by Tia Reed
“Why was the door locked?” she asked, motioning Druce to enter the bare stone passage. The boy trailed like a puppy, focussing on each of them as they spoke.
“I was not aware it was. The physicians are in some disagreement over the hours we might admit patients. I ask it be left open on nights I attend, but the watchmen are overcautious.”
They passed into a treatment room rendered shadowless by the multitude of lanterns hanging from the walls. Various vials, pots and bandages cluttered three freestanding tables, while implements lay in neat order on a fourth that sat against the wall. An elderly physic was pulling a plump man’s lower eyelids down and peering at the whites of his eyes. Another two men were sitting at the other tables, one sweating with fever, the other trying to stem the bleeding from a gash to his head.
“Do they have a need to be?” she asked, softening with the realisation the delay at the door had been because this man was busy.
“Of long hours? Perhaps,” he replied, pleasing her with his honesty. Hamid deq Lamont, she recalled his name was. He ushered them through more rooms and down a hall to a dormitory. A number of pallets lined the sandstone walls, the mugs, damp cloths, bandages and bowls their occupants required cluttering the floor between them. She would need to send lavender to add to the bunches of sage and thyme hanging from the walls. The cloying odour of infection had to be nauseating patients and physics alike.
Jordayne wiped a tear when she saw Trove. He was lying on a pallet close by the door, his eyes closed, his face deathly pale. She did not need a physic to tell her he would not see the sun rise.
“The child has need of treatment, Physic deq Lamont,” she said.
The boy loitered in the doorway, unable to mask his fear as he listened to the soft moans of the ill and injured. “He needs help more,” he said, ducking out to make way for the two guards carrying the glazed-eyed addict.
Deq Lamont tutted. “There’s nothing to be done but wait out the effects and see what lasting damage has been done. The beds are full. I’m afraid he’ll have to spend the night on the floor.”
“It’s nothing less than he would have done had we not collected him,” Jordayne said.
“Now, young man,” the physic said to the boy, who had found the courage to peer around the doorway. The pair of them looked ready to fall asleep on their legs. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take a look at that arm.”
The child hesitated, but deq Lamont guided him out. “Will he be alright?” he asked, dragging his feet. He looked over his shoulder at the debilitated addict. The guards had laid him between two pallets on the opposite side of the room.
She did not hear the answer. In the privacy afforded by sleep, the only kind she would get in a room full of the sick and injured, Jordayne kissed Trove.
“You got one of those for me?” a hoarse voice enquired from deeper in the room.
She ignored it, took Trove’s clammy hand and kissed it. His eyelids fluttered open, and he managed a weak smile.
“Thank you,” he said, his chest rattling. His eyes moved to Druce. “I’m sorry.” It was a whisper and Druce had to come forward, to stand next to her, to hear. “The porrin.”
“I entered the trance,” Druce murmured. “I followed Raj.”
“We arrested him, thanks to you,” Jordayne said.
Trove’s hand tightened on hers. His lips moved. She reached for a mug of water. Barely a sip had passed his lips before he spluttered. The liquid dribbled down his chin and onto the thin blanket. Now there was no helping the moisture glistening in her eyes. She was grateful his attention remained on Druce.
“Not Raj,” he said, and Druce had to lean closer still. “Terlaan. Terlaan brings chaos for the magi.” The effort must have exhausted him, for he closed his eyes and did not respond to his name. Jordayne kept hold of his hand. For all the difference in their years, she had never regarded him as old. It was devastating to see him like this, so weak, so frail, when two months back he had led the magi with a wry tongue and vital example. Druce’s arm around her shoulders was welcome comfort as Trove’s breathing grew shallower. Who knew how long they remained together, she and Druce, as still and silent as Trove, before the physic re-entered the room. The wary boy shuffled behind him, his eyes on the comatose man filling the floor between the beds opposite Trove.
“Is there anything you need,” the physic asked.
Druce shook his head. “How was your young patient?”
