Chapter 23
The snow finally stopped, and the village of Brighton’s Gate began to dig itself out again. Brianna was troubled by the thin stranger who had disappeared shortly after his confrontation with Quinn, but nothing else had happened. Mansel was sick, but Quinn’s cure for too much ale was to work hard. He cleared a path through the snow with the other townsfolk while Brianna stayed busy bringing warm cider, bread, and cheese to the working men. The day passed quickly, and Quinn ate a quick supper before retiring early for the night. Brianna also went to bed, but she couldn’t sleep. Zollin was never far from her thoughts. She wondered what he could possibly be doing and battled fearful thoughts that he was perhaps hurt or even dead, buried beneath the snow.
Her thoughts also never strayed far from the stranger whose threats she had dissected a hundred times in her mind. She was positive that people at least guessed the truth of where they were from. How news of the battle at Tranaugh Shire had reached into the mountains ahead of them she could not guess, but apparently it had. If the stranger knew who they were, then surely the people of Brighton’s Gate had their suspicions, and it was only a matter of time before it became an issue. She realized Quinn’s rescue of the innkeeper’s daughter, Ellie, had been all the confirmation most people would need. It was obvious that Quinn was no stranger to violence, and only an experienced man such as he could have escaped into the mountains from the armed mercenaries who had attacked them at Tranaugh Shire. She wasn’t sure how much information about the wizards had spread. It was likely that most people wouldn’t believe it even if they heard it.
Of course, she had heard of wizards and knew about the Torr, but other than the occasional traveling showman, like the one from the harvest festival, magic was as far away from her as the moon was. She had never given it much thought, not since as a little girl when she had sat in her father’s lap, listening to him tell stories before bedtime. She smiled at the memory. Her father had always been kind, doting on her and her sisters. He had no sons but didn’t seem to mind. He loved to create beautiful clothing from the bolts of cloth he ordered from Osis City and Orrock. He could have been a king’s tailor but was content in Tranaugh Shire, raising his girls and somehow living with her mother. She didn’t miss her mother, who was always prattling on about how to do this or how to do that. She and her sisters had done all the work while her mother stood back and criticized. A pang of guilt sprang up, but she pushed it away. She didn’t miss her mother and would not feel bad for thinking the truth. Her mother used her and her sisters, and she would be very unhappy when the last of them was married and moved out, when she would have to actually do something for herself.
Quinn was snoring again, and it brought her mind back to Zollin. She saw the outline of his face as she had seen it the morning they had awoken before the others, sitting under a canvas and collecting wood for the fire in the predawn light. He had seemed so close one moment, so distant the next. She knew he grieved for Todrek. They had been friends for as long as she had known either of them. It must have been terrible for him to see his friend cut down so ruthlessly. She felt another pang of guilt, but she had not known Todrek that well. He was big and strong but as clumsy around her as a newborn calf. He had staggered around their house on their wedding night, drinking strong wine while she prepared herself in the bedroom. She had taken her time, and when she had called to him, he hadn’t come. She had assumed he was nervous like she was, but in fact he had fallen into a drunken stupor by the fireplace. When she’d finally come out and found him asleep in a chair, she had felt relieved. She had covered him with a blanket and gone to bed. The next day he had been slain, and she had left her life behind to go with Zollin and his father.
Sleep was finally overtaking her. She swam in the wonderful darkness, with vague images of Zollin drifting past her, as if she were floating down a slow-moving river. Then the darkness turned cold and she felt afraid. Someone was coming, his face familiar yet unrecognizable. She couldn’t see details, only vague perceptions. There were daggers being slowly drawn from silent scabbards while the sound of marching soldiers filled her ears. Then shouting and screams and fire, the lurid yellow and orange light casting shadows in the darkness.
Brianna awoke to darkness and the grinding sound of Quinn’s snores. She was cold and pulled her blankets tightly around her. She was worried. She remembered her dreams of Zollin riding off from her, the dreams she had had before the events in Tranaugh Shire. This dream had the same eerie realness that frightened her so much. At least she hadn’t woken up screaming.
***
Zollin’s lessons began slowly. He was searching for the source of his power. It was hard to keep his mind from wandering. He could feel the magic flowing around inside his body, feel his heart beating and lungs moving back and forth as he breathed. There were other organs, too, but he was less familiar with them. He tried to stay away from his stomach, which always seemed to be hungry. And he tried to keep his mind from thinking about Brianna. He was looking for something, but he wasn’t quite sure what it was. A reservoir of power, the source of his magic, as Kelvich had described it, like a well brimming to the top with power. As it began to run over the top and spill into him, he had discovered it—the day they were framing out the new inn in Tranaugh Shire, the day he had lifted his tool bag. That power, according to his mentor, was much deeper than he had imagined, but since could not find it, he could not use it. That was why he was so weak without the staff and willow belt. He could tap into their power when in direct contact with those objects, but his own was still hidden. When he used up the overflow of his own power, his magic came from his physical body, his strength, his mental and emotional energy. If pushed too far, that draining effect could cripple or even kill him. He needed to find the source of his power so that he would not be dependent on other things, but so far he had failed.
