The Eighth Born: Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles

by C. Night

  At long last, though, Cazing stood up. There was universal groaning from the crowd, but the sorcerer held up his hands, smiling. “Now, now, we’ve a lot to do tomorrow, must be off to bed.”

  Cries filled the room. “Please don’t go, Cazing!” “Just one more story!” “Is it true you can fly?” “Why did you leave Avernade?” “Are you committed to anyone?”

  This last was directed at Rhyen, who barely had time to grin before Cazing pushed him toward the staircase. He answered the group of pretty young women for his apprentice. “Sorry, ladies, Rhyen is committed to his work. Please excuse us, everyone, we have lots of work tomorrow.” He steered Rhyen through the throng, which parted easily, if a little reluctantly.

  When they reached the hall at the top of the staircase, Rhyen turned to Cazing excitedly. “Did you see that? They loved us!”

  Cazing laughed. “Well, they love me. You just happen to be my apprentice.” He smirked teasingly.

  Rhyen beamed and shrugged. “Well, then, being your apprentice is paying off!”

  Cazing rolled his eyes. “It’s certainly not hurting your ego.” He clapped Rhyen on the shoulder and sidled into his room. “Night, Rhyen.”

  “Good night, Master,” Rhyen replied, opening his own door. Oh, yes, Rhyen thought as he tossed his clothes on the floor, I’m going to like Avernade. It took him awhile to fall asleep that night, and when he did, he dreamed of a crowd of people gathered about his knee, hanging on his every word.

  Chapter 11

  “Why on earth was I so excited for Avernade?” Rhyen muttered crossly. “This is awful!” It was some weeks later, and he had just burst a blister on his left thumb. Matching blisters now covered his palms. Every time he got used to handling one tool, Cazing presented him with a new project, and he spent the rest of the day building new calluses.

  “It builds character,” Cazing called lazily from across the room.

  “Then why don’t you do it?” Rhyen demanded.

  Cazing spread out his hands. “I have plenty of character.”

  Rhyen scowled, narrowing his eyes. They were in the Tower, working to make it habitable again, which was turning out to be quite a bigger job than Rhyen had imagined. The first project they tackled was the stables. Rhyen had been sore for days after mucking out the rotten hay and dirt and laying fresh straw over the packed earth. There were windows even in there, and, once Cazing remembered the particular stone to push to open the stable door and lead in the horses, Cinnamon and Brefen became quite happy there, feasting on oats and hay, drinking the sparkling water from their new trough, and sleeping lazily in the white rays of sun shining through the windows.

  The following few days had been spent on the kitchen—hanging new wood on the cabinets, fitting a new door in the frame, and re-plastering the edges of the windows. And, of course, cleaning. Always there was more to clean. Rhyen was eager to finish the job, knowing that once he was done Cazing would teach him magic, but often he was tempted to stop projects halfway. He only tried this once, however, when the floor stones had been washed three times and yet grime was still coated between them; when he tried to move on to something else, Cazing had glared at him until Rhyen returned, sighing, to the floor.

  It had taken only a few days to finish the kitchen, and once that was done, Cazing and Rhyen moved permanently into the Tower. After that, the sorcerer found it much easier to motivate his apprentice, who he was even more eager to learn magic now that there was not a group of pretty girls hanging around him.

  “See?” Cazing had said, smirking, “Had to get you out of there before your head grew too big for your body.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the attention too!” Rhyen had answered a little defensively.

  “Oh no, I did. But that doesn’t make it healthy. Besides, their admiration is very misplaced.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Cazing had turned, waving Rhyen away. “I’ll tell you someday. Right now, we need to get a move on. It’s still freezing in here. Have to caulk up the rest of the windows.”

