by Duncan Pile
Frowning, he rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands and shook his head to try and clear the fog, but it didn’t help. Just then, the door swung open and Ferast found himself staring at a red-robed figure, his hood pulled back to reveal a long, angular face with skin so tight that it shone like polished leather. He looked to be about thirty, with a full head of black hair wetted and combed back against his skull. Dark eyes held him mercilessly in their penetrating gaze.
“Follow,” the figure said, and Ferast found himself standing and walking out of the cell. It wasn’t as if someone else was moving his limbs, but he didn’t remember choosing to do it either, and as he followed the mysterious figure along a winding, narrow corridor, he realised one thing with much greater clarity than anything else: he was helpless. Rebellion surged in him then. He didn’t know why he was here or who this person was, but he wasn’t about to allow himself to feel helpless. He pushed out instinctively with his will, testing the boundaries of whatever was holding him captive, but immediately the figure turned around and stared him down fiercely.
“Stop that right now,” he said, and Ferast obeyed him without question, shocked into compliance by the instinctive knowledge that whoever this person was, they could snuff out his life in a heartbeat. After that he followed in silence. The red-robed figure turned left off the corridor and they entered a broad hallway, from which an elegant stairway swept upwards into darkness. The robed man led him briskly up the polished marble staircase. After a couple of minutes of climbing Ferast was wheezing, struggling to keep up with his captor, but he was bound by the same compulsion that made him follow the figure in the first place, and he put all his effort into keeping up, not letting himself fall behind for even a moment. The man in front of him didn’t seem to be breathing heavily, or tiring in any obvious way.
Mercifully, the stairway finally came to an end and the robed man led him past several sets of intricately carved double doors until they came to a small, single door at the end of the corridor. Pushing it open with a long-fingered hand, Ferast’s captor indicated that he should enter the room beyond, and he found himself walking into a circular room that contained a bed and several items of basic furniture. As soon as he was in the centre of the room, his captor snapped his fingers and brought a spell into being, the walls, floor and ceiling limbed in lines of red light. At exactly the same moment, the fog cleared from his mind and he remembered everything; the Ruins, the demonic creature, the ball of red light, exactly the same as the one that now encircled him.
“Shirukai Sestin,” he said, his head snapping up to look at the magician he’d sought for so long. “I’ve travelled a long way to find you, I…”
“Stop!” Sestin said quietly, and Ferast felt his throat constrict, cutting off his breath. He raised a hand to his throat, choking in desperation. “You will not speak except to answer my questions,” Sestin said, his voice dry as old bones. “Nod to show you understand.” Ferast nodded and Sestin waved his hand. Instantly, he could breathe again, his lungs filling with sweet, life-giving air. He coughed uncontrollably, trying to regain control of his breathing. He desperately wanted to impress Sestin, but that wasn’t going to happen through gushing. Furious with himself, he steadied his breathing until it was regular again and straightened himself. He looked at Sestin without speaking.
“Better,” Sestin said. “Now tell me who you are,
“My name is Ferast.”
“Why are you here?” He took a deep breath, determined to speak honestly. A single lie might mean an instant end to his life.
“I was a student at the College of Collective Magicks,” he began, and instantly realised his error as the room swelled with a palpable sense of threat. “I hated it there,” he continued swiftly. “I’m strong in both healing and neuromancy, and they wouldn’t answer my questions. I heard about you and…what happened…and I knew that you were the only person who might take me seriously and tell me what I want to know.”
Sestin seemed to be genuinely taken aback. “You are seeking a teacher?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Ferast answered. At least now his cards were on the table.
“How am I to know you are not a spy sent by that do-gooder Hephistole?” Sestin asked, his voice brimming with scorn. It was the first time Ferast had seen anything other than iron-hard control from the renegade and he thought it might give him a route into Sestin’s confidence.
