by Damien Lake
A small porcelain bowl and knife were waiting. With the knife he severed a lock of his hair. He reviewed the book one last time before dropping the hair into the bowl.
His mage talent tapped the line of power flowing past Kingshome under the horses’ vale. A year ago he would have given every coin he owned not to be able to do this. He had grudgingly come to accept this unnatural ability only because it would prove useful in helping him find his father.
This working required him to fill his interior reservoirs with the maximum pure energy he could contain. It needed far more power than he normally produced, then, once it actually started, it could easily need a hundred times as much. Or perhaps not. The book had never clearly explained that aspect. Given his past experiences with open channels linking him to raw energy, he carefully erected triple surge shields, subscribing to the theory that one could never have too much protection when delving the unknown.
The first step called for imbuing the mirror. He would infuse the frame with pure mage power. It sounded easy enough, except the power infused must remain free of a specific purpose. Marik had never done that before.
Whenever he molded mage power, such as for his shields, the energy’s purpose was integral to the forging process. Concentrating on what he wanted the energy to become guided his mental hands in their movements. Also, the working’s intended purpose became as much an influence on the raw power as his mental hands. Once injected with a purpose, the energy no longer remained pure, somehow altering its basic nature to best fit the working’s need. In such a manner did shields similar in structure become transmuted to specific shields against different energy types. This scrying working demanded he transfer energy without allowing its intended purpose to mutate it in any way. That would come later.
But Tollaf had assured him this was easy. It’s the same as opening a channel. Instead of drawing energy in, you’re pushing it out. All you need to remember is to keep your mind free of specific thoughts.
With the idea of a channel firmly in mind, Marik drew pure power from his core. To the frame. Attach to the frame and wait. His mental hands were filled with warm energy. Carefully, trying to direct his talent in a manner unlike any he ever had before, he moved those hands along the frame’s edge. In their wake he left power the way a baker iced his cakes from a frosting bag.
Marik made a full circuit around the frame, joining the ends together, hardly believing he’d managed it on the first try. He scrutinized it carefully, fully expecting to find signs that the power was being bent toward some purpose. It remained pure.
Unfortunately, the first step would be the easiest. With the frame imbued and primed, he must now give it the instruction he had strived so hard to keep separate before. The working, with the glass surface now firmly an integral component within the energy matrix, should show him what he desired it too once the purpose snapped all the existing elements together.
Constantly siphoned energy from the vale line refilled his reserves. The book and Tollaf both had said he needed to connect the scrying circle he’d created with the essence contained in the hair. To do that, he needed to imbue the hair with mage power in a similar fashion, then connect the bowl to the mirror.
He did so, seeing the strands begin to glow with etheric power as they were saturated. A new energy line connected it to the scrying circle around the frame. The structure for the working was complete.
Marik let his intentions flow through the channel feeding raw energy to the hair, which in turn flowed to the mirror. He made the purpose as strong as he could. Find this man. Find every man with a connection to this. Show him to me.
The mirror’s reflection shimmered for a second, then stopped. Nothing at all happened. Only the same reflection showed of the workroom, Tollaf on the far side hunched over his papers, himself sitting before the mirror.
Irritated, Marik broke the channel to the hair and started over. Again the same result. The shimmer clearly meant something transpired. What prevented the working from doing what it should? Twice more he got no results.
“Hey, old man! Your mirror’s broken.”
“What? It better not be!” Tollaf stalked over to inspect his mirror for cracks.
“The scrye isn’t working!”
Tollaf glared at him. “Be clear then! What’s wrong?”
He made Marik perform the working, having him explain all he did. When the shimmer disappeared, Tollaf glowered at his apprentice in annoyance.
“It’s doing exactly what you told it to.”
“What?”
Tollaf pursed his lips. “It’s showing you, you idiot. Tell it to look for your ancestors.” Grumbles escaped him all the way back to his stool.
Face flushed, Marik ground his teeth. Like he knows so much. I bet he made a thousand mistakes as an apprentice!
When the mirror next reflected him, he sent negative emotions through the link, urging the circle to find others with ties to the hair. He visualized everything he could remember about Rail. The details had softened over time, the sharp lines of his face blurring indistinctly in his memory. In their place, he recalled the feelings connected to the man; the pride at succeeding in a small task Rail had set him, the abashed chagrin when he had been caught waving a dagger in a sword-like manner.
The room’s reflection vanished, and without warning a monstrous serpent erupted from the frame.
Or so it seemed at first. Marik stifled his initial cry. He watched the etheric creature move. But it was no creature at all. It was actually a writhing whip of pure energy. The head streaked through the etheric plane with unimaginable speed, leaving only the uncoiling body undulating past him. Its body stretched ten feet from the mirror before fading into invisibility. He watched the body, still connected to the frame, shake like a snake in truth.
Natalie’s quick reference to the working sending out a seeking tendril finally made sense. Its impression of unwinding halted after a minute, then it apparently stopped moving except for the lazy side-to-side slithering. Marik felt his strength waning. The circle drew power through him to form the etheric serpent that sought the working’s target.
