The Sorcerer’s Guardian

by Antonia Aquilante

  He turned his back on Loriot, trusting that the other man wasn’t immature enough to seek some sort of revenge, or at least too dutiful to do so, and got on with his work.

  When Savarin was done for the evening, they walked back to town in silence. The gate guards nodded greetings and allowed them to walk back inside the town without pausing, but Savarin could feel their gazes following him for a moment longer. He didn’t speed his pace.

  When they arrived back at the inn, more people were in the common room than had been when they left. The dinner crowd had arrived. Cooking smells were even stronger than when they’d arrived originally, and Savarin’s stomach growled. He was ravenous after the time that had passed since lunch and the magic he’d done with the protection spells.

  “I’m going to have dinner,” he said, not sure if he wanted Loriot to join him or go away. He wouldn’t deny that he could be oblivious when immersed in his studies and work, but even he knew this time that Loriot was not pleased with what Savarin had done to him. And perhaps Savarin shouldn’t have done it, but in the heat of the moment, the problems with the idea hadn’t presented themselves. Proving his point had seemed to be the more important action. Only after had he wondered if perhaps he’d gone too far, but there was nothing he could do about it after the fact. And he wasn’t very well going to apologize when the point needed to be made.

  Loriot seemed indecisive. “I’ll join you. Best to make it an early night again anyway.”

  “We have to check in with your second as well tonight.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Loriot said, and led the way to an empty table in the common room.

  A serving boy, very obviously the innkeeper’s son though his features were a softer version of his father’s, came by as soon as they sat and greeted them, giving them their choice of lamb stew or roast pheasant for dinner. Both Savarin and Loriot chose the pheasant and asked for wine, and the young man gave them a smile before he slipped away again. He returned a moment later with the wine and another smile. Sipping his wine—by no means the best vintage he’d ever had but far from the worst—Savarin surveyed the room from the vantage of their corner table. Several of the tables were occupied, mostly by men, but a few women were scattered throughout as well. A girl who looked enough like the boy serving them in features and age to be his twin served a table on the other side of the room. The innkeeper probably had to beat off interested suitors for the pair of them with a stick.

  “What you did earlier.”

  Loriot’s words brought Savarin’s attention back to him. He raised a single eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Is there a way to get out of it?”

  Savarin blinked and stared at Loriot. That… was the last thing he’d expected from Loriot. “A way to get out of it?”

  Loriot nodded and gestured impatiently. “Yes, yes. If I ever found myself in a situation like that, only with someone who actually wanted to harm me, how would I get out of it?”

  He sat back in his chair and stared into the dark red depths of his wine. Ignoring the noise of the filling room, he pondered the question.

  “You don’t know how to get out of it?” Loriot asked after a moment, his words plainly skeptical.

  “Well, I know how I would get out of it. I would use my Talent to either fight against the magic holding me or to unravel it, but you don’t have that option. That’s why I was thinking—I’ve never considered how to get out of that situation without using magic.”

  Loriot tilted his head and seemed to focus even more on him. “But you could use magic to save yourself?”

  “Of course.” Savarin sipped his wine. “In theory, every spell can be broken, given the time, power, and knowledge to do so.”

  “Every spell?”

  He nodded. “In theory. We strive to set spells that are too strong and complex to be broken easily—if at all—and some never are because they’re too too good. But theoretically, they could be.”

  “Even your spells?”

  He huffed a laugh. “Even mine. Though mine are powerful and crafted carefully enough that they’re difficult to break. It’s why the protection spells on the palace, for instance, are so varied and intricate. And it’s why they’re set and maintained by more than one sorcerer and have protections on them to prevent tampering. We do everything we can to make these spells as unbreakable as possible.”

  Loriot seemed to be listening with interest, which ended any thought of Savarin’s that he might be boring him. “I didn’t realize.”

