by T. A. Miles
Korsten dropped his aching skull into his hands. “You have a nasty habit of speaking with double-edged terminology,” he muttered, and whimpered peevishly when a pillow hit him on the back of the head, exacerbating the sensation of heaviness and pain.
“Ashwin’s sequestered in the Council Chamber with the rest of the Superiors,” Merran informed, the assaulting cushion still in his hand. “I’m sure he said his good-byes to you last night anyway. Now, come along. It’s time for us to leave.”
“I haven’t even packed,” Korsten complained, lowering his hands from his face, and closing his eyes against the sun’s knifing rays.
“It’s taken care of,” Merran answered.
“Oh, gods….” Korsten murmured. He heard Merran leaving and called over his shoulder at him. “I’m going to bathe before I set one foot outside of this building, so I hope you haven’t packed what I want to wear.”
“You’ll find a hot bath waiting in your room and everything you need otherwise lying at the foot of your bed,” Merran promised on his way out of Ashwin’s room.
Oh, yes. Everything I need. Right here at the foot of my bed. Bastard.
Merran hadn’t packed a blessed thing. Korsten’s entire wardrobe, with the exception of the sleeveless jerkin, breeches, hose, outdoor boots, and the oddly but somehow attractively short jacket that he’d never once worn before was exactly where it had always been. Beside the selected outfit was the sphere of magic-made silver.
So this is it? How does he know what I want to wear for this journey anyway?
Korsten dressed himself and was able to admit that he would have chosen to wear just what he had on after his bout of petulance, brought on by headache, subsided. Gloom settled over irritability as he recalled some of the things spoken last night between himself and his mentor.
I hope you can forgive me, Ashwin, for making such a fool of myself. I never knew how strongly you felt, but I think I’ve always known how much you miss Sharlotte, in spite of that. What a terrible conflict you face within yourself. And instead of making excuses and lame attempts to justify your actions, you remain virtuously alone, perhaps out of remorse for the way you weren’t virtuous when it would have made a difference to Sharlotte. You spared me a lifetime and more of guilt last night, my mentor … spared us both, I should say … by turning me away. I’ll thank you for that, and for everything else. I don’t know where I’d be without you … or that bastard Merran.
As if cued by his thoughts, the Mage-Adept in mind knocked on the door just before entering. “Are you ready for public display yet?” he asked. And that was a bit too on the mark for Merran, even when he was in a foul mood, which was something that had taken Korsten many years to decipher from the man’s typically grave state.
Korsten watched him cross the room and help himself to a glass of wine—not Elder’s, thank the gods—recognizing at once that that was also not like Merran. He stood and joined the other man at the small table that was partially occupied with books borrowed from the Seminary library. He was actually surprised that anyone would even notice that he kept a bottle of wine there, least of all Merran, who never seemed to indulge. “You’re acting a little strangely,” he noted directly, lowering himself into the chair he’d often spent long hours studying in, combing his fingers through his damp hair. The untamable locks were just beginning to curl again as they dried.
“Am I?” Merran asked with meticulous simplicity.
Korsten’s dark eyes narrowed a bit. All right. If you don’t want to talk about it. “What makes you think that I want to wear the same clothes day after day … the same white clothes … that are going to get road-sullied and….”
Rather than drink the small amount of wine Merran had poured for himself, he tossed it suddenly at Korsten, who gasped, utterly appalled, as it splashed over his white jerkin. He prepared to scold his friend, but before his thoughts could fully form, the awful red stains proved not to stain at all. As harmlessly as water drying, the wine vanished from his clothing. Still shocked, but for an entirely different reason, Korsten could only stare up at Merran.
“Can you accept nothing without an argument first?” the other mage asked tonelessly.
“No … explanation was offered,” Korsten mentioned, unable to take his eyes off the places where stains should have been and weren’t. “There was nothing to accept.”
“In that case, I’ll explain now,” Merran replied. “Before a mage departs on a journey, a spell is cast upon his wardrobe, which is kept to one outfit for purposes of convenience and expedience. The spell prohibits the material from becoming soiled, so that appearances and comfort are maintained.”
Bemused by this, Korsten could only ask, “Who casts such a spell?”
“You did,” Merran accused, and when Korsten stared up at him, somewhat dumbly, he added, “It is one of our unconscious spells, like the color we select for our clothing. It comes with mental preparedness for a journey. Although, considering the state of your mind this morning, I’m a little shocked to find the spell in place.”
“And if it wasn’t?” Korsten challenged.
Merran elected not to answer him. He said simply, “Lilende awaits.”
Korsten watched Merran leave, then stood and walked after him, coming back to the bed for his jacket and the sphere. He elected to wear one and carry the other in the only place he could be sure he wouldn’t lose it; beneath the skin of his right hand. And then, spontaneously, he found a thin chord for his hair and, recalling that it was summer and hot outside, tied it up. When he realized he’d taken the time to look in the mirror, he quickly turned away and hurried after Merran. After all the changes he’d undergone, how could vanity be the one trait that still clung to him so persistently?
