by C. Night
Even besides the guilt, Rhyen felt a little strange. He remembered vaguely what Cazing had said about magic being more difficult to wield against humans and creatures and wondered if just being around humans when he wielded could be more difficult as well. He was tired and was scared to realize that he had a very shaky hold on his desire for wielding. His Opposite reared up inside him. Rhyen was afraid—he thought of the time he had accidentally exploded the fire, and he had had a better grip on his Opposite then. Rhyen was terrified now that he would lose control and hurt everybody in the pub, and his terror made shakier his hold on his desire and Opposite. He needed to get home.
This all went through his head in a matter of seconds, and he abruptly turned on his heel and made to march resolutely through the door. But on his way out, one of the old men at the bar reached out and grabbed his arm in a friendly sort of way. What happened next was beyond Rhyen’s control or knowledge, and marked him forever as a sorcerer.
When the old man put his hand on Rhyen’s arm, Rhyen lost whatever hold he had on his magic. It burst through him, compelled on by the Opposite that broke free of his restraint, right down his arm and into the hand of the old man.
They were connected, both physically and magically, and Rhyen’s eyes grew wide, reflecting the terror and shock he saw in the old man’s. The pub disappeared, and Rhyen found himself in a wide-open meadow with endless blue sky. Then the colors shimmered, and he was in a much smaller clearing, surrounded by the tall trees of Avernade. It was spring or summer, and flowers were in bloom all around him. He was not aware of his own body—he could not move or yell or even blink his eyes. He watched two little children huddle over a small brown thing. Rhyen saw that it was a bird lying upon the grasses, it’s wing twisted. He heard its sad tiny cheeps. The next thing he knew, he was seeing as though from the eyes of the boy. He clearly felt the sunlight warm on his back, and the boy’s breath rumble in his lungs. It was like he had become the child.
“Don’t touch it!” shouted the little girl. “It’s hurt!”
“We got to help it,” Rhyen felt himself answer. His voice was small—he had no control over what he said or did. He—the boy—wiped his grubby hands on his jumper and tried to scoop up the bird. Though injured, in its fright the bird dug its sharp little beak into the boy’s fingers, and with a yelp he dropped it. When he did so, the bird chirped no more. The children looked at each other with wide eyes.
“You killed it!” screamed the little girl.
The boy shook his head, scared. Rhyen felt his fear. “No I didn’t. I didn’t mean to!”
The girl ran away. Over her shoulder she shouted, “I’m telling! You’re mean!”
The little boy cried and petted the small bird. “I’m sorry, bird. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He dissolved into wails, and Rhyen wept with him.
Rhyen felt a jerking sensation and felt pulled in a hundred directions. His feet, though he couldn’t see them, remained rooted firmly in place. Colors swirled around him sickeningly, and he tried to yell, when suddenly he found himself in a house. There were many people around him, all with long sad faces. Rhyen looked around him. Where was he? Nobody seemed to see him, and one of the people actually walked through him. If Rhyen could have, he would have screamed. He felt he was being pulled forward, and he seemed to glide through the little house.
It was a funeral—he saw a middle-aged man laid out on the table, candles lit all around him. The same little boy, now a few years older, was staring down at the dead man, tears running down his cheeks. As soon as Rhyen saw him, his mind melded with the boy’s. Rhyen felt his sadness, his loss. Rhyen understood that this was his father’s funeral. The boy was grieving, but controlling his tears so they fell silently. He was the man of the house now.
There was the jerking sensation again, and the colors blurred. Rhyen was outside again, with the boy, who was now in his teens. Instantly he was seeing through the boy’s eyes. He was in a circle of onlookers, and his fists were raised as he shouted furiously at another boy of similar age.
