Epic: Legends of Fantasy

by John Joseph Adams

  I click my tongue and think of what my father might have said. “That’s not a fair question. It doesn’t matter which is harder, because no one will ever know of the battles after.”

  Shadows writhe across the floor and climb to the ceiling. They swim around the bed and my sleeping lord. One is like a laughing mouth, another like a reaching hand that touches the slope of his shoulder.

  “Get away from him.” I have drunk too much wine and my vision is spinning. I throw the cup. Wine flies in a spray of droplets across the floor. The silver cup drops with a ringing noise. The sound of swords striking or inhuman teeth gnashing in a cry of victory.

  “He is mine!” I cry, standing. “You cannot have him.”

  Blood rushes in my ears like laughter. I want to scream, I open my mouth to scream, and then—

  “Dear heart? What are you doing?” Sitting up, he rubs sleep from his eyes, his brow furrowed with curiosity.

  “It’s the light,” I say in a fey mood. “You were right all along. The demons have come for us.”

  He searches the room, his eyes gold in the candle’s glow. His face is calm, but he takes a trembling breath before saying, “It’s only light. Come to bed.”

  “I must win you back. You fought a war and won. Now it’s my turn. I will win you back!”

  I clench my fists at my sides. My jaw trembles with an unsounded scream. My King watches me. Soon, the wrinkled brow eases, the tired face softens into a smile. To see him smile so, at night—but then, I must look amusing, in a rage, wine spilled around me, shift falling off my shoulders.

  He says, simply as grass in summer, “I know you will. Come to bed, love.”

  I go to him, wrap my arms around him and kiss him, deeply, longingly. His hands press against me, inviting and warm. So warm.

  He pulls away for just a moment. “I know how to chase away the shadows,” he says, and blows out the candle.

  The Mad Apprentice:

  A Black Magician Story

  Trudi Canavan

  Trudi Canavan lives in Melbourne, Australia. She has been making up stories about people and places that don’t exist for as long as she can remember. Her first short story, “Whispers of the Mist Children,” received an Aurealis Award for Best Fantasy Short Story in 1999. When she recovered from the surprise, she went on to finish the fantasy novel-that-became-three, the bestselling Black Magician Trilogy: The Magicians’ Guild, The Novice, and The High Lord, followed by another trilogy, Age of the Five. Last year the prequel to the Black Magician Trilogy, The Magician’s Apprentice, was released and she is now working on the sequel, the Traitor Spy Trilogy. One day she will write a series that doesn’t contain three books.

  The sumi pot rose in the air seemingly of its own volition, tilted and poured the hot drink into her cup. Indria looked at her brother. He grinned, and she rolled her eyes.

  “I see your magic training is coming along well, Tagin,” she observed.

  Tagin waved dismissively at the pot as it settled on the table again. “That was nothing. First year exercises. Boring.”

  Sipping the hot drink, Indria considered her brother over the rim of her cup. His eyes were bright and he had fidgeted constantly since arriving. This usually meant he was in a good mood. When he was hunched and glowering she had to be doubly careful what she said and did, as his temper was much easier to spark. But something was different about him today. Though he was cheerful, there was a hint of tension in his movements, and his eyes kept darting about the room.

  “Is what you’re learning now more interesting?”

  “With Magician Herrol teaching me?” He sniffed derisively and looked away. “Hardly.”

  Indria suppressed a sigh and put down her cup. Tagin had been an apprentice magician for over two years but, like with most of his obsessions, he had grown impatient with his training and teacher. Usually he found something new to engage his brilliant mind. But magic was no hobby or pastime. It was supposed to become the source of his income and place in society. If he ended his apprenticeship, rather than remaining until his master taught him higher magic and granted him independence, he would not receive income from the king, or attract work from the Houses.

  “Perhaps if Magician Herrol moved back to the city—to the Guild— it would be better. You’d have a greater variety of teachers.”

  Tagin sneered. “He suggested it, but what’s the point? All the Guild magicians are like him: stuffy old men. I’d rather be away from them, but close enough to visit you.” He smiled. “You wouldn’t want me to leave you all alone with Demrel for company, would you?”

  Indria grimaced. Lord Demrel was an excellent husband, according to her family. He’d improved their connections among the Houses, earning them valuable favours in trade. He was wealthy and generous. But he was also a boorish, possessive man, and old enough to be her father. Growing up with her volatile brother had taught her how to handle difficult men, and Demrel was a lot less troublesome than Tagin. But she hated how Demrel treated her like a child and an idiot.

  Tagin may be a handful, but he doesn’t think I’m stupid, she thought. And at least he loves me—in his way.

  “When we rule the world, I’ll build us a palace in the city,” Tagin said, his eyes flashing. “We’ll get rid of Demrel and all the boring, old magicians.”

  She smiled at this familiar game. They had played it since they were children.

  “When we rule the world, Demrel and the Guild will search all the lands for gifts to lay at our feet,” she replied.

  He grinned. “When we rule the world...” He paused as his attention was drawn elsewhere, toward the windows. Indria listened, and heard the sound of galloping horses.

