Lord Contare just nodded, so Graegor went on. “I thought I could use the spell to help me open the door. Just a small ... I mean, it didn’t seem like ... I thought I could channel it. I started repeating in my mind, ‘Open this door, open this door’, and the earth magic—the white glow—it started rising around me, like it was answering me, and I thought it was going to work.”
Lord Contare waited, and when Graegor didn’t say anything, asked, “And then?”
“Well, it did work. But it grew stronger and stronger, and then I was just along for the ride. I saw it racing through the castle and blowing out walls, and I saw it go through a long tunnel. I guess that’s the one that leads to the cliff.”
Lord Contare nodded. “Yes, the destruction was extensive. It will cost us a sizable sum for reparations. The water tables certainly shifted when the cliff fell. And we haven’t even considered the implications of what happened to the Flame ... that will occupy priests and philosophers for the next several centuries, I imagine.”
Graegor hadn’t thought he could feel worse, more hopelessly out of his depth, but somehow he found a new low. This wasn’t what he’d ever had in mind. In all his dreams of glory, from childhood to the day Lord Contare had found him, he’d never thought his mark on the world would be made in purple fire upon the house of God.
Then Lord Contare asked, “What do you think went wrong?”
Everything? “I lost control of it.”
“Why do you think that happened?”
“Because ... because it was a lot stronger than I thought.”
“You did know that it was a powerful spell,” Lord Contare pointed out reasonably.
“Yes ...” Of course he’d known that—he’d known it all his life.
“And you did know that you can raise earth magic, since you did it in Farre.”
“I ... yes.”
“And I did tell you that the spell could react to your power as well as to your blood.”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“And I warned you to be careful,” was the inexorable conclusion.
“Yes, sir,” Graegor sighed.
“So, what do you think went wrong?”
“I wasn’t careful.” That was painfully clear.
A deep furrow in the sorcerer’s brow relaxed. “I’m glad to hear you say that. How did you convince yourself to touch the spell?”
Graegor had to really think about that, try to remember what his brain had done to make it seem logical to use Sorceress Khisrathi’s ancient bloodspell to open a door. In hindsight it seemed like killing a mouse with a ballista. “I suppose it was because the spell let me through—let me into the tunnels. I could sense it ...”
“The spell let you pass because of who you are—a Torchanes. The spell answered your call because of what you are—a sorcerer. You need to keep the two separate.” Lord Contare paused. “That’s what Khisrathi couldn’t do, and the consequences endure to this day.”
“I’m really sorry, sir. I never meant ...” He trailed off. Excuses didn’t matter.
“I know you meant no harm. I don’t question your motives, Graegor, only your judgment. What do you think you can do to keep this from happening again?”
“I should actually be careful.”
“By ... ?”
“By not touching anyone else’s magic. Or any earth magic.”
“That’s right. There is much I need to teach you first. I want you to be able to lift a book, light a candle, and speak to me mind-to-mind, using your own magic, before we even talk any more about earth magic and spellcasting.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t go into the tunnels again.” He looked at his master with great seriousness, knowing that he was, in effect, making a pledge. “I am your apprentice, sir, and I have a duty to obey your wishes.”
Lord Contare nodded formally. “I’m glad to hear you say that as well.”
Graegor nodded back, and averted his eyes, down to his half-filled plate. Re-filled, actually, and half-eaten, and looking at it was making him hungry again.
“Go ahead and finish,” Lord Contare said, in a lighter tone of voice. “The king plans to go down to the cliff soon, and we should go with him.”
To what used to be a cliff. “Is it safe?”
“It appears secure, at least at the moment. More stresses may need to be released.” Then the sorcerer glanced around. “Do you want to stay in this room during our time here, or do you want to return to my tower? I must say that these quarters are certainly more befitting your status than a servant’s room.”
This mention of his status uncomfortably reminded Graegor of his responsibility to control his power—which Lord Contare had no doubt intended. “What do you wish, sir?”
But Lord Contare’s eyes had a faraway look. “You know, this was Lord Roberd’s room, back when I was your age. I remember standing by this very window, trying to listen as he talked about magic.”
Graegor kept a respectful silence for a while, but when it seemed like Lord Contare had forgotten he was there, he said, “The Torchanes sorcerers all grew up in this castle, didn’t they?”
“All but Carlodon, and you. The Carhlaans seem to have adopted you, though.”
That sent a stab of guilt through Graegor. He had a family, and it suddenly seemed harshly disloyal to them—especially his mother, who had almost died giving birth to him—to feel such a sense of home in this castle, of a hearthfire at the core of his heart. He was forgetting where he came from. By not talking about his past, he was aggressively trying to make it disappear. “They’re very kind,” was his lame reply to Lord Contare’s observation, and the old man looked at him for a moment.
“You are quite fortunate,” he said quietly. “You grew up living and working alongside the common people who make this kingdom strong. But by virtue of your blood and your power, you also belong to the aristocracy, and they will listen to you. You can see both sides, and you can do much good with that perspective.”
“Yes, sir.” It was true, and something to think about—but still ...
“And incidentally, I arranged Raimund’s marriage to Leota. Her family is of the rural nobility, and they are sensible and high-spirited. Injecting some of those qualities into the rarefied air of the Carhlaan dynasty has produced fine results. These are good people, and worthy of your friendship.”
“Yes, sir. I know.” He did. And he knew he would feel guilty about it all the same. He also knew that this really was his room now. “If it’s all right with you, my lord, I would like to stay here.”
“Then I’ll have your pack sent over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
After Lord Contare left, Graegor slumped in his chair. He decided he needed more coffee, and poured the pot’s dregs into his cup.
