A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “You felt that?” Saria asked as he approached.

  “Yes,” Anrel said. “Valin will not be pleased.”

  “Then you think Urunar Kazien is dead?”

  “Of course. I have little experience of black sorcery, but what else could it have been?”

  “For it to be felt so strongly here—that was powerful magic, indeed!”

  Anrel shrugged. “No one has ever questioned Lord Allutar’s sorcerous prowess.”

  “Do you think it worked?”

  “We may not know that until next year’s harvest.”

  “Let us hope it worked,” Dorias said. “It’s been several years now since the Raish Valley could feed as many as it should.”

  “I would not want Master Kazien to have died in vain,” Anrel replied.

  “I wonder,” Saria said, “whether there was anything left over to make heartsblood wine.”

  Anrel glanced at her, but did not ask why. His grasp of the exact nature of the notorious magical decoction was vague, but he knew it could be used to bind lovers indissolubly; perhaps she was thinking of her intended marriage.

  A few moments later Valin joined them, but no one spoke; Anrel did not know what to say, under the circumstances. He was unsure whether Valin had realized the situation.

  The four of them stood in awkward silence while the servants took their turns before the sacred stones. After that the main ceremony began, with Lord Dorias serving as deacon, leading the party in the traditional prayers of thanksgiving to the Father and the Mother, the sky and the earth, and then reciting the catalogue of wonders, from seas and stars down to the salt of the earth, that had been given to humankind. That was followed by the customary brief sermon about the shortening days and growing nights, and the celebrants’ faith that the annual cycle would proceed as it had ever since the great wizards of old first brought these lands out of chaos and bound them to a stable form and a regular calendar. Throughout this speech, no one had the opportunity to say anything other than the words of the ritual.

  Finally, as the sun neared the crown of the hill to the west, Lord Dorias gave the final benediction, and the entire party started back toward the house. Anrel eyed Valin uncertainly as they walked, but it was Saria who finally murmured something in his ear.

  Valin turned to look at her. “Are you sure?” he asked, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “What else could it have been?”

  Anrel did not hear Valin’s reply; the conversation with Saria sank to a whisper.

  They arrived safely home, where the cook had already returned from her own rites and was preparing the autumnal breakfast. Valin seemed unnaturally quiet as they settled in and awaited the call to the table.

  He remained thoughtful and reserved throughout the meal, and ate sparingly.

  As they pushed back from the table, though, Valin announced, “I must speak with Lord Allutar.”

  “Not tonight,” Dorias said. “Not at this hour. Not on the equinox.”

  There was really little argument Valin could make to that. “In the morning, then,” he said.

  “I cannot stop you,” Dorias said. “I would advise against it, however.”

  The next day Anrel awoke, dressed, and came downstairs to discover that Valin had already left, perhaps a quarter hour before, intent on seeing Lord Allutar.

  Anrel hesitated, then grabbed his hat and set out after his friend.

  He had expected to go through the village and up to the landgrave’s home, but that proved unnecessary; he found Lord Valin sitting at a table in the town square, talking to the big, well-dressed Quandishman, Lord Blackfield.

  Relieved to find Valin alive and calm, Anrel ambled over and asked, “May I join you?”

  “By all means,” Valin said, gesturing to an empty chair. “Lord Blackfield is waiting for the next westbound coach, and I am keeping him company until it arrives.”

  Anrel considered for a moment, and looked at the eastern sky, where the sun was not yet clear of the rooftops. The morning coach started from Kuriel at first light, when the driver could manage it.

  “It should be here any minute,” he said.

  “That was my opinion, as well,” Valin said.

  “Then you are leaving us, Lord Blackfield?” Anrel said, taking the proffered seat.

  “I am afraid so,” the Quandishman said.

  “We have had no chance to speak. I am Anrel Murau.”

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Master Murau, however briefly.” He offered a hand, which Anrel shook. “I am Barzal of Blackfield. You spoke most pragmatically at that gathering in the landgrave’s hall the other day.”

