Termagant lay sunning herself on the window ledge.
‘Look at you,’ he snapped. ‘You’ve turned into a fat ball of fur.’
Mothers deserve compliments, not insults. What’s put you in such a bad mood?
‘Oh those old men, the sages. If they’re right, the life of a sorcerer is nothing but struggle against evil that can never be stamped out.’
He stormed about in agitation; not a particularly soothing exercise in a room so small.
‘Like weeds,’ he said, with a sharp snort from his nostrils. ‘Never defeated once and for all. No, those old men are wrong,’ he seethed. ‘They have to be.’
CHAPTER 6
A Message by Sea
MARCEL OPENED HIS EYES just as the pale morning light on the wall beside his bed came alive with a golden warmth. He went to the window and leaned out a little way, turning his face to the east where he could peer out over the ocean as an orange half-circle grew bigger above the horizon then broke free altogether. He wished he was like the other students and could stay in bed until servants hammered at his door shouting about breakfast, but he’d developed the habit of getting up with the sun. It wasn’t the only thing that separated him from the other young sorcerers. None of them seemed as gifted as he was and this made them wary of him. If he was entirely honest, he didn’t make much effort to join in with them either.
He dressed for the crisp morning air that would later turn summer-warm and wandered down into the silent square. With no one to share his early morning rambles, he could choose any direction he liked. Uphill today. This took him past the Tironels’ door, reminding him of yesterday’s Sages’ Circle and the way they had dismissed him as just a boy. The night’s sleep hadn’t done anything to cool his anger. He had been so excited when Suskin insisted on Rhys Tironel as his tutor, and he respected the great wizard more than ever, yet already he was counting the days until he was due to leave Noam. That would have made some sense if he was eager to be home in Elstenwyck, but he wasn’t.
He’d reached the highest point of the town by this time, but if his eyes gazed westward towards Elster it was more to avoid the sun’s glare. In the distance, he could just make out the fishermen returning with their night’s catch. The masts of their little boats bobbed in the waves until a larger vessel forced them to scatter. It was heading in from the open sea, from the west, he noted, and while he watched it draw closer to the dock he sensed the first foreboding.
As each second passed, the urge to know more grew stronger. There was only so much the human eye could see without a telescope — unless you were born with magic in your bones. Marcel had learned the spell only days before from Lord Garda and so the words came easily to his lips as he raised his right hand, letting his arm extend at full stretch towards the fishing village. With the palm turned outward, he passed his hand smoothly across his vision and by the time it fell back to his side he could see the approaching ship as though he were standing on the nearby shore.
Ropes were thrown, to be quickly taken up by those waiting on the dock and drawn around bollards to secure the ship. The figures Marcel could see on board were dressed in the stripes and loose-fitting pants that sailors preferred; all except one. This man sported a fine sword on his belt and leather boots to his knees. He looked as if he’d be more comfortable on a horse than a ship and, as though he was eager to prove it, he leapt from the deck before the gangplank could be lowered into place, landing on the edge of the dock with barely a hair’s breadth to spare.
A messenger in that kind of a hurry didn’t bring good news. Dread tightened its grip on the young wizard’s stomach, and when the man ran along the dock, appealing for help to anyone who would listen, Marcel could barely breathe. Magic had enhanced his sight, not his hearing, but he soon guessed what words the man was shouting when a horse emerged suddenly from the nearby stable, tossing its head in agitation that it had been saddled so quickly. The messenger grabbed its bridle from the stable boy and, without stopping to calm the beast, launched himself onto its back. His haste almost brought disaster when the horse reared onto its hind legs. A lesser rider would have ended on his bottom. Not a man as determined as this, though. He forced the fractious creature back to the ground, then kicked hard with his heels. There was no doubt where he was heading.
Many important men live on this island, Marcel told himself. Messengers come all the time, especially for Rhys Tironel. He couldn’t be sure this one had come for him. All the same, his legs were already carrying him down to the square and then up the narrow stairs to his room.