“The keep is manned by a half thousand soldiers,” Merran explained as he and Korsten departed from the Seminary with remarkably few supplies and made their way on horseback through the well-behaved city under its protection. “It’s a fairly significant outpost”
“With only five hundred armed men?” Korsten questioned openly.
“With five hundred armed men, who still swear to serve none other than the King of Edrinor.”
“A dead man.”
“Spare your cynicism,” Merran said. “These are Kingdom soldiers, not mercenaries. Among those who broke away from the order and scattered, as much to protect it as to protect themselves, faith dwindles. Morale is weak. For that Morenne holds the advantage in every battle, as do the Vadryn. At Lilende, however, belief in the restoration of Edrinor and the final extermination of demon kind is still strongly maintained. These people believe in us, as much as they believed in the late King.”
“So they’ll believe what we have to say,” Korsten deduced. He couldn’t restrain himself when he added, “At least we shouldn’t have to worry about you getting yourself arrested, then.”
“My point is that we can’t lose Lilende,” Merran continued, ignoring the comment. “If Morenne indeed planted a spy there, it is because Lilende will soon be a target. We must counter whatever their intentions are and make sure the army remains strong as a unit when the Morennish arrive to take the outpost.”
“That means ousting the demon,” Korsten concluded for him.
“If there is one,” Merran added. “If not, we will at least have a mole to root out. Regardless, both individuals will attempt to conceal themselves. And that is where your talent comes in.”
“That skill is not Ambient, I’ll remind you.”
“And I’ll remind you that it does not have to be. It is at Resonance.”
“You are in a very foul temper this morning,” Korsten told him, and decided not to say anything else to the other mage for the next several hours.
Vassenleigh dropped farther and farther behind them. For the first several miles, the land spanning outward from the town and the soft mountains behind it was open, a lon
g expanse of meadow with sparse collections of trees periodically interrupting the landscape. It felt for a while like they were riding into an endless region of uninhabited terrain and as if they would forever be able to look back and see the highest towers of the Seminary, but Korsten soon learned that that was not so. He couldn’t remember precisely when the Seminary had faded out of view, but the sun was setting when he chanced a last look over his shoulder and saw nothing but tall grass, a few out of place boulders, and dark green pockets of trees. Green … it reminded him of Ashwin’s eyes, in a darker interpretation.
Somehow, I still feel as if you’re watching me, my mentor. I fear I did not provide you with a very pleasant or respectable last image of your student. If I apologized from here, I wonder, would you hear me?
“Are you tired?”
Korsten came out of his thoughts and turned around to face Merran looking back at him. “Strangely, I’m not. We’ve been riding for hours. I should be utterly exhausted and sore everywhere I have feeling left.”
This seemed to surprise Merran a little as well. “Endurance isn’t one of your gifts. An individual’s will, I am often told, can overcome most anything. Perhaps it is your dormant talent for Will trying to Emerge.”
“I don’t feel anything that different,” Korsten replied, beginning to feel a bit weary now that they were on the subject. “I think perhaps I’ve just been too preoccupied to hear my body’s complaints. Anyway, in spite of some changes to my way of thinking, I don’t believe that I’m all that adamant about my obligations to the Seminary just yet.”
“But you are driven, just the same,” Merran pointed out. “You believe every step taken, no matter the route, is a step closer to accomplishing your personal goal.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Korsten answered, letting his gaze stray from Merran. Hearing it like that, Korsten felt suddenly selfish and utterly unfit to be here now. In that moment, Analee let herself be seen, fluttering about his head at eye level, reminding him that she had chosen him. Adrea had chosen him by passing a fragment of her soul and her Essence onto him. Whether he wanted it or not, whether or not he was a selfish bastard infatuated with a failed love, he was a mage, and he belonged here.
Merran brought Erschal to an unhurried stop. “We will rest here for a little while,” he decided when Korsten and Onyx halted as well.
It was dark and the ground was uneven—and they were supposed to be resting—yet Korsten felt compelled to walk about their informal camp on his hands and to perform various tumbles and springs. It never occurred to him that he could cause himself serious injury, even as he balanced on the top of a narrow boulder on just his hands, with his legs splayed to either side of him. He held them perfectly straight for several seconds, then proceeded to transform the pose into a handstand, slowly and deliberately. His arms were not much larger than they ever had been, but Korsten could feel the strength in them that hadn’t been there when he first arrived at the Seminary. The muscles in his legs were more solid as well, but still slender, like the rest of his body. He had always been and would always be long and skinny.
“Always studying,” Merran commented from his loosely folded posture on the grass. “Perhaps we should have packed books. At least if you were reading, your body would be resting.”
“Not if I performed handstands above an open book,” Korsten said.
“And who would turn the pages for you?”
Korsten smiled at his companion a little as he lowered back down. “You wouldn’t?” When he was simply crouched on top of the boulders, arms draped across his bent knees, he added, “Perhaps I could balance well enough on one hand to turn the pages with the other.”
Smiling back at him, for the first time since that morning, Merran said, “I believe you could.”
Korsten’s own expression faded somewhat, and he leaned forward to place his chin on his folded arms. “I feel that I owe you explanation.”
