Artesans of Albia

by Cas Peace

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  The incident with the Andaryan commander had shaken them all. Taran was as silent as the others as he rode alongside Cal for the rest of the way to the mansion. When the gates came into sight, he saw Marik regarding his home with tight lips, doubtless wondering if he would ever be its rightful lord again.

  The Count led everyone round to the servants’ entrance by the kitchens and showed them the stables. Although the servants had been driven off and all Marik’s people taken by Rykan, the building itself had not been looted. There was grain and hay for the horses, and Taran did his share of work as they were fed, rubbed down, and bedded on fresh straw. Then he followed the others inside the smallest of the mansion’s three kitchens and helped Bull attend to the great hearth. Soon a roaring blaze cheered the room and the familiar aroma of fellan filled the air. Sullyan’s earlier fey mood seemed to have lifted and she was almost restored to her old self. Following Bull and Robin’s lead, Taran allowed himself to relax.

  While the light outside faded, they all sat round the large kitchen table partaking of what unspoiled food they could find. As the meal ended, Taran realized that the Major had grown increasingly withdrawn and was studying their faces, as if committing them to memory. Rienne had seen it too, for she put her hand on Sullyan’s arm.

  “Are you alright?”

  It was a trite question, but Taran knew she was offering what comfort she could. The warmth in Sullyan’s eyes and her smile were answer enough, although Taran could still see the underlying grief and sorrow.

  Looking past Rienne to Cal, Sullyan said, “Do you have your whistle about you, Cal? I am in the mood for some music.”

  Cal, who never needed persuading to play, grinned and produced his beloved silver longwhistle from his pack.

  “Marik,” said Sullyan, startling the Count from a morose reverie. “I know you kept musicians. Would their instruments still be here?”

  The Count shrugged and rose to his feet, returning with two guitars and a lap harp. Bull passed the fellan round before producing the bottle of firewater. Sullyan covered her cup as he uncorked it, but everyone else—including Taran—accepted the liquor.

  The Major took the harp and indicated that Marik give one of the guitars to Rienne. Taran was mildly surprised when the Count kept the other for himself. Sullyan tested the harp strings and Taran thought it sounded inferior to her own instrument back at the Manor. Yet it sounded pleasant enough, and she gazed round at her friends.

  “This may well be the last night we spend together.”

  Taran felt his heart lurch, and Robin took a sharp breath as if he would speak. He remained silent, though, and the others just stared at her or at their hands, too full of emotion to say anything.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “you will return to Albia while the Count and I make our way to Caer Vellet. Bull, I want you to run a few errands for me. There are some things I will need. But we will speak of that later. Tonight, let us make the most of this evening and try to enjoy ourselves.”

  Robin made a small sound of protest, but no one else spoke. Taran saw Bull’s eyes fill with tears and Rienne’s were red-rimmed. He dropped his gaze to his hands and left Cal to lighten the mood. Raising his whistle to his lips, Cal played exactly the right sort of melody, a saucy little folk tune that banished morbid thoughts. He ran through it once, and as he began it again, Sullyan started to sing, playing a soft accompaniment on the harp. Rienne picked up the chords on the guitar, and then, surprising them all, Marik added his voice to Sullyan’s. They sang the folk song through.

  By tacit agreement, no one played any laments that night. The only poignant note came from Marik, who had a light and pleasant voice belying his melancholy nature. His offering was a song about a handsome young man who fell in love with a fairy girl, only to see her turn into a butterfly and fly away. The way his eyes kept straying to Sullyan left Taran in no doubt of his meaning.

  Bull and Robin sang some marching songs, the Captain’s light tenor blending nicely with Bull’s rich bass rumble. Then Rienne and Cal sang a couple of lover’s songs, and had everyone laughing as they lampooned two love-struck youngsters. Rienne and Sullyan even sang a couple of the songs they had shared during their evening together at the Manor—with the proper words this time—and the warmth and friendship flowing between them was plain for all to see.

