The Tower of Sorcery

by James Galloway

  There was one way to find out. Giving her a direct look, he said "Stand on one foot and sing the drunken courtesan song."

  "And what insanity possesses you to think I'd act a fool for your amusement?" she countered with a smile. Then she blinked, and her expression went from mild amusement to one of incredulity.

  "Yes," he replied to her unspoken question. "Don't ask me how, I don't know. I think it's that amulet you found in the courtyard. I think it's letting you understand me."

  She reached into her shirt and drew out the ivory medallion. "Amazing," she said. "It's as if I hear you speaking in your own voice! But that's impossible, you being the way you are now."

  "I am speaking in my own voice," he told her. "Well, sort of. It's my unspoken voice. It's just that you can hear it."

  "I can hear it fine," she said, staring at him.

  "Take off the amulet," he said.

  She nodded, and removed it. "Alright," she said. "Try now." Tarrin asked her how old her father was, but there was no reply. "If you're talking, I can't hear it," she told him after a moment. Then she put it back on. "Tarrin?"

  "It's the amulet," he affirmed.

  "My," she breathed, then she stared at it. "There is no way that this found its way to me by sheer accident," she said firmly. "I can almost smell someone's hand making things like they are."

  "Yes, but who would put it there?" Tarrin said. He secretly had suspicions, of course. That Goddess in the statue was probably the guilty party. She was the only one, outside of Allia herself and Jesmind, that knew about Tarrin's ability to communicate in the unspoken manner of the Cat. But Allia's devotion to Fara'Nae would probably make her reject the necklace if Tarrin told her where it really came from. And her having it would open up entire worlds of new possibilities. For one, if he didn't miss his mark, he could speak to her in the manner of the Cat while in humanoid form, allowing him to talk to her without speaking. The use of it went beyond mere words.

  So, to make sure she kept it, a little bit of creative manipulation of the truth was in order. Tarrin couldn't lie while speaking in the manner of the Cat. Lying was alien to the Cat, so it had no place in its language. But that didn't stop him from spinning the truth on its edge.

  "I'm sure that the goddess that gave it to you wanted you to have it, Allia," he told her, stressing the word goddess while underplaying the possibility that it was some goddess other than Fara'Nae. "Else she'd never have put it there for you to find." The key to a good lie--or manipulation of the truth, in this case--was simplicity. The simpler things were, the more easily they could be accepted as honest words. That was why Tarrin didn't elaborate, allowing her to digest his statement and draw her own conclusions.

  "It certainly wasn't there the day before," she said in support. And it's so lovely," she sighed, looking at the carved ivory symbol. "You're right, my brother," she said after a moment. "It was left there for me on purpose. I'll not question a gift freely given, even though I know it wasn't from the Holy Mother." She gave Tarrin a sly look. "And I suspect that you know where it came from," she pressed, sitting down beside him and grabbing him by the tail. "It's from that other one, isn't it? The one they made me swear obedience to this morning?"

  Tarrin laughed ruefully. "I'd imagine so," he told her. "This is her domain, after all. If anyone put it there, it was her."

  "Yes, you're right," she said. "I guess that's not all that hard to figure out, is it? She knows about you and me, and she gave me this to help me talk with you." She patted it, then slid it back under her shirt. "I'll have to talk fast to the Holy Mother, but I think she won't mind. She gave me permission to take that oath, after all. I get the feeling that the Holy Mother has some kind of agreement with this Goddess of the Sorcerers over me. I think they're sharing me somehow."

  "Why not?" Tarrin shrugged. "If your Holy Mother is sure that this other goddess will take good care of you, and won't try to steal you, then I don't think she'd mind all that much. From what you've told me of her, she seems a very practical goddess."

  "The Holy Mother is very practical," Allia said. "It's what makes her such a sensible goddess, and it's a reflection of the way we Selani live. Practicality is very important out in the desert. Without it, we would quickly die."

  "I imagine so," he agreed. "I think you're in a pretty unusual situation, Allia. You've got the Holy Mother looking out for you, but since you can do Sorcery, that also puts you under the influence of this goddess of the Sorcerers. I guess it's not all that strange to think that they made a deal. I don't think they want any friction between each other, you and the Sorcerers, or upset your beliefs."