“You take it back!” he shouted. Rhyen’s eyes darted, as the boy’s did, toward the onlookers, and settled for a second on a pretty girl, who was watching him with wide eyes, her hands covering her dimpled mouth. Rhyen felt the desperate need to prove himself, to show the girl that he was strong and tough. He drew back his hand, but the other boy was quicker—Rhyen felt the sharp thud as he was punched in the face, tasted the blood in his mouth and the crack of his head on the earth as he fell to the ground. Eyes stinging, Rhyen found the face of the little girl again, and he thought he would die of shame and embarrassment—
And then the scene changed, jerking him to a lurching ship. The sea was rolling around, waves crashing over the deck, while lightning flashed across the sky and thunder roared. Rhyen briefly saw the boy—now a young man—pull on a rope with a few other sailors, trying to steady the mainstay. Rhyen was expecting it, and he was almost prepared for the feel of the rope burning his skin, the chill of the rain running in rivulets down his arms, the tang of salt running into his mouth as he yelled “Heave!” He pulled with the others, and he felt his muscles working hard to counter the dipping of the ship. He could feel fierce enjoyment as he struggled against the elements.
The colors blurred, but Rhyen was still on the ship. It was sunny and smooth now, and Rhyen only had time to register that the man had grown a beard before he became one with him again.
“Ellis!” barked a sure looking man.
Rhyen felt himself turn and spring to a salute. “Aye, Captain!” he said in a deep voice. His skin pulled tightly with sunburn.
The captain smiled a swarthy smile. “Take the helm, son.”
Rhyen grinned. “Aye, Captain!” he said again, and he put his hands on the rough wood of the wheel, his chest bursting with pride.
The colors jerked around him and Rhyen saw Ellis, looking swarthy himself now with a bandana and gold earring. They were on land—it was night, and the smell of salt could only mean they were in a port. The air was warm. Then Rhyen was Ellis, and he was filled with anger.
“Get away from her, you bleedin’ ass!” he shouted, running forward. Rhyen registered a woman, clutching a shawl to her, and cowering against a wall down an alley, screaming as a red-eyed man ripped at her dress.
Ellis roared and tackled the man, drawing back his fist. Rhyen felt strong, and saw that his tanned arms were bulging with muscle. He hit the man in his drunken eyes a few times and then stood up, kicking at him. The man spat blood and teeth out and, glaring at Rhyen, scrambled away.
“If I ever see you again, mate, I’ll kill you!” Ellis shouted after the drunk. He turned and offered a hand to the lady. She looked shaken, but she smiled gratefully at him. Rhyen felt his heart flip-flop wildly as he took in her blond curls and pink lips.“Are you alright, miss?” Ellis asked, helping her up.
“I am now,” she answered shyly. She blushed and looked down. Rhyen felt a swooping in his—Ellis’— stomach. “My name is Rose.”
The colors swirled again, and as they did so, Rhyen thought he understood: Time was slipping by. He was seeing Ellis’ memories, feeling his emotions. How he was doing this, he knew not, but before he could contemplate it the colors settled again. Rhyen saw Ellis holding Rose’s hand, walking along the beach. She was much less shy this time. Then Rhyen saw through Ellis’ eyes, and he beheld Rose, her face beautiful in the moonlight. Rhyen felt a deep love for her, a sensation he certainly had never felt himself. If he could have turned away, he would have, for Ellis was looking so adoringly into her eyes that Rhyen felt he was intruding on something very private.
“I love you,” Ellis said, taking his fingers and tucking her hair behind her ear. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, and Rhyen felt Rose’s lips touch his.
The years passed in a blur. Rhyen registered Ellis, no beard now, regarding a small boy with an amused smile on his face. Rhyen sup
pressed a laugh. He was Ellis again, and his heart shone with pride and joy as he looked at the boy.
“Who told you goblins live in your closet?”
“Fendle,” the boy answered solemnly. He had blond curls.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll check, but I promise you, there are no goblins in your closet.”
“Please, dad?” his child asked. Ellis leaned forward and ruffled the boy’s curls. Rhyen felt strange—he obviously had no children of his own, but he was sharing Ellis’ emotions now, and he felt protective of this little child, and he shared Ellis’ anger at Fendle.
Then it was winter. Rhyen saw Ellis, bearded again, looking much older and grayer. He was outside, and it was bitterly cold. He looked through Ellis’ eyes toward the sound of a clanging cup. It was an old beggar woman. Rhyen felt Ellis’ sympathy for the poor woman, and he rustled in his pocket for some spare coins. He leaned forward and placed them gently in her cup. Looking into her face, he saw her milky eyes. “Good fortune to you, grandmother,” he said softly.
