Deeper and deeper they went, so deep that the rock walls began to radiate with heat. The passage ended abruptly, the way forward blocked by a solid iron door. Demetry felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There was an electricity to the air — something otherworldly and unnatural. The guards shifted uncomfortably. Sighelm clutched his cudgel tight. Even Warden Cendrik appeared ill-at-ease.
“What is this?” asked Demetry. No one answered. The guards unlocked the collar from around Demetry’s neck and let his body drop to the floor. Demetry was so weak he could hardly lift himself. The rough hands of a guard forced him to stand upright.
Sighelm banged on the door with the butt end of his torch, causing cinders to rain through the air. “Walk to the door and place your hand in the holding lock.”
“Is the warden out there?” called a muffled voice from the other side of the door. The voice had a southern accent. But there was something else there as well, a refinement and focus on elocution that Demetry had only heard amongst members of high society.
Sighelm and the other men eyed Warden Cendrik. For a moment it looked as if Cendrik wouldn’t respond. He sighed. “Yes, I’m out here, Jeremiah.”
“Where’s my letter, warden? It’s overdue by two weeks.”
“First put your hand in the lock. Then we’ll talk.”
There was a long pause on the other side. A hand suddenly materialized through the wall. Demetry jumped back in fright. It took him a moment to realize there was actually a small chute cut into the rock wall that connected the corridor to the prison cell. It was barely large enough to allow an arm to pass through.
Sighelm quickly locked an iron fetter around the reaching hand. A Sundering Stone was set in the iron cuff and it immediately began to glow, illuminating the corridor in bursts of green and blue light.
Demetry’s eyes narrowed. The man inside the cell was a magic, and a powerful one at that.
“The letter, warden.” The hand opened expectantly.
“Not this time, Jeremiah. It will arrive soon, I’m sure.”
“Then why are you here?”
Cendrik motioned to the guards, directing one to unlock the door while the other two grabbed Demetry by the shoulders. They pushed him toward the door. “Wait, what’s going on?” demanded Demetry. He dragged his heels on the ground, desperate to stall.
Chaplain Sighelm stuck his hand in the air, counting down with his fingers. Three. Two. One.
The iron door was flung wide open and Demetry was tossed inside. He landed face first, collecting a mouthful of dirt. The door slammed shut behind him.
“Consider the boy your charge, a gift from the king,” called Warden Cendrik, his voice now muffled by the sealed door. “What you do with the lad is completely up to you.”
Demetry’s new cellmate was already free from his arm shackle. He approached Demetry with lengthy strides, his movements not without menace. Demetry tried to scurry to his feet, but before he could, the man planted a foot on Demetry’s chest and shoved him back to the ground.
A smokeless fire sputtered into existence in a brazier set at the center of the room, illuminating the man’s face in orange light. The man possessed the dark complexion of a Kari or Donastian. Old, but not ancient, his face was pockmarked and wrinkled. A charcoal beard jutted from his chin, crafted to a careful point. “Who are you?” demanded Jeremiah.
“Demetry,” he managed to squeak. The man was pressing down on Demetry’s chest so hard he could hardly breathe.
“From where?”
“Taper.”
“You’re a magic.” Jeremiah’s brow furrowed. Demetry couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad sign. “Before you attended Taper, were you a street rat, a beggar, a cut purse? Have you ever lived in a Yanish orphanage?” He pressed down harder with his foot, digging his toe into Demetry’s sternum.
“The Nexus. I lived with my mother in the Warrens,” blurted Demetry. “She died of the plague.”
Jeremiah chewed his tongue, mulling over that tidbit of information. Seemingly satisfied with the answer, he stepped back and jutted out his hand, helping Demetry to his feet. “Well met, Demetry, the orphan boy from Taper. I am Jeremiah.” He gave Demetry’s hand a friendly shake but wouldn’t let go. His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, Demetry. What part do you play in the king’s ploy?”
“I don’t understand.” Demetry tried to pull his hand free from Jeremiah’s grasp, but the man was impossibly strong. It was like having his hand stuck in a bear trap.