  Allia laughed. "Here we sit, daring to speculate on the motives of the gods. I'm surprised we haven't been struck dead."

  "Men have been doing it for as long as there have been gods to talk about," Tarrin shrugged, or as best he could in cat form.

  "Truly," she agreed.

  "I'm going back to sleep," he told her. "I'll see you later?"

  "Later," she replied.

  Tarrin saw her again about sunset, coming out of the main Tower's entrance that led to the kitchens, and also the entrance that Initiates and Novices were supposed to use. Her hair was damp; she'd been in the baths. "Tarrin," she called, her expression a bit irritated, "you would not believe who I just saw."

  "That Wikuni?" he asked.

  She nodded. "I can't believe that anyone would act like that. If she were Selani, her parents would have killed her!"

  "What did she do?"

  "She threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the kitchens," she replied. All because the cook wouldn't bake her a fresh loaf of bread, no less! She was completely out of control. She even threw knives at the cook!"

  "Wow," he breathed. "Did the Keeper spank her again?"

  "What?"

  Tarrin quickly related the short tale of his meeting with the Wikuni, which made Allia laugh. "No, the Keeper wasn't there," she replied. "One of the Council did come down and speak very firmly to her, though. I think she listened about as much as a rock would have."

  "I wouldn't be surprised," Tarrin grunted.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To get something to eat," he replied.

  "I'll come with you," she said.

  The night air was crisp and cold, the ever-present wind of the Keen howling over the battlements of the wind-swept fortress. Built of gray stone over two thousand years ago, the forgotten structure clung perilously to the cliffside of God's Crag, a massive mountain south of the main crux of the three PetalLakes, the point where the three lakes joined. The six towers of the outer walls and main keep had stood against the stiff, constant wind for more years than most things on the world had lived, and had withstood the merciless pounding in such a way that made the use of magic obvious. Built long ago by a forgotten king to protect the flow or iron from the rich mountains that surrounded the PetalLakes, Castle Keening served a new master now. The mines to the east of Castle Keening were long ago abandoned and collapsed, and those to the north were supplied by lakebarge and raft instead of the forgotten overland routes that the grim, foreboding castle had once defended from raiding bands of Waern, Dargu, Bruga, and Trolls.

  A lone figure stood on a balcony high in the tower that rose over the main keep. Ashen skin took on a ghostly pallor in the light of the two risen moons and the Skybands, almost luminous in its colorlessness. Black hair contrasted the ghostly skin blaringly, long, thick hair that was kept neat, clean, and tied back away from the thin, emotionless face. A face that made most people cringe or step back unconsciously. He was a tall man, tall and almost cadaverously thin, wearing a simple gray robe that was kept scrupulously clean and neat. The robe did not billow in the stiff wind. The man's hair did not so much as flow, even as the wind howled around him. Behind the man was a tall, burly Dal wearing a mail shirt under a breastplate. The man's iron gray hair was cut short, as was his beard, and a wicked scar ran down his left cheek. Beside him was a slender woman wearing a black rob
e and cloak, with a hood pulled over her face to conceal it from the light that made her dark clothes a silhouette against the fire burning in the fireplace behind the trio.

  "The Sorcerers have recovered the Were-cat, Master Kravon," the large Dal told him in a voice as gravelly as his appearance, a voice like the mountain stone. "More to the point, he went back to them."

  "Indeed," the man in the gray robe said in a cold, neutral voice. "I expected as much. That one is full of surprises."

  "We can still remove him, Lord Kravon," the woman said in a calm voice.

  "As efficiently as before?" Kravon asked in a monotone, glancing over his shoulder. "All your prior attempts have done is to warn the katzh-dashi that we are aware of their prize."

  "Luck, Lord Kravon," the woman said in a slightly ruffled voice, smoothing her cloak's hem uncounsiously, then settling her hood deeper over her face. "We very nearly had him, more than once, but blind luck favors fools."