Time passed again, and they were in the mountains. It was summer, and there were flowers everywhere. Ellis was going back to Avernade. Rhyen melded with him and turned, looking as Ellis looked back at the now gray Rose. He smiled happily at her. Rhyen felt his bones and muscles ache, and felt—though joyous—tired. He was an old man now.
Then he was in a house. Ellis sat at a table set for two, only he was alone. Rhyen was pulled into Ellis’ mind and felt sorrow as he looked at the empty chair. Then the colors blurred, one final time, and he saw Ellis now, the old man at the bar, holding his mug of ale in one hand and watching Rhyen levitate the new candles to the chandelier.
Then, with another huge surge of magic, Rhyen caught another glimpse of the large meadow and blue sky, then promptly found himself again in his own body. He came to with a start—how long had he been wrapped up in Ellis’ thoughts? He looked around at all the faces of his friends and the barmaids. They all looked ashen and frightened, watching him as though he were mad. Or dangerous. Rhyen tried to shake clear his head—it was very strange—he had only lived twenty-eight years, but he now had a lifetime of memories. He glanced up at the chandelier—the candles had barely burned. Only seconds could have passed.
Ellis recoiled his hand from Rhyen’s arm and, clutching his chest, he fell back against the bar, panting. “Are you alright, Ellis?” Rhyen asked, concerned.
The old man looked sharply at Rhyen. “How do you know me?” he gasped.
Rhyen blinked. He didn’t understand. Had Ellis seen none of his own memories? “I just… well, I know everything about you. Don’t you know me?” he asked the old man, startled.
“No, I don’t know you. I’ve never spoke to you before today!” Ellis replied harshly. “And you don’t know me either!”
Rhyen raised his hands. “But I do! You’re from Avernade, but you left as a young man, to become a sailor. You’ve only recently come back to Avernade, and you brought your wife Rose with you...” Rhyen felt again the sadness he had experienced in Ellis’ memories. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Ellis’ eyes were wide with fear. “Get out of my head!” he moaned, shaking his fist at Rhyen. Rhyen’s mouth fell open with shock. Ellis looked around wildly. “He’s spelled me! He’s read my mind! He’s cursed me!” He was clearly scared out of his wits, and he cowered before Rhyen.
Rhyen was reeling. How was this happening? He hadn’t meant to do anything at all. He moved toward Ellis, trying to soothe him, but fear had gotten the best of the old man, and his yellowed eyes rolled to the back of his head as he slumped against the bar.
Milly screamed. “He’s fainted!”
Bec rushed forward, sidestepping around Rhyen like he was poison. He put a hand against the old man’s throat. “His pulse is stopped!” he cried after a moment. “He’s had a heart attack!”
The two barmaids clutched each other and burst into tears. “Call the healer!” one of them screeched. Pattar darted out of the pub, calling for help.
Rhyen moved forward, thinking of what word was the right one to heal Ellis, but Bec shoved him back roughly. “You stay back!” His face was as red as his hair. “You’ve killed him!”
“No! I didn’t mean to!” Rhyen was aghast. Everything was spiraling out of control. “I can help!” He tried to step around the shepherd, but Bec stood firm, hands shielding the dying man.
Stven slowly stood up. “You’d better leave, Sorcerer,” he said in a low, threatening voice.
Rhyen looked at his friend, but there was no recognition of friendship in the blacksmith’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Rhyen pleaded.
“What’s done is done, Sorcerer.” Stven’s expression was one of intense dislike. “You’d better leave,” he repeated.
Rhyen felt as though his life was crashing away. Moments ago, these people had all been his friends. He had been one of them. Now, after his disastrous and accidental bout of wielding, he was an outcast, a fiend. He was someone to be feared: He was a sorcerer, mysterious and dangerous and nobody’s comrade. Rhyen could taste their fear in the very air. To his disgust, his Opposite reveled in the atmosphere. Rhyen knew they could not harm him—what could they do against him, a sorcerer?—and so he was not afraid, but his presence was making the situation worse, and he was not wanted here. He turned and fled back to the Tower.