  “No reason you should. You haven’t been trained or taught.” Loriot didn’t possess a Talent, and those without Talents weren’t given any training or taught about magic. They all lived in a world filled with magic, but not everyone had the ability to use it, or to use the type they needed. Savarin had no Talent for healing or weatherwork or glass or any number of other areas. If a person, one with Talent or not, was wealthy enough, they could buy spelled objects—globes to light their homes, mirrors like the one Loriot carried, protection spells against anything from theft to fire and more—to fulfill a need. If not, they went without.

  “So what do I do, if I come up against a sorcerer?”

  “You mean if you don’t have another sorcerer with you to fight that battle?” He sipped at his wine again, letting it roll around his tongue. “There are charms that can help protect you against magic, depending on the strength of the sorcerer. But, my best advice is go after the sorcerer physically. Surprise is your friend. Get to him before he has a chance to use magic on you.”

  Loriot’s gaze was assessing, as he weighed everything Savarin said—weighed Savarin himself—carefully. Savarin wasn’t sure what Loriot was thinking, but Loriot only nodded, and then sat back as the innkeeper’s son set his plate in front of him, thanking him. Savarin nodded his thanks as the boy set his own plate in front of him as well. Savarin’s stomach growled again at the scent of well-cooked pheasant and vegetables, and he dug in immediately.

  They ate silently for a while, interrupted only when the innkeeper’s son returned to refill their wineglasses.

  “He’s making eyes at you,” Loriot murmured when the boy walked away.

  “What? Who?” He flicked his gaze to Loriot and then to the boy who was looking over his shoulder at Savarin. Seeing he had Savarin’s attention, he upped the flirtatiousness of his smile. He’d noticed that the young man—along with his sister—was pretty but it had just been an idle observation, nothing more. What could he be? Sixteen? Seventeen at most? Savarin looked back at Loriot immediately. “No. He’s half my age. Less maybe. No.”

  Loriot laughed, but his green eyes were blazing. “I don’t think that matters to him. He likes the look of you. But it’s a good thing that you don’t feel as he does. I don’t think the innkeeper would appreciate it.”

  He shook his head. He had no desire to take the young man to bed, and he doubted the young man would even want him to if he knew who Savarin was. Most people were intimidated more than anything. He supposed he should be glad that no one had found out yet, allowing him to pass an evening in peace. “I wouldn’t think so. But I don’t have any intention of taking that boy up on whatever invitation he thinks he’s giving, so the point is moot anyway.”

  Loriot was still looking at him in that odd way Savarin couldn’t quite decipher. He didn’t know why he was bothering to try. It wasn’t as if he would be taking the innkeeper’s son to bed, something they both agreed would be a bad idea. Though really it was no concern of Loriot’s what Savarin did.

  He went back to his meal, finishing the last several bites of the food and then sitting back with his wine while Loriot finished. A group of three musicians had arrived and were tuning their instruments near the hearth to the enthusiastic welcome of much of the room. The innkeeper’s children were kept busy by the growing crowd. He could understand why the inn was so popular; the food was good and the bedchambers were clean and comfortable. That the room was so busy might work to his advantage. He could slip out wi
thout the young man’s notice, saving Savarin from an awkward moment if he made an advance. Whatever anyone thought of him, Savarin didn’t care for the idea of hurting or embarrassing him. He didn’t think the young man would follow him up to his bedchamber—and if he was bold enough to, he would have to be mature enough to take a rejection as well.

  “I’m going upstairs,” he said. “We still need to contact your second again to see if Gemella has any information for us.”

  Loriot swallowed the last of his wine. “I know. Let’s do it now.”

  “Good.” He stood and led the way from the room and up the stairs. Savarin anticipated whatever message Gemella might have for them—and, he couldn’t lie, looked forward to seeing the mirror in action as well. And after they finished, Savarin would take some time before he slept to make some notes and consult his books. The ones he’d been able to bring anyway. An idea about the protection spells was nagging at him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Maybe if he got some things down on paper, his thoughts would clarify themselves and present him with the notion that was just out of reach.