  “Visitors,” she said. “I wonder who it could— ”

  She faltered as Tagin leapt to his feet and hurried to the windows, stopping a few steps short and peering down at the courtyard below.

  “Ah. Rot them,” he said in a sullen, resigned tone. “I have to go.”

  “What is it?” Standing up, she moved to one of the panes of glass. Directly below them three horses milled. Their riders—wearing the uniforms of higher magicians—were handing their reins to the servants who had greeted them. One looked up at the house and saw her. In the corner of her eye she saw Tagin duck back out of sight. She glanced at him, then down at the magicians, and felt her stomach sink.

  They’re here for Tagin, she guessed. And this is no social visit. But she knew from long experience not to speak such thoughts aloud. If she was right, Tagin might jump to the conclusion that she had already known they were coming, and perhaps even betrayed him to them.

  “Who are they?” she asked.

  “Magicians,” he told her.

  “I can see that from their robes,” she said crossly. “What are their names? Why are they here? Do they want to see Demrel?”

  “They want me. They want to kill me.”

  As she turned to stare at him, he smiled crookedly. Sometimes Tagin believed everyone wanted to do him harm. Even herself. She shook her head.

  “Why are they here, really?”

  His smile faded. “I did something bad.” He turned away and strode toward the door.

  Indria rolled her eyes. “What this time?”

  “I killed Magician Herrol,” he told her, without looking back.

  She stared at his back. He’s joking. Tagin might have a temper, and a cruel sense of humour, but he was no killer. He had beaten servants and horses and, when a boy, had been inclined to torment their mother’s pets, but he’d never killed anything.

  He opened the door. From beyond came the sound of voices and footsteps, growing louder. He closed the door and cast about, his gaze suddenly flat with terror. “Help me, Indria,” he said helplessly. “I’ve got to get out of here!”

  Her heart twisted. He truly believed they meant him harm. And when he was in this mood it was better to let him run away and hide than try to reason with him. He’d calm down and return later. If the magicians believed
Tagin to be a murderer they might try to kill him before he had a chance to calm down, explain himself and prove his innocence.

  She beckoned and started toward a side door. As they passed through it into a narrow corridor she considered whether she’d be punished for helping him. Surely not. If she claimed to be too frightened to do otherwise, the Guild would see her as more of a victim than an accomplice.

  But is there still some truth to that? she wondered. Am I still scared of Tagin? She thought of the bruises he’d given her, before she’d learned to avoid rousing his temper or to calm him down. After she’d married he hadn’t dared hurt her, lest Demrel notice and stop him from seeing her.

  Yet if I thought I could turn him over without either of us getting hurt, would I?

  Probably not. He was her brother. Beneath the temper there was a fragile, lonely boy with a clever mind. She would not want to see him imprisoned. He’d go mad—madder than he already was—if he was ever locked away.

  They reached the door to her husband’s study. Tagin’s footsteps were loud behind her as they entered the room.

  “You’re lucky Demrel’s away. He’d never let you in here,” she told Tagin as she moved to a large wooden cupboard. “Open this for me, will you?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the lock and she heard it click open. She pulled the doors apart and slid aside the bolt locking the inner doors. Cold air rushed in from the narrow cavity beyond. “There’s a ladder. I don’t know where it comes out—and I don’t want to know—but it must be safe or Demrel wouldn’t use it.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Why doesn’t it surprise me that your husband has a secret way out of his own house?”

  “I only know about it because he got stuck one day and nobody else heard him shouting for help. He wouldn’t let me get any of the servants. I had to pull him out all by myself.”

  Tagin’s lip curled in disgust. “You should leave him and come with me.”

  She shook her head.

  “But you hate him.”

  “Yes, but I’d also hate being homeless and hunted.” She gave him a serious look. “And I’d slow you down. I’ll be more able to help you if I stay here.”

  He stared at her and opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of footsteps in the main corridor outside the room reached them. “Hurry!” she hissed. “Get inside and lock the door behind you.”

  As he climbed in she felt her heart starting to pound. She closed the doors and heard the lock click. A scuffling inside the cupboard followed. The footsteps outside the room grew ever louder. Her heart raced. If Tagin didn’t stop making noise soon the magicians would hear him and investigate the cupboard. A knock came from the study door and hear heart lurched.

  The sounds inside the cupboard finally stopped. Taking a deep breath, Indria wiped sweaty hands on the sides of her dress and walked slowly across the room. Opening the study door, she forced herself not to flinch at the wall of masculine, uniformed power that stood before her.

  “Welcome, my lords,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “If you are after my husband I’m afraid he is absent. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  The magicians stepped into the room. The first was tall and quite handsome—nothing like the way Tagin had described the magicians he’d encountered. The second was as grey and stooped with age as her brother had described. The third was of an age somewhere between his companions and wore an expression of disapproval and disappointment.

  “I am Lord Arfon,” the tall magician said. “This is Lord Towin and Magician Beller. Is your brother, Apprentice Tagin, here?”

  “He was, but he has left.”

  Arfon frowned down at her. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No. What is this about?”

  “He has committed a terrible crime. He has murdered Magician Herrol.”

  She feigned shock and surprise. “Murdered?”

