Sorcerers' Isle

by D. P. Prior

  Balik shot her an irritated glare before answering Leah. “You believe that shit? I heard it was clansfolk dressed in skins.”

  “Who told you that?” Theurig said. He was trying to sound offhand, but there was menace stitched within every word. “Your parents?”

  Balik hunched his shoulders so much they nearly swallowed his head. He didn’t need to say anything; the hardening of Theurig’s face told Snaith the Haydn family had crossed the line.

  “You’re testing us,” Tol said, breaking one tension to return to another.

  Clever boy. Seems that blind eye has brought you wisdom.

  “The Weyd’s real, else there wouldn’t be no magic,” Tol went on. “My grampy fought on the banks of the Sourling, when the northern clans united against the South. There was sorcerers on both sides.”

  “Yes, yes,” Theurig said. He looked up at the dark sky, seemingly watching the battle in the pinpricks of silver. “Lightning strikes, storms of ice blasting from their fingertips, churning black clouds and pestilent vapors.”

  Tol and Leah were nodding, and the others started to relax.

  “But…”

  I didn’t see that one coming.

  “No one actually witnessed the magical battle, did they?”

  Tol and his sister exchanged looks.

  “The warriors were instructed to keep back,” Theurig said, “while all the sorcerers entered Frangling Forest.”

  “So the trees could contain the magic,” Lars Tabot said, as if that explained everything. He’d always been slow, and now he was clutching at straws.

  “My own master was there,” Theurig said, “the dread sorcerer Kardish.”

  There was a collective intake of breath. Kardish’s shadow still hung thickly over the village. Some said it was his lingering presence, that he’d refused to move on after death.

  “So, what happened?” Snaith said.

  Theurig eyed him for an uncomfortably long moment, weighing things up in his mind, considering the implications of what he was about to say, of what he had already revealed. Snaith got the impression the test was over. Whatever happened next, whatever anyone said, was merely a formality.

  Tey whimpered as she got her good leg under her and lurched to her feet. She teetered, gave a corrective hop and a shuffle, then found her balance. She caught Snaith watching and smiled. For a fleeting moment, she was the coy young woman he’d planned to marry.

  “They broke out their pipes,” Theurig said, “unstoppered casks of mead, and shared the latest news from their clans. Old friends exchanged poems or trinkets they had crafted. Oh, they made one hell of a din, clashing cymbals and igniting kegs of black powder they’d earlier hidden in the forest. What your grandparents told to your parents was the poetic form sung by the bards. After a while, an agreement was reached, tithes were paid, and the northern sorcerers slunk back to their clans and instructed them to withdraw in the face of superior magic.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Leah said.

  “What you believe is of no consequence.” Theurig threw out an arm in the direction of the village. “It’s what they believe that counts.”

  “So, Balik’s right,” Snaith said, more with bemusement than condemnation. It swiftly churned into admiration. “The sorcerers have been tricking us all this time.”

  He should have been angry. Should have been outraged. A warrior would have struck Theurig down, carried his severed head back to the clan and told them it had all been a lie. That there was no magic. And the Weyd: Not a thing among other things. What would it do about it? What was there to be frightened of, if it was no-thing? How could it will and compel, curse with the rot?

  But what did that say about his parents? If the Weyd hadn’t afflicted them, what had? Bad luck? He narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to make sense of it all. Found himself staring at Theurig, revelation scraping away at his understanding. A half-formed idea. An allegation.

  No. I’m missing the point. The test. This is all part of the test.

  His mind careened. Flipped over. Turned inside out. It swelled and contracted in one breath, and Snaith jolted alert as if he’d woken from a sleep that had never started.

  He saw patterns in the chaos. A truth hidden behind the random cruelties of the world. Meaning. Wholeness. A plan. A blinding flash only, and then it was gone.

  But it left him with the feeling he’d been heading down a night-black gully in his quest to be a warrior. He’d been chattel, like the rest of them. A piece in someone else’s game.

