Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  “When it’s my brother’s apprenticeship, it’s mine to say.” Craig cracked his knuckles.

  “Your brother’s too young for an apprenticeship.” How far away was his quarterstaff? It was behind him, in the corner, a few steps at most; if he grabbed it, he would be cornered, but they could only come at him from the front.

  “You don’t need Jarl,” Lukas spoke up. “Your father’s a master, so you can be a woodwright. Craig’s brother has nothing except this, no rich merchant friends, no prospects, nothing.”

  Graegor raised his eyebrows at this obvious lie, and Craig said hurriedly, “Jarl promised, and he has to be held to it.”

  “Then go talk to him,” Graegor suggested, putting a hard edge in his voice. If he managed to thump one of them with the staff, maybe the others would think better of it. That was assuming he didn’t trip over the thing.

  “Tell Jarl that you’ve changed your mind,” Craig said.

  Lukas set one hand in a fist and closed the other over it. “Or else.”

  “Rot in hell.”

  Fortunately they didn’t rush him when they advanced, which gave him time to reach back and grab his quarterstaff. He held it as the infantryman had showed him, left hand in the center, right hand between the center and the end, and he was gratified to see Lukas stop, but the others kept advancing, closing in. His heart was pounding so fast it was like thunder in his chest, reverberating through his head, rushing so much blood to his body he could almost smell it.

  They lunged, Craig for the tip of the staff and the other two for the end. Graegor moved so fast he didn’t even see his own hands spinning and cracking the staff in the narrow space between the workbench and the tool rack. Seconds later all three of his attackers were writhing on the floor.

  Power raged through him in a whirlwind, only barely contained by his skin. He stood very still, the end of the staff extended from the final blow to Craig’s stomach. He saw red blood shimmering on their faces. All of them were gasping for air, the sound crystal-clear over the restless shifting and neighing of the horses. The purpleheart under his hands felt smooth and warm and perfectly balanced. When Craig made as if to sit up, Graegor speared him in the shoulder. It felt good. It felt powerful and vicious and good.

  Lukas gaped at him, then ran.

  Graegor was still standing there, just starting to feel something close to normal, when Lukas reappeared, this time with one of the constables—Chervis, the taller and leaner of the two. Chervis looked at Lukas’ three friends crawling toward the rolling door, moaning and groaning, then at Graegor. “Would you put that down?”

  Graegor realized he was still holding the quarterstaff, and he quickly placed it against the wall.

  “What happened?” Chervis asked him, in a voice that plainly said that he could already tell, but they had to go through the formalities.

  “They tried to thrash me because they think I stole an apprenticeship.”

  “We did not,” Lukas protested, almost believably. “We were just talking.”

  “It takes four of you to talk?” Chervis asked dryly.

  Lukas pointed to Craig and the others. “Can I check to make sure he didn’t hurt them too bad?”

  “I never said you couldn’t.” Chervis looked at Lien, who had followed them and was now staring at the blood. “Have your mother prepare some bandages. And tell your father it’s all right, nothing’s busted up, he doesn’t need to come out. I’ll be there in a minute.” As Lien ran off, the constable looked back at Lukas, who was peering at Craig’s teeth. “Is it serious enough to send for the magus?”

  “No, no, don’t bother the magus,” Lukas said hastily as he helped Craig to sit up.

  Chervis looked at Graegor again. “So then what?”

  “They came at me and I hit them.”

  Chervis looked down at Lukas and Craig. “It didn’t occur to you that it might be stupid to attack an armed man?”

  “He surprised me,” Craig mumbled.

  “His staff is magic,” Lukas declared. “It moved into his hand all on its own.”

  Chervis frowned, and Graegor tried to remember what exactly had happened, but those few seconds had gone by fast. Was the staff magic? Was that why he had been able to beat all three of them even though he’d had barely any training?

  And was that why that “white herald” in Farre had acted so strangely?

