The Guild

by Jean Johnson

  “Which way is it to the dungeons, Rexei?” Alonnen called out. “I think I got turned around in here somewhere . . .”

  Leaving her writing efforts behind, Rexei stood and crossed to the mirror. She had to frown and think. Without the original carvings on the walls, without the symbols of mighty Mekha conquering His enemies via piston and powder, engine and gear, it was hard to tell where the paper bugs were. Alonnen tapped through the different viewpoints available until she spotted a familiar pattern of two doors close together with a third offset just on the other side of the hall.

  “Le—no, right,” she corrected herself. “Back up to the right; when you turn around, it’ll be on your left. That’s the door to the forbidden basement. Yes, that one there,” she confirmed as the bug currently showing the scrying view in the mirror scuttled toward the tall-by-comparison door.

  There was just enough room underneath the thick, iron-reinforced wood for even the tallest of the paper roaches to crawl. Alonnen sent five that way. Someone was coming up the stairwell; he tucked them into the corners of the steps so that they wouldn’t be easily noticed, and tapped in an order on the controlling tablet to have them sit and wait.

  Switching to the others, he quickly guided three of the remaining four to hide until the novice had passed, then sent them off to invade the higher-ranked priests’ studies, including the archbishop’s. The fourth, he guided all the way to the dining hall, where he had it climb up and tuck itself into a high corner, resulting in a pretty good view of the whole chamber.

  Once those were positioned in high crevices, Alonnen went back to the first five, sending them scurrying down the remainder of the steps. Here, Rexei wasn’t quite as sure where to go, but that was alright; in the dungeons was where most of the temple’s masculine inhabitants were found. Specifically, in the chamber at the heart of the great circular corridors. All three levels had doors that led into the room, or rather, onto terraced levels that had once probably held crystals on pillars, but which now held scattered cushions and the occasional chair and writing desk.

  Some of those seats were occupied, but at least half the gathered priesthood stood on the main floor, watching as the tall, brown-haired foreigner coaxed the gray-haired Bishop Koler through the steps of conjuring a demon.

  “. . . don’t forget to include the name of the recipient of the energies in question—remember, students,” their erstwhile instructor stated, “if you use this energy for yourself directly and solely, you could end up tainting yourself with the madness of the Netherhells. Instead, offer it as a gift to your brethren, with the purity of that intention at heart.”

  Rexei shivered at the not-quite-mocking way he said that. She didn’t know much about magic, but she did know a little bit about blood magic, thanks to the instruction she had received in the outermost circle of the Vortex a few months back. It made a terrible sort of sense that giving the collected power to someone else to use would remove most of the Netherhell taint. That was, if draining magic from a demon was anything like spilling blood to raise power.

  “Are the runes correct, Master Torven?” Bishop Koler asked politely, almost respectfully, letting Rexei know that the mage had come a long way from his status as a mere prisoner. She wrinkled her nose at the implications of that.

  “Torven?” Alonnen repeated, staring at the face visible in his scrying mirror. The foreigner walked around the chalked lines scribed on the floor as Alonnen and Rexei watched. One good look at that distinctive Aian face, and he reared back. “Oh bloody Netherhells . . . it is him. I’d wondered if it was.”

  Rexei frowned. “You know him? But how, if he’s a foreigner? I couldn’t quite catch his name myself when he was being interrogated. I was forced to hide in the next room and had to strain my ears to hear.”

  Alonnen shrugged. “Late last summer I was contacted by Guardian Kerric. He wanted to exile a group of adventurers that had tried to wrest control of the Tower from him—this man being their leader,” he added, lifting his chin at the Aian mage. “The worst of the lot. Cunning, ambitious, self-centered, greedy . . . but rather too self-controlled to destroy himself with his own mistakes. Unfortunately.