  Theurig was watching him, head cocked, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

  Before Snaith could think of something to say, Balik barreled down the mound toward the tree line, bad leg buckling so much it looked set to fall off. He flailed around for balance with his good hand and the stump where the other had been. Just before he made it, he looked back over his shoulder and yelled, “I’m telling the elders!”

  Oh, Balik, you thick, fat, twit.

  A shadow slipped from between two trees. Balik turned to face it, just as Snaith saw what it was:

  A Shedim!

  Silver flashed. Balik grunted. He thrashed in place for a second, a gurgling scream catching in his throat, and then he fell.

  Tey threw her head back and chortled, wiping the snot from her nose with her sleeve. She caught Snaith’s eye and laughed some more—not at him, but as if they shared some secret joke.

  The shadow remained, a glowering presence. Icy tingles crept along Snaith’s spine. Slowly, careful to maneuver himself so he could see both Theurig and the figure that had coalesced out of the darkness, he got to his feet.

  The other postulants rose and pressed in around Snaith, as if he could offer them protection. Grisel may even have batted an eyelid. The only one she had left. Somehow, they sensed it; sensed that he was more fascinated than scared, more astonished that anyone could have thought of such a thing: cow the clansfolk with superstition, then work out the balance of power, the rise and fall of rivals with a meeting of the sorcerers, of minds both wiser and more calculating. It was a lofty peak he knew he had to attain. He’d been smothered by the pall of ignorance all his short life. The only difference between him and his parents, between him and all the other villagers, was that now he realized it. Suddenly, the desire to be the greatest warrior the Malogoi had ever seen was a childish fantasy that brought on the flush of embarrassment. This is what he wanted: true knowledge. True power.

  “Run!” Tol cried, stumbling down the mound and sprinting for the trees on the opposite side, dragging Leah with him.

  It was bad luck for Tol a second shadow emerged on his blind side. He didn’t even gasp as the blade slashed down.

  Leah screamed when a third lunged for her. And then it was chaos, as all the other losers pelted for the trees. More and more shadows stepped into the clearing, and the discards went down one by one, until only Snaith and Tey remained.

  Theurig was watching Snaith with sparkling eyes. There were a dozen or more shadows spread out in a noose and flowing toward the base of the tumulus. The sorcerer raised a staying finger to them and they froze in place.

  Theurig nodded, satisfied. An inky gash split his face in two. Even in the dark, Snaith knew it was a smile. There was a palpable release of tension as the sorcerer clamped a hand on his shoulder. Snaith saw the beginnings of a smirk on Tey’s face before she covered it with a mask of numbness.

  “That was the test?” Snaith said. “How we reacted when you told us the Weyd was nothing?”

  “No-thing,” Theurig corrected with a wag of his finger. “Not to be confused with nonexistence. But still not something to be tittle-tattling to the elders about. Oh, I knew who I wanted from the start, but it’s better to give the impression of fairness. It’s the gifted I want, not sheep.”

  “Why me?” Snaith asked. “Why Tey?”

  “Don’t act dumb,” Theurig said, “or I might think I’ve made a mistake. You know your own talents, and let’s be honest, you’ve
always seen yourself over and above the clan, just like your grandfather. No one’s ever good enough. Seeing all their flaws. It’s why I made him chief. It’s likely what got him killed, too. Makes others feel… inadequate. Resentful.”

  Snaith glanced at Tey, but she was no more than a wraith in her black dress and shawl.

  “And what about Crav Bellosh?” Snaith said. “Did you make him chief as well?”

  Theurig snorted out a laugh. “It is not necessary to guide all the actions of men, only some of them.” He gestured toward the lingering shadows and addressed them. “Go now. Your work is done.”

  Snaith expected them to glide silently away, but the earth scrunched beneath booted feet as they returned to the bodies of the fallen and dragged them deeper into the trees. He squinted against the darkness, seeing if he recognized anyone, but they were uniform in their black bindings.

  “Thought they’d be bigger,” Snaith said. “Covered with glistening scales.”

  Tey shot him a glare. Pressed a finger to her lips.

  “Sit,” Theurig said. “I must question you.”