Termagant was asleep on his bed when Marcel burst in. ‘Ah, caught you, you second-rate rat-catcher.’ She, at least, didn’t have any trouble sleeping in.
Termagant was the first thing he would take with him. What else? A change of clothes perhaps? No, what he had on would do. He kept searching and rejecting until his eye fell on the blue book of spells. After four months in Noam, there wasn’t a blank page or even an inch of space to add anything more.
He picked it up, then, suddenly aware of how heavy it was, placed it down again. Do I even need this? Everything on those pages is already inside my head, he told himself. He stood staring down as the seconds scurried by, then, snatching up Termagant from the bed, headed for the stairs.
At least the grooms at the nearby stable didn’t sleep late. He was quickly into the saddle and on his way, with Termagant clutched to his stomach, doing his best to protect her unborn kittens. No point in forcing a gallop, not when he might have to ride this horse all the way to the port. He kept up a steady canter until the messenger appeared on the road ahead of him.
‘Hold up!’ Marcel shouted.
‘No time. Out of my way,’ the messenger cried back without slowing his horse’s stride.
He was past before Marcel could blink. All he could think to do was call out his name. ‘Marcel,’ he bellowed into the dust kicked up by the receding horse.
Like a stone lobbed at a target, the single word took its time reaching the man. Hit or miss? The horse had carried him too far away by now to hear anything more. But with a wild tug on the reins, the rider was pulling his mount to a halt. Then he turned and trotted back the way he had come.
‘That name you shouted. Marcel, the wizard of Elster. I have a letter for him from his sister, the princess.’
Marcel held out his hand. ‘It’s for me then.’
‘How can I be sure?’
‘How else would I have known you were on this road looking for me?’
‘Magic,’ muttered the man and he fought a brief shudder. ‘For you then, my lord,’ he said, sweeping aside his cape to reveal the hilt of his sword.
If this is a trick and he’s really an assassin, I’ll die right here, Marcel realised, and when the man urged his mount across the short gap that separated them, he was tempted to turn tail and run. But the foreboding he’d sensed at first sight of the ship hadn’t hinted at death. He stood his ground and saw the sweating stranger ignore his sword in favour of a rolled sheet of paper stuck into his belt.
Marcel immediately broke the scroll’s seal and, holding open the page, let his hungry eyes gobble in the words.
Dear Marcel,
The pigeon has come from Bea. She’s desperate. Her grandfather has been taken prisoner. Strange creatures have appeared out of nowhere. Or at least that’s what she said. You know the magic of the pigeon’s egg better than I do. It reveals more than just words. There were things she was holding back, I’m certain of it, but she couldn’t hide the fear.
She wants you to join her on the mountain. Just you. She said it a dozen times, that you must come alone, and every time she repeated it, I sensed the deepest tangle of her feelings.
Oh, Marcel, I was going to send you such a different letter because I have other news as well, exciting news that I am left to write about now as an afterthought. Fergus is back with us in Elstenwyck. He arrived out of the blue only two days ago, without a word of warning — just like you would exp
ect. There is so much I wanted to tell you about him, but now you will be able to see for yourself and sooner than expected. Come home, Marcel. Bea needs our help — yours most of all.
Curling the letter in his hand, Marcel shot a question at the weary messenger. ‘The ship that brought you here. Is it due to call at other ports?’
‘No, it’s to take you straight back to Elster, but —’
Marcel didn’t wait to hear the rest. He’d already urged his mount forward and this time he didn’t hesitate to dig his heels sharply into its ribs. There was another horse cantering at a more leisurely pace towards the fishing village, bearing a shape that looked vaguely familiar, but Marcel didn’t take any further notice of the rider as he thundered by. Chickens fled before his horse’s flashing hooves as he charged through the village and onto the dock.
‘How quickly can you sail?’ he called to the captain as he was still crossing the gangplank.
Unlike the galloping messenger, who’d struggled to keep pace, the captain guessed who Marcel was at first sight. That didn’t prevent a frown of annoyance crossing his brow when the question came so abruptly.
