, on the eve of your 18th Naming, to present to you the offers of tutelage that have been submitted for your consideration.” She recited the words flatly before clearing her throat again and ruffling through her papers.
“According to your teachers, you have achieved, during your time at the Academy, high scores in all subjects. They report that you have extremely high intelligence, demonstrate clear understanding and creative thinking, and possess a great moral character.” Boon sniffed loudly and pursed her lips, clearly in disbelief at the report. She raised her eyebrows and continued.
“As far as your magic wielding abilities, your teachers believe that you possess a talent worthy of the instruction of at least a magician, with the majority recommending that you apprentice with a witch or wizard. However, there were no two professors who gave the same guess as to your affinity, and so there are no recommendations as to the path of your apprenticeship.”
Rhyen stared at her in amazement. He had thought he was reasonably gifted, but to be told that the majority of his teachers felt his wielding was ample enough for instruction by a wizard or witch left him feeling as though he had received a blow to the head. But as he began to recover from his shock, Rhyen felt a twinge of frustration. It was wonderful that he now knew the level of his wielding capabilities, but without any guesses as to his affinity he had no guide for what field he should apprentice in. If his element was Water, he would have known to choose something in fields such as healing or the shipping industry. Or if he were a Fire, he would perhaps apprentice to a smith of some sort, or perhaps to the fire brigade. But without an affinity, what was he supposed to do—close his eyes and just pick one? He tried to clear his mind because Boon began to speak again, and he did not want to miss hearing any of his offers.
“It is very unusual,” (Rhyen’s nerves spiked again) “but one of your teachers’ has recommended that you apprentice to a sorcerer.” At these words, the teachers began to murmur amongst themselves. Rhyen was stunned. A sorcerer? Him? A few teachers exchanged incredulous looks with each other, and some looked
down at him with renewed interest. Rhyen felt like a display as they all peered at him, discussing his magical capabilities as though he wasn’t even there.
It was extremely rare for anyone these days to possess enough magic to become a sorcerer. It was rare enough to have sufficient gifting to be a witch or wizard. In fact, Rhyen knew that less than half of his committee had achieved a level higher than magician, and they were the best Ikha had to offer. Some of them were not even wielders at all, just scholars. Rhyen was awed, and his mind, no matter how he tried to clear it, kept leaping from possibility to possibility. But there was no denying that most of the teachers disagreed with this recommendation, and Rhyen shrank deep into the chair, away from their stares. He glanced at his favorite teacher. Whether he was looking for reassurance or validation, he didn’t know, but in Cazing he found neither. Cazing was neither discussing with his fellows nor looking down at Rhyen, but instead was leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the flames of the candles burning in the great chandelier. He looked passive to the point of boredom, and Rhyen felt his spirits drop and his hope falter. Cazing knew him better than any of the other professors, and if he didn’t think Rhyen could be a sorcerer, than surely it could not be true.
Madame Boon tapped her quill against her wine glass, and after a few seconds silence was restored. Looking down at her papers stacked before her, she said, “Obviously, this is a very serious recommendation, and it is the Academy’s policy that any student who receives such a recommendation be told at once. Magic, as I’m sure you know from your considerable studies,” she emphasized skeptically, “needs to be used. That is, a magic wielder must use his or her gifting to the highest level he or she is able in order to avoid a very painful and imminent death. Therefore, you need to be made aware that it is, however misguided or remote, a possibility that you can attain the level of sorcerer.” She paused, and after a beat caught Rhyen’s eye. She spoke seriously, gazing intently at him. “Choose your apprenticeship accordingly, Mister Hyldhem, and prepare yourself to use whatever magic you do possess to its fullest, lest it destroy you.”