  Chapter 11

  LORIOT STOOD in the trees near the horses, dividing his attention between Savarin and their surroundings. They’d set out early again that morning after settling their bill with the innkeeper and being served breakfast by his daughter, cheerful even so early. Loriot was just glad it hadn’t been the son; he didn’t need to see his longing stares at Savarin and wonder if something would happen that would get them all in trouble. He didn’t think Savarin had done or would do anything, and he should admit that he was far more annoyed about the whole situation than he rightfully should be, but he wasn’t sad to move on from the town.

  After about an hour on the road, Savarin had directed them to stop. He’d found another weak spot in the protection spells the night before that he wanted to examine more closely. Loriot wasn’t sure how Savarin knew exactly where they had to go, but he didn’t question it. Savarin did, that was all he needed to know.

  Savarin had insisted on being right at the border this time, so they’d left the road and tromped into the woods to get closer. They were far enough off the road that the thick trees screened them from the view of travelers. Savarin stood a few feet from a stone border marker, on the Tournai side, already sunk into his magic. Loriot hoped no one on the Amaranta side of the border saw them and wondered what they were up to. Anyone who didn’t know what they were about would certainly see Savarin’s actions as suspicious, and they didn’t need anyone calling out Amaranta’s army on them. He hadn’t thought about it before, but he’d have to be vigilant for anyone who might see them for that reason as well.

  According to Ruban, whom they’d spoken to after dinner last night, Savarin’s weatherworker friend had no new information to give them about the storms. They were still expected next week, and they were still expected to be severe. Savarin’s expression had gone so hard that Ruban visibly flinched, but Savarin had only spoken to insist on speaking with his friend personally. Loriot had instructed Ruban to set up the meeting, which would likely be tomorrow or the next day. He wanted to hope that she would have good news for them, but he couldn’t quite delude himself into thinking the weather would magically change to suit their plans.

  Magic didn’t work that way.

  Savarin released a long breath and opened his eyes. He reached up above his head with both arms and linked his fingers, stretching. Loriot studied the line of Savarin’s long body, the graceful arch of his back—then jerked his gaze away. Back to the forest and possible danger, where it belonged.

  “I’m finished.”

  “You weren’t long this time,” Loriot said.

  Savarin went to his horse and removed his water from the saddlebag. He drank deeply before answering. “I wasn’t trying to do as much. I just wanted a better look at the weakened area to see if there are any clues to what caused it.”

  “Did you find any?”

  “Not exactly evidence. Nothing in the way of traces of the magic used to weaken the barriers, for instance.” Savarin took his horse’s reins and began to walk back toward the road. “But the way it’s been done, the shape of what’s left… it has to have been done deliberately.”

  “How so?” Loriot asked as he followed. Somehow in just the last few days, his questions had changed from demands for information solely because he needed it to protect Savarin and Tournai—and was frustrated Savarin was keeping it from him—to requests also because he was interested.

  “They’re just too localized. One area, a hair weaker than the rest. No uniform weakening or wearing. Just one spot here and there. It has to be deliberate.”

  Loriot waited but Savarin said nothing more. “Savarin?”

  When they broke through the trees at the side of the road, he could see that Savarin had fallen into his thoughts. He’d probably forgotten Loriot was there in the space between one moment and the next. Loriot mounted his horse, faintly surprised but pleased when Savarin followed his lead. That would make things easier. Loriot turned his horse north and set off, Savarin falling in at his side.

  The next several days followed the same pattern. Only Loriot’s impatience at the trip, his desire to return to Jumelle, changed, took on a new urgency. Savarin’s friend reported via the mirror that the storms’ predicted path hadn’t changed, nor had the expectations of their severity, but the weatherworkers had made the decision to leave the storms as they were. From what Loriot understood, the consequences of trying to shift their path or lessen their severity would be worse than those of the storms themselves. Savarin and Gemella had exchanged a significant look when she spoke of the storms and their unusual strength, but they’d said nothing to explain it, and Loriot could only assume there was some meaning in the weather patterns that those trained in magic were picking out that he couldn’t. Oddly enough, considering the way their journey began, Loriot trusted that Savarin would tell him if whatever it was affected their plans further, a surprising revelation if there ever was one.