  “Is your staff magic?” Chervis asked Graegor.

  “Not that I know.”

  “I saw it,” Lukas insisted. “You should take the staff to Magus Paul in the morning. He should look at it. People shouldn’t be allowed to have such things.”

  “Why not?” Chervis said. “So you can beat them up more easily?”

  Lukas stared at Chervis. “But I told you ... “

  “You’re full of shit. I don’t need to be a magus to know that. Breon’s blood.” His lip curled in disgust. “Here, I’ll tell you what happened. The four of you cornered Graegor in here to beat him up. You knew he’d be alone, and you knew he wouldn’t tell who’d done it. But instead he cracks your skulls, and you don’t have the sense to call it a lesson learned and go home.”

  Lukas was silent for a few seconds. Craig gingerly touched his broken teeth. One of the two other toughs made it to the door, and he grunted continuously as he staggered to his feet and away. Chervis let him go. The last one of Graegor’s attackers still lay motionless.

  “So what are you going to do?” Lukas said finally.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Graegor asked incredulously. He had just said it was their fault!

  “None of them actually touched you, right?”

  “Because he attacked us!” Lukas insisted.

  “It was self-defense. I’m going to tell Sheriff what happened, and he’ll say the same thing I’m saying now—go home and don’t be such idiots next time.”

  “Wait.” Someone stood behind Chervis, and Chervis turned. It was Magus Paul. Chervis immediately nodded and stepped aside, and the quiet grace of the magus’ presence descended on the stable.

  He was more than a head shorter than the constable, slightly built, with an unremarkable face and plain grey clothes. He surveyed the scene for a long moment, then crouched down next to Craig. He touched three fingers to the furrier’s jaw, peering past the blood drying on his face. After a similar inspection of his shoulder and ribs, he said, “You’ll be all right. Go to the common room. I’ll be there soon.”

  Lukas helped Craig up and would have followed, but Magus Paul stayed him with a hand on his arm, then moved to the one who lay unconscious. The magus cupped his hands, and Graegor felt a surge of—something—energy, magic, something echoing the power that had taken hold of him when he had been fighting.

  He had never heard anyone else say that they could sense Magus Paul’s healing from across the room. He suddenly felt as dizzy as if he’d been the one out cold.

  Craig and Lukas’ friend stirred, blinked, and groaned, and Magus Paul told him to go to the common room as well. Again Lukas tried to follow, and again Magus Paul touched his arm to instruct him to stay. The magus stood up, gazed around the stable again, and then his eyes fell on Graegor, who obediently came forward.

  He was expecting an interrogation, but instead, Magus Paul reached out and cupped his hands over Graegor’s temples. A tingling pressure that felt like the healing magic swelled in his skull, and then the kernel of a headache sprang from it and threatened to grow. Magus Paul then looked deep into his eyes, like a—a reach, it felt like he meant to draw Graegor’s spirit right out of his body. It was starting to frighten him. Magi could do this?—The sorcerers could, he’d heard the stories, but magi weren’t as powerful—he’d heard they weren’t—but it hurt—

  Magus Paul’s hands jerked back as if he’d been stung, and he blinked rapidly. Graegor’s headache dulled, but lingered. “What was that?” he whispered.

  The magus shook his head. “I thought you might be a magus, but I can’t find
any of the signs.”

  “But I felt something ...”

  “It was his staff,” Lukas said loudly, pointing.

  The magus frowned at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “It moved. He reached back and it flew through the air and into his hand.”

  “Is this true?” the magus asked Graegor.

  “I really can’t remember.”

  “Bring it over here.”

  “You think it was the staff and not me?”

  Magus Paul made a noise of irritation. “There was power released here, but I found no trace of it in your mind, so I need to inspect the staff.”

  “You looked in my mind?” No wonder it’d been unnerving—

  “Not like you’re thinking. Magi aren’t sorcerers. We can’t do that.”

