Now that he was actually going through with it, having passed through the village and down the dirt road, darting off into the forest as soon as he came to it, he was more nervous than ever about being caught. He was starting to feel like what his mother referred to as wishy-washy.
A month into it, he thought, and look where you’re at?
Faintly, Sam could hear footsteps. He peeked around the large tree he was hiding behind, and saw Lilah coming down the road. She had almost reached the forest. He tried to get her attention by making a high-pitched hooting sound.
Sam watched as Lilah stopped in the road, looking into the forest. He made the hooting sound again. When she looked in his direction, he waved at her.
Lilah glanced in both directions to make sure no one else was coming, and dashed into the forest.
“What were you pretending to be?” she asked when she reached Sam. “A wounded cat?”
“I was going for an owl.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Sam kept his eyes out for the overgrown path that he and Curtis had used on their day off, but Lilah took them a different way, which turned out to be easier. Using her way, they bypassed the steep hill and arrived at the stream within five minutes. Sam saw the familiar boulder that Lilah had been sitting on during their first encounter.
“Don’t I need a wand or something?” Sam asked.
“Mages don’t use wands,” Lilah said. “Well, some of them do, but the good ones don’t. Wands are for beginners. They are more of a conduit. It’s the same with a staff. You can apply magic through them, but they don’t actually do anything other than make someone just starting out feel more confident. Instructor Volatine says they’re a waste of time and refuses to let any of his students use them. At least not while they are in his school.
“So I spent a long time thinking of what I should teach you first. Something cutesy and harmless to start.”
“What about Ticklefire? That seemed harmless enough.”
“That’s on the list, but not yet. I decided on something simpler. Dragonsprite.”
“Doesn’t sound simpler. What’s that do?”
“I’ll show you.”
Lilah held up her hand so that her palm was facing upward. Her lips moved, and suddenly a small orange dragon appeared in her hand. It was no more than six inches tall, and it looked as though it was made of fire. Sam could almost see through it as though he were seeing a ghost of the real thing. It moved around on all fours, turning itself around in her hand. He could see its small wings and its mouth opened, letting out a tiny jet of fire.
Cautiously, Sam tried to touch it, but his hand passed through it like it wasn’t even there. “What is it?”
“I told you, the spell is called Dragonsprite. It’s more of a decoration. Have you ever seen a fireworks display?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s like that.”
“What’s it do though?”
“Nothing really. It’s just for show. It’s pretty common to see lots of these flying around at the summer festivals in Azaramor.”
Lilah shook her hand up and down gently; the fiery ethereal dragon flapped its wings, and a moment later it took flight. Sam watched as it took off, circled above their heads, and then exploded in a shower of sparks.
About as entertaining as the glowing butterflies, Sam thought.
“Are you ready to try?”
“Okay,” Sam said. “Let’s see. So I just put my hand up like this.” Sam held his hand out, palm up, copying the way he had seen Lilah do it.
“That’s fine. With something like this, your stance doesn’t really matter that much.”
“I think I’m ready,” Sam said.
“There’s one thing you have to remember. It’s about focusing on the spell itself. You want to concentrate on what the spell does, not the conjuring word. The conjuring word is important, but that’s not where the real magic lies. And since you’re just starting out, you’ll need to say it out loud. When you get better, you can do it just by thinking about it.”
“Like you?”
“I’m not quite there yet. I still tend to move my lips.”
Sam focused all of his concentration on the palm of his hand.
“Now say draksprit.”
Sam kept his eyes on his upturned hand and said, “Draksprit.”
Nothing happened.
“That’s all right,” Lilah said. “It never works the first time. Try it again.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Draksprit!” he shouted.
And again, nothing happened.
“I can’t do it.”
“I doubt that someone with your stature and enough gumpf to defy their parents and still go to warrior school gives up that easily,” Lilah said.
“All right,” Sam said, taking a deep breath. He lifted his hand again. “Draksprit.”
“Don’t get discouraged. It’s always like this.”
“How many tries did it take you?”
“Two.”
“Well, there you go,” Sam said.
“But Instructor Volatine says I’m a natural. Not birth talented, but it still comes fairly easily. Again.”
Sam tried three more times, but nothing happened. He was about ready to throw in the towel, but something made him keep going. He could hear his parents in his head, telling him he wasn’t cut out to be a warrior, but he hadn’t listened, and now here he was; he had been at warrior school for over a month and hadn’t washed out yet. He wondered if they waited for him to come home any day now, or whether enough time had passed that they had actually started to believe he might just make it. He wanted more than anything for them to believe in him.
It was with this defiance and rebelliousness burning inside him that Sam focused on his palm, not really trying to visualize the miniature flaming dragon, but concentrating on the spell, knowing what he wanted to happen.
As he was staring at his palm, the surrounding forest seemed to melt away momentarily. He felt all alone in some warm and comforting place. His lips parted and the word slipped out without him realizing he had spoken it. “Draksprit.”