‘Didn’t the lieutenant tell you?’ he replied just as sharply. ‘We ran into foul weather on the way. The top mast is damaged and my sailmaker needs a day or two to mend the torn canvas.’
‘It’s true,’ said the messenger who had just come aboard behind Marcel. ‘It will be tomorrow at the earliest before we can set sail.’
‘It has to be this morning, as soon as you can cast off the ropes,’ said Marcel. ‘If you made it here despite the damage, you can make it back to Elsmouth and do your repairs there.’
‘But, my lord, that would put lives at risk.’
‘I’ll take the chance,’ said Marcel.
‘With your own life, perhaps, but my crew deserve better from their captain … and their prince.’
‘I must be in Elstenwyck as soon as possible.’
‘Then I’ll set the men working this minute.’
Marcel tilted back his head to inspect the mast. He could see the broken spars and the rigging that hung from them in slackened loops. It didn’t look so bad. ‘Cast off now!’ he demanded.
‘No,’ said the captain, folding tattooed arms across his chest. He was a hardened sailor who’d spent his life on the merciless seas. It would take more than an impatient prince to make him obey.
Marcel was furious. Long Beard’s life was at stake, maybe Bea’s as well. He wouldn’t let this man hold him up.
‘Termagant,’ he cried.
The cat was sauntering across the gangplank until her master called so urgently. She was beside him in an instant and, just as quickly, he worked the magic. Where a black cat had stood, suddenly there was a beast that would drain the blood from the bravest faces. Her fearsome head reached level with Marcel’s chest and her body was longer than the tallest man’s, made even more intimidating by the swish and swirl of her long tail. She snarled, bared her vicious fangs and took a step towards the captain.
Those tattooed arms unwound themselves as he staggered backwards. ‘Keep that monster away from me!’ he pleaded.
The crew heard Termagant’s growls and came to see. Some slipped behind their captain, not too close, but it was a courageous act all the same. Others took a more cautious route and decided to check the rigging well above the deck.
‘Get this ship underway and she’ll become a cat again, happy to chase rats around your decks. What do you say, Captain?’
Before the captain could answer, there was an angry shout from the dock. ‘Marcel! What are you doing?’
Marcel turned to find Rhys Tironel striding along the dock. The rider he’d passed on the road — of course, it had been Rhys on his morning trot. He was in more of a hurry now as he came aboard.
‘Put your cat back to her proper state,’ he demanded loudly, and there wasn’t much difference between his throaty roar and Termagant’s growling.
‘But I’m needed in Elster, as fast as I can get there. I can’t wait while these men fuss about for days repairing sails.’
‘Looks like it’s more than sails to me,’ said Rhys as he gazed up at the rigging. ‘Now do as I say with Termagant, or I’ll turn you both to ash.’
In this mood, the Grand Master might just do it. Marcel reversed his spell, already regretting what he had done. By the time Termagant was once more a cat threading playfully between his legs, he felt the shame settling in his stomach like a stone.
‘This is no way to use the sorcerer’s arts,’ Rhys railed at him. ‘Listen to the captain. If he won’t put out to sea, it must be for good reason. You have enough magic in you, Marcel. Use it to help him, not bend him to your will.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Marcel said meekly to the captain.
The man’s fear had been replaced by anger and with the Grand Master of Noam as his protector he let Marcel know it. ‘I don’t care if you are Pelham’s son. You can find yourself a different ship to take you home.’
‘Now, now, it’s time both of you gave ground,’ said Rhys. ‘I can help too. Have you forgotten Cadell?’ he asked, turning to the young wizard.
Marcel knew immediately what he was talking about. ‘You speeded things up. A whole new mast, stepped into the ship with its rigging too, and all in a single day.’
‘This job won’t take as long,’ said Rhys with a satisfied grin. ‘I’ll have the fishermen from the village lend a hand. Captain, your men can take to their hammocks. The ship will be seaworthy by mid-afternoon.’