Luckily the energy he siphoned from the vale line flowed into him at the same speed the circle sucked it out. The feel of energy rushing through him was unsettling. He acted as a simple conduit between the etheric energy source and the scrye.
The seeking serpent rotated so slowly it took him several minutes to notice it moved at all, traveling around the mirror in a sunwise direction. After two full candlemarks, it rotated around to the position where it had started.
When it reached its initial point, the etheric serpent abruptly disintegrated. “Damn it!”
“What is it?” Tollaf swiveled from his piles, into which he had made no noticeable progress. “No luck?”
“The working suddenly fell apart. What does that mean?”
Tollaf returned to check the mirror. “Probably that he’s dead or too far away for the scrye to find him.”
Marik scowled. “And how far is that?”
“How would I know? Use your blood. That’s a stronger catalyst, and it might have the strength to find him. Your hair obviously doesn’t.”
Marik ran a thumb over the sharp knife edge. “How much? I’m not about to slash my wrists.”
“Don’t be a fool! It says right there that only a small amount is required.” Tollaf thumped his hand against the pages to illustrate his point, which knocked the heavy book over backward. It fell to the floor, corner first, and smashed his foot.
The old man yelped to Marik’s immense satisfaction. Pained dancing and curses resounded until the chief mage retreated. Marik’s glee faded as he studied the knife.
A quick jab cut open his index finger. He swept away the hair and dripped blood into the bowl until the flow stopped. When it did the porcelain held a thin layer resembling the dregs of a tomato soup lunch.
Three candlemarks later, he nearly fell from his stool. He had never channeled so long in his life
. The etheric energy poured through him without needing any shaping, but he had to work to maintain conduits he normally did not need to think about once created. His body shuddered as if he had spent the entire day digging trenches again.
And the bastard etheric serpent had barely completed half its circuit.
A thump at his elbow nearly startled him into losing his hold on the power. Surprisingly, when he looked sideways, Tollaf’s aura moved away from him. On the table he found a tankard of water and several biscuits.
Drinking the water refreshed him as much as a quick nap. He grudgingly admitted the old man might not be all bad. Perhaps only ninety percent so.
Marik bit into his fourth biscuit when the seeking serpent reached its two-thirds mark. It pointed almost due west. Night had fallen long ago and he hoped the working would finish before midnight.
A sudden shimmer from his peripheral vision grabbed his eye. He bent his attention to the silvered glass, willing it to show his father.
The image solidified. Marik drank in the entire scene in an instant.
Two men sat before a blazing hearth. One could be no one other than Rail Drakkson. Marik recognized his entire body’s set in an instant, but he sat with his head held in his hands. His cheeks had not been shaved anytime recently. He looked haggard. Deep breaths bellowed from his lungs as if he had just run a race. Under his eyes were deep shadows. Everything about his bearing suggested that Rail was an ill man.
Marik had instantly focused on his father, back straight as a sword while he studied the scene in Tollaf’s mirror. A sharp movement from the other man drew Marik’s attention to him. In that one bare fraction of an instant, Marik saw much while learning nothing.
In the firelight, the second man looked to be garbed in dark clothing. Marik thought most of it was red. Certainly the man’s hair burned with a color that nearly matched the flames in the hearth. The dancing firelight made even his eyes look red. Crystalline red, scarlet as a ruby, crimson as stained temple glass. Eyes sparkling in the firelight.
The man’s head jerked toward Marik as if he could see the intruder watching him. Marik looked straight into those flashing, jewel-red eyes.
The mirror shattered outward.
Fragments flew in every direction. Marik flung an arm over his eyes and cried out as sharp edges cut his face. He instinctively recoiled backward off the stool and crashed to the floor amidst shards of raining glass.
“What in the hells did you do?” Tollaf screamed while he charged across the room. His feet crunched over fragments of his onetime mirror. He took one look at the frame. It contained only jagged silver teeth around the edges. “Gods bloody damn it! Do you have the faintest notion how much a mirror like this costs?”
The chief mage shot a furious gaze loaded with venom down at his cursed idiot of an apprentice, expecting one of the fool’s flippant remarks. His rage gradually abated when Marik remained motionless. “Boy?” Kneeling, he rolled the young man over, feeling the blood from where he had cracked his head against the stone floor.
Tollaf muttered under his breath as he walked out the door. The Homeguard would haul him to the chirurgeons’ wing. What in the hells had that damned fool done? Marik could not regain consciousness soon enough for Tollaf, who would grill the disrespectful whelp alive. But with that thought came a cold chill running up his spine. Whenever that happened, it was usually a bad sign.
Chapter 04
Dietrik’s blow rang off Marik’s blade to the left, and Kerwin dashed in from the side for a flanking strike. Unable to reposition his sword in time, Marik twisted away out of range. Kerwin’s blade swept through air. Marik landed in a defenseless posture, his rear sticking out as though he had nearly pitched forward into a mud puddle.
A strike against his back sent him sprawling to his knees. Landon’s blow stung despite his chainmail. With the target down, the three backed off to prevent accidents.
Marik flipped to a sitting position. “I suppose that’s enough for today. I’m too tired to work any longer.”