It was the physic’s turn to shake his head. “He has a nasty infection in a cut that should have been stitched days ago, but he is young. He will heal if he gets the correct treatment.” He lifted Trove’s free hand and took his pulse.
“Is he suffering?” Jordayne asked.
“I would be lying if I said there was no pain. The ragroot no longer soothes him but the magus has refused porrin. I will administer it, if you so request.” He looked enquiringly at them.
“No,” Druce said. “Trove knew his mind. Let him die honourably, adhering to our oath.”
Jordayne stiffened but bit her tongue.
Drucilamere would have guessed her thoughts. “It will not grant him rest. Rather it will carry him to the madness of the dream. It is the blessing and the curse of the magi.”
She could do nothing other than blink the tears from her eyes.
“As you wish, Magus. Lady Jordayne.” The physic bowed and took his leave.
“You.” The boy launched himself at Drucilamere.
The boy pummelled into Druce, beating fists against the mage’s chest. “You brought that filthy drug here.” If anger scrunched his face any tighter, she might mistake him for a date.
Fit and broad-chested, Druce let the child spend his energy. In the bed, Trove stirred.
“Quiet him,” she hissed as patients began to wake. This was not the dignified end Trove deserved.
The guards stepped forward to secure the boy. She could have slapped Drucilamere for warning them off. Just as well the boy shrugged away Drucilamere’s comforting hand and sidled to the addict. Staring at them, he heaved a mighty sob.
“What’s your name?” Jordayne asked.
“Ilyam,” he said, defiant now.
“And who is that man to you?” Druce asked, far too mild in the wake of the tantrum.
“He’s my father.” The thrust of his chin challenged them to criticise his beloved, brainless sire.
Jordayne said, “Then I hope he recovers. But do not blame the magi for Verdaan’s crime. Without porrin we would have long since succumbed to Terlaan. Here, take this to your mother. I imagine your father’s habit has bled her dry.” She opened her money pouch and held out a gold thulek.
The boy’s eyes widened. He came and took the coin, backed to the addict and lay beside him, drawing an arm under his shoulder and around his body. The glaze-eyed man may as well have been dead for all he was conscious of the intimacy. She would have counted that numbness a blessing, here in this public house where she was close to breaking down. Where shuffling from the hall, too furtive to belong to a physic, threatened to unravel her emotions. A quiet word sent Rokan into investigate. Her mind hovered on the brink of recognising the wizened, oriental man backing out of sight, but a gasp from Trove drove the memory away. She caressed her dear mage’s wrinkled cheek. His skin was icy but he was sweating, his eye movement erratic beneath his lids.
“The dreams come. Even without the porrin the dreams come. He is slipping between the worlds,” Drucilamere said.
Time had no right to flow so short. She murmured a prayer to Vae’oenka, goddess of the earth. Perhaps the Nurturer heard her; Trove’s eyes snapped open. How devastating that this time he lacked recognition. She took a deep breath and squeezed Drucilamere’s hand. He bent to Trove’s trembling lips.
“Crys-tal…des-troy.” The warning cost the old mage dearly. His head slumped against the pillow. His chest failed to rise. Druce reached over and closed his eyes. Jordayne buried herself in his arms.
Chapter Tw
elve
The two of them sat at a round table in another hexagonal room with parchment, quills and ink stacked on shelves. It had only one entrance, the oak door to which Arun had closed. Vinsant eyed Arun as he spoke the magic to spark light in the clear crystals on the wall. The silence between them wore on. Vinsant waggled his lips. It had to mean something that Arun had refrained from igniting his crystal during the vote. He might have lost the one friend he could count on, and he didn’t even know why. It crossed his mind that he should be afraid.
“You cast a glamour on me,” he said, “so I’m not scared.”
Arun lowered his hood. It was despicable, how his golden-brown hair emerged ultra neat. “I did. It was necessary or you may have expired before Mahktos, such was the extent of your fear.”
“Take it back. Undo it. Whatever. Just get rid of it. Now.”
“My magic is long gone, Vinsant. You retook control the moment Levi touched you.”
