The Eighth Born: Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles

by C. Night

  Rhyen closed his eyes. By the time he counted to one hundred, Bonder and a short, stubby man that could only be his son returned, heavily laden with supplies.

  “Perfect,” pronounced Cazing, doing a quick once-over of the materials. “My apprentice will take them.”

  Rhyen sighed. No one person could carry all of that, but nevertheless he moved forward obediently.

  “No need, no need at all, sir!” puffed Bonder cheerily. “There’s also the cart of lumber and the stone you’ll be wanting, if you recall, my friend. He canna carry that all, though he is a giant! Me son Garel will deliver it to you by horse and cart. What is the address, then?”

  “The Tower Avernade, please,” Cazing said after a moment’s hesitation.

  Garel dropped everything he was carrying and stared slack jawed at Cazing. Bonder clutched the doorframe with his free hand and gazed, stricken, at them. Rhyen looked at Cazing for a split second before bending to collect the goods. Neither shopkeeper nor son moved.

  “The Tower Avernade?” Bonder whispered. “No one has been there for over a hundred years.” He squinted at Cazing. “What was your name, sir?”

  “My name is Cazing of Avernade.”

  Though Rhyen knew very well his master’s name, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the authority and power that wove through his words. There was a current that ran through the air of the shop, and, in that moment, nobody even breathed.

  “Gods help me,” Bonder wheezed, leaning his bulk shakily against the doorframe. “Not Cazing the Sorcerer?”

  “The very same,” said Cazing. He was standing ramrod straight.

  Garel stumbled over the fallen goods and held out his hand to the sorcerer. “Tis an honor, sir,” he said, his gravelly voice choked with emotion. “I didn’t hardly believe you were real!”

  Cazing laughed, and the tension broke. “The honor is all mine, Garel.” He grasped the shop boy’s hand, and Garel’s face went scarlet. “Can you have these delivered by tonight, son?”

  “For you, sir, I will!” Garel stooped over and help Rhyen gather up the supplies.

  Bonder was still gazing at Cazing in wonder. “Me grandfather told me stories about you, Sorcerer. He said you saved his father once. Trifyn, his name was.” Cazing’s eyebrows pulled together slightly. “Said there was a mud slide one spring that took out half the town. Said you pulled him out, him and his wife, as well as fifty others…” Bonder looked eagerly at Cazing.

  Cazing sighed. “It was a landslide.”

  Bonder whooped. “Then it’s true as paint! You remember!”

  Cazing smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I could never forget. Thank you, Bonder, for your help. How much do I owe you?”

  Bonder backed away from Cazing, delight still plain on his face. He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be here if it t’weren’t for you, Sorcerer. You’ll pay no charge in my shop.”

  Cazing inclined his head. “You do me a great honor, Bonder. But I will pay you—”

  Bonder burst out laughing. “Who’d’ve believe it, me sassing the Great Cazing! But still, sir, you will have to enchant me into accepting such payment.” Bonder pushed off the doorframe and swept into the lowest bow his huge stomach and short legs would allow. “Please, Sorcerer, just take it, with the compliments of me great grandfather and all his house!”

  After a beat, Cazing grinned and stretched out his hand. Bonder smiled wider and took it, using the handshake to struggle upright. “I’m bested. Many thanks to you and yours, Bonder. I hope to see you again, friend.”

  “You’re always welcome here, Sorcerer. You and your apprentice.”

  Cazing turned and nodded his head toward the door. “Let’s go,” he muttered to Rhyen. Rhyen tried to smile at the shopkeeper, then followed his master out the door.

  * * *

  The Tower Avernade was a wonder in itself, a crawling ruin that climbed to the sky, higher than all the peaks around it. It was made of vast stones, so dark grey they were practically black, stacked one on top of another, spiraling upward as thick and unmoving as the roots of the mountains. The tip, barely visible from the ground, was jagged like spaced square teeth. Windows, winding upwards in matching circles, were the only weakness in the strength of the structure, and those too were barred with iron crosses. The place oozed of mystery and power. Though trees stood everywhere in these mountains, the earth surrounding the Tower was bare and void of all obstacles. Rhyen felt he could soak up the static of the magic from the ground through his boots.