  "Fool," he chuckled grimly. "Naive, yes. Inexperienced, yes. But not a fool. Never that. You underestimate our opponent, my dear. And his allies. They are guarding him. Even now, they are preparing to raise the ancient ward that surrounds their Tower. With it raised, the magic of the Wizards will not be able to penetrate, and the Were-cat will be safely contained on the grounds."

  "My magic will still be quite effective, Lord Kravon," the woman said confidently.

  "Yes, but what will you do with it?" he asked, turning around and regarding her with eyes that were as cold as the grave. Eyes that gave children nightmares. "Should you attempt to eliminate the Were-cat, you will most certainly be found out. And my eyes and ears within the katzh-dashi will be removed. Our other agents in the Tower would have no way to get their information to us. At this stage in the game, that is not acceptable.

  "The katzh-dashi are a force to be reckoned with, my dear. You, of all people, should be aware of that. Their magic is strong, and they know what to do with it. They know what is at stake, and they primp and ready the Were-cat for his role in the game." He chuckled again, a sound like steel sliding across steel. "And the Were-cat is not the only one that can play the role. The Selani, and the Wikuni, they are as much a danger to us as he is. The poor creatures. If they only knew what it was they were being prepared for."

  "From the sound of your voice, my Lord, you have a plan," the Dal said. "I stand ready to carry out your orders."

  "Yes, Bral, in a moment," he said, turning back around, staring up into the brilliant starry sky. "The Were-cat," he said quietly, "is a Weavespinner. An Ancient. My dear, I believe you understand exactly what that means."

  "Aye, my lord," she said grimly. "He holds power over the All."

  "We cannot allow that to come to pass," he said. "We must strike at him now, before he learns what power he holds, and how to wield it."

  "But my Lord," she said, "if they raise the ward, they are putting him out of our reach."

  "Ah, yes," he agreed. "But that only protects him from those who are outside."

  "I understand, my Lord," the woman said with a bow of her head. "I'll gather up the people I'll need."

  "The katzh-dashi are very much caught up in tradition and custom," Kravon mused to himself. "They'll put the Were-cat through their normal Initiate, and teach him at only a slightly faster rate than usual. Because even they do not know exactly how to go about training him in arts that were lost eons ago. That works in our favor." He turned and looked at the woman. "I want him dead before he weaves his first spell, my dear," he commanded in a clear voice. "Every time he touches the Weave, he presents more of a danger to us. There is no place in our plans for him."

  "I will see to it, my Lord," she said confidently. "I already have a most delicious plan in mind, one that presents no danger to our own people."

  Kravon nodded. "Just get it done, my dear," he said. "Now go. You must be back at the Tower before daybreak." She curtsied gracefully to him, then turned and walked away. "Bral," Kravon called after the woman left the room.

  "Yes, my Lord?"

  "Bring Semoa to me," he said. "I am confident that our puppet will do her best, but I will not gamble on her success. It is time for Jegojah."

  Bral's rocky face blanched. "The Doomwalker?" he gasped. "My Lord, is that entirely wise?"

  "Wise or not, it is necessary," he said. "And you would do well not to second guess my decisions, General."

  "Never, my Lord," he said in swift and sincere humility. "I only struggle to understand what's obviously over my head."

  "To seek wisdom does you credit, Bral," he said. "But remember that all men have limitations."

  "Aye, my Lord," Bral said in meek contrition. "I will bring Semoa to you."

  Kravon nodded. "Quickly, General, quickly. Time is passing."

  After a very good night's sleep, Tarrin arose the next morning curiously expectant, and a bit eager. It was surprising to him to think that he was eager to get into the business of learning Sorcery, but he was. He had only touched that power once, in cat form, and even now the memory of it was veiled by the long rides he had spent in cat form. The only thing he remembered about it was the feeling of the power inside of him, around him, and then feeling it rush out of him in such a flood that he felt drained. He wanted to know more about it, know how he had done it, how it worked.