  And so, with the two men in residence, the Tower Avernade became active once more. At first a steady stream of visitors arrived knocking on the door. The sorcerers paused their work, inviting the guests inside and speaking with them before the comfort of the fire. This seemed to thrill the villagers, who were very taken with the sorcerer, and Cazing treated everyone so that they felt special. The women all brought baskets of food and things for the Tower, and Cazing and Rhyen thanked them heartily. But whenever someone asked Cazing for his help, he patiently heard them out, but provided no magical solution. Advice was the only answer he offered. Still the visitors kept coming, bearing with them more gifts. Many were lavish, far more so than Rhyen suspected the villagers could afford, and always Cazing refused them, though with a gracious smile. But everyone backed away shyly, insisting that he keep the presents, just as Bonder the shopkeeper had done, and Cazing had no choice but to accept them.

  After a few weeks, everyone in the village had come to see the Tower and speak with the sorcerer. At this point, the stream of visitors eased somewhat, and Rhyen and Cazing were able to focus more on rebuilding the Tower. Following the first level, where they had been sleeping after moving from the inn (Rhyen was grateful for the sofas, mildewed as they were, because the alternative was sleeping on the freezing stone floor), they constructed a new ladder and began exploring the upper reaches of the Tower.

  Sure enough, just as Cazing had remembered, there was a winding stone staircase that began on the second level, and it circled all the way to the door at the top of the Tower, which opened onto the roof. Rhyen was so excited to stand on the top that, after they were able to access the second floor, he ran upwards, deaf to Cazing’s warnings of slippery stones or wobbly stairs, and flung open the door. He stumbled out into the sky, blinking in the white winter sunlight. It was snowing again, and Rhyen wasn’t wearing a cloak or gloves, but he stood there a long time, mouth open in wonder, gazing at the Guntoriens.

  The Tower was as high as the mountaintops. The view was breathtaking—it was sunset, and the light glittered off the falling snowflakes like diamonds, lighting up the heavens with tiny rainbows. The sun was golden white on the horizon, playing over the mountains like a wave over a riverbank. Rhyen sighed and leaned against the stone, awestruck by the scene. He glanced down. The trees looked miniscule from this distance, like frozen blades of grass or frost-covered flower stalks. Everything was glittering and beautiful. Rhyen put his hand on his chest as he looked around him.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Cazing asked dryly as he arrived on the roof. “A long way up, though, I’d forgotten how many steps it was.” The sorcerer threw a look at Rhyen when he didn’t answer. He smiled, watching his apprentice.

  “It’s so beautiful… I’ve never seen anything to equal it.” Rhyen said at last. His voice, he was surprised to find, caught in his throat a bit. “How could you have ever left?”

  Cazing looked down and leaned his elbows against one of the square pieces that stood around the top. “Sometimes I wonder myself.”

  They stayed until the sun was lost over the mountains.

  That night over supper, Rhyen broached a subject that had long been on his mind. “Why is it you only go by Cazing? Don’t you have a last name?”

  Cazing swallowed an enormous bite of cake before answering. They were feasting on one of the many desserts the village women had been bringing them—in fact, they had eaten little else for almost three days. “Yes, I have a last name.”

  “What is it?”

  Cazing blinked. “You know, I don’t remember.” He sipped some wine, thinking. “It’s been so long since I’ve used it. Something like… ah, well, who knows? Started with an ‘N’ though.”

  Rhyen played with his fork for a bit, stirring it into the icing, making crisscrosses over the white plate. “Why did you stop using it
?”

  His master shrugged. “That’s what happens. Since I’ve been wielding I’ve been known as Cazing of Avernade or Cazing the Sorcerer.” He regarded Rhyen over the rim of his glass. “You’ll stop using ‘Hyldhem’ soon enough. You’ll just be Rhyen of Avernade. Or Rhyen—”

  “Rhyen the Sorcerer,” Rhyen whispered, interrupting. He grimaced. “It doesn’t sound quite so grand as Cazing the Sorcerer.”

  Cazing burst out laughing. “It’s better than Bob the Sorcerer!”

  “No! Was there really a Bob the Sorcerer?”

  “Believe it or not, there was,” Cazing replied, smiling.