“Are you a spy, sent to learn my secrets?” asked Jeremiah as he slowly backed Demetry toward the wall. “Or perhaps you are an assassin, sent to kill me in my sleep?”
Demetry was quite certain he wasn’t either of those things. “I’m down here because the warden thinks I’m dangerous,” said Demetry. With a sharp tug he managed to yank his hand free of Jeremiah’s grasp. “I used magic to break down the door of my cell. I think the warden is worried I might escape.” Demetry decided it was best not to mention the fate of his last cellmate.
Jeremiah’s brow furrowed. “I would prefer you don’t attempt such a stunt here — you’ll likely kill us both.” Jeremiah snapped his fingers and the fire in the brazier flared, the flames reaching higher and higher until they licked at the ceiling. The entire space was cast in brilliant light. For the first time, Demetry realized they were standing in a massive room, even larger than the dormitory he shared with nine other boys back in Taper. The walls were rough cut granite, giving Demetry the impression that this space had been hollowed out by miners in some age long since past. The ceiling was crumbling rock and looked eager to collapse at any moment. The only thing holding the colossal weight of the earth at bay was a network of stone buttresses that crisscrossed the ceiling like a spider’s web.
Jeremiah pointed to a pair of columns that flanked either side of the iron door. “The supports holding up the ceiling will give way long before the door. Try to knock down the door and this cell will become your tomb.” He smacked his hands together for effect.
Demetry turned his attention to the rest of the room. To his great surprise the space actually was something quite special. There was a down mattress, a writing desk, an old rocking chair, and a pair of shelves stacked high with books. A worn rug lay in the middle of the room. A cooking pot and utensils were stacked beside the brazier. The furnishings would be considered meager in the outside world, but here, deep within the depths of Coljack, they seemed kingly indeed. Demetry couldn’t help but grin. “What punishment is this?”
“It’s punishment enough,” replied Jeremiah with a discontented snort. “You are not free, nor will you ever be. Men are not sent to Coljack to serve their time. They are imprisoned here so that their minds turn to mush.” He gave Demetry’s head a soft rap with his knuckle. “Down here, beyond the reach of the sun and the evening sky, an hour can seem like a day, a day can seem like a week, and a year can be mistaken for a month. It’s easy to become unhinged.” There was a glint in the old man’s eye — resistance was how Demetry would best describe it. Coljack had not broken him yet.
Jeremiah issued a weary sigh and sat down in his rocking chair. “We’ll have to see about getting you a bed. Another chair would also be nice.” Jeremiah stroked his beard. “The warden still owes me a few favors. I’ll see what I can arrange.”
“How long have you been down here?” asked Demetry, as he walked a circuit around the room.
Jeremiah squinted at the floor, as if the answer was somehow hidden in the stone. “Thirteen years, nine months, and three days.”
Demetry’s three months locked in a cell with Clyde felt like an eternity — he couldn’t imagine spending thirteen years down here, buried beneath the earth, locked behind an iron door, hidden from the sun, fresh air, and trees. Pity entered his heart, then fear. Am I destined to suffer the same fate?
Completing his circuit, Demetry sat down cross-legged before Jeremiah. “Have you been alone all this time?”
“I have my bo
oks, my writings, my letters.” Jeremiah motioned to the bookshelf. “Sometimes the warden pays me a visit. We play our games, each trying to get the other to admit more than they intend. There’s a lad who thinks he’s a great deal more clever than he actually is. A seer’s intuition will do that.”
“Warden Cendrik is a seer?” exclaimed Demetry with surprise. That might explain why Cendrik was so certain Demetry could channel the Old Magic — Cendrik had already envisioned it happening in his head. Demetry wondered what else the warden already knew.
“Indeed he is, but that’s a conversation for another time,” said Jeremiah, waving off the question. “Lets have a look at those wounds. It appears the Yanish Brothers were not gentle.”
Demetry shuffled forward on his knees. Jeremiah prodded at the lengthy gash in Demetry’s scalp. “They did a ghastly job suturing this wound. As to the bruising around your neck — it will subside in a few days, but I might be able to do something to alleviate the pain in the meantime.” Jeremiah traced his finger along Demetry’s wounds and muttered a few words in the ancient tongue. A blue aura emitted from his hand and Demetry’s pain immediately began to ease.