The tiny dragon materialized out of thin air. It rested in his palm, curled up on its side at first, and then it unfurled its wings and stood up with the shaky legs of a newborn.
Wait until Curtis gets a load of this, he thought.
He was snapped out of his trance by the sound of Lilah clapping. “Good job! Maybe you will be a natural, too.”
“Seventh time’s the charm?”
“Still – pretty good for a warrior.”
Sam continued to watch the dragon in his hand. It would arch its neck, open its jaws, and look like it was letting out a large roar, but no sound came out. It wasn’t as lively as the one Lilah had conjured. After a few seconds, it disintegrated into a rain of fiery droplets that disappeared before they reached the ground.
“Pretty cool,” Sam said. “So how do you know to use that word? Draksprit?”
“Most spells use the language of the ancients. There’s a few newer ones that don’t, but there aren’t many mages left that can create a new spell. All of the textbooks get their information from the old scrolls and texts discovered thousands of years ago. Archaeologists have found most of them by now, but occasionally they’ll find a new one.”
“Can any person see the scrolls?”
Lilah shook her head. “Only mage scholars. And, on occasion, priests, if the scroll or book pertains to holy magic. All of the original finds are locked up in a special vault in Azaramor.”
“So they control the spells?” Sam asked, genuinely interested.
“Mostly. Instructor Volatine says that there are spells in that vault which no other human has ever seen. Too powerful to teach. So they keep them a secret.”
“Aren’t they worried that someone will break in? Or what if one the scholars snuck something out?”
“The scholars aren’t allowed to leave,” Lilah said. “Only the oldest of the mag
es, and those who are renowned for their wisdom and purity of heart are allowed to become scholars. It’s only when they are very old that they are given that responsibility. And once they enter, they live the remainder of their lives there.”
“It doesn’t sound any fun.”
“But it’s necessary. There are spells that could tear the world apart, Sam. Old spells that no one has seen for centuries. If they ever fell into the wrong hands…”
“Why don’t they just destroy them then? Wouldn’t that be the smart thing to do?”
“I asked the same thing,” Lilah said. “Apparently, they can’t be destroyed. They were designed to be impervious. So instead, they lock them up. The vault in Azaramor is supposed to be impenetrable. It is guarded at all times from the outside, and dozens of protection spells have been cast on it. New ones are always being added. And even if someone did find a way to break in, they would have to deal with the scholars, who are all great wizards in their own right.”
There’s always a way in, Sam thought. Nothing’s impenetrable.
He wasn’t sure what made him think this, but he thought it was true. If someone wanted in badly enough, they would find a way the same way Sam had found a way into warrior school.
“Sounds like bad news waiting to happen,” Sam said.
“No one has managed it yet,” Lilah said.
“What about Demälikar?”
Lilah’s face twisted up in fear. “What did you say?”
“Demälikar? Could he do it? He’s supposed to be a powerful sorcerer isn’t he?”
“Where did you hear that name?” Lilah hissed.
“I overheard the King talking about him. I was in the castle…”
“Why would you be in the castle?”
“That’s none of your business,” Sam said, wanting to tell her, but remembering his promise to Sarah about keeping it a secret. Telling Curtis had turned out bad enough, he couldn’t risk telling anyone else. “I was on my way out, and I overheard him talking. Alsted and Volatine were with him – and some other person I didn’t recognize.”
“So you were spying?” Lilah asked, but it didn’t really sound like a question. “That could be considered treason.”
Sam said, “I wasn’t spying. I just happened to hear them talking, that’s all.”
“And they were talking about Demälikar?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, he’s a powerful sorcerer of the arcane. ‘The mage that went bad’ is what Instructor Volatine calls him. Truly evil.”
“They said he was building an army. That he would raise the dead and attack Dashelmore.”
“Rumors of that have floated around for years,” Lilah said. “But if the King’s talking about it now, it could be for real this time.” She looked at Sam worriedly. “We shouldn’t even be talking about it. It’s getting dark anyway. I think that’s enough for today.”
Sam glanced up at the sky. The sun hadn’t gone under yet and it wouldn’t be dark for at least another hour or two, but he could tell by the look on Lilah’s face that bringing up Demälikar had been a bad idea, so he didn’t argue.
Lilah led them back onto the path, Sam following several feet behind her as they made their way to the forest. When they reached the last set of trees before the road, Lilah stopped.
“Thanks for the lesson,” Sam said. “Sorry if I spooked you with that Demälikar business.”
“It’s not your fault. Dashelmore is a safe place. Sometimes I forget that so much evil exists elsewhere.” She shuddered a little, and then turned to face the road.
“I’ll wait here for a few minutes so you can get a head start.”
“This weekend then?”
“Sure.”
“See you then,” Lilah said and stepped onto the road.
Sam waited behind a thick tree with fluffy tufts of moss growing near its base.