  It was a subject that was kept in the strictest confidence in the Novitiate. Novices were not taught a whit of Sorcery, nor were even the most funadamental aspects of it taught, nor were the books or manuscripts that went into any detail kept where a Novice could reach. All of that was saved for the Initiate. From what he already knew, the first rides of the Initiate were more classroom instruction and history, but it was the history of the katzh-dashi and formal education on the fundamentals of magic. After that was completed, then the Initiates would be paired with Sorcerers, and they would start learning Sorcery first-hand. The Initiate was again unlike the Novitiate in that it had no formal structure after the learning began. An Initiate was deemed graduated when he satisfied the Sorcerers that he was competent. That could take months, it could take years. It depended entirely upon the individual's aptitude and desire to learn. After the Initiate was complete, the full-fledged individual had the option of joining the katzh-dashi, or going their own way. Entry into the katzh-dashi wasn't a requirement, but the Sorcerers weren't about to let people out there run around with the gift unless they had formal training in how to control it.

  And once you were in the Initiate, you didn't get out until the Tower was done with you. No Initiate had ever run away from the Tower that had not been captured or killed.

  Because of all that, Sorcery was a complete mystery to him. All that he knew was his own brief touch on that vast power, a touch that was made when he wasn't fully in command of his own wits and made in a panic.

  Opening the door to his room, he stepped out wearing Initiate red. It felt strange, somehow. After two months of wearing no clothes at all, anything against his skin that wasn't fur was odd, but seeing the color of it in glances and peripheral vision made it feel alien to him. Before he left, it had always been white. Always. And now the color fringing his eyes was red. More than once, he had an irrational impulse to check to see what was bleeding. After two months, the conceptions he had drawn from wearing Novice white for so long were yet to fade.

  Although it was not even dawn, Allia was not in her room. Ever the early riser, she had a habit of waking long before him and spending the time walking the gardens. It wasn't an allowed practice in the Novitiate, but she was never caught out of her room when she was supposed to be within it. The gardens held an almost mystical attraction for the Selani warrior. The flowers and color and vivid life of the plants never ceased to amaze her. It reminded Tarrin how he took the things around him for granted. What was everyday to him was something to inspire wonder in his desert-born friend. Then again, he had little doubt that the descriptions of her homeland would pale in comparison to the real thing, when he finally did get th
e chance to see it for himself.

  It was dark outside, with a pale mist hugging the ground, a mist thick enough to dim the light from the Skybands high above, light that only illuminated the grayish fog in a ghostly light that obscured everything within. This close to dawn, only the White Moon, Dommammon, was still in the sky, but it was too low to the horizon to add any light. Definitely not enough to pierce the fog. The air was chilled with the beginning of fall, and the scents riding on the still air were damp and subdued. The foggy air quickly drowned out most senses, giving Tarrin a curious sense of isolation within the misty haze. It obscured his vision of the main Tower ahead as he walked out on the path, and the North Tower behind disappeared into the dim murk. Scents were watered down by the humid air, and sound reflected back off the gray misty billows, amplifying the faint scrapes of his paws on the gravel path. His tail shivered as the damp air penetrated the fur sheathing it, putting a strange cold sensation against skin that was not accustomed to such feelings.

  It was a new day. A new start. The day was certainly going out of its way to be different. This was the first time that Tarrin had felt the chill of the coming winter, or had seen the fog for which the city was famous. In the spring, it was said that one couldn't see a candle in a window across the street until well after the midday bell. The fog was a normal fixture from the beginning of winter to the middle of spring. It was a poignant reminder of how much time he had lost. Two months, he'd been told.

  He encountered a solitary figure as he walked along the path towards the Tower. The fog muffled the figure's scent, but the bushy tail swaying behind a feminine form marked the person as Wikuni. And there were only two Wikuni at the Tower. The Princess, and her maid. Tarrin hadn't seen the Princess' maid, but she doubted that the maid looked that much like her Royal Bratness. As they neared each other, he saw that it was indeed the Princess of Wikuna, in all of her royal authority, wearing an Initiate dress of red and without the pretty baubles and jewels which had decorated her fingers and neck the day before. Her boxy muzzle was shivering as she seemed to mutter to herself, but her amber eyes were hard and steely. Not the look he expected from the vapid scatterbrain. She looked up at him, and that look evaporated like the fog around them exposed to the summer sun, replaced with a hollow emptiness that made it seem that there was nothing behind those eyes except the back of her skull.