  “The Tower Avernade,” said Cazing, but the simplicity of his statement seemed to convey grandness. “My home.” He surveyed the Tower, lost in memory. For perhaps the first time, Rhyen truly understood that his master was a sorcerer. Cazing looked completely in command of the situation, at ease and unruffled by standing in the presence of the Tower, which was far and away the most mystical place Rhyen had ever been. The sorcerer fit into the scenery and the landscape like he was the subject in a painting, and the great Tower the ominous background.

  Rhyen felt no such ease. Though drawn to the stone base as resolutely as the moon about the earth, he was afraid—afraid of the Tower, afraid of his master, and afraid of himself, of what he would become: a sorcerer. His eyes stung in the chill of the wind that whipped about him, but Rhyen could no sooner shut his eyes or turn his gaze than stop the sun in the sky.

  But then he heard Cazing snort beside him, and the moment passed. It was just him and his master, standing on a hilltop, looking at their home. For Rhyen knew that, like his master before him, the Tower Avernade would become his home. He looked at Cazing.

  “Oh, gods, its even uglier than I remember it!” the sorcerer exclaimed. He seemed delighted to return home. “And probably freezing too—I can practically hear the wind going right through it.”

  Rhyen looked back at the Tower. It was easy to imagine the telltale rattle of wind through rock as he took in the wide old stones. “Still, it’s better than standing outside directly.” The snow was blowing all around them, and his ears were numb, despite his woolen hood. He gripped the cloak tighter around him, grateful for his new gloves.

  “Good call, Rhyen,” Cazing agreed. “Let’s go inside.”

  The Tower was much farther away than Rhyen had guessed. His first sight of the place was from a little hilltop just above the village, but the overgrown road dipped back down and around a few bends before upwards again. He figured the village to be about a mile below the Tower. Rhyen’s long legs carried him to the door long before Cazing appeared over the rim of the last, rather steep hill. He looked decidedly grumpy.

  “Why didn’t we bring the horses?” Cazing hissed through blue lips. “I’d forgotten how far from town this place is. Quick, open the door!”

  Rhyen put his hand on the handle. It was silver and octagonal, and Rhyen felt the cold of the metal stab at his fingers. The handle was shaky in the black wood of the door. Rhyen could smell that the wood was rotten, and it shuddered in the frame as it swung forward, revealing a black and dank smelling interior. Rhyen hesitated, but Cazing was puffing up behind him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, then, I’m freezing!”

  Rhyen took his first step into the Tower Avernade. There were a few windows spaced along this level, and the inside was not so dark as he had originally thought. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, Rhyen saw that he was standing in the kitchen. There was an enormous fireplace, several times the size of the one in the inn down in the village, and the stone mantelpiece was carved, but dust and cobwebs lay so thickly across it that Rhyen could not make out the design. Much of the kitchen, Rhyen could see, was made of stone—stone counters, a deep stone basin, stone shelves—and the same black, rotten wood was hung as doors and drawers all around. The sweet smell of rot clogged Rhyen’s nose. There was a table with several chairs centered in the kitchen. Rhyen stepped forward on the stone floor, hi
s footsteps muffled by thick dust, and saw that china, pots, and even a basket with a towel, holey with age, were set upon the table. It was as though someone had gotten up in the middle of a meal and walked out, and the Tower hadn’t been disturbed since. Even one of the chairs was slightly pushed out away from the table. Rhyen curiously looked at this, his eyes growing ever accustomed to the weird, dusty green light that hung heavy in the place. Outside he could hear the wind swirling, and he looked up at the window over the stone sink, watching the snow pile in front of the glass.

  Cazing stamped his feet, looking around him calculatingly, as though checking to make sure everything was in the proper place. His gloved hands fumbled in his cloak for his pipe. “Actually, I think it’s colder in here.” He said steadily, lighting his bowl. “Is there wood in the fireplace?”

  Rhyen peered through the gloom. “Yes. It smells rotten, though.”

  “It’ll do.” Cazing didn’t even look at the fireplace, but the wood piled forlornly in the center burst into flame. Rhyen felt warmer at once and huddled around the fireplace. He was excited to see Cazing use magic. He never seemed to catch him doing it on their journey, even though he knew his master must have had to in order to have survived.