  “Sir Vedell of Arbra wasn’t at his Fountain at the time the deal was being made, so I stepped in and offered to dump them on the Arbran/Mekhanan border. On the Arbran side by a good thirty miles,” he added at her swift, sharp look. “It was as far away as I could get the mirror-Gate to work in conjunction with the Fountainways used to transport them all the way from eastern Aiar. Even a would-be power thief didn’t deserve capture by Mekha’s troops, or so I thought . . . though now I’m regretting my kindness. If he’s the one behind this Netherhell effort, then he is the one we have to take out. Remove him, and everything will collapse.”

  “Maybe not,” Rexei cautioned him, recalling something. “The others . . . they sent word to the other temples. We don’t know how many have agreed to follow his teachings. We don’t know how easy it is to teach someone to conjure a demon. And we don’t know whether or not removing this Torven fellow will prevent the invasion . . . or cause it to happen. What the others in your Guild told me when I first met them as a journeyman Messenger still applies.”

  Alonnen gave her a curious look. “What’s that?”

  “That a half-trained mage is more dangerous than we may realize.” She gestured at the mirror, where Mage Torven was scowling and lecturing two of the novices about not attempting any of this on their own. The guilty flush of their cheeks and their lowered gazes showed how close a probability that had been.

  “. . . In fact, I don’t want any of you to try this on your own, all the way up through to the archbishop himself,” Torven added sternly. “We still haven’t found the right Netherhell, and we will not act precipitously. One false step, one overconfident step, and we are all dead. These aren’t cowering civilians in the streets. These are monsters from our blackest nightmares, and they will seek any excuse to rip us to shreds and feast upon our remains. Some may even prefer to devour us one bite at a time while we’re still alive and screaming.”

  Rexei winced. So did Alonnen, she noticed. The Aian mage continued his lecturing as they secretly watched.

  “There will be no rushing, no practicing unsupervised, and no mistakes allowed. Elcarei has arranged for your brethren who are interested in joining us to begin transporting themselves here to learn. Patience is our new holy motto,” they heard him say as he paced slowly around the larger circle. “Learn it . . . or I will ensure you die by your own hand, just to sate the demons’ bloodlusts and seal whatever Gate you crack open by accident—and I’ll remind you, unlike you, I am fully trained in three foreign methods. Not just of magic but of magical combat.”

  A slash of his hand and a snap of his fingers jerked one of the two novices to his feet, even though the Aian man had his back to the velvet-clad ex-Mekhanan.

  “I—I’m a little kettle, squat and broad!” the teenager stammered, eyes wide as his lips moved without his will. One hand flung itself up, the other hand thumped onto his hip in a fist. “Here is my h-handle! Here i-is my spigot!”

  A second snap let the youth go. He staggered back, blinked a couple times in fear, then quickly sat himself down again.

  “The poem rhymes in Aian,” Torven stated, his dry words filling the confused silence. “Suffice it to say, I am quite adept . . . but I am nothing compared to the wiles of a demon, should a brief moment of carelessness, of rushing things, allow one of them to get free.” He turned back to Koler and nodded at the chalked circle. “Your containment runes are almost perfect, bishop.”

  Koler smiled smugly. Torven did not smile back in return.

  “Almost is not good enough. The circle has a small wobble in it, to your right. That’s a point of weakness that is potentially exploitable. Perhaps a weak demon would not be able to break free, but we will learn to do everything correctly from the earliest stages onward.
The Aians have a saying, ‘Begin as you mean to go on.’ So let us begin again, Koler,” Torven directed, clapping his hand on the older mage’s shoulder. “You may use an erasing spell to fully clean the stone, and this time you may use a compass spell to ensure the innermost circle is smooth.

  “Drawing it by hand was a learning example, to show how even the smallest flaws can be a cause for concern. Your patience at this stage in the learning process, bishop, is deeply appreciated,” he finished, before stepping back.

  “Dammit,” Alonnen muttered, watching the older priest comply. “This isn’t right.”

  “What’s wrong now?” Rexei asked him, confused. “Because of his thoroughness, it sounds as if we’ll actually have time to figure out how to counter their intentions before they actually start summoning in earnest.”