The snow was no longer falling, but it lay thick and high on the ground. Rhyen raced out of Avernade at a snail’s pace, wading through the white delaying hindrance as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Even in his panic, he recognized the creeping sensation that could only mean one thing. He looked sharply right and saw the dark rider, armored and seated as still as death upon the black horse, the hooded face turned in his direction, watching him.
The sight angered Rhyen, and he shouted furiously. “Go away! Why do you torment me?”
But the rider said nothing. It only inclined its dark, covered head at Rhyen. Rhyen glared at the figure before turning resolutely away. Why give a damn about cloaked riders when he had just lost himself in another’s thoughts? Why should he care about the still figure when he needed to get home to Cazing, to confess his terrible crime? Rhyen continued to make his way through the snow. He had never turned his back on the rider before, but he was too angry and frightened to care now. He could feel it watching him for the rest of his hike up the tall hill leading to the Tower, but he convinced himself that the laughter he heard echoing softly in his ears was nothing more than the winter wind.
Chapter 18
“Oh, good, you’re home,” Cazing said lazily when Rhyen slammed open the door. “And just in time, I’ve run completely out—” He stopped abruptly when he saw Rhyen’s face. He sprang out of his chair. “What happened?”
Rhyen’s face was ashen. “I killed someone,” he said shakily.
Cazing’s mouth dropped open in alarm. “What? How?”
“I don’t know! I wielded—I didn’t mean to!” Rhyen collapsed against the door and sank down to the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to forget Ellis’ frightened old face as he stumbled backward from Rhyen in fear, but it was as though the image was burned into his brain, branded into his thoughts. Rhyen covered his eyes with his trembling hands. You’d better leave, Sorcerer, rang over and over in his mind. His shoulders were shaking, and his voice was broken when he choked out, “They wouldn’t let me help… he’s dead.”
He felt warm hands pull him effortlessly to his feet and lead him nearer the fire. Cazing pushed Rhyen down in the chair and dropped a blanket over his shoulders. When Cazing spoke, his voice was surprisingly composed. “What happened, Rhyen?”
Rhyen blinked rapidly until his blurred vision cleared somewhat. “I don’t know!” he repeated loudly. “I wasn’t even trying to hurt him. But I… I killed him.” He looked up at Cazing in earnest pleading. “It was an accident!”
&nb
sp; “I know, Rhyen. I know. Tell me everything.”
Rhyen shook his head, his throat so thick he couldn’t speak. Cazing reached around and snagged his magical bag. He rummaged in it for a moment and pulled out a crystal bottle. He glared at two glasses, which flew off the counter and skidded to a halt in front of the two men. Cazing poured them both full to nearly the brim and wrapped Rhyen’s fingers around the stem of one of the glasses. At his master’s insistence, Rhyen raised it slowly to his numb lips and took a large swallow. Some splashed down his chin, and Rhyen shakily wiped it away.
“Melden?” he asked hollowly, recognizing the spicy elven drink.
“Rode gave me some when I visited. I’d forgotten about it until now,” Cazing replied. “Drink—it will help.”
Rhyen shook his head. The strong elven drink had loosened his throat a little, but had eased his guilt none. It couldn’t help him. Nothing could—nothing should. “Am I a murderer?” Rhyen’s voice was very small.
“No! You’re not a murderer, Rhyen,” Cazing proclaimed. “Whatever happened, you are not a murderer. Now, tell me—what did happen?”
Rhyen took another sip. “I don’t know what happened. It was—one minute I was wielding, but on purpose.” He closed his eyes as guilt washed over him. “I helped Milly change the candles in the chandelier… magically.” He waited, but Cazing was silent. Rhyen opened his eyes. “I knew before I even did it that I shouldn’t interfere—wielders are not supposed to solve people’s problems for them.”
Cazing nodded. “Changing candles in a chandelier is hardly a crime, Rhyen. Tell me what happened next.”