“Let’s take a different approach,” said Kelvich. “To perform more complicated spells, you must understand what you are doing. You can cast a spell just by thinking it, but you have to know what you are doing.”
The sorcerer held up a hunk of rotted wood. “Let me show you. I want you to transform this wood into a knife.”
“How do I do that?” Zollin asked.
“Just imagine the wood becoming a knife, and push with your magic as you do so. You need to see the picture of the knife clearly in your mind or what you are left with won’t be complete.”
Zollin imagined a simple knife: a short, slender blade of gray steel and a handle of polished wood. Slowly he pushed the thought forward, and the magic inside him churned. He had to concentrate to keep his mind from wondering why he could feel the magic but not find its source.
The wood began to tremble, then it seemed to blur. Suddenly it was moving, like mercury, liquid and solid at the same time. Then it took shape, the exact shape of the knife Zollin had imagined. He focused his power and gave a final push, and the knife was finished. It rested on the table, just where the wood had been.
“That’s unbelievable!” Zollin exclaimed.
“Yes, now pick it up,” Kelvich instructed.
The knife was incredibly light, but solid and real. The steel felt cool to the touch. He ran his thumb gently down the edge of the blade. It was sharp.
“Now, shave off a sliver of wood from the table,” said Kelvich.
“Are you sure?” Zollin asked.
The sorcerer nodded, and Zollin placed the knife blade at an angle to the edge of the table and began to push. The knife began to slice a thin sliver from the table and then suddenly, the blade snapped clean off.
“What happened?”
“Let me see the knife,” Kelvich said, holding out his hand.
Zollin gave it to him, and the sorcerer took the handle in both hands and snapped it in half. Then he showed Zollin the inside of the handle. It was still the rotted wood he had begun with.
“You see, you transformed the shape, but you didn’t change the basic components of the woo
d.”
“What are the basic components?” Zollin asked.
“Ah, the secret of the ages,” Kelvich said smiling. He stepped outside and came back in with a handful of snow. He sat across the table from Zollin and shaped the snow into a goose. “Is this a goose?” he asked.
“No, it’s snow.”
“Yes, you know this because you see the snow fall. You see thousands of tiny flakes falling from the sky, but when they are lumped together you get what seems like a solid object. You see we are all made up of tiny little particles, smaller than dust. These tiny things are so small you can’t see them, but you can feel them with your power. It takes intense concentration, but as you move further and further into an object, you can feel each part, how it fits with the others to make the whole. Move deeper and you come to find what each part is made of. So, to transform a piece of wood into a piece of steel, you would need to go deep into the object and transform the smallest parts, those basic components. Take a look at this.”
He pulled what looked like a rock from a wooden box near the fireplace. The rock was red in color, and tiny, dust-like flakes seemed to fall from it where Kelvich handled it.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“It’s iron ore, right?”
“That’s correct. Now, you can transform an object just like a blacksmith. He takes this raw iron, heats it in his forge, and creates steel. Then he fashions and shapes it with hammers and tongs and molds until it is exactly what he wants, a sword, a hammer, a pot, or a kettle. We do the same thing, only we don’t need the forge, and we don’t have to use excessive heat or force to transform an object. We use magic.”
“That makes sense. Could I turn that iron ore into a knife?”
“You could, but it would be brittle and weak just like the ore is. You would need to transform the ore into steel to get what you really wanted.”
“But how do I do that?” Zollin asked.
“Time, concentration, practice: those are the traits of a true wizard. It is simpler to use your strength to take what you want. But that makes you no more than a bully or a tyrant. You must learn to tap the strength deep within yourself and take the time to see things the way they truly are. So here is your lesson for today.” He handed Zollin a thick book titled Anatomy and smiled.
“This book shows you how your body is made, the bones, the muscles, the organs, and so on. I want you to study the book and then search yourself to find what you have learned. Look deeply until you can feel the blood moving through your body. Practice when you eat, feeling the food as it enters the stomach, what happens to it, how it moves through your body. As you go back to town today, practice feeling each flake of snow. See if you can find a quicker way to move through the snowbound land than simply digging a trail.”
“It’ll be dark soon; shouldn’t I wait until tomorrow?” Zollin asked.
“No, you need to work through these lessons before we can move on. Some things you learn through study and others through experience. Each has its own virtue. Take your time—winters are long here in the Great Valley.”
“Great,” Zollin said, standing. He started to pick up his staff and willow belt.
“You won’t need those,” Kelvich said. He reached out and took them from Zollin.
He frowned at the sorcerer as he wrapped his cloak around him and opened the door. The snow was thick and the light was fading. It would take all night to dig his way back to Brighton’s Gate in this, he thought. Not that he would have the strength to do it. He had no tools, and although he could plow a furrow through the snow with his magic, without the belt and staff he wouldn’t be able to sustain himself very long.