  “Then what ... I ... I could feel something when you ...” He trailed off. His head still hurt, and he wished the magus would just explain what had happened—even if he couldn’t understand the explanation.

  Paul raised his eyebrow in annoyance, which Graegor didn’t think was quite fair, but then he said, “If you look down at a dirt path, you can see if there are any footprints on it. If there aren’t any, then you can safely assume that no one’s been there. All I was doing was looking for footprints of magic. Enough, now. Give me your staff.”

  Chervis, behind Paul, was giving Graegor a hard look, clearly meaning to remind him that he was talking to a magus. So Graegor went to retrieve the quarterstaff.

  Paul held it for a few seconds, rubbing one hand over it. “Purpleheart. Where did you get this?”

  “In Farre, last autumn.”

  “Southern magi carry these.” He turned it over, as if looking for a mark, but apparently didn’t find anything. “Southern magic,” he muttered.

  “Sir?” Graegor ventured.

  Paul shook his head and gave the staff to Chervis. “This has no magic anyone could use. But I suggest you confiscate it until the sheriff decides what to do.”

  “He was defending himself,” Chervis said. “He won’t be punished.”

  “Confiscate it anyway, until he isn’t punished. You—” he gestured at Graegor, apparently having forgotten his name—“clear out for a bit. I need to look over this room before anything else goes on here. Before that, though, I need to examine these boys more closely.”

  Graegor nodded, because there wasn’t much else he could do.

  Lukas said, “What about me?”

  Paul looked at him. “What about you?”

  “Aren’t you going to see if I’m a magus too?”

  “You’re not. But come with me. I want to hear from you what happened here.”

  Lukas paused, his mouth open, then nodded and followed Paul out. Graegor didn’t care. Lukas might try to spin the whole thing in his favor, but no one could actually lie to a magus.

  Graegor slung his raincloak over his shoulders and went to the rolling door. Lien could finish grinding off the rust on the stirrup when Paul had done whatever he had to do in here. Chervis fell into step with him as he left the stable. “Graegor, you’re going to want to tell your folks what happened, and right away. They shouldn’t hear about this from anyone else.”

  Graegor nodded. “I’ll do that now, sir.” Chervis was right—he had to make sure his parents knew he hadn’t been hurt, and that he hadn’t started it.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Sheriff that you were defending yourself.”

  “Thank you, sir. What will happen to them?” He tilted his head toward the tavern’s common room.

  “Probably nothing. I think you punished them enough.”

  Graegor smiled, pleased at this judgment of the fight from the constable. “Thank you, sir.”

  Chervis hefted the staff. “This has good balance. Odd color, though.”

  “It’s purpleheart.”

  “I’ll ask Sheriff to tell the magus that you can have it back.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  As he angled across the street toward his house, he counted seven candles burning in the right-hand display window. He didn’t know why his mother bothered with a display—especially one that melted—since almost all her scented candles were commissioned for rich city folk. The left-hand display window was not lit, but a tall bureau, also crafted on commission and waiting to be picked up, filled the space. Graegor had actually helped with this piece, a little. He’d chosen, and affixed, the decorative iron pulls for the six drawers. He’d developed a liking for decorative ironwork lately. His father had even nodded in surprised approval.

  The wind gusted, flapping his raincloak around him, and he finally trudged around to the gate. The bulky shape of the wagon rested in front of the stable door. There was still light leaking under the doors to the woodwright shop and the chandlery, and through the curtains at the kitchen window. When he went in, his mother was preparing dinner, dark hair up, white apron on. His father was hunched at the dining table with his black tea. The apprentices weren’t around yet, since they were all still cleaning up the workrooms. Audrey was there, but she was sitting with their father, since she hadn’t been allowed to help cook since the grease fire.