  “Yes. You brother told you nothing of this, I gather.”

  “No.” She looked away. “He said something about being in trouble. He didn’t explain.” That is close enough to the truth. She turned to regard him closely. “Are you sure Tagin is the murderer?”

  “Yes,” he replied, returning her gaze steadily. “I read the mind of a servant who witnessed the crime—and other, earlier, crimes. Did you know your brother had learned higher magic in secret, against the king’s law?”

  Indria shook her head, not having to fake her shock this time.

  “He’s been taking magical strength from the servants for months, no doubt in preparation for dispatching his master,” the scowling magician said with unconcealed disgust.

  “But...” Indria finally managed. “Tagin wouldn’t do that. Well, I can imagine him learning something forbidden out of boredom. But he’s not the murdering type.”

  Lord Arfon’s eyebrows rose. “Are you saying you’ve known enough murdering types to be able to tell them from non-murdering types?”

  “Don’t mock me.” She raised her chin and met his gaze. “He’s my brother. I know him better than anyone.”

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then nodded. “Forgive me. That was tactless, and this is a serious matter. Can you guess where your bother may have gone? A simple read of your brother’s mind would confirm or disprove his guilt.”

  “No,” she said, honestly.

  He nodded. “Then I’m afraid we’re going to have to take you with us.”

  Record of the 235th Year.

  News arrived today of the death of Magician Herrol, family Agyll, House Parin, and of a terrible crime. A mind-read of the servant who reported the death revealed that Magician Herrol had been murdered, the strength drained from him with the use of higher magic, by his very own apprentice, Tagin. How this apprentice came upon the knowledge is unknown, but it appears he was able to overcome his master by first strengthening himself by draining servants, who were kept silent through threats. His crimes are threefold: first in learning higher magic before being granted independence by his master, second in applying it to commoners to strengthen himself, and third in using it to kill.

  Lord Arfon has been given the task of finding Tagin. He has taken Tagin’s sister, Indria, into custody as the siblings are close and the apprentice may emerge from hiding in an attempt to free her. He has informed me that she is cooperating with efforts to detain her brother.

  Gilken, family Balen, House Sorrel, Record-keeper of the Magicians’ Guild.

  Gilken wiped the nib of his pen and set it down next to the old leather book. Moving over to the tower window, he looked out over Imardin, capital city of Kyralia. The high wall of the Royal Palace rose to the left, facing down the mansions of the rich and powerful Houses. He could not see the King’s Parade leading down from the palace to Market Square and the docks, but his memory supplied images of it willingly, along with the remembered smells and sounds of the busiest parts of the city.

  If he listened, he could hear a constant hum, but a wide stretch of gardens separated him from the bustling metropolis, keeping the noise and hustle at a distance. Two hundred years ago, after the magicians of Kyralia had defeated invading forces from Sachaka, King Errik had granted them a generous area of land and ordered a Guildhall to be built to house their newly formed Magicians’ Guild. The Record-keeper’s room, Gilken’s domain and responsibility for the last twenty-three years, was in the highest room of the southwest tower.

  While he had never grown tired of the view, he was liking the long climb up to it a lot less as the years passed. He had never gained the mental control necessary to levitate himself around and around and up the staircase, and the only way he could have gone straight up—on the outside of the building, then somehow crawling in through a window— would hardly be a dignified way for a magician to behave.

  There are worse things for a magician to be guilty of than being undignified, he thought, and his mind turned back to the ill news he had recorded that day. Murder. Blackmail. The unauthorised learning and use of hig
her magic. Surely no apprentice would abandon his training and future by committing such crimes without good reason. What could have driven him to do it?

  Gilken knew little about the apprentice. Only that Tagin had a sister and that his family was of a weaker, less favoured House. It was unusual for the only son and heir of a family to be given magical training, since magicians were forbidden, by law, to act as head of a family in political matters. The law was meant to stop power in Kyralia shifting entirely into magicians’—and the Guild’s—hands, though it was by no means entirely successful. By allowing Tagin to become a magician, his father had put future control of the family and its assets into the hands of his daughter’s husband.

  Lord Herrol must have known this when he took on the young man as his apprentice. Gilken considered what he knew of the magician. Herrol’s wife had died ten years ago, and his five children were grown and married. He had been a good-humoured, intelligent man.

  Having grown up in the country, Herrol had returned there a few years ago. His home was a day’s ride from the city. And a few hours’ ride from Tagin’s sister’s home. Herrol, knowing how close the siblings were, may have taken that into account when he made his decision to move.

  If he had, then Tagin chose a terrible way to repay that favour.

  Gilken looked out over the Guild grounds to the city again. Herrol had been well liked in the Guild. Many were upset at his death, especially his ex-apprentices. Magicians had been alerted across the country. The docks and borders were being watched day and night.

  Wherever Tagin is, he’ll not evade the Guild and justice for long.

  Lord Arfon lifted a glass jug and poured clear liquid into a matching goblet. He handed the goblet to Indria. She sniffed at the contents, then sipped.

  “Water?” she said, surprised and a little disappointed. She’d expected an exotic and expensive liquor that only royalty or the Guild could afford.