See if you can find a quicker way to move through the snowbound land... What did the old man mean by that? He heard the door shut and lock behind him. All right, thousands of flakes floating gently down, he thought, as he took a step into the snow. His foot sank down in snow almost to the top of his boot. This was not going to be easy. He started to take another step but then he thought about the flakes, hundreds of individual flakes just lying gently down on top of one another. He pushed gently with his magic, and the snow packed down in front of him. He took a tentative step, expecting the snow to buckle under his weight. But the snow held firm, and he stood on top of it, several feet above the ground. Before him lay a pristine path out of the trees and through to the open fields that ran down toward Brighton’s Gate.
He moved quickly along, even after nightfall. He could see the lights of the village like a beacon at sea, and he no longer worried about tripping or falling into a ditch. Packing the snow before him was easy enough, although when he reached the edge of the village, he was exhausted, starving, and so cold he felt the moisture of his breath freezing into tiny icicles in his nose. He made his way quickly through the paths made by the townsfolk that day and entered the inn.
There was little activity in the common room. Most people had turned in for the night already, but there was a warm hash made of the leftovers from the night before. Zollin ate three bowls full and nearly a whole loaf of bread. He was sipping some sweet cider and thinking of going to bed himself when he remembered his studies. He sat the book on the table before him—he was near the fire which gave plenty of light for reading. He could have been in his room with a candle, but the common room was warmer.
Before long, engrossed in his study, he found himself alone in the room when a tall, thin man walked quietly into the room. The man came and warmed himself by the fire. After a few moments, he spoke quietly.
“Looks like everyone’s made an early night of it.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Zollin said, trying to be polite.
“You’re one of the newcomers, studying law or something with that old hermit?”
“That’s right,” Zollin said.
The man nodded his head and looked around the darkened room again.
“You mind if I have a seat?” the stranger asked.
“Not at all, but I’m not much company, I’m afraid.”
“That’s no trouble. I’ve seen your father around. He’s a handy man, all right. Moves more like a fighter than a carpenter, though. I guess he’s seen service in the King’s forces?”
“Yeah, he was in the army before he met my mother,” Zollin said.
“King’s Guard?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Aye, well, I don’t mean to pry, just have an inquisitive nature, I do. I’ve always wanted to know things, how they work, what makes them tick, that sort of thing.”
Zollin nodded but didn’t really know what to say.
“For instance,” the man continued. “I’d wonder how a carpenter, even one army trained, could take out three grown men the way your father did. That must have really been something to see.”
Zollin, still looking at his book, was suddenly very still.
“I mean, two men, maybe, but three? That takes some rare skill, I’d say.”
“I took out one of them,” Zollin said as he looked up at the man. “He was bothering the innkeeper’s daughter and he deserved it.”
“Is that right? I guess I heard that, too. Hit him with a stick, didn’t you? I wonder what would make a lad like you do something like that.”
“It’s hard to just sit back and see people mistreating others,” Zollin said. He was scared but his voice didn’t shake. He looked directly at the man, who was staring right back. The stranger had a strange glint in his eyes that gave Zollin a chill that was unrelated to the cold night air.
“I know those three,” said the man. “They are an unsavory bunch, but my boss isn’t too happy that the town would hold up his supplies. He’s looking to make a statement before he comes down to make things right. I reckon you’d make a good messenger.”
“I won’t help you,” Zollin said, wishing he had his staff more than ever. He could feel his power rolling within him. He just wasn’t sure he had the strength to really hurt the man.
<
br /> “Ah, well, no need to actually do anything,” said the man with a smile. Then he whipped his hand toward Zollin and the young wizard felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach. He doubled over and dropped from his seat onto his knees, but then he swung his arm as if he were swatting a fly and the stranger flew into the stone chimney, cracking his head and falling unconscious by the fire.
Zollin looked down and saw the handle of a knife sticking out of his stomach. He fell backward in shock and surprise. Then the pain erupted in his body like a torrential rain storm. His hand was shaking as he took hold of the handle. He knew he needed to act fast or he was going to die. The room was beginning to spin. He closed his mind and allowed his magic to flow around the knife blade inside him. He could tell that his stomach had been pierced, could feel the severed abdomen muscles and the blood seeping into the space between his organs.
He needed to remove the knife, to bind his body back together, but he couldn’t just heal the surface as he had done with Todrek. He needed to heal each wounded area, bit by bit. Only he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to stay conscious that long. He pulled slightly on the knife, and his agony intensified. The blade was still an inch or so into his stomach, which was still stuffed with his supper. Luckily the digestive fluids hadn’t leaked out, nor had too much blood gotten into his stomach. The blade was acting much like a cork in a bottle, but he knew he needed to get the knife out and heal his body. If he could pull the knife out bit by bit and mend each part as he did it, perhaps he could make it. But he had to pull the knife out several inches just to get the blade clear of his stomach. He pulled a bit more, but the pain was overwhelming. His hands were shaking and he knew he needed help, but there was no one around. His mind began to drift, and he savagely focused on the task at hand. He had to do something. He reached for the knife again, but his hands were shaking too much and felt so weak.
Wizard Rising Page 20