“For what?” Merran asked. And maybe he didn’t have to ask.
After a moment’s careful thought, Korsten said, “You must admit that we have an unusual friendship, Merran. We make love without actually loving … it is mutually decided and agreed upon … but does that mean that we can’t still hurt each other?”
“You’re difficult to follow sometimes,” Merran answered in a neutral tone.
Korsten wondered how to explain what he was trying to say before the other mage decided to be a little more helpful.
“Are you suggesting that it wounded me to find that you’d spent a night with Ashwin?” Merran gave the question a moment to rest, then shrugged. “Why should it? We are rarely together. You spend many nights alone, or with Renmyr Camirey in your heart, even when you are with me. And Ashwin has spent the last three decades in obvious pursuit of your affections. Why should it injure or surprise me when you finally end up in his bed?”
“You know that I wasn’t in his bed,” Korsten said, trying vainly to read into the other man’s placid expression and tone. “And, if you’d like to know, I don’t believe I ever will be.”
“Because he loves you,” Merran presumed correctly. When Korsten gave a slight nod, he added, “And I don’t. I am your physician primarily, and also your friend. Your health is my concern. I will alleviate what pain I can, by whatever methods prove most effective. I don’t expect loyalty from you beyond friendship and the fellowship that comes with serving the Seminary. Sleep where you wish and with whomever you wish. I will not be offended.”
Korsten simply watched the other man speaking, discerning nothing from his lips’ movement and his voice’s projection other than the words. Merran had once again brought what Korsten would have considered a serious emotional issue down to a plain, clinical fact.
Finally, he sighed. “You’re right, Merran. Ashwin loves me. And you don’t. You don’t even need me. Perhaps I can get by without you as well.” Korsten hopped down from his rock and decided to tend to Onyx, assuming they would soon be on their way again.
It was sooner than later, and Merran wore a small frown for much of their continued journey across land that was now darkened by full night, lit minimally by the small orbs of light each mage had cast into the air just ahead of their mounts. Lantern was a universal spell, similar to Release, however unlike the spell for freeing a human spirit from the thrall of a demon, it was very easy to learn and to master.
What surprised Korsten, apart from his lack of weariness, was his lack of hunger. They’d brought some food along with them, but not all that much. Of course, what they had brought with them had been prepared with the unique flowers grown at the Seminary, edible to mages. More potent amounts had been used, providing many days’ worth of nutrition in small portions. Korsten and Merran had eaten that morning, but not since. He wondered if they could even eat normal food anymore, or if each mage developed a dependency on the blood lilies, rather like the Vadryn had on human life energy. He decided to ask Merran about it, since he couldn’t recall having come across a satisfactory explanation in any of his readings thus far.
“We are dependent on the blood lilies,” the other mage explained. “But not as desperately as the Vadryn require the life essence they take from their victims. For us, the blood provides a constant supply of magic, and while it does strengthen us and elevate our vitality, most importantly, it prolongs our lives. In actuality, it halts the aging process. For example, you came to the Seminary at the age of twenty-four. You had your first taste of the blood lilies at that age, and that is the age you will remain at for the duration of your service as a mage at the Seminary.”
“And when a mage leaves the Seminary?” Korsten asked, thinking suddenly of Sharlotte and Lerissa. He had a dreadful image of them suddenly old, maybe dead, except they wouldn’t have left knowing that would happen. He was sure of that somehow.
Merran justified his sureness with his answer. “When a mage leaves the Seminary or goes for a
n extended period of time without the blood lilies, he or she does not immediately take on all the years that were kept at bay. Rather, they begin to age, as normally as they would have had they never come to the Seminary, from the age they were at when they arrived.”
“Oh,” Korsten said, with some relief. “Well, Sharlotte and Lerissa were both very young, Lerissa especially. Twenty-nine years isn’t … at least they should both still be alive.”
“When did we begin discussing Sharlotte and Lerissa?” Merran asked.
“I can’t help that I’ve been worried about them since they left,” Korsten said. “Especially considering the circumstances of their departure.”
“Sharlotte would have left the Seminary, with or without your arrival. And Lerissa would have gone with her. Perhaps your coming to us as you did expedited the process, but it was inevitable all the same.”
“I’m not sure I like that word,” Korsten mentioned, not argumentatively. “It seems an easy tool for escapists to latch onto.”
“I was of the impression that it was a term for realists.”
Korsten shook his head. “Inevitability is a comfortable escape for people who don’t care for the pain that comes with truth. They convince themselves that they had no hand or say in the matter, that whatever happened could not be stopped no matter what they personally did, and so blame can never be placed upon them.”
Merran looked at him for a moment, then said, “At any rate, Korsten, don’t expect them to come back, not at any time soon, if at all.”
“Why not?”
“Because exile was Sharlotte’s choice,” Merran explained, a bit more firmly than he had to. “Her punishment … and a lenient one, I’ll add … for attempted murder.” Before Korsten could utter even one syllable, Merran added, “I don’t want to hear any more about that. You’re far too willing to place forgiveness where it is not due.”