by David Hair
‘All in all, I think it was a good week,’ he ventured cautiously over the Sabbadai dinner table when Vann asked.
‘Better than the first week,’ agreed Ramon, nodding fiercely.
‘But next week we’re onto the real stuff: the gnosis. All the other things are just trivia,’ said Alaron. ‘These next two weeks are the real test.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Vann, in his thoughtful questioning manner. ‘I would have thought it the other way round.’
‘How do you mean, Da?’ asked Alaron.
‘Well, your gnosis is important, obviously, but I am sure that the real key is what your attitudes are. Are you prepared to follow orders? To kill on command? Have you the courage to face death? That’s what I would want to know if I were a recruiter.’
The two students looked at each other uneasily. Neither was exactly the unquestioning type.
The format changed in week three. Now it was two tests, one in the morning and the other in the afternoon, so they had to hang around college all day. On the first morning the Pure took over the common room, so Alaron and Ramon went to the garden. Neither said much. The morning was basic magic skills – combat-gnosis: shielding, warding, blasting targets with mage-fire. They were loaned an amber periapt for the exercises, and both agreed it felt good to be allowed to blast something. Soothing, in a way.
They took lunch in the garden to avoid any contact with the Pure, though their confident laughter echoed through the open windows. In the afternoon, the tests were more exacting. They had to work through the runes, little configurations of energy that performed a variety of effects. The panel of tutors and scholars made Alaron demonstrate every one he had been taught, from runes of enchantment to negation of other magic, runes of hiding and finding, locking and unlocking, making protective circles: all the tiny gnosis-workings the students would be called upon to perform on a daily basis once they graduated. By the time it was over Alaron felt a little dizzy, his skin flushed, the air crackling with energy.
‘A bit rough. Clearly only a rote-mage,’ he heard Fyrell remark. Alaron felt himself flinch. Rote-mage was the derogatory term for someone who performed the gnosis in a very rudimentary and inefficient manner – he knew he was better than that.
The remainder of that week was spent on Hermetic and Theurgic magic. They were made to perform all the skills they’d been taught of each study, from the least cantrip to the most intricate enchantment. Each of the students had an affinity with one Class of gnosis; Alaron favoured Sorcery while Ramon preferred Hermetic. As Hermetic gnosis was the diametric opposite of Sorcery, Alaron struggled with it, but he was reasonably competent in Theurgy. Though it was scary to be performing with so much at stake, it felt like it was bringing out the best in them both. They managed in the exams feats they had struggled with in class. Alaron tamed a wolf set loose in the arena before it attacked him, something he’d never managed before. The exams were feeling like a vindication of seven years of punishing lessons from sneering teachers who felt that a quarter-blood merchant’s son was beneath them.
They slept late on Sabbadai and after persuading Vann that they needed rest more than divine blessing were allowed to skip church. They toasted the last lap of the race, as Ramon put it, at dinner that night.
The final week of exams coincided with cold sleet lashing the city, the fingers of winter stretching its grip from the snow-capped Alps to the south. At least Fire-thaumaturgy could warm their fingers! The magic of the elements was relatively straightforward, though a struggle for a Sorcerer like Alaron. He was a decent Fire-mage and could do a little with earth, but he was weak in air and couldn’t manipulate water at all.
His main problem was Sorcery itself. According to his entrance tests, it should have been his strong point, but all four aspects of Sorcery – Necromancy, Wizardry, Divination and Clairvoyance – gave him problems because he was scared rigid of spirits. He could recite the theory, but when he tried to use Wizardry gnosis he failed to summon anything. The same thing happened in Necromancy, when he couldn’t manage to summon the spirit of a recently dead young man because he was so unnerved at the corpse before him. All of the teachers were muttering to each other as he exited the arena, head bowed. His efforts at Clairvoyance were just poor; he couldn’t identify or find the hidden objects, much to his chagrin. And Divination, the last test, was a bit of a mess too. He’d had to divine his own future, which turned out not to look so good: he’d ended up interpreting a complex vision of stolen notes and hidden snakes as someone conspiring against him. He’d opened his eyes to find them all staring at him with raised eyebrows and sceptical faces.
The headmaster dismissed his half-baked waffling condescendingly. ‘Are you saying that the staff of Turm Zauberin have some agenda against you, boy? We are paid by recruiters to produce magi – every failure hurts us as it hurts the community, and I would thank you to remember the years of training we have devoted to you.’ He shook his head. ‘Really boy, we wish you nothing but success.’
‘I think you’re failing perfectly well without our help,’ remarked Fyrell acidly. ‘Now, unless you wish to add any further conspiracy theories to the afternoon’s entertainment, you may leave.’
Alaron closed his eyes and wished the ground would swallow him whole.