  Rhyen the Sorcerer. Rhyen turned the phrase over in his mind. It would be strange to stop using his last name. He wondered when he would be able to introduce himself as Rhyen of Avernade…or Rhyen the Sorcerer. Although, he remembered, Cazing never referred to himself as Cazing the Sorcerer. It was only others around him who called him that. His master introduced himself as Cazing of Avernade. Rhyen glanced around at the kitchen and great room. That part of the Tower was completely finished—renovated and habitable. He cleared his throat. “When do I get to be a sorcerer, sir?”

  “When you master magic, of course,” said Cazing. He didn’t take Rhyen’s bait.

  Rhyen sighed. He wished his master were making this conversation easier on him. He cautiously continued. “We are living in the Tower now. So… I think it’s time I started learning magic.”

  “I don’t,” Cazing said easily. He didn’t seem mad, or troubled at all, but his statement suggested that the conversation should conclude.

  Rhyen put down his fork. It took a lot of energy not to throw it down on the plate. “What do you mean?”

  Cazing shook his head. “You’re not ready, Rhyen.”

  “How do you know that?” Rhyen exploded. “I’m ready, I’ll prove it to you!” But before he could think of something to do that would show Cazing he was ready to learn magic, the sorcerer spoke.

  “All right. Prove it. Answer me this: Which is the lesser evil: doing something bad for a good reason or doing something good for a bad reason?”

  The words echoed in Rhyen’s mind familiarly—he had heard them before. His mind dredged out a memory—Cazing had asked that question before agreeing to take on Rhyen as an apprentice. What had he answered then? “I don’t know…” Rhyen was surprised that his master was repeating the question, and he thought for a moment before answering. “Doing something bad for a good reason.”

  “Wrong,” Cazing smiled at Rhyen. “See? That’s how I know you’re not ready. When you give me the right answer, I will teach you magic wielding.”

  And that was the end of the conversation. Cazing pulled out his pipe and a piece of wood he was whittling, and Rhyen slumped back in his seat, confused.

  The following morning they continued, of course, to fix up the Tower. Rhyen enjoyed exploring the upstairs. There were many rooms, all off the winding staircase. Cazing had told Rhyen to take his pick, and without hesitation Rhyen chose the one closest to the roof. It was the only room on that level and very spacious, but Rhyen chose it for the five windows that were equally spaced around the almost-circle. The windows in this room were shaped like little houses—rectangular but with a peaked triangles at the top. The glass was thick, as it was in all the windows, and of course there were thin, decorative iron bars crossed outside them, but each offered a spectacular view. In that room he got the sunrise in the east-facing windows and the sunset in the west, and right in the center he had an excellent view of Avernade, nestled in the valley like a painting with smoke rising in tiny spirals from the doll-sized thatched roofs. The north side of the room was where his bedroom door was placed, and beyond were the final few steps that lead to the roof door.

  There were only a few pieces of furniture in the room when Rhyen claimed it—a four-poster bed hung with scarlet curtains, though they were faded to black with mold and damp, a chest of drawers that was actually in good condition, despite the wooden frame, two trunks, one of which was so rotten it crumbled at his touch, and a chair. Rhyen, though completely useless when they had started on the Tower several weeks ago, was fast becoming a skilled carpenter and handyman. In the evenings, he took to rebuilding his furniture, using spare scraps of wood until Cazing figured out what he was doing. The next day Garel delivered a load of expensive lumber and fine fabrics, and Cazing helped carry them up to Rhyen’s room.

  “For your furniture,” he said, grinning at Rhyen. “And mine too, when you have time.” Rhyen smiled back. He was disappointed that Cazing was not yet teaching him magic, but nevertheless he was very fond of his master, and could see that Cazing valued him as well.

  Besides mending the furniture, Rhyen was busy still with cleaning and renovating the upstairs Tower rooms. There were eight levels in all, the first being the kitchen, stables, and great room, and the eighth Rhyen’s level. On each level was at least one large door that led to a room. Many rooms were empty, and a few were locked. Rhyen had turned a questioning eye at his master when the doors wouldn’t open, but Cazing had merely shrugged noncommittally and suggested they move on.