  “I had no reason to do otherwise,” Anrel said, noting that Lord Blackfield’s name and title followed the Quandish rules, and indicated that he was not merely a lord, but the head of his family. Otherwise he would have been “Lord Barzal.”

  Walasian nobles made no such distinction, of course, or else Uncle Dorias would have been “Lord Adirane.”

  “I knew nothing I could say would sway Lord Allutar,” Anrel added.

  “Indeed, we none of us swayed him in the slightest, did we?” Lord Blackfield sighed. “The boy is dead. His heart was cut out, and his blood offered to the spirits of the earth.”

  “I believe we felt something of the spell’s impact,” Anrel remarked.

  “Most probably. Dark sorcery reaches far and wide, and has subtler effects than its practitioners know.” He shook his head. “I tell you, your Walasian sorcerers do not understand what they are doing, experimenting with such magic.”

  National pride swelled in Anrel’s breast. “But surely, our magicians know as much of magic as anyone! Is not ours the heartland of the Old Empire that was home to the mightiest wizards of the ancient world?”

  “Oh, the Walasian Empire is unquestionably the core of the Bound Lands, but the wizards of old vanished, and took much of their knowledge with them,” Lord Blackfield said. “I do not deny the remarkable abilities of your sorcerers, who have done their best to preserve and expand their magical heritage, but I think they have become overconfident because they live in the heart of the Bound Lands. Walasia is too safe, too stable, the ancient bindings too strong, to let your magicians remember what magic can do. Here the sun rises on schedule every morning, and sets in its proper place each evening; it is always the same color, the same size. Throughout the empire each season is ninety-one days, year after year, without change. Every animal brings forth its own kind; every seed bears the appropriate fruit. In Quand this is not always the case; while the Quandish Peninsula is partially in the Bound Lands and quite stable, there are islands in the outer reaches of the Quandish Archipelago where a season may last no more than a single afternoon, where a cow may bear kittens and calves grow on trees. We have constant reminders of what can happen when magic is not properly controlled.”

  “But this is not the archipelago, nor the Ermetian mystery lands, nor anywhere else on the fringes of the world,” Anrel protested. “We are safely in the Bound Lands.”

  Lord Blackfield shook his head. “Even here, black magic cannot be trusted; there are always hidden costs, as there are not in the straightforward bindings and wardings of everyday spells.”

  “Lord Allutar thought you exaggerated these costs,” Valin said.

  “I can only hope, for his sake, that he is right and I am wrong. I was certainly unable to convince him of my position.”

  “Is that why you’re leaving, then?” Anrel asked.

  “In part.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  “I will be making one more call in Kerdery, at a village called Darmolir, and then heading back home to Quand.”

  “Darmolir? I don’t believe I know it,” Valin said.

  “It’s not on the well-trodden path,” the Quandishman acknowledged. “Indeed, there are no public coaches that go there; I have sent for my own coachman to meet me in Lower Pelzin.”

  “What takes you to Darmolir?”
Anrel asked. “Are there no more black sorcerers to discourage here in Aulix?”

  “There may be,” Lord Blackfield said. “But I am tired, and intend to make only this one more visit before returning home for the winter.”

  “A sorcerer in Darmolir? The burgrave, perhaps?”

  “A good guess, Master Murau. Yes, Lord Salchen Elbar is the burgrave of Darmolir.”

  “Is he planning to eviscerate someone for the solstice, then?”

  Lord Blackfield gave a bray of laughter. “You have a harsh wit, Master Murau,” he said. “No, Lord Salchen’s experiments in black sorcery have drawn on other sources of power than death, and his cruelties have been subtler—though perhaps all the more effective for that.”

  At that moment all three men heard a rattle, and looked up to see the westbound coach entering the square, wheels and hooves clattering on the cobbles. The Quandishman rose.

  “I’m told the coachman is impatient of delays,” he said. “I hope you will forgive me if I take my leave in haste.”