  Loriot couldn’t pass judgment on the weatherworkers’ decision to leave the storms to run their course. All he knew of weather magic he’d been told by Savarin in the last few days. He couldn’t say he understood the implications of all of it, and he knew what he’d been told was only the barest summary. No, he couldn’t say whether their decision was the correct one, but since they were the best weatherworkers in Tournai, he had to trust that they knew their work. All he could do was plan his and Savarin’s route accordingly.

  They’d slept out one night when Savarin’s magic kept them on the road longer than they’d intended, but that couldn’t happen when the storms were expected. He studied the maps, planning how far they could and needed to travel each day to make the town he’d decided was the best place to wait out the storm. Rivage was a large town, unlike the much smaller villages they’d been passing through and spending nights in, and would have a good-sized, comfortable inn. They’d need one, considering what Savarin’s friend had said about the severity and duration of the storms. They would likely be in that inn for a couple of days.

  He explained his plans to Savarin, explained how much time they could take each time they stopped, how far they had to go each night. Savarin said he understood and went so far as to tell Loriot he would leave those plans in his hands. Savarin had been falling into those long periods of thought more and more often, and was spending a lot of time with his books and notes. Loriot left him be when he seemed to need it, which was most of the time, but he was happy and interested every time Savarin decided to speak with him as well. He found himself learning more about magic and how it worked, how it affected those who used it, than he ever had before just by being around Savarin.

  He even found that he didn’t mind nudging Savarin to eat when he seemed more intent on his books than his dinner and checking in on him to make sure he slept instead of working all night, and that the sleep he got was in a bed and not hunched over his notes—which were utterly incomprehe
nsible in the glimpses Loriot got of them. What he did mind was when Savarin began to resist his urging to keep to their schedule. He understood what Savarin was trying to accomplish, but he refused to be caught out in the worst storms anyone had seen in a generation because Savarin was dawdling needlessly.

  “We have to get moving, Savarin,” he said through gritted teeth. It was the third time he’d repeated the statement, but Savarin seemed to be in one of his oblivious, lost-in-thought states as he walked a short distance parallel to the border and then back. He’d done it several times already since breaking his connection with the magic, pacing off that distance. Loriot didn’t even know what he was hoping to accomplish.

  What Loriot did know was that the sky, which had been clouding up for the last day, had darkened ominously in a very short amount of time. A chill wind had kicked up since they’d stopped for what was supposed to be a short lunch and check of the protection spells. But Savarin was taking far longer than he was supposed to, and they still had a ways to travel to reach shelter. As of last night, Gemella had said that the first of the storms was likely to hit overnight, but from the look of the sky above them, Loriot was beginning to doubt they had that much time.

  “Savarin,” he snapped out in the voice he used in the royal guard training yards.

  It had the desired effect, mostly. Savarin’s entire body jerked, and he whirled to face Loriot. Surprise and annoyance warred on his face. “What? Why are you yelling?”

  “Because I’ve been trying to get your attention politely for quite a while, and it didn’t work.”

  “Why are you even trying to get my attention? Since we’re standing here arguing, I can surmise we’re not in danger.” Savarin’s voice lashed out, sharp and cold. “I need to think, and I can’t do that with you barking at me.”

  “Can you do it while you ride a horse?”

  “What? Why? I’m working with the spells.”

  “You said you were thinking, and you don’t have to be standing here to do that. We’ve already been here longer than we should have.” They’d agreed this would be a quick stop, as quick as Savarin could make it. Loriot didn’t even know what Savarin gained from his frequent examinations of the border protections, other than the locations of weakened areas, which he marked on a map as they went. Were all of these stops really helping? “We need to be under cover before the storm breaks. It’s time to go.”