  Audrey had set her candlestick on the table, next to the book that she had bought after saving her pocket money. It was a large book with small print, and Audrey was determined to finish every word. She was only eight—not even old enough for school, and few girls went to school anyway—but sometime over the last year she had taught herself to read. She’d surprised them one evening while they were all playing link-words, by looking at Graegor’s wooden game pieces and suggesting three words he could make out of the carved letters. Graegor liked having a little sister who was so smart, but it seemed to worry their mother and annoy their father.

  His mother turned from stirring the coals in the stove burners and smiled, though she looked tired. “Off early tonight?”

  He shed his cloak and boots beside the back door. “I went to see Master Jarl today about an apprenticeship.” Best to start with news that was completely good.

  This announcement got everyone’s attention. His mother’s look was anxious, Audrey’s curious, his father’s surprised.

  “He agreed, and I have a signed contract to start when I turn fifteen.”

  They all hailed this as an achievement and asked him eager questions about it. His mother hugged and kissed him, and Audrey told him she wanted his room when he left, and his father said Master Jarl was tough but fair, of which his father—of course—approved. Then Audrey asked if they could have the rest of the whiteberries after dinner to celebrate, and his mother agreed, and Graegor knew he had to tell them about the fight before they got too carried away.

  “There’s something else,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over his mother and sister. When everyone was looking at him again, he went on. “I thought you should know, you might hear about it ... just now, I was in the stable, working on some saddles, and Lukas and Craig—you know, the furrier’s apprentices—they came in with two of their friends. Craig started going on about how I stole the apprenticeship from his brother.” He paused, and saw their expressions shift. “I told them to talk to Master Jarl about it. But they started coming at me, and Craig told me to withdraw the apprenticeship or else.”

  “They were going to thrash you?” Audrey asked, her eyes wide.

  “No, Audrey,” their mother rolled her eyes. “Look at him, he’s fine.”

  “They were going to. I fought them off.”

  It took a second for this to sink in. His father set his mug down. “You’re saying you got into a fight?” His voice was quite low, as was his brow.

  “Sort of. Yes.”

  “But you said there were four of them,” Audrey pointed out.

  “Well, three of them. Lukas stayed back. I had my quarterstaff.”

  They all stared at him. Finally his father said, “What did they say when you told them you didn’t know about the brother?”

  “Craig said I should have k
nown.”

  “Who tried to hit you first?” his father wanted to know.

  “I don’t remember.”

  There was another silence. His parents obviously had no idea how to react to this. To help them along, he said, “Chervis came. He said he’d tell Sheriff that I was defending myself. Lukas tried to tell him that they were just going to talk to me, but Chervis didn’t believe them.”

  His father sighed. “Are you sure that they weren’t just going to talk to you?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “No one was really hurt, though, right?”

  “Um ... sort of.”

  Unfortunately this confession diverted his father from the path of understanding. “Sort of? What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I knocked some of Craig’s teeth out.” Just tell him all of it, he’s going to find out anyway. “Magus Paul had to heal one of them since he was out cold. I think I bruised them all pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? You think hurting someone is good?”

  “You’d rather I came home with broken teeth?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t do anything to provoke them?” his mother interjected.

  Graegor looked over at her, but he wasn’t willing to give an inch on this one. “All I did was get an apprenticeship,” he said firmly. “If Craig had a problem with that, he should have talked to Master Jarl instead of coming after me.”

  “Maybe you should have told them you’d ask Master Jarl about it,” his father growled.

  “What good would that have done?” Graegor demanded.

  “It might have avoided a fight altogether,” his father snapped. “Fighting solves nothing. Nothing.”

  “It solved this.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Dad, I won!”

  His father stared at him silently, his mouth twisting, obviously holding back a flood of shouts. Then he stood up, strode to the back door, wrenched it open, and yanked it shut behind him.

  Graegor didn’t look at Audrey or his mother, just stood there with his fists clenched, trembling with rage. Why had he stupidly harbored the hope that this once ... just this once ...

  He made to head up the back stairway, but his mother stopped him before he got further than the root-cellar hatch. “Graegor.”