  “He’s being too cautious,” he complained. “For a man of such overwhelming arrogance as I saw over the last few months, he should have some flaws—not that I’m complaining about having the time to study the problem and come up with something solid, but I suspect the only reason why we can scry is because he hasn’t looked at the temple wardings. Now that Mekha isn’t blocking us out, what protections are left aren’t quite good enough to keep out a double-focus like this paper-bug-and-mirror system Pelai sent me.

  “I suspect that’ll end once they get around to reinforcing the shielding, particularly with this fellow’s help. He’s far too clever. Cautious and clever are great traits in an ally,” Alonnen said, giving Rexei a brief smile. He then lifted his chin at the mirror, “But they’re frustrating in an enemy.”

  “So he’s arrogant, but he’s not overconfident,” she murmured. “And charming enough to have won over his former jailors.”

  “Exactly. Arrogance coupled with overconfidence was the flaw of many a priest . . . and I can see it is just about time for supper.” Hearing Rexei sigh, he glanced at her. “What now?”

  She turned to lean against the wall next to the mirror, folding her arms. “Gabria. And everyone who thinks like her. I went down for a cup of mulled cider earlier, and three of the people I passed gave me startled looks, two more wouldn’t meet my eyes, and all five of them practically scuttled away like your little paper bugs, there. I don’t like feeling like a . . . well, like I’m a stupid, arrogant Mekhanan priest.”

  “Time and patience will hopefully bring them around. In the meantime, the other mages have been moved back into town, so that means my brother’s back in his own quarters,” Alonnen told her. He focused on the crystal tablet in his hands, repositioning his paper spies. “I know you’re supposed to be assigned a room . . . which you would have to share, since the inner circle is still pretty full . . . but you’re welcome to take his spot on my sitting room couch.”

  She felt ambivalent over the offer. Gratitude for the fact he offered her a place in his sanctuary. Annoyance for the fact that place was on a couch of all things. Giving in to her sense of humor, Rexei quipped, “Oh, I see how it is. Even you are afraid to let me back into your bed, now that I’ve gone and summoned a Goddess.”

  He grinned and slanted her a mock-chiding look in between positioning his paper spies. “If I truly felt that way, I’d have made you sleep on the couch last night at Big Momma’s. But, if you want . . . you could sleep in my bed. You’d have to share it with me, though. And I’ll give you fair warning, Rexei Longshanks. I find you very appealing. I might ask for a kiss at some point.”

  Looking up from the task of guiding one of the folded-paper bugs across a set of steps, he tried to gauge how she felt about that. From the blush on her cheeks and the shy way she bit her lower lip—darkness swept over the mirror, the image fuzzed, snapped, and shifted to another cockroach’s view. Blinking, he tapped through to the next viewpoint . . . and saw a small smear of color on the steps. Specifically, a bit of squished paper in the wake of a novice coming down off the tiers ringing the chamber.

  “Dammit, I just lost another one!” he complained. A muffled noise made him glance sharply at his companion. Eyes bright, cheeks pink, and bottom lip bitten by her teeth, Rexei tried not to laugh out loud . . . but it was obvious she was laughing. Unable to help it, Alonnen grinned back at her. Only for a moment, though. Turning back to the mirror, he sighed and sent one of the other paper roaches scuttling forward to scoop its mangled, lifeless brethren off the steps. “Right . . . dispose of this one, stash the others in good viewing angles . . . then contact my fellow Guardians to let them know it looks like we have a little breathing room.”

  “I’ll get back to my Charter-drafting,” Rexei agreed, her mirth subsiding. She raked a hand over her short, dark locks. “Part of me wishes I could still be a kid again, responsible only for myself and my own safety. But I’m an adult now, and that means being responsible, respectable, dependable . . .”

  “Lots of words that end in ‘ibble,’ eh?” Alonnen asked, not without sympathy.

  She nodded. Arms crossed on her chest, she stood there for a moment, feeling restless and unsure. An impulse crossed her mind, one that Rexei found herself blurting out, “I want a dress.”