  “Of course,” Valin said. He, too, got to his feet. “Let us accompany you to the coach, at least. Shall I carry that bag for you?”

  “That would be most kind.”

  A moment later, the trio approached the coach. The driver saw them as he clambered down from his perch. “Ah, masters,” he said. “I have messages from Lume for Lord Allutar and Lord Dorias; could you tell me who I must see to ensure they are received?”

  Startled, Anrel and Valin exchanged glances.

  “I am Lord Valin,” Valin said. “I can take the messages.”

  “I am Lord Dorias’s nephew,” Anrel said. “I can accept his, if you would like.”

  “And I am a passenger bound for Lower Pelzin,” Lord Blackfield said, “so I cannot help, other than to assure you that these two are indeed who they claim to be.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the driver said. “Lower Pelzin is a day and a half from here, but we can get you there.”

  “Excellent.”

  “The messages?” Valin said.

  “A moment,” the coachman said. He made his way to the rear of his vehicle, and proceeded to open several locks and latches before producing two envelopes. He handed one to Valin, the other to Anrel.

  “That’s the emperor’s seal,” Anrel said, looking at his prize.

  “But the emperor sends messengers!” Valin protested. “He doesn’t just post a letter!”

  “He did this time,” the driver said, as he closed up the locks. “Or someone did. Perhaps there aren’t enough messengers in Lume to have carried all of these—there’s a letter there for every burgrave on my route, and for the landgrave of Kerdery, and for the margrave of Kallai. I’d guess the lords along the other coach roads are getting letters, as well.”

  “But only imperial officials?” Valin asked. “Not every noble?”

  “Only the landgraves, the burgraves, and the margrave,” the driver said, as he loaded Lord Blackfield’s luggage. “No one else. Not even the Lords Magistrate.”

  “That’s quite enough,” Anrel said. “Is it about the Grand Council?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir. I know better than to open a sorcerer’s mail, and I can’t wait around until the lords open their own; I have a schedule to keep.” He finished lashing the canvas in place, closed the door behind Lord Blackfield, and swung himself up onto his bench.

  Valin and Anrel stepped back out of his way, and watched silently as the driver shook out the reins, called to his team, and got the coach rolling. They waved a farewell to Lord Blackfield, and waited as the vehicle rattled out of the square.

  Then Valin looked down at the envelope he held.

  “It would seem I have more business with Lord Allutar than I had thought,” he said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Anrel said.

  “What of the message for Lord Dorias?”

  “I think my uncle can wait.”

  “And you think I am likely to cause trouble if I confront the landgrave alone.”

  “The possibility had occurred to me, yes.”

  Valin smiled. “Come along, then. Let us not keep the great man waiting!”

  9

  In Which Lord Valin Delivers a Message

  from the Emperor

  The footman who answered the door did not admit the two visitors immediately.

  “Lord Allutar was quite emphatic about it, my lord,” he told Valin. “I am to admit no one without his explicit command.”

  “We have a message for him from the emperor,” Valin said, holding up the envelope.

  “I can see that he gets it, my lord . . .”

  “No,” Valin said, “I shall see that he receives it, directly from my own hand. I assured the coachman that I would make certain it reached its destination.”

  The footman frowned. “If you would wait here, my lord?”

  “Very well.”

  The footman closed the door, leaving the two standing in the portico, and Anrel remarked, “You could have just handed it to the man.”

  “But I prefer to see for myself that Lord Allutar receives it,” Valin replied with a smile.

  Anrel shook his head. He knew perfectly well that Valin was hoping for a confrontation over Urunar’s death, and the emperor’s letter was merely an excuse.

  A moment later the footman reappeared. “This way, my lord,” he said. He hesitated when Anrel followed Valin inside, then shrugged and led both of them to a small, bare room Anrel did not recall ever having seen before.

  “The landgrave will join you shortly,” the footman said. Then he departed, closing the door behind him, leaving the two men alone.