“I hate Hephistole,” he said, “and Voltan, and especially Emelda, that fat, useless cow.” Sestin’s face closed, any hint of his temporarily revealed emotion gone without a trace.
“How did you find me?” Sestin asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I looked for you in feared and avoided places,” he answered honestly. First of all I travelled the Bottomless Sands and then to Sailor’s End, but you weren’t in either place. Then I tried the Haunted Citadel, but you weren’t there either. I heard about the Ruins of Elmera by chance in a small town outside the Haunted Citadel, and decided to come here next.”
“That is all you have to say?” Sestin asked, his voice inscrutable.
“That’s all,” Ferast answered. It occurred to him to ask about Bork, but he restrained himself. The mercenary was useful, but if Sestin had killed him then what was it to him? The fact that the mute had saved his life in the Ruins pricked at him, but it was a worthwhile sacrifice if it led him to Sestin. Guilt was a weakness, as was compassion, and one he could not indulge if he was to fulfil his ambitions.
Sestin was watching him intently, as if scrutinising his every thought. “I will think on what you’ve said,” the renegade said after long moments of silence. “I will leave you clear-headed if you will not attempt to break out of this room, and if you will abstain from all magic. Agreed?”
Ferast once again got the feeling that if he lied in any way, his life would be over. “I agree,” he said, and Sestin nodded, reading the truth in his answer. Without a further word, the renegade turned and left the room, locking the door behind him.
Ferast felt a thrill of satisfaction. He’d done it! Against all the odds, he’d finally found Shirukai Sestin and was alive to tell the tale. What happened next was up to the renegade, but Ferast was confident. Why would Sestin turn away the one magician who, after all these years, would serve him unconditionally, and ultimately work alongside him? He had a lot to offer Sestin, and he was certain the renegade would see that when he’d had a chance to think about it. Congratulating himself, he settled down to await Shirukai Sestin’s decision.
…
Sestin stood at the large window in the observatory, gazing out over the city that had been his realm for decades. He was troubled. The presence of the boy wasn’t a threat in and of itself - he could dispose of him in a heartbeat if he chose to do so. The boy might think he was powerful, but he was nothing compared to him, a fly that could be easily swatted if it became necessary. What troubled him was that the boy, Ferast he called himself, had found his lair. It hadn’t been an easy search, and Ferast had perhaps been lucky to overhear talk of the Ruins, but Sestin knew enough to be certain that where one came, others would follow. After the attack on Helioport the previous year, the magical community would be looking for him too, and not because they were seeking a teacher! It was certainly possible for one or more of those people to put two and two together and identify the Ruins as a place someone like him might be hiding. Not hiding, he corrected himself fiercely; lurking, preparing to attack. But he wasn’t ready yet, not while the Darkman was still resisting his dominance, and if Hephistole and his gang of incompetents came down on him in force right now it would ruin everything.
He scratched his chin with a long, sharp finger. There was nothing he could do about that risk, much as it nettled him, and it would serve him better to think of what he could control. Once again his thoughts turned to the Nature Mage. He wanted him destroyed, and as soon as possible. He was still a magical infant by any true measure, but his power was a growing threat that could
rival his own if left unchecked. Perhaps he could use the boy, Ferast, in this. He must have studied alongside the Nature Mage at the college. An idea germinated in his mind, and as it blossomed, a slow smile crept over Sestin’s face, stretching his thin skin even more tightly over the delicately shaped bones of his face until it was taut as a drum.
He knew exactly what use he would put Ferast to. He would send him to kill the Nature Mage. Under normal circumstances, an ordinary magician, however gifted, would not stand a chance against a Nature Mage, but Sestin had sensed the presence of several focii on Ferast’s person. If the boy had focii, then he already knew how to harness the power released by death and suffering. That would make him ten times stronger than your average magician, which might just put him on a par with the Nature Mage, and if the boy failed, it would be no matter. Sestin still had the Darkman after all.