  Movements jerky and awkward, Tey lowered herself to the grass, bad leg stiff, not bending at the knee. Snaith sat beside her, then with cracking knees and a grunt, Theurig settled down in front of them and waited until the last of the bodies had been dragged from sight. Already, Snaith could hear the sound of a shovel breaking the earth.

  “Superstition is the ally of the sorcerer,” Theurig said eventually. He may have been wistful. There might even have been a tinge of regret in his voice. “You are saddened by the deaths?” His eyes had lost their glitter. They were pools of compassion now, inviting Snaith to speak the truth.

  But what was the truth? Snaith thought he’d glimpsed it, but it was too much, too sudden, and now it was just snippets and fragments that dissolved each time he tried to catch hold of them. He knew he should have felt something about the slaughter, but at the same time, he was encouraged that he didn’t. It was a step away from ignorance toward a pinnacle overlooking the clan. Was it the same for Theurig? Was the sorcerer really grieved by what he’d done, or did he view it as a necessary winnowing of the chaff?

  Snaith took a calculated gamble. “Life is cruel.”

  Tey let out a low moan. Snaith was tempted to lift her shawl, see the expression on her face, but to do so felt like the worst kind of intrusion.

  “It knows no right and wrong?” Theurig prompted.

  Snaith shook his head. How could it? The world he’d discovered since the bear was blinder than Tol’s left eye. It was a dumb, mute, senseless thing that spawned life only for it to decay. It was all about the rot, same as had afflicted his parents. But even so, what he’d seen… the patterns…

  Theurig seemed satisfied by the head shake. “What is it you desire?”

  Snaith looked up at the stars. Drank in the vastness of space. The yawning void of infinity.

  “To climb out.”

  Theurig frowned. Maybe that was the wrong answer. The sorcerer raised a prompting eyebrow.

  “Out of the pit in the earth our people live in,” Snaith clarified. “The grave they have dug for themselves.”

  “Yes,” Tey said, letting her shawl fall back, eyes no longer black, but glinting with reflected argent.

  Theurig glanced uneasily at her, then asked Snaith, “Ignorance?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “You seek knowledge? You seek power? You seek the sorcery of the Weyd?”

  “Yes,” Tey hissed. She clutched Snaith’s injured hand, dug her nails into the palm. He didn’t feel a thing. Not even his usual revulsion at being touched.

  “Sorcery?” Snaith said. He’d assumed it wasn’t real, given the tale of the battle with the northerners. “Of the Weyd? But if the Weyd is no-thing…”

  Theurig chuckled. “Even smoke and mirrors are worthy of study. Great things have been accomplished through misdirection, subterfuge, sleight of hand. Do you want to achieve great things?”

  It was all too new to Snaith. Fighting was the only thing he’d ever considered great. The vistas that were opening up to him were too vast, too unknown. He needed time to organize his thoughts, tally up what he knew, what he thought he knew. It was a weak bid for time, but he had to say something.

  “You mean winning battles for the clan?”

  Theurig rolled his eyes. “That is no more than a diversion to keep the dogs exercised and their numbers in check.”

  Then what? What have I missed? What does he expect me to say?

  “I want the Weyd inside me,” Tey breathed, piercing Snaith’s skin with her nails, rubbing her other hand over her belly. “All of it. Every last drop.”

  “How?” Snaith countered. He watched the blood pooling on his palm around Tey’s fingernail. The absence of pain made him a disinterested observer. It no longer felt like his own hand. “If it isn’t a thing?”

  Theurig wagged a finger at him. “Invigorating, isn’t it? That first step toward truth, when you realize the Weyd is not a god to be propitiated. For some it’s a moment of sublime liberation, but it seldom lasts long. Most people don’t take the next step, and fear of the Weyd is exchanged for a meaninglessness so complete it can only be assuaged by the pursuit of every kind of pleasure.”

  Tey’s face hardened into a scowl. She removed her finger from Snaith’s palm. Turned her head aside and spat.

  Pointedly ignoring her, Theurig said, “Some men find it too easy to identify what is truly great, and invariably they delude themselves. I would rather you yearn for something intangible, something transcendent, always just beyond your grasp.”