  “When can I learn that trick?” he asked.

  Cazing sighed, looking around as he too moved toward the fire. “When this place is fit for habitation.”

  Rhyen looked around, and understood what all the supplies were for. He spirits sank. “That could take awhile…”

  Cazing’s mouth twitched. “I’m counting on it.” He said, mirth concealed in his words. Rhyen frowned at his teacher. Cazing looked away, smiling. “You’re not quite ready, Rhyen. When you are, I’ll teach you everything I know.”

  “How will you know when I’m ready?” Rhyen pressed.

  “I’ll know. You will, too.”

  Rhyen threw his teacher a dirty look.

  While they waited for Garel to deliver the supplies, they explored the Tower. The first level was immense in size. Rhyen surveyed the kitchen, which was larger than any he’d even been in, but it only occupied a third of the space. The other side of the room was strewn with moldy books on caved wooden shelves, another fireplace, though not as large, and many chairs and sofas littered with mildewed cushions. The only things that seemed intact were the thick wool rugs, which were layered in that area and only required a good cleaning.

  The third part of the room was walled off from the kitchen and great room, and only a wide door indicated there was another part of the room at all. Rhyen guessed that it led to a giant stairwell, but was surprised when Cazing opened the door into what was clearly a stable. The smell of rotten hay and oats gagged them both, and the sorcerer hastily shut the door.

  “I wasn’t expecting a stable inside the Tower,” Rhyen admitted, coughing. “How do you get the horses in? I didn’t see a door from the outside.”

  “We didn’t see it from that angle,” Cazing answered. “But even if we had I doubt you’d have noticed it. That door is made of stone, so it looks just like the Tower. In fact, it will probably take me a few tries to remember how to open it.”

  Rhyen glanced upward, confused. “But there aren’t any stairs. How do you get up there?” He jerked his chin up to the ceiling.

  Cazing followed his line of sight and regarded the ceiling. “Oh, that. The staircase begins right over the stable, on the second level, and that takes you all the way to the top.”

  “How do you get to the second level?” Rhyen asked interestedly. He was very keen to explore the rest of the Tower, but mostly he was excited to stand at the very top.

  Cazing ran a hand through his hair, remembering. “There’s a ladder. See?” He moved to a blank stretch of wall, and Rhyen saw a hole cut in the ceiling right above it. Cazing picked up the wooden ladder and leaned it against the wall. He started to climb, but as he stepped on the fourth rung, the rotten wood disintegrated. Rhyen put a steadying hand on Cazing’s back to catch him.

  “Thanks,” Cazing muttered. Both men peered up into the gloom overhead, trying to see what was on the second level. “We’ll have to wait until the supplies get here. It’s not safe to use this thing.”

  Cazing let the ladder clatter back to the floor. More rungs snapped on impact. Rhyen grudgingly followed his master and made his way back to the fire. It seemed to take a long time to cross the cavernous room. When he joined Cazing at the great fireplace, he stretched out his hands to warm them. Even with the fire blazing merrily, the Tower was chilly and damp.

  Rhyen glanced again at the table, which he saw, upon closer inspection, was laid for three. He was musing over this when his master noticed him. Cazing looked quickly away from the table. “I left in a bit of a hurry,” he said carelessly by way of explanation. But there was an iron undertone to his words, and Rhyen was afraid to ask more.

  As time went by without the arrival of Geral, however, Rhyen’s curiosity got the better of him. “You left in a bit of a hurry?”

  Cazing nodded, eyes on the fire. Rhyen tried to keep his face smooth and nonchalant. “Must have been awhile ago.”

  The sorcerer grunted. “Well, obviously, Rhyen! Look at the state of the place! No one has been here for over a hundred years.”