  Eventually, the hour grew late and the fire died down in the hearth. Bull’s supply of liquor was exhausted, and their fingers and voices were sore from use. They lay the instruments aside, and Taran suddenly noticed that both Bull and Robin had blank looks on their faces. Turning to Sullyan, he saw the dilation of her eyes, a sure sign she was communing with the two men. He wondered why they were being so secretive, but before he could speculate further, the contact was broken.

  Sullyan smiled and nodded at Robin, who stood, drawing their attention. Bull remained relaxed, a small smile on his face. Taran waited to see what was coming and was surprised when Robin turned to him, inclining his head.

  “Journeyman, are you feeling strong tonight?”

  Taran was startled. He hadn’t thought of himself as a Journeyman since opening the tunnel through the Veils, since Robin told him he had passed the test of Water. Then he remembered Robin saying that Sullyan would confirm him when she could. Something his father once said suddenly slipped into his mind, and he could hear Amanus’s pedantic tones as if he were present in the room.

  You owe allegiance and duty to anyone of higher rank than yours. But above all, you owe duty to the Masters. Anyone of higher status can confirm you in the next level, but Masters hold the right of confirmation over all. To be acclaimed by a Master Artesan is the ultimate accolade.

  At that time, of course, Amanus had never believed his son would ever be so acclaimed, let alone by an Artesan as exalted as Sullyan. Taran felt a shiver of apprehension down his spine. Thoughts of his father always sapped his confidence. Yet the smile on Robin’s face and the warmth in Sullyan’s eyes reminded him that he had already passed the test and had nothing to fear from his friends. Taking a steadying breath, he rose.

  “Yes, Adept-elite. I am feeling strong tonight.”

  Robin’s grin told Taran that he had answered correctly, entering into the spirit of the occasion. Sullyan then rose, as did Bull, who indicated that Cal and Rienne do likewise. Rienne looked puzzled, but did as he asked with no question.

  Marik moved off into a corner and sat watching while Robin and Bull moved the large wooden table, clearing an open space before the fire. Bull found a silver basin and filled it with water, placing it in the center of the floor. Sullyan moved to stand with her back to the fire. Robin joined her, standing on her left side. Bull took her right, and directed Cal and Rienne to complete what became a large circle with the silver bowl in the center. Taran remained on the outside.

  He stood alert, not knowing what to expect. During their time fighting the invasion with the Major’s company, he and Cal had listened to Robin’s tales of life at the Manor. The Captain described some of the promotion ceremonies he had seen, both military and metaphysical. They fascinated Taran, but he had never expected to witness such a ceremony himself. Now he was the focus of one.

  He realized he was trembling. Whether it was from nerves or anticipation he couldn’t tell, so he kept his attention on Sullyan. Her eyes were huge and black, and he could sense her calling on her metaforce. He watched as she stretched her cupped hands out, palms upward. To his amazement, an amber glow blossomed in the bowl of her palms. Golden radiance lit her face, lending luminosity to the room.

  She separated her hands, each still glowing, and held out the left one to Robin. The amber light extended toward him, becoming a thin line, and as the Captain reached out his right hand, the power touched his fingers, flowing up his arm and into his body. When it reached down his left arm, he held out his left hand to Rienne. Confused, she looked to Sullyan for reassurance.

  “Do not fear, Rienne, my power will do you no harm
. Just accept it in your hand as Robin did and pass it on to Cal.”

  Rienne did so, and Taran could feel her awe the moment Sullyan’s power filled her body. She smiled, as if at a joyful memory. Cal accepted it from her, his expression turning to amazement, and Rienne had to remind him to pass it on to Bull. The circle was closed by Bull passing the power back to Sullyan, and she gathered it once more into her two cupped hands. The members of the circle stood joined in friendship and in power.

  The Major stood wreathed in her own amber metaforce, her tawny hair shimmering in its glow. A warm breath of air moved gently in the room, stirring her hair and bringing the fire back to life. Taran was stunned—she had manipulated Air! He saw Robin frown, and even Bull, who must have known Sullyan’s strength better than anyone, was startled by her skill. Awe flooded Taran. Control over the four elements was an Artesan’s final test of Mastery.