…
Ferast had waited all through the first evening in the hope that Sestin would return to speak to him, but many hours into the night he’d been forced to give up and try to sleep. He’d tossed and turned impatiently for hours, falling into a fitful sleep not long before dawn. The next day had been worse, his nerves on edge as he fought against irritation over being made to wait. Food and drink had appeared magically on a small table by the window, morning noon and night, but there was no sign of Shirukai Sestin. He’d gone to sleep earlier that night, exhausted by a day’s impatience and nervousness.
When he awoke on the third day, he’d got out of bed with a resigned sigh, relieved himself in the chamber pot by his bed and stood at the window, looking out over the city. His frustration had died away to a glimmer, replaced by a resigned boredom. It could be weeks or even months before the renegade magician spoke to him again. And so it was that when Sestin walked into the room later that day, he was surprised, ill prepared to speak to the mentor he’d sought for so long. Running a hand through his greasy hair, Ferast cleared his throat self-consciously, straightening his clothes where they were in disarray.
“Come with me,” Sestin said. There was no compulsion this time, and Ferast followed of his own free will. Sestin led him to the second set of ornately carved double doors and pushed them open, leading him into a comfortably appointed room. A low table filled most of the space between two well-stuffed couches and an enormous marble fireplace graced the wall behind it. Long velvet drapes hung at either side of the windows, tied back so that light beamed into the room. The back wall was lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, filled with leather-bound tomes of red, white and black, neatly organised as if their colour was significant.
“Sit down,” Sestin said, indicating one of the couches with a wave of his hand, and Ferast did as he was instructed. Silence extended painfully as Sestin scrutinised him. Ferast felt the pressure to say something, but didn’t give in to it. It was better to wait for Sestin to speak first, even if he felt like a hare might under the gaze of an eagle. He felt a surge of resentment at being made to feel that way. During his months of travel, he’d become accustomed to being the one who made others feel afraid, picking them to pieces with his words before he did so with his magic. Reminding himself that Sestin’s neuromantic gift would enable him to sense much of his state of mind, he quickly buried his resentment deep down, hoping it would be beyond the renegade’s reach. Nervously, he waited for Sestin to speak, wondered just how much of his mind was an open book.
“Show me the focii,” Sestin said after Ferast had suffered through several minutes of nervous silence. He breathed out audibly in relief at having been spoken to.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered honestly. For a moment he saw a dark shadow flash behind Sestin’s eyes, but then it was gone again.
“The focii,” Sestin repeated. “The object you create from the energy released in death.” He realised he meant the Darkgems. He hadn’t intended to reveal them to Sestin right away, but there was clearly no point trying to hide anything at all. In that moment, Ferast made a decision. He was going to be Sestin’s through and through, and he would do everything in his power to please him. Any other approach was likely to lead to his death. Reaching into his inner pocket, he drew out several Darkgems and passed them over. Sestin’s tight smile stretched a little further this time as he took them, turning them over in his hands and peering into their smoky, swirling depths.
“You have much to learn, but this is not a bad start,” the renegade said. “I trust you learned this on your own?”
“Who else would teach me something like this?” Ferast asked, and for a moment he saw that dark shadow loom behind Sestin’s eyes again. In the ensuing silence he realised that his new master, if he was willing to take him on as a pupil, was not one to be over-familiar with. “Forgive me,” he said, and though Sestin hadn’t moved, it felt like the threat had passed, as if a storm cloud had passed overhead without releasing its load.
“Tell me everything,” Sestin said, “from the beginning. I want to know exactly why you left Helioport, and every detail of your journey since. Leave nothing out.”
Ferast had no intention of leaving anything out, or making any kind of attempt to deceive Sestin. The renegade was terrifying, a man of staggering power and perception. Ferast felt that he was on the verge of finally getting the master he deserved, and was determined to lay all his cards on the table. When he opened his mouth to speak, it was to lay everything bare - his ambitions, his desperate need to learn, the ecstasy he found in controlling other beings, and hopefully this great magician would give him the chance he’d been waiting for.