  Snaith’s head began to throb. This was too hard. He was used to dealing with the solid, the real—things he could line up and count and feel. He became aware of his left hand knotting into a fist, his right answering with an impotent tingle.

  “Yes,” Theurig said, “you understand what I mean. Never be too quick to set limits on your desires. Magic may not be real, but the Weyd gives the impression of magic, and with the right application, it can be just as wondrous, just as devastating. Our task is to crack open the Weyd, explore the goods within—not the sorcery of superstition, but real goods, earthy, practical. For the Weyd is a repository of lore, and it is through lore that we take little steps toward controlling the world.”

  Control… Yes. There was no cheap bid for dominance implied in Theurig’s use of the word. This was about how things worked, and what could be done with them. It was a trait Snaith recognized: the need for order, for predictability, for understanding.

  Tey reached inside her sleeve, scratched at her scars.

  “Yes, Tey Moonshine?” Theurig said. “You like the sound of that? You like control?”

  Tey hung her head, the ghost of a smile briefly visible before she hid her face away.

  Theurig sighed. “You’ll be leaving us in the morning, Tey. Leaving Malogoi.”

  “What?” Snaith said. In spite of the deception, in spite of his newfound revulsion for what she was, what she had done to herself, he couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not after losing his mother and father.

  Tey betrayed no reaction.

  “A colleague of mine, Slyndon Grun of the Valks, needs an apprentice, and there was no one… suitable among his clan. I’ve already told him about you, Tey. He can’t wait to meet you.”

  Tremors rippled through the fabric of Tey’s dress, but whether she was giggling or crying, it was impossible to tell.

  “And you, young Snaith, will stay with me. The Malogoi will need a new sorcerer once my bones are tucked up below ground with the ancestors. For all the wonder and mystery of the Weyd, it’s done nothing for the creak of my joints and the thorns in my piss. Age and decay are about the biggest giveaways in this profession, but the clansfolk never ask the question. It’s half the battle won, when there’s an audience willing itself to believe.

  “Trust me, Snaith, your life is about to take a turn for the better. Yours, too, Tey, though I can’t
promise you a bed of roses. It’s so much more… enlightening up here with the rest of us.”

  Theurig’s knees cracked as he stood. He swept his robes about him and started down the slope of the burial mound. When Snaith glanced at Tey and then climbed to his feet to follow, the sorcerer held up a hand without looking back.

  “Spend the night here in the Copse, the two of you. When I return, Tey’s new master will be with me. Consider it a purgation. Superstition may indeed be the ally of the sorcerer, but living so long among the ignorant, I dare say you are not immune to its taint. There’s nothing like a night with the ancestors to rid you of it.”

  Tey reached up to grasp Snaith by the wrist of his injured arm, used it to help herself stand. She locked eyes with him and grinned, the gap in her teeth no longer charming. It made her smile seem crooked.

  The smile of a hag.

  NIGHT WITH THE DEAD

  With Theurig’s departure through the noose of trees, the atmosphere within Coldman’s Copse grew heavy and pregnant with menace. Snaith’s mind painted pictures of some malign presence that existed half in, half out of reality. He could feel its deathly chill, hear the subliminal rasp of its breathing. And he could smell its spoor beneath the pines and loam, mingled with the cloying scent of freshly spilled blood. But whatever it was—if it was anything at all—remained as concealed as Tey’s scars.

  Snaith lashed his errant thoughts with the whip of reason: It’s the night air freezing your fruits, idiot; nothing deathly about that. Not breathing, but the rustle of leaves. And the spoor is just shit. Unless it’s Tey.

  His breath plumed before him. For the hundredth time, he willed the fingers of his claw-locked hand to open and close; felt a jolt of pain when they didn’t respond.

  With a barrage of right thinking, he scattered the last vestiges of dread that had settled over the Copse since Theurig’s departure. He threw his focus outward, onto the whistle of the wind, the shimmer of the moon—anything to ground him in the here and now, the tangible.

  There—the scamper of tiny feet; the snap and flutter of wings taking flight. The corners of his eyes latched onto the gentle sway of tree limbs, the shudder of leaves.