  Anrel glanced around, and realized there was nowhere to sit. “Lord Allutar is not exactly putting any great effort into hospitality today, is he?” he said wryly.

  The room consisted of four bare stone walls, a single diamond-paned casement, a tile floor, two heavy wooden doors, and a vaulted ceiling; there were no furnishings at all. A less welcoming prospect was difficult to imagine.

  “Perhaps he wants to be sure we won’t pocket the silver,” Valin answered.

  Before Anrel could respond, one of the doors opened and Lord Allutar appeared. He looked tired, as if he had not slept well, and his collar was askew.

  “Lord Valin,” he said. “Hollem tells me you have something of mine?”

  “A message from the emperor, newly arrived on the morning stage,” Valin said, displaying the envelope. “I assured the coachman I would see that it reached you.”

  “Then see that it reaches me,” Allutar said, holding out a hand.

  “Of course,” Valin said, making no move to deliver the envelope. “Might I ask, though, how you feel this morning? Frankly, you do not appear to be at your best.”

  “My well-being is no concern of yours, my lord,” Allutar said.

  “On the contrary, my lord, I am a resident of Aulix, and you are the landgrave of Aulix. Your health is very much the concern of everyone in the province.”

  Allutar gazed calmly at him. “My health is excellent, Lord Valin.”

  “Then you were not troubled by cutting the still-beating heart out of a man’s chest yesterday?”

  Anrel drew in his breath, but Allutar gave no sign of annoyance. The landgrave answered in calm, measured tones, “I was revolted by the experience, my lord, but I felt it necessary. I do not regret my actions.”

  “And you still believe that black magic is an appropriate employment of your skills?”

  “I do, my lord. My letter?”

  “You felt no ill effects from the spell?”

  “What I felt or did not feel is my business. The letter, please.” His outstretched hand still waited.

  Valin began to say something else, but Anrel could stand it no longer. “Father and Mother, Valin, give him the blasted letter!”

  Startled, Valin turned to look at his companion, and Allutar snatched the envelope from his hand. Before either Anrel or Valin could say another word, he tore it
open and pulled out the letter inside. He read it quickly—Anrel could see that there were only a few lines of text.

  Allutar frowned. He held the paper up to the light from the casement. “It appears genuine,” he said.

  “The possibility of fraud had not occurred to me,” Valin said.

  “That does not surprise me,” Allutar retorted. He looked Valin in the eye. “Have you read it?”

  Valin lifted his chin haughtily. “I am not in the habit of reading the private correspondence of others,” he said.

  “No, you are in the habit of sitting in wineshops in Naith and holding forth on subjects of which you know nothing,” Allutar retorted. “However, one can occasionally do things other than the habitual.”

  Stung, Valin drew himself up to his full height. “I delivered the letter still sealed,” he said. “Unopened and unread.”

  “You claim to be a sorcerer,” Allutar said. “Any magician worthy of the name could have restored the seal after reading this.”

  “I give you my word I did not,” Valin said coldly.

  “Then you do not know what it says?”

  “I do not.”

  Allutar stared at Valin for a moment, then shrugged. “You will know soon enough; I might as well tell you, though it will undoubtedly please you.”

  “I doubt anything you might say would please me,” Valin replied.

  “But it is the emperor who says this, my lord. He has changed his mind again, and put an end to the confusion regarding the makeup of the Grand Council.”

  “Oh?”

  “In the interests of avoiding strife, he says, he commands that every landgrave, every margrave, and every burgrave shall appoint a single representative to the Grand Council, in conference with the other nobles in his demesne.”

  “That hardly pleases me,” Valin said.

  “Nor did I think otherwise,” Allutar said. “But he likewise commands that the commoners in each jurisdiction shall elect one of their own number, so that fully one-half the council will be commoners, chosen by commoners.” He flung the letter at Valin. “See for yourself.”

  Valin caught the letter and turned it. He read hastily.

  “How are these elections to be managed, my lord?” Anrel asked. “Is that set forth?”