Thirty-Seven
Gaspi stood on the city wall, looking out over the plain, grateful for the warmth of Loreill’s furry body around his neck. He’d come to visit Jonn and they’d gone for a walk around the top of the wall, but his guardian had been called away to some other duty, and Gaspi was waiting for him to return. He stared out over the plain, his eyes becoming unfocussed as he lost himself in thought.
The sparring was going pretty well. He and Taurnil had started to hold their own as often as not against Voltan and Jonn, helped in some part by his increasing confidence with a knife. He’d added a baldric of throwing knives to his arsenal, complementing the larger blade he wore on his hip. The throwing knives were concealed within his clothing, and although he would never be a true warrior, it made him feel some of what he thought Taurnil felt all the time - that he was dangerous. But even though they were doing well, he wasn’t content. He wanted them to be the best! He smiled in self-mockery, reflecting that some of Taurnil’s obsession must be rubbing off on him!
Without consciously realising what he was doing, he lifted his forefinger and began to twirl it, reaching out with his magical senses and toying with the winds far above him as he tried to think of new strategies that he and Taurnil might employ.
They’d pretty much exhausted the possibilities enchantment offered, making Taurnil’s armour impossible to pierce and much lighter than it ought to be, and Gaspi had come up with the idea of enchanting his boots to move swiftly, taking much of the effort out of Taurnil’s legwork. As a result, his friend practically bounced from position to position in a way that gave him the edge over any fighter without a similar enchantment. They’d decided to keep that enchantment to themselves for now, given the advantage it gave them, and that, along with Gaspi’s improved fitness and surprising skill with a knife, made them a pretty formidable team.
Their worries about Baard and Sabu fighting with their legendary weapons had turned out to be groundless. The Measure was governed by strict rules, one of which stated that all weapons had to be enchanted by the competing magician, which again gave them an advantage. As a Nature Mage, Gaspi was significantly more powerful than pretty much all other magicians, and it was unlikely that any of the teams competing in the Measure would have anything more deadly than Taurnil’s staff. The demon-bane enchantment it was imbued with wouldn’t be of any use in a fight against other magicians, but its strength and durability made it a formidabl
e weapon under any circumstances.
Unable to think of further strategies, Gaspi’s thoughts turned instead to Everand. Ever since the confrontation in the library, the arrogant boy had kept his distance, which suited him fine, but he was also aware that Everand was stirring up trouble behind his back. He kept coming across groups of students who went quiet as he passed by with Loreill, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of the elemental. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, especially when he’d seen Everand with those same students, whispering in corners. Just the thought of it made him seethe! Who did Everand think he was, constantly making his life difficult?
Loreill squeaked in alarm, distracting him from his angry thoughts, and he looked up in surprise to see a spinning vortex of heavy black clouds above him, crackling with storm-tossed energies. Realising he’d been magically channelling his anger, he hurriedly released his power. The dark clouds stopped swirling and began to disperse, pale winter sunlight breaking through chinks in their covering within moments. He silently berated himself for his carelessness. He had to be more careful! Subconscious spell-casting could be dangerous, especially if you were a Nature Mage!
Loreill settled back down and he took a moment to assess his feelings. He was still really angry with Everand. When he’d returned from his apprenticeship with Heath, the lessons he’d learned were much clearer, but over time that clarity had faded. It had seemed so simple: forcefulness was to be avoided if at all possible, and control was not something he should seek to establish over other people. Just the memory of Heath’s forest home had filled him with a sense of rightness, of belonging, restoring his equilibrium. He was part of the natural order of things, and he should seek to be a servant rather than a master. It was those very thoughts that had enabled him to hold back from hurting Everand when he found out he’d tried it on with Emmy! The problem was that those lessons seemed less distinct now, like something he used to feel but didn’t feel any longer.