It was a simple healing incantation, the type of spell even the youngest Taper acolyte knew by heart. Still, Demetry didn’t know how to respond. Never in his life had a complete stranger been so kind. He watched the elderly magic work his trade in breathless wonder. Jeremiah finally reached the lacerations crisscrossing Demetry’s back.
“Let me have a look.” He gave Demetry’s shirt a gentle tug, but the shirt didn’t budge. Blood and pus had seeped from the wounds, gluing Demetry’s shirt to his back.
Demetry shrugged away Jeremiah’s hand. “These scars I keep.”
Jeremiah lifted an eyebrow. “You wish to bear a reminder of your torture? Do you hope the scars will give you resolve?” Jeremiah lifted the hem of his shirt, exposing a lengthy scar that ran from his hip bone to his navel. “Scars are just scars, Demetry. They don’t define you. If you require them to find purpose, you are already venturing down the path of the damned.”
“The lash marks stay,” said Demetry sternly.
The disapproval was evident in Jeremiah’s eyes, but he let the matter drop. “You look famished. How about something to eat?” He reached up the billowing sleeve of his shirt and produced an unblemished red apple.
Demetry’s eyes flared wide. He collected the apple as if it were a prized possession. “They bring you food such as this?” Demetry took a greedy bite. It tasted delicious. The skin was crisp, the pulp inside was juicy and tart.
“Of course not,” said Jeremiah, producing another apple from his sleeve. “You’re thinking with your stomach, not your mind.”
“You conjure the apple with magic.”
“Correct.”
“But you didn’t say a word.”
“Correct again.”
“Which means you used the Old Magic.”
Jeremiah grinned.
The realization hit Demetry like a lead weight. The cell buried in the depths of the earth. The insane security precautions. The ability to manifest the Old Magic at will. All of the evidence pointed to one conclusion. “You’re not just any Jeremiah. You’re Jeremiah of Brothlo, aren’t you?”
Jeremiah didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The glint in the old man’s eyes was answer enough. Demetry was sharing a cell with one of the most infamous magics in Laverian history. The instructors at Taper used Jeremiah’s life story as a cautionary tale about the dangers of the dark arts and the treacherous allure of power. Once a promising pupil at Taper, Jeremiah abandoned his New Magic training and swore allegiance to the Wyrm. He was trained in the ways of the Old Magic by the gods themselves, and eventually became one of the most powerful magics alive.
When the War of Sundering erupted, Jeremiah became the Wyrm’s top general. He slaughtered thousands in the name of his demonic gods. A villain by any measure, he should have been killed following his capture. But King Johan was unwilling to execute a man of such rare talent. Jeremiah became the king’s court magic, a honed weapon used to make other men bow to the dominion of the throne. Unfortunately for the king, Jeremiah’s loyalty was just a ruse. When the opportunity arose, he betrayed the king and stole his most prized possession, the Orb of Azure, an ancient artifact that contained the power to turn a mortal into a god. Given Jeremiah’s current condition, he had obviously not remained free long enough to unlock the Orb’s power.
“You’re in here because you stole the Orb of Azure.”
Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “Do you now understand why I perceive you as a threat?”
“The king’s ploy.”
Jeremiah nodded. “Warden Cendrik and I have played this game for over a decade.” He motioned to the furnishings and books that filled the chamber. “Cendrik bribes me with gifts, hoping they will loosen my tongue. What happened on the night the Orb of Azure disappeared, he often asks. Did I see it? Did I touch it? Did I keep it for myself? He believes his seer’s intuition can pierce my shroud of misdirection and half-truths. Thus far I have thwarted his efforts. So Cendrik has brought me a new gift. You.”
Demetry eyed Jeremiah with confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Whether you know it or not, you have been put here to spy on me. To break me down, to win my favor, my trust, perhaps even my friendship and love. In time you will ask me of the Orb’s whereabouts — your intent innocent enough. The question is, will I refuse you the answer?”
“Of course you will, just as you have done with Cendrik.”