  The sorcerer himself took up residence on the third floor, behind the right-hand door. “This was always my room,” he told Rhyen, walking over the dusty floors, touching his old things, which were all covered in a thick layer of dust and exactly where he had left them over a hundred years before. There was a great bed in the perched kitty-corner between two floor-to-ceiling windows, a large vanity built into the wooden wall that divided the third level into two, a set of matching wardrobes, a writing desk, and a few chairs. In the brief glimpse Rhyen had of the room, he saw a handsome silver comb and brush set out before the grimy mirror on the vanity top, and a few letters, crumbled with age, spread out on the desk. One of the wardrobes was opened slightly, and Rhyen could vaguely make out dusty clothes hanging from the bar.

  No matter what he was doing, the question about the lesser evil was never far from his mind. Always Rhyen thought about it, knowing that once he answered correctly, his magical training would begin. He tried several variations of his first answer, thinking that Cazing hadn’t accepted it because he hadn’t explained himself. He tried both “Doing something bad for a good reason is the lesser evil, because in the end you were trying to do a good thing,” and “It’s the lesser evil because you will help more people by doing good,” but both times Cazing had merely shaken his head, smiling. “Wrong again, Rhyen.”

  Rhyen decided to get a bit more philosophical about the question. After several days of thought, he suggested, “It is always evil to do bad, even if done for a good reason.” He smiled smugly at his teacher, sure he had answered right. But, to his astonishment, Cazing had laughed.

  “Try again!” chuckled the sorcerer.

  Rhyen had closed his eyes in frustration. The next night he changed tactics. “The lesser evil is doing something good for a bad reason…?” he said. He wasn’t confident about his answer, but he had run out of variations on the other choice, and he shrugged his shoulders, figuring this was worth a try. He was not surprised at all when Cazing shook his head.

  He thought very hard for almost a week before finally coming up with another answer. He walked resolutely downstairs to the kitchen and cleared his throat. Cazing looked up at him, surprised. “The lesser evil is doing something bad for a good reason.” Rhyen recited determinedly. “Doing something good for a bad reason would involve deceiving people—for example, you might help someone for your own gain. They would think you were helping them, when really you were helping yourself. This requires lying to them, and that is why the opposite is the lesser evil.” Rhyen tilted his chin proudly, confident he was finally correct.

  “That’s a no go, Rhyen.” Cazing lazily replied, returning to his whittling. “Sorry, kid. You’re not ready for magic.”

  Rhyen’s jaw dropped open. “What?” he exclaimed, dumbst
ruck. “I was sure that was right!”

  “Sorry, kid. You’re not ready for magic.” The master repeated with a smile.

  Rhyen turned slowly and climbed the ladder to the second floor. From there he stumbled up the winding stairs to the eighth level and pushed open his bedroom door. He glanced around. He had finished his furniture by this time, and the room was now a pleasant place. His four-poster bed was canopied with heavy red curtains that hung on all sides. He had his only book, The Book of the Ages, opened on his desk, his knife gently placed on his nightstand, and his clothes neatly folded in his closet. There was even a rug on the floor, brightly dyed and thickly woolen. Unlit candles were placed around the room, and Rhyen dreamed of a time when he could walk in and light them by magic.

  Rhyen pushed the question out of his mind for a few days. He was quite busy working on the only room on the sixth level, which turned out to be some sort of storeroom. Cazing had looked around delightedly when they entered, and he eagerly grabbed folds of his cloak to rub the filth off the little glass vials.

  “What is this place?” Rhyen asked, looking around curiously. So far, it was the only room in the Tower that screamed of magic to him. There was a high, long table made entirely of stone in the center of the room. The back wall was a kind of bookcase, made up of twenty wooden cubes, each with slats inside to make hidey-holes for the hundreds of vials and bottles that occupied the space. There were hooks and slender chains, more jewelry than links of metal, hanging from the ceiling. There were basins on high circular tables in each of the corners. A number of tools and instruments were laid purposefully out on what might have been velvet inside a dozen drawers in two large chests. A chest stood under each of the two windows, one facing east, the other west.