‘So, how was Divination?’ Ramon asked him outside. He didn’t take Divination at all, so they were both, finally, done.
Alaron groaned. ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go home.’
Ramon waved a purse. ‘No, my friend, tonight, we are going to get drunk, on me.’
‘You have money?’ Alaron stared.
Ramon grinned. ‘I am Rimoni.’
‘You stole it?’
‘Now I’m wounded. You hurt my feelings. Maybe I don’t want to drink with you any more.’ Ramon eyed Alaron expectantly, eyes sparkling.
Alaron took a deep breath. From somewhere, he heard a fiddle wail. The sun was lowering towards the western hills, casting a reddish glow over the Alpine snow. The air was crisp and bitingly cold. Pass or fail, the exams were over.
‘Alaron, relax.’ Ramon pocked him in the ribs. ‘What’s done is done; they’ll pass you and whether you get a gold, silver or bronze is irrelevant. What will be will be, amici. Let’s go and find some beer!’
Alaron let out his breath slowly. ‘Okay, you’re right – it’s just—No, you’re right!’
‘Of course I’m right.’ Ramon looked around, cupping his ear theatrically. ‘I think that music is coming from the Millpond tavern, amici. Let’s go!’
8
An Act of Betrayal
The Grey Foxes
The Grey Foxes were a group of magi who aided the Noros Revolt. Declared an irregular force by their enemies, they were branded spies and executed on capture. Post-war, many did not emerge until many years later, after amnesties had been granted by the governor. During the Revolt they were the most feared fighting force operating in the theatre of war, though there were probably fewer than thirty of them. Their commander, Gurvon Gyle, was not pardoned until 915, and then specifically on condition that he join the Second Crusade as a counter-insurgency advisor.
NILS MANNIUS, NOROS: A HISTORY, 921
Brochena, Javon, on the continent of Antiopia
Octen 927
9 months until the Moontide
Elena Anborn trotted beside the caravan of wagons and carriages that rumbled east to Forensa. A blue cotton wrap covered her head, and a gauze shawl over her eyes allowed her to look at the road ahead without becoming dazzled. Heat rose in waves from the baking earth and mirages played on the southern horizon. She thanked the heavens it was winter and the weather so mild – only half the temperature of Hel, may we be truly thankful.
They were making good time. It was normally two weeks to Forensa, but with the cooler days they might make it a day or two early; they were probably halfway already. Lorenzo di Kestria was some fifty yards ahead, with one of the scouts. The knight was sweltering in his le
ather armour. There were a dozen guards arrayed about the six wagons. Timori and Fadah were in the nearest carriage, with Cera following alone in the second carriage, which was festooned with red ribbons warning of a menstruating woman. Amteh men were forbidden to have contact with ‘tainted’ women. By rights, Elena should have been in there with her, but she had too much to do, so she made do with a red ribbon about her arm and stayed away from the men.
Unfortunately Samir Taguine didn’t share the Amteh’s superstitions. He jolted towards her, wincing visibly at each movement of his steed. His stirrups were too short; it looked like his knees had locked up, and he had little or no control over the horse. If I ever have to fight you, Samir, I hope it’s on horseback, she thought wryly.
Samir pulled up alongside her, his bald pate gleaming red in the sun. ‘Rukka mio, I hate riding,’ he moaned. ‘What do you say I sit in there with your pretty little princess?’
‘I’d say you should mind your tongue when talking about our royal patrons.’
Samir grunted and stroked his goatee. ‘She’s a little quiet, that one. I prefer the younger girl – more spunk. I’ve got my eye on her, I have.’
‘You’ll stay away from them both,’ Elena told him coldly.
He laughed maliciously. ‘Oooo, possessive? Why, do you fancy her yourself?’
‘You’re a sick cur, Samir. Piss off.’
‘Make me.’ Samir eyed her up insultingly. ‘You may think you’re in charge here, Elena, but without the boss to take your corner you’re just a snivelling little half-blood!’
‘Was there something you wanted?’ Elena asked stonily.
The mage glanced at her and dropped his voice. ‘Yes. Wearing your gems?’ He looked eager to burn his bridges and move on. He hated this place as much as Elena loved it.
‘Always. And now I’m going to check the northern ridge. Unless you’ve learnt to ride, it’ll be beyond you, so rukk off.’ The Rondian magus sniggered behind her as Elena coaxed her horse up the slope. She knew Samir was dangerous – she had never seen a mage with such a strong fire affinity as Samir the Inferno. Put up with him, she told herself. It’s not for much longer …
Later that night, with the new moon a vast crescent in the northern sky, she walked the perimeter, inhaling the clean desert air. From a small rise she overlooked their carriages and tents. A pavilion housed Fadah and Timori, and ordinarily Cera, except that she was menstruating. The men were bustling about the campfires, preparing food. Timori was duelling one of the younger of the guardsmen with a stick, while Lorenzo was erecting the blood-tent for Cera and Elena.