Could he get any more pathetic, shrinking into his shoulders? “You and Levi, didn’t vote for me,” he accused. “You don’t want me here.”
“If that were true, I would not have brought you to our lair. To stand in your stead, I must be exempt from the poll. Levi was too, though in such instances he has a deciding vote. The rules of the Inner Circle are complex, Vinsant, and while you gained the approval of the majority, you have powerful opponents. Were it not for who you are, I suspect there would have been more. Even the mahktashaan are aware of the ramifications of killing a prince, though be extremely clear that would not have stopped them after you stood your ground.”
“Tell me who they are.” His eyes fell onto the cerulean crystal on Arun’s neck. “One had a tangerine crystal, and another had a dark blue. I forgot the colour of the third.”
“I do not know. In all but the most exceptional of circumstances, the Inner Circle vote by sparking a crystal, any coloured crystal, most likely one worn by another. It is our way of assuring anonymity.”
“You can use each other’s crystals?”
“Only the Inner Circle, Vinsant. The ability marks one for such a position, and there have never in our history been more than ten so talented at any one time. This has helped ensure order and obedience, since using another’s crystal leaves the owner unprotected. For the Inner Circle, to call on another’s power without permission is a serious offence.” Arun rolled up a parchment on the table, nimble fingered even in his black gloves. “Do not fret; you will learn our ways in time.” He tapped the end of the roll to his goatee. “There is a more pressing matter we need to discuss.”
“Uh, like why everyone wanted me dead?”
“Yes, Vinsant. Mahktos rejected you. It is unusual but not unheard of for our god to deny an initiated apprentice full induction as a mahktashaan. Usually it is the power-hungry, defiant or overconfident ones, though at times the most promising candidate suffers beneath his gaze. The mahktashaan invariably put these apprentices to death. They hold too many of our secrets, of your family’s secrets, to be allowed to re-enter the world. They suffer this fate because they assumed their apprenticeship willingly, with full knowledge of what I am now telling you.”
“But I was only seeking to become an apprentice.”
“There are only two other candidates in our history who sparked a majoria’s crystal but incurred Mahktos’s wrath. One had an uncle stand in his stead, and went on to be an unremarkable and limited member of the mahktashaan, until he killed another in a fit of jealousy and suffered our justice.”
“And the other?” Vinsant prompted when Arun fell silent. He had a nasty feeling he was going to hate the answer.
Arun released the parchment. It rolled halfway open. “Was Wyn deq Kaelor.”
Vinsant spluttered. “The Wyn deq Kaelor? The Wyn deq Kaelor who discovered how to access magic through porrin?”
“The one and the same, young friend.”
“He was a mahktashaan?”
“No, Vinsant, he was not. After a friend of his family stood in his stead, he absconded mid-way through training, no doubt fearing to stand before Mahktos a second time. But he was privy to many secrets, and delivered a magic system, if a cursed one, into the hands of the Myklaani.”
“But I didn’t know this. No one knows this.”
“Only the mahktashaan, Vinsant, and not even the Myklaani. It seems deq Kaelor was too proud to admit his failure. Mahktos is wise in his choices. I suggest you pray to our god with all your heart, and make regular offerings to appease his angst.” Arun, Vinsant saw, was not jesting.
“What happened to the person who stood in Kaelor’s stead?” Vinsant whispered.
“He was put to the sword.”
“Will that happen to you if I fail?”
“Only if you disgrace your position. However, I shall lose my title of Minoria, since I stood in that name. I do not intend for that to happen.”
Vinsant nodded. “I won’t let you down.”
Arun re-rolled the parchment, found a ribbon on a shelf and tied it up.
Vinsant turned in his chair. “I’ll work hard to be a good mahktashaan.”
Having slid the parchment into place, Arun faced him with the grandfather of all serious expressions and a disconcerting intensity in his cerulean eyes. “Vinsant, when I received your quartz, Mahktos spoke to me. He said we had sealed our fate by allowing you to live. The implication was it mattered not whether we allowed you to train. I know you have no inkling of why this is so…”
Well, actually, his promise to Kordahla might have had a great deal to do with it. Vinsant bit his lip. Oh, scums, was he ever having an attack of the guilts. Vae, how could such a simple thing as helping his sister almost get him killed?