And so it was, thanks to Lord Tironel’s handy spells. The fishermen were only too happy to work on a larger vessel, especially when they found the very tools they needed at their fingertips at the moment they needed them. In this way, new spars were hoisted into place, a split in the upper mast made good as new and ropes to haul the sails threaded into place. On the deck below, hands moved faster than the eye could see, sewing together the gaping holes in torn sails or shaping new canvas to the size needed aloft. As promised, there were still three hours of daylight remaining when the captain woke his crew with cries of ‘Prepare to sail!’
‘I’ll have a word to the wind to get you on your way,’ said Rhys before he went ashore. ‘It will only help as far as the horizon, I’m afraid. Weather magic is too dangerous to work out of sight.’
‘There’s no need, Grand Master. I will control the wind,’ said Marcel.
‘Is that wise? I don’t like to bring up the first time we met, but you were wringing wet.’
Rhys was deliberately making light of the disaster, but he earned no smile from Marcel.
‘I told you, I’m a better sorcerer now,’ he responded simply.
Lord Tironel thought about this for a moment. ‘You are indeed. The sages are astounded by what you have learned, and I suppose that includes weather magic. You have your book with you — the blue one I’ve seen you writing in?’
‘Er … no, it was too heavy. I left it in my room.’
Rhys’s face became even more solemn and he put his hand to his beard, pressing it to a point between his thumb and fingers. ‘You don’t think you need it, do you?’
‘I know every page. Everything I’ve written lives in here,’ Marcel answered, tapping the side of his head.
‘So you might think, Marcel, but magic is more than memory and spells conjured in the right way. The knowledge bound up in words is not enough. The sages of Noam understand this, and I’d hoped you would see it too when you sat in on our Circle. We find new meaning in passages we have read many, many times. That’s where wisdom lies, Marcel, in what you give the words from within yourself, not just what the words give you.’
This made no sense to Marcel.
‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you, the ship has been repaired and now I’ll see it gets safely to Elsmouth.’
‘Yes, you’ll see it done, I’m sure,’ Rhys Tironel muttered unhappily. ‘The ship is ready to leave, but my worry is whether you are ready to lea
ve with it.’
CHAPTER 7
Weather Magic
AS SOON AS RHYS TIRONEL stepped ashore, the gangplank was hauled aboard and the tide began to take the ship into deeper water. The captain was still no friend to him so the young wizard went straight to the bow with Termagant trailing behind. A crewman who was struggling to set the jib almost went overboard when the cat passed within inches of his bare toes, something that Termagant was delighted to see. She would have fun on this voyage.
‘Behave yourself,’ Marcel cautioned, but soon after he withdrew into his own world, a place of magical verses and the forces they could create. Staring towards the west, he passed his hand before his face and called up the wind.
It responded instantly. High in the rigging, the mast took the strain on its newly repaired timbers. They creaked and flexed under the load of the sails as each was unfurled. Already they were moving faster than a man could walk and by the time the figure of Rhys Tironel was too tiny to pick out on the dock behind them the ship was surging ahead as fast as any man had run.
‘This is fine sailing weather,’ the first mate called to no one in particular.
The bow dipped and rose, dipped and rose, showering Marcel with spray and forcing him to hold onto the bulwark or risk rolling around like a barrel on the deck.
‘Why does the ship pitch up and down so much in the water?’ he called to the mate. ‘It’s slowing us down.’
‘It’s always like this in such weather. The wind drives us forward, but it whips up these waves as well, making them swell into mountains and valleys.’ He used his hand to mimic the undulating motion of the sea around them.
The white-tipped waves. Marcel had always thought of them as beautiful, one of the reasons he liked being at sea. He’d never seen them as obstacles until now, but as he watched in frustration, he saw clearly how the ship slowed almost to a standstill each time the hull smashed into a green pillow of water, before surging forward again as the wind pressed relentlessly into the sails. If only the sea was flat, he moaned, but the first mate was right. He couldn’t have wind without a choppy sea.
The Book from Baden Dark Page 5