Jeremiah shrugged. “Back and forth we will go, until one day, maybe a few months from now, maybe a few years, I will finally give in. You will have all you need to buy your freedom. I have accepted a lifetime of imprisonment to keep my secret. Would you be willing to do the same?”
Demetry didn’t know how to answer. If he had a way out of Coljack he would take it — wasn’t that how any sensible man would behave? Despite this fact, he heard himself saying something to the contrary. “Keep your secrets concerning the Orb. Teach me your magic instead.”
The proposition surprised Jeremiah. He leaned back in his chair and thumbed his chin. “I could teach you a few tricks, but in truth I am a poor instructor. I have only ever had one pupil, and I fear to say I caused more harm than good.”
“Then we can learn together,” said Demetry, finding himself genuinely excited by the prospect. “You can learn to teach, and I can learn to create. I will not be a burden, I promise.”
The elderly magic eyed the youth keenly. “You are dangerous, Demetry. I can sense your energy. Currently, you are wild and untamed, but there is a great potency hidden within you. Magic is treacherous, and the type that I know is most treacherous of all. If you are to become my pupil you must promise me this; you are not to press me for knowledge until I say you are ready. A true student must bow to the teacher’s will.”
“You have my promise,” said Demetry. He crossed his hands over his heart and edged closer.
Jeremiah chewed at his lip, still unsure. Finally, he sighed with resignation. “Very well,” said Jeremiah, his frown slowly turning into a smile. “Lesson one is the apple.” He held up an apple and began his lecture.
CHAPTER
VII
MASTER AND APPRENTICE
“THE ESSENTIAL RULE THAT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND, before I can teach you another thing, is that all you ever learned at Taper was a lie.” Jeremiah was standing behind his desk, using it as a lectern. Scribbled notes and crossed out lists covered the surface. “That knowledge served as a distraction to deny you your full potential.”
“Truly, you are exaggerating,” said Demetry. He was lounging on the bumpy hay-filled mattress the warden called a bed.
Jeremiah gave him a look that implied he most definitely was not. “Do this, create an apple for me.”
Demetry sat up cross-legged and began to murmur the words to the spell. It was one of the hundreds of New Magic spells Jeremiah had t
aught him in the past few months. Demetry was eager to learn the Old Magic, but for some reason Jeremiah was holding back. To prove he was ready, Demetry worked on each New Magic incantation until he had it practiced to perfection. Then he would practice some more, often staying awake long after Jeremiah had fallen asleep. Demetry hoped his hard work ethic would convince Jeremiah he was ready to take the next step. Thus far, it had not. Demetry was beginning to worry Jeremiah was going to back out on his promise.
“He’s holding back because he fears you,” whispered a nagging voice in the recesses of Demetry’s mind. “He knows what you are. He knows what you will become. Jeremiah’s no better than the headmaster and his brat nephew.”
Demetry silenced the paranoid opinion with a shake of his head and focused on the task at hand. His voice rose and fell as he began the New Magic incantation to summon an apple. The words painted an image in his mind; red flesh, spongy interior, seeds black as jet. He could feel the fruit start to take form in his hand. Only one more cycle through the refrain and it would materialize. Suddenly, something thwacked him in the head. Demetry looked up to discover Jeremiah had his arm cocked back and was ready to throw a second apple.
“What was that?” demanded Demetry, raising his hands in defense.
“An apple.”
“I don't understand.”
“Life is an endless game of twisting words to match your thoughts. Yet which is the weaker lot?” Jeremiah edged closer, tossing the apple from hand to hand. His lips were curled in a devilish smirk. “Words obscure our true meaning. Thoughts are endless. Thus the New Magic limits us. Do you know who taught men how to use the New Magic?”
“The Guardians.”
Jeremiah nodded.
“When the first generation of magic wielders came into their powers, there were no spells, no incantations, no knowledge of the void, or comprehension of the Sundered Soul,” said Jeremiah, his voice deepening as it took on the tone he often used while lecturing. “The first generation knew only one type of magic — the Old Magic, the magic of the mind. The results were catastrophic. Cities burned, warlocks claimed dominion, entire empires fell.”
A Wizard's Dark Dominion (The Gods and Kings Chronicles Book 1) Page 9