  Alonnen blinked but otherwise showed little surprise. He thought about it, then tipped his head. “That can be arranged. And it’s a good sign.”

  “It is? Of what?” Rexei asked him, unsure what he meant by that.

  He smiled. “That you’re feeling relaxed enough to want to wear a dress, rather than tromp around in trousers all the time. I’m glad you feel you can trust me, and everyone else here.” He made a fluttering, shooing motion with his fingers. “Scuttling away notwithstanding.”

  She blushed and ducked her head a little, but otherwise, she didn’t hide the shy smile that curved her lips. On impulse, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Rexei raised her head a little, her eyes wide with wonder, not fear. Swaying close a second time, Alonnen kissed her on the lips. Soft and sweet, it felt just a little too brief and light for his tastes, but he pulled back anyway. Not far, just enough to break the kiss and look into her brown eyes, wondering how she would react.

  Rexei wondered, too. This wasn’t a stage kiss for some play, and she wasn’t playing the part of a young man at the moment. Alonnen knew she was female, knew she was leery of . . . well, things completely unlike what he had just done, she realized. He kissed me because he wants to kiss me. And he’s . . . he’s nice. A truly nice, good man. Her gaze drifted down his long nose to his lips. And I actually want more.

  Being kissed by him felt natural and right, not staged or forced. She wanted to ask—no, she acted, closing the gap between them without a word. Not just pressing her lips to his, but her chest to his, her arms around his shoulders, her fingers touching the soft ginger curls of his hair. She felt him inhale deeply, and felt the shift of his hands as they cupped her arms. Not to reject, but to accept her kiss, for those hands slipped down to her waist and around the small of her back, holding her closer.

  Warm, hungry, satisfying, the kiss deepened and lengthened until somehow her hands wound up on his ribs underneath his sweater while his landed on her rump, both kneading every bit of flesh they could reach. One particular squeeze on his part lifted her up onto her toes and rubbed her groin up against his. For a moment, she shied from the hardness her body found, then Rexei relaxed into it, accepting his interest in her.

  The chiming of his newest mirror dragged Alonnen back to his senses. It was not easy, not when his attraction to the woman in his arms was surprisingly strong. Until now, Alonnen had considered her appealing, but more for her inner qualities, her intelligence, her strength of mind, her manifested belief in a better way of life than everything they had known. Now, though, he knew the way she felt against him, the way she tasted in each kiss. The soft sounds she had made—curious, hungry, and interested in more—left him aching and heady, as if she were some undiscovered wine.

  A wise mage avoided any excess of wine. A wise Guild Master attended to his duties,
such as the mirror which chimed again, trying to get his attention. A wise man did not let his passions rule his life when there was still work to be done.

  Alonnen kissed her again. Not for long, but enough to let both of them know just how much he wanted to continue. Lifting a finger, he touched the corner of her mouth and smiled softly.

  “This is a bookmark,” he told her. “If you want me to continue . . . kiss me here.” He tapped the same corner of his own mouth—and got a peck of a kiss from her. Caught off-guard, he laughed, then hugged her. “Kiss me there later, love,” he mock chided. The mirror chimed, and he sighed ruefully. “Unfortunately, duty calls.”

  Stepping away, he moved to grab the green pair from among his collection of viewing lenses and a scarf to wrap around his hair and chin, while Rexei moved back to her temporary desk. Once he was ready, he opened the connection. It was Tipa’thia; despite her rich, natural tan, her age-seamed face still looked a bit pale and puffy from her heart troubles. Her brown eyes were still sharp though, and her voice smooth as it came through the mirror, translated by whatever magic Guardian Kerric had wrought in the mirrors he had passed to everyone.

  “Good evening, Guardian Alonnen,” she told him.

  “And a good morning to you, Guardian Tipa’thia. I’m surprised to see you tonight. I thought your apprentice, Pelai, said you were still too ill to participate.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I am not doing well, but I have to do something to get the Hierarchy off my back regarding the Convocation fiasco. They know better than to castigate me, but they also will not be allowed to abuse my best Disciplinarian.”