  Rhyen shook his head slightly. Never had he guessed that one day he would be apprenticing to a sorcerer, and not in his wildest dreams could he have imagined one so powerful. Rhyen knew that magic wielding extended life, but he also knew that it only did so in direct relation to the skillfulness of the wielder. At the Academy he had heard stories about magicians who lived well into their eighties, and witches and wizards who might have reached one hundred years, maybe, maybe a hundred and ten. Those wielders looked their age, though, when they reached those years. Certainly no century-old wielder could pass for barely middle-aged like Rhyen’s master. But no one even pretended about wielders in today’s world living much more than a hundred years. There simply was no one that strong. But, Rhyen reminded himself, Cazing clearly isn’t from today’s world—not if he’s been friends with Rode for at least a century. He has more magic than anyone else today…except, perhaps, me. Rhyen immediately filled with embarrassment. Why had he thought that? Sure, he was apprenticed to Cazing, but that didn’t mean he was as powerful!...did it?

  Rhyen became uncomfortable in his own thoughts. Hastily, as though to banish them from his head, he blurted out, “I’m surprised this place hasn’t been looted, then, if no one has been here in so long.”

  Cazing’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Really?” He asked dryly, turning toward his apprentice with a sarcastic smirk on his face.

  Rhyen cocked his head. “Well, yes…are you not surprised?”

  Cazing flashed a grin. “Not at all. This Tower, Rhyen was built long before anyone remembers—before the town was here, before any sorcerers were here, and certainly before I was here, and it will be here long after I am gone.” He looked around the Tower again, this time fondly. “People won’t dare to come here if there isn’t a sorcerer in residence. The place oozes magic and mystery, and it frightens everyone away. No one, not even the most opportunistic scalawag, would dare defile the great Tower Avernade.

  “But I like it here. The knowledge that something, at least, is older than I, and more powerful, is comforting, and puts me in my place. And it is very comfortable, once it’s fixed up, at least, and roomy enough for a whole slew of sorcerers, although I’m glad I only have to share it with one.” He barked with laughter, and then added, “Plus, it has a great view. Location, location, location!”

  Rhyen considered this. “You said this place is full of magic? And that it is more powerful than you?” He asked slowly, puzzling out his words as he went. “But how is that possible? I thought only living beings had magical capabilities.”

  “What about the Pankara Stone?” Cazing countered. “That’s not a living thing.”
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br />   “Well, no, but that was from the gods…”

  Cazing refilled his pipe bowl with a heap of tobacco. “Well, how do you know this isn’t?”

  Rhyen paused. “The gods built this Tower?”

  “No idea,” Cazing replied breezily. “But I don’t know that they didn’t, so I have to consider the possibility that they did.”

  Rhyen opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. After a moment’s confused thought, he tried again. “Well, not the Tower then. That’s an exception. But isn’t it only living beings that can wield magic?”

  Cazing smiled and shook his head. “Nice try. I’m not teaching you magic yet.” He turned his ear towards the rotted door. “I think Garel’s arrived. And just in time, the last of the firewood is burning down. Well, come on Rhyen, let’s go welcome him.”

  They went back to the inn that night. By the time Garel had dropped off the wagon load of supplies, dark was beginning to fall, so the two wielders hitched a ride back to Avernade in the shopkeeper’s wagon. Cazing always avoided walking or any exercise whenever possible, and grunted in delight as he settled himself in the spacious back, stretching out his legs with a groan and pulling happily on his pipe.

  When they arrived at the inn, Dierdre, smiling winningly, served them enormous bowls of thick goat and potato stew with fluffy dark bread. There was bread pudding for desert, and Cazing had several helpings. Rhyen didn’t care as much for bread pudding, so master and apprentice exchanged plates, with Cazing finishing off Rhyen’s pudding and Rhyen helping himself to his master’s stew.

  That night the inn was crowded. It had not taken long for the word to spread that the Great Cazing was back in town. It seemed half the village was crowded around the sorcerer’s chair, elbowing each other so they could get closer, all vying for his attention and asking questions. Many stories were requested, both of legends concerning Cazing and of magical stories they had all heard a thousand times.

  Rhyen was eager to hear these stories too, but even more so for the attention of the village girls who giggled in his direction and twirled their hair between their fingers. Being a sorcerer’s apprentice had perks. Rhyen sat beside his master, grinning and growing red faced as bodies pushed closer and closer around their chairs and tankards of ale were shoved in their hands.