She hunched down and scooped out a small hollow and sealed with a touch of stone-shaping so it would hold water. She emptied her flask into it. Let’s see what Gurvon has to say … He’d been sending mental darts in her direction all day, demanding contact. She wasn’t looking forward to it.
She touched the water and let the cool liquid of her gnosis pour into it. The water glowed blue and vapours gave way to a familiar furtive visage.
She pulled together her courage and began to speak.
Gurvon scowled.
He froze, and as she watched his expression went from confusion and annoyance to an impassive, dangerous mask.
He stared incredulously from the water.
She sucked in her breath, then nodded mutely. What else could she do? She plunged a finger into the pool and it sizzled and evaporated in a flash of blue light. She shuddered slightly, then put her head in her hands and stewed in a mire of confusion.
When she eventually looked down at the campsite, Samir Taguine was peering into the bucket of water, his face illuminated by the light from the surface.
He’s talking to Gurvon … She saw a flicker of surprise cross Samir’s face and he looked up at her.
*
Elena positioned herself in the doorway of the blood-tent so she could see everything. Cera looked up and beamed at her. ‘Elena, look, Lorenzo has brought us broth, and he says there will be fried chicken soon.’ She looked a little disapproving. ‘He fancies you. He keeps looking at you all the time.’
‘He’s just being friendly. Like a brother.’
‘Huh! That’s not how it looks to me. Did you know his elder brother wants him to court me? And so does Father.’
‘The Kestrians are your family’s oldest allies,’ Elena remarked. ‘It would be a good match.’ And it might stop him flirting with me.
‘He is handsome, I suppose,’ Cera mused, ‘but I just don’t fancy him.’
‘But you just said he was handsome,’ Elena laughed.
‘If you like stubble,’ Cera sniffed.
‘That’s men for you! They’re all itchy and scratchy up close.’ She peered out of the tent-flap again, trying to keep Samir in her sight. He was over by the well, drinking from a hip-flask. Their eyes met, one hundred yards apart. She could just imagine him waiting until she was asleep and then incinerating her tent. But no … Gurvon wouldn’t permit him – surely he wouldn’t—
But Gurvon is a long way away, and what we had was a long time ago.
The desert suddenly looked bleak and empty. It was easy to imagine that the rest of the world had gone away, that there was only this place, these people.
Cera was oblivious to her mood. ‘You should ride with me in the carriage. You’re bleeding, like me, and I’m bored to death.’
There are worse ways to die than boredom. Now shut up, girl, let me think. ‘I’ve got to keep lookout,’ she murmured. ‘Anyway, I’ve nearly stopped. Older women don’t bleed so long.’
‘I like it when we’re in the blood-rooms together. We can really talk then. Like sisters.’
‘You’ve got a sister.’ Will Gurvon release my money if I quit? He’d better!
‘But Solinde and I are so different – all she ever wants to talk about
are boys and dancing and clothes. It’s not like talking with you. And she’s the pretty one,’ she added with a touch of envy that made Elena pause.
‘You’re pretty too, Cera – everyone thinks so. Just a deeper kind of pretty.’
Cera’s lips were full, her eyes large, long-lashed. She was not a classic beauty, but she was certainly striking. ‘Do you really think so? I just feel plain – I’m too short, too wide. A little fat.’
Elena rolled her eyes. ‘You’re not fat, Cera. You’re just not skinny like Solinde, and don’t let her tell you otherwise.’ Elena was focusing entirely on Samir Taguine, his cocksure gaze staring back at her. ‘You’re beautiful where it counts, my princessa. I would die before I let anyone hurt you,’ she added, almost unthinking.
Cera blinked. ‘I know – I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it? To protect us, I mean.’
‘It’s more than a job, Cera.’ As she looked back at Samir she saw Lorenzo was walking over towards them. Shit, do I have to protect him too? ‘Hey, here’s Lori.’
Lorenzo grinned hesitantly. ‘Princess, was the broth pleasing? Pietro has nearly done with the chicken. You’ll get the best cuts.’
‘So we should, Seir Lorenzo. Our stomachs are screaming!’
Elena rose and met the knight’s eye. ‘Lorenzo.’ She beckoned him closer and whispered, ‘Be careful around Samir.’
He looked at her as if he doubted his ears. ‘Samir? Is he not loyal?’
‘He’s a Rondian mage, Lori. He’s loyal to his salary.’
Lorenzo looked a little wary. He knew the destruction Samir could wreak, for the mage had frequently shown off in front of the knights, blasting stone until it exploded, or torching a row of archery targets. ‘You are magi too,’ he said softly.