  Sullyan took no heed of their surprise. She merely gazed across at Taran, saying quietly, “Artesan Elijah, what rank do you hold?”

  Despite his awe and mounting excitement, he managed to answer her calmly.

  “I hold the rank of Journeyman, confirmed by the late Amanus Elijah, Adept-elite.”

  Approving this with a smile, she said, “Artesan Elijah, what is your wish?”

  Her psyche radiated tranquility and reassurance as he gazed at her from behind Cal’s right shoulder. “It is my wish to be confirmed in the rank of Adept if the level of my skill permits.”

  She inclined her head. “Very well.”

  She raised her cupped hands, still cradling the aura of her extended power. When her hands reached the level of her eyes, the water in the silver bowl stirred and rippled. A fine mist rose from it, catching in her web of power like tiny, glittering spiders. The rope of metaforce changed from amber to an opalescent shimmer. The color change flashed through everyone in the circle, returning once more to its maker.

  The only illumination in the room came from the fire and Sullyan’s shimmering rope of power. Once more she turned her eyes to Taran.

  “This barrier of metaforce is now alloyed with the element of Water. Artesan Elijah, I bid you enter the circle.”

  Chapter Eight

  Taran frowned. This was not what he had expected. He could feel the barrier’s force from where he stood. If he tried to cross it unprepared it would burn him. This was another test, and one that could not be beyond his capabilities or Robin would never have been permitted to tell him he had reached the level of Adept.

  Taran glanced at the Major, but there was no clue in her eyes, only watchfulness. He trusted that if he made a wrong move, she would not allow her power to harm him. He wouldn’t choose wrongly, though. This time he would fail neither himself nor his father’s years of impatient teaching. He had struggled too long and too hard to allow that to happen.

  As he searched his memories, he heard his father’s voice again.

  Look for the place of least resistance. Look for the power which most closely matches your own. Merge like with like and you will pass through unscathed.

  These instructions had been intended as a guide for the best place to build a portway, a place where the Earth energies could be matched to an Artesan’s psyche. Taran wondered whether the same principle might also apply here.

  He inspected the shining snake of power, perceiving how it subtly changed after passing through each person. On leaving Sullyan, its maker, it was pure silver, warm and alive. Passing through Robin, it gained a core like grey steel, solid, dependable, strong. From Rienne it emerged muted, as if wrapped in satin, less inclined to ripple. Cal added a mysterious, dark quality to it that carried an edge of unpredictability. From Bull it snaked away calm, smooth, honed and deadly, until finally uniting tail with head in the crucible of Sullyan’s hands.

  Taran smiled. He knew where his gateway lay.

  Positioning himself at Cal’s left shoulder, he concentrated on the flaring, twisting rope with its dark core of uncertainty. He suffered a guilty flash of understanding as he accepted that this flaw in Cal was of his making, an unwanted legacy from his father that he would have to correct for both their sakes. Yet its familiarity was his pathway, his route to becoming what he had long thought out of reach; the rank of Adept.

  Taran stretched out his right hand and caught the shining rope. Instantly, metaforce flooded his soul. He sensed and acknowledged the separate components added by the five people in the ring and knew the power could never hurt him while those people were his friends. Glancing into Sullyan’s proud and approving gaze, he passed through the shimmering line and entered the circle unscathed.

  He stood before her, triumph washing through him. Despite his overwhelming joy, he gave a start of amazement as Sullyan, with a deft movement of her hands that he didn’t quite see, detached herself from her own power and left it hanging in the air. She moved forward to face him, and Taran shook his head. Never would he achieve such casual competence.

  Discerning his thoughts, she smiled. She reached out, took his right hand, and placed her left on his shoulder, gently requesting him to kneel. Then she gently touched the first two fingers of her left hand to her brow before pressing them to his.

  “Artesan Elijah. By the Mastery of my calling, I confirm you in the rank of Adept.”

  Her fingers went to her lips before she gently touched his.