“Agreed,” Landon replied. “We’ll lose the light soon as well. I lack the energy for a nighttime training session today.”
Kerwin stretched after sheathing his blade. “I don’t think you need any more practice anyway.”
Marik glanced up. “Why?”
“Why?” Kerwin’s eyebrows shot into his hair. “Gods, it took us a full minute to bring you down that time! I don’t know about them, but I was nearly going full out!”
“Full out at your normal training level, you mean. We never fight with our combat strength. I haven’t improved that much.”
Kerwin scowled. Landon seemed amused. Dietrik took a seat next to Marik. “Our jolly lad never has been able to accept praise.”
Still irritated, Kerwin officially called it a day. “I’m going to go see what Luiez’s cooked up. You coming?”
“Yes.” Landon departed the training area with Kerwin.
Marik persisted to Dietrik, “I don’t think I’ve improved much. It doesn’t feel any different.”
“It sure looks different.”
“I’m still not used to this new sword yet.”
Dietrik shook his head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I don’t know. But I do know I’m not good enough yet to be a B Class fighter.”
“That is the rank you hold.”
“Torrance gave it to me as a reward. The lieutenants wouldn’t have re-classed me on skill alone yet.” He glared at his sword. “I need to keep training until I’m equal to the rank.”
Absently, he fingered the bandages wrapping his face. Marik considered the previous battle against his friends. So far, Colbey had taught him nothing new about wielding a sword. The scout had only awakened him to his own sensory perceptions.
Marik had learned from Chatham about heightening his senses before a battle, to stop ignoring the constant input from his eyes and ears. He thought he had become adept at that, but Colbey knocked the scales from his eyes. Comparing Chatham’s teachings to Colbey’s was like placing a tool hut next to the command building. The scout instructed him in interpreting every slightest sigh of wind and hint of movement. Due credit to Colbey had not been acknowledged by Marik until this very fight against three of his shieldmates.
His friends still moved with all their superior speed, yet he guessed what their actions would be an instant sooner based on subtle clues. This greatly helped his blocks, dodges and counterattacks.
Then there was his own speed. Beyond anything else, Colbey kept ranting about Marik’s speed. It never satisfied the sadistic scout. Advanced speed had always been Dietrik’s forte, but he knew Colbey would keep shouting until he somehow pushed his sword to greater speed than Dietrik’s rapier. Marik glumly accepted that this meant Colbey would shout at him for the rest of his life.
His gaze wandered while he rested. He noticed a straw mockup dummy still sitting to one side. Earlier, he had been practicing when Kerwin and Landon arrived. The temptation to leave it seduced him. Slacking off is the first step in going to seed. With a sigh, he rose to claim it from beside the first six’s sad remains.
“What’s news?”
“I noticed I missed this one.”
He set it on the wooden post. His new sword was suited well for slashes. Less well for thrusts. Still, Colbey remained adamant. Six points on the straw man had been painted with small red circles, the scout having used the same paint that highlighted the torso’s customary centerline. The circles were scattered instead of clustered together, nor were they in any pattern.
Thrusting quickly, Marik hit the first circle’s edge, high on the shoulder. Before his blade could come to a rest, he pulled back and thrust for the second. The point must never be allowed to stop, must thrust as fast as he could, keeping the blade constantly moving.
He missed the second circle on the opposite shoulder by two inches. The third landed even further from the mark. When he thrust for the fourth, he nearly hit the fi
fth instead. Without altering his angle, he struck for the fifth time, hoping to stay on target. Instead he went astray by the widest margin yet. The sixth thrust missed the straw torso entirely.
Marik swore and flopped to the ground, deciding his fatigue could be blamed for his worst performance ever. Each subsequent strike would always be less accurate than the previous, but he had never missed completely before.
“Mind if I have a go?”
“Help yourself,” Marik grunted.
Studying the setup, Dietrik added, “I’m surprised I never thought of this. This is perfect practice for my rapier.”
“Have fun.” Marik’s mood festered. This exercise was designed to improve speed and accuracy, and yet his average results were no noticeably different than when he’d first started.
Dietrik loosened his arm. This was an activity Marik always found fascinating. While gripping the rapier hilt, he shook his hand up and down. The blade’s center moved none at all but the tip whipped down and up, opposite to the direction his hand traveled. Such fluid motion always played with Marik’s eyes.
With quicksilver thrusts, Dietrik struck the first circle a glancing blow. The next strike landed dead on and he ran the entire six, thrusting forward and back in a single heartbeat. Only seconds after he began, the last circle met its end.
Dietrik beamed down at his friend. “And how’s that, eh?”
Four of the six displayed holes in the center while the remaining two bore wounds on their edges. Imitating Kerwin’s scowl, Marik replied, “So what? You’ve been thrusting with that thing for two years.”
“Try not to let the envy gobble you up.”
Marik fingered his bandages again. Dietrik went a second round against the straw target. This time he only landed two solid kills, missing two others by an inch. Straw flecks fluttered away and the red circles started losing their defined shape when the stalks were shorn. Several rounds later, Marik almost laughed at Dietrik’s consternation. His first attempt had been his best. Each performance since grew progressively worse. It rankling under his friend’s skin.