Almost botched the other one, he thought. It was funny in a way. For once, his own bad luck made him smile a little. He watched Lilah until she was out of sight, and then he stepped back onto the road and started walking toward the village.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONLY THE HOLY
It was mid-November before they had their first good snow of the season. From late September through October, they had had light dustings, but that had all melted within a day or two. In the next month, they would take their first exams; both written and practical. Sam was still dreading that day, and whenever he stopped to think about it, a knot would tighten itself in his stomach. The nervousness would make him think of home, and reminded him that he hadn’t written his parents in all this time, which brought a deep sense of guilt and regret with it.
It was Thursday morning. Sam filed out of the living quarters with the other boys, noticing several inches of fresh snow on the ground. The sun woke with them, sliding up from the horizon, and the sky was a deep blue color that made him think of King Leodan’s eyes. And the lion’s, he thought. Don’t forget about the lion’s.
They found Alsted leaning against the stone wall of an adjacent building, stroking his orange beard. Sarah stood next to him. She smiled when she saw Sam pop out of the living quarters, Curtis right behind him. Whether Curtis had smoothed things over (which, of course, he claimed he had), or whether Sarah had gotten over being angry with him on her own (which Sam believed was more likely), things between them had gone back to normal a couple of days after she had discovered his inability to keep a secret (at least from his best friend anyway).
She hadn’t invited him for dinner at the castle again, but he guessed that was due more to the King infrequently accepting guests than Sarah not trusting him.
After all of the boys had lined up behind one another, Alsted stood up straight and said, “Follow me.”
The boys followed the overweight dwarf without question as he led them past the arena and to the northeastern edge of the kingdom, their boots crunching over the packed snow; Sam, Curtis, and Sarah walked side-by-side.
“Where do you think we’re going?” Curtis whispered.
“Beats me.”
Finally, they came to a halt in front of a cathedral with a large circular stained-glass window above the old wooden doors. The image depicted in the decorative window was of a young boy stroking the mane of a lion, and it didn’t escape Sam that the lion had eyes made of blue-colored glass.
“Quiet when we’re inside,” Alsted said, opening the doors.
As soon as they had filed inside, Sam saw over a dozen black-robed men kneeling on the floor, chanting. Their chant was a low and haunting sound that echoed throughout the cathedral. The robes the priests-in-training wore seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on whatever elusive memory had triggered the feeling.
“The priests,” Curtis whispered. “This must be where they teach the Holy Arts.”
Which makes sense, Sam thought. We’re inside a church after all.
The chanting priests were broken into two groups of five, one group on the left and one on the right, leaving a path down the center of the cathedral. They were facing north, toward a raised altar, where a single priest in a black robe with his hood up was on his knees facing them.
Alsted led them down the center toward the priest kneeling in front of the altar. A moment later, the chanting ceased, and the priests rose to their feet in unison, filing out of the room. Only the priest in front of the altar remained.
“Morning, Finnaeus,” Alsted said.
The priest lowered his hood, and Sam recognized him immediately as the man he had seen in the room with King Leodan, Alsted, and Volatine nearly two months ago.
“Hello, Alsted.”
“Boys,” Alsted said, “this is Instructor Conrad. Head of the Holy Arts division. He’s agreed to give us a little demonstration today.”
“Children,” Finnaeus said, addressing all of them. “Welcome.”
“Children?” Curtis whispered mockingly in Sam’s ear.
Sam
ignored this, watching the old priest. He’s positively ancient, Sam thought. Not surprising he thinks of us as children.
Finnaeus raised his hands, cupping them together in front of his chest, and when he did, the sleeves of his robe slid back, revealing the priest’s thin forearms. Sam noticed long jagged scars running up and down the pale skin. What could have caused such vulgar-looking injuries?
“Now, if you would,” Finnaeus said, “I’ll have you follow me. This demonstration is best performed outside.”
Finnaeus led the way, the boys and Sarah following, with Alsted picking up the rear. The ancient-looking priest took them through a small room and then into an adjoining courtyard. Seven foot high stone walls boxed the courtyard in. There was snow on the ground, but someone had obviously shoveled most of it away because it wasn’t as thick as the snow they’d had to trudge through on their walk to the cathedral.
The air was bitterly cold; Sam could see his breath pluming on the air in front of his face. He wished he’d thought to wear a coat. But Sam forgot his discomfort a moment later when he caught a glimpse of what awaited them on the far west side of the courtyard.
A man – or what was left of a man anyway – stood alone in the snow. The man’s flesh had decayed and had a grayish tint to it; parts of his flesh were missing, revealing shiny white bone beneath. Little hair remained on the man’s head, and what did hung in soggy clumps, reminding Sam of seaweed that had recently been plucked from the depths. The man’s (or thing, Sam thought, for it could hardly be classified as a man any longer) nose was gone, leaving only a black crater behind. Its eyes were a milky color, and its mouth chomped open and closed as if it was trying to take a bite of the air.
“This will be quite close enough,” Finnaeus said, putting up a staying hand.
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