  “By the love in my heart, I confirm you in the rank of Adept.”

  Finally, she laid her hand on her heart before pressing it to his chest.

  “By the power of the craft we share, I confirm you in the rank of Adept.”

  He had only ever used it once—to his father—and it took Taran a moment to recognize the traditional salute due to Artesans of superior rank. It signified allegiance of duty, love, and power. Suddenly, he felt overawed.

  Sullyan raised her eyes, gazing round at the others. “I bid you hear me well. By the power I wield as Master-elite, I, Major Sullyan, do confirm Taran Elijah as Artesan Adept. I call you all to Witness. Taran, use your power well and wisely. Learn to control and discipline the forces within you, and do so with humility. Taran Elijah, Artesan Adept, I bid you rise.”

  Taran raised his face to hers. Tears of pride glistening in his eyes, he performed the ancient salute, signifying his acceptance of her Mastery and confirming his allegiance and duty. The answering gleam of moisture in Sullyan’s eyes gave him a sharp pang. If he ever gained enough knowledge to progress to an even higher rank, she wouldn’t be there to confirm it.

  Before he could think better of it, he rose and caught her fast in his arms, trying to convey the gratitude, love, friendship, sorrow, and sympathy he felt. She was taken off guard and let out one uncontrolled sob before using her power to calm herself. Bravely, she returned his embrace.

  He realized his error and released her, but she smiled and forgave his lapse before carefully dampening her rope of power, freeing the others to move again. In the mêlée of backslapping, congratulatory hugs, and remarks from the others, only Taran caught sight of the slim woman slipping outside into the chill night air. He didn’t dream of following her.

  Worn out by the strength of their emotions, they all sought beds in the servants’ rooms. Although basic, the quarters were well kept and clean, and all the little cots had good quality linen. Despite his obvious lack of wealth, Count Marik had been a good lord to his people.

  Marik had gone off to his own rooms earlier to gather what he needed for the coming journey and to bolster his fast-fading courage. He might trust Sullyan to try her best with the Hierarch on his behalf, thought Taran, but he clearly doubted whether the ruler of Andaryon had need of a cowardly and minor noble such as himself. Especially as his allegiance had always been given—however unwillingly—to the Hierarch’s rival.

  Before retiring, Robin and Bull took the opportunity to sound each other out on the plans each had made concerning the future. They spoke in low tones, and Taran wouldn’t stoop to eavesdrop, but he did catch them stating that t
hey could not—and would not—disobey a direct order from the Major. However, it was plain to Taran that each had his own idea on how to interpret such an order. Bull then ushered everyone off to bed, leaving Robin to await Sullyan’s return.

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  She didn’t make him wait long. The warmth and homeliness of the small servants’ kitchen, with its smells of herbs, meat, and fellan, called to her. The ceremony she had performed for Taran served to remind her of what she was going to lose, and she had needed some time alone to regain her composure. It was fragile, though, and she was relieved to find only her Captain seated by the dying fire when she returned, as she didn’t need to pretend with him. After the incident over the duel with Parren and the terrible rift it had caused between them, she felt closer to him than ever. The thought of not being able to spend the rest of a long life with him now that they had openly declared their love cut into her heart like a knife.

  She stood silently in the doorway, watching the firelight flicker on the planes of his handsome face, seeing the reflected warmth in his deep blue eyes and the glints of gold in his soft, brown hair. Strong, well-shaped hands lay at peace on his knees, and his slim, muscular body sat easy in the plain wooden chair.

  He sensed her regard and turned his head, his eyes dilated and dark. She knew he had something on his mind and put her own thoughts aside as she closed the door on the frost-laden air. She came toward him and he stirred, smiling up at her.

  “That was some show you put on for our new Adept. Since when have you been able to manipulate Air so well?”

  She knew this wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but she accepted the topic.

  “Do you think I do not practice my own teaching, Robin? I trust you are still working on the test I set you as confirmation of your Mastery.”

  This reminder of a happier day was almost too much for Robin. He came to his feet and stood close to her, taking both her hands as if clutching at his courage.