“It is because of that,” Arun continued, “we might hope the future which the god foresees is not ordained.”
Vinsant shook his head.
“With that in mind,” Arun continued. “I remind you that you are a prince no longer. You are under my direct tutelage, and if you ever disregard my advice again, I will order you whipped until the skin peels off your behind, and mete out the lashes myself. Is that understood?”
Even though Arun had to be exaggerating, Vinsant bowed his head. If today was anything to go by, his time as an apprentice mahktashaan was going to be one adventurous, rocky road. “Eh, yes, Minoria,” he mumbled.
“Good,” said Arun. He flicked his hood over his head. “Then let us see what the Majoria makes of your fish.”
They twisted through the hexagonal maze, so Arun could make good his promise. Vinsant chewed his lip, ruminating over Arun’s guess the ceremony was unlikely to have taken place with the bedlam his atypical initiation would be causing.
“Ar…” turned into a respectful “Minoria,” when Vinsant caught himself in time.
“You may ask, Vinsant,” Arun said with uncanny intuition.
“If I’m not a prince here, why did you treat me like one?” His near circumvention of the initiation rite had been bothering him more than the tension at the back of his neck.
He walked, and Arun glided, several steps. Sometimes Arun’s thoughtful nature was frustrating to the point Vinsant wanted to grunt. Grown-ups placed far too much emphasis on gathering words. “We wanted to prepare you, to test you first, as we did with the other candidates. They had shown potential to a recruiting mahktashaan, who counselled them as to the potential consequences – all the consequences, including, if Mahktos rejected them, execution – before they agreed to participate.”
They entered a bare hexagonal room with three arched exits, the tops doming larger than the bases. “But you would have trained me anyway. If I hadn’t sparked anyone’s recruiting crystal. I mean other than Lev– the Majoria’s,” Vinsant said. The right door took them deeper into the lair, into a room stacked with swords, shields, sharpening stones and polishing cloths. They veered left, through the only other doorway.
“There are certain treasures we could permit you to see, certain skills we could impart.”
>
This room had a combat training square marked on the floor. “But it would have been an allowance. Because I’m a prince,” Vinsant pressed.
“Yes.”
Vinsant fell silent. Arun’s promise to treat him as no more than an apprentice was proving to be as hollow as the ring of his boots on the stones. Vae’oeldin knew – no Mahktos knew – how strong the desire to serve his brother as Majoria burned. Didn’t Arun see by treating him as special, Vinsant would never, ever earn the respect of his peers? If he didn’t have that, he could never lead. He stopped paying attention to their route. It was not like he would ever be able to find his way back again. An intrepid explorer could wander around until he starved.
His broodiness finally wore on Arun, which, he thought, was well and good. The Minoria sighed and stopped in another training room. Vinsant refused to meet his eye.
“I tell you this in confidence, Vinsant. It was at my suggestion the Majoria did this, and it took some persuading. I feel there is magical talent in you that could blossom under our training. If I had any doubt, I would not have supported your request to join us, nor would I have jeopardised my position by standing in your stead. You are younger than our usual recruits. There was no urgency for you to begin a formal apprenticeship. But I would rest easier if there was someone close to Princess Kordahla who knew a little of our arts. So much easier I was prepared to go as far as I could to train you before you risked initiation. Do not question me on this. I will say no more for, at the moment, it is as much intuition as my belief in your suitability for the mahktashaan. I trust you are mature enough to keep this to yourself.”
“Er…yes.”
Arun stopped and fixed him with a lowered-chin, raised brow look that brooked no argument. “And to avoid associating my desire for the Princess’s protection with your earlier assertion about my liking her.”
Vinsant nodded, clear on the last. One was personal, the other professional. He understood that. What he wanted more than anything to ask, but could not, was whether Arun’s professional loyalties lay with Kordahla or with Father.
“I want you to treat me like any other apprentice,” he said instead.