Two servants soon arrived with his pack and an embarrassingly large armload of clothes that Graegor recognized from his time with the tailor. A third servant carried dust rags and soft brushes, and while Graegor watched—firmly suppressing the instinct to help, because he would only be in their way—they swiftly cleaned out and filled up the old wardrobe in the corner. They then unloaded his pack, rolled up and hauled away the crumpled tapestry, and cleared the breakfast dishes before bowing themselves out of the room and shutting the door behind them. They had politely ignored both him and the glowing trapdoor throughout the entire operation, and Graegor wondered if he had ever been so professional and efficient for any of the tavern keepers who had hired him over the past three months. He resolved to do better; then he realized what he had just resolved, and rubbed his forehead with both hands.
Among his new clothes were several pieces of the standard magus uniform—shirts and trousers in shades of grey, blue, and green, and a cloak with the purple and blue magi badge pinned to the front. Taking his cue from Lord Contare—and still uncomfortably conscious of the finery his new status afforded him—Graegor put these on. Karl had mentioned on the riverboat that a maga would usually wear her badge to show the sigil a
s the blue pearl, while a magus would usually invert his badge to show the sigil as the blue shield, so he inverted his own. Then he accidentally twisted it around when he fastened the cloak, so he inverted it again and squeezed down on the clasp to hold it firm.
He pulled on his new boots, surprised at how well they fit. He washed his face in the porcelain basin. Then he looked over the details of the stately furniture. Then he tried to peer into the tunnel without touching the glow at the trapdoor. He had almost decided to go and look for somebody, to make sure he wasn’t left behind, when a pageboy knocked at the door and requested that Graegor follow him to the courtyard.
They went back the way he had come the night before, but Graegor saw no damage to the castle at any point past the royal apartments—which probably only meant that the secret passageways didn’t extend in the direction the pageboy was leading him. The courtyard in question was not at the palace’s main gate, but near the stables between the western and northern towers, and it was filled with men in green, riding or tending to black horses. The pageboy led him to Lord Contare and King Raimund, and sudden dread slowed Graegor’s steps. How could he possibly find the right words to apologize to the king?
The guard nearest them recognized the pageboy and shifted to make way. Then he saw Graegor, and his eyes went wide. Graegor stopped, not knowing if he was supposed to just walk right up to the king or not. He flushed at the guard’s stare, certain that everyone was looking at him, but then he saw Lord Contare beckoning, so he grit his teeth and went forward.
The king was dressed like one of his knights, a green tabard with the Carhlaan Wolf over black, and a tall steel helm. The look he gave Graegor was speculative, and once the formalities were exchanged, Graegor didn’t wait. “Your Majesty, I’m very, very sorry for all this trouble and damage. I wasn’t careful.” Here he faltered, thinking how weak it sounded—but having nothing else to offer, he kept going: “If there’s anything I can do to make up for it ...”
King Raimund nodded once, accepting the apology—at least, that’s what Graegor hoped the nod meant—and said, “All will be well, Lord Graegor. You have announced your arrival in extraordinary fashion.”
“Y-yes, your Majesty. I didn’t mean to.”
One of the king’s knights came up, and the king excused himself. Lord Contare took the opportunity to introduce Graegor to a group of magi who served in the palace. They all met his eyes carefully as they were each named, which seemed to be the magi equivalent to shaking hands. He had never been around so many at once, and he could feel his power stirring beneath his skin. It was purple, like the rage when he was fighting—but it was quiet, like an animal recognizing its herd.
Lord Contare then led him to where the grooms and squires were tending the horses. The horses were beautiful, all jet black and at least sixteen hands high. Graegor spent some time admiring his mount before he swung up into the saddle and thanked the squire holding the bridle. The squire stuttered, bowed, and vanished into the stable.
He’s afraid of me. He remembered Joshua, his father’s apprentice, who’d seldom spoke to him and always seemed nervous around him. Had Joshua somehow sensed his power, and how easily it could explode?
That curious idea was interrupted when Darc and Adlai rode up, on black horses and in green Carhlaan tabards and steel helms. “Like the horses?” Darc asked as they joined him. “It’s our best breed yet. Fast as arrows, smooth as glass.”
“They look it,” Graegor agreed, but he was thinking about what Lord Contare had said about arranging the king and queen’s marriage. Darc and Adlai themselves had been bred as much as the horses had—did they know that?
“Come on,” Adlai said, turning his mount, “we’ll ride up front.”
Graegor looked at Lord Contare, who nodded and waved him on, and he guided his horse to follow. About two dozen green-cloaked knights, squires, and horsemen were forming up around them. Graegor wondered if the people of Chrenste called them “greencloaks”. When all were ready, two guards opened the courtyard gate. They fell into double-file out on the street, and at the bottom of First Hill, the knight who led the way pushed the pace to a trot.
Their passage was noted by everyone in the streets, but without alarm or much excitement. The cityfolk likely didn’t know that the king, both princes, and both sorcerers were in the mounted group. Columns of soldiers were common here, as were magi, and apparently both together were not unusual. There was a crowd gathered near the city’s south gate, though, which had been closed to common traffic. The column slowed to a walk to get through as people shouted questions and tried to see past the walls, climbing up on houses and—Graegor was startled to see—even on a pair of broken obelisks on either side of the gate. He wanted to stop and look at the obelisks, but the gate was opened and he was swept along with the king’s men.
When Graegor got outside the city, he couldn’t tell what the people had been looking at. He couldn’t see anything but an arm of the forest some distance ahead, and beyond that, the sparkle of the sun on the sea. The neighborhood that had grown beyond the south wall had been evacuated, and the farmers and merchants who usually approached the city from the coast road had been diverted inland several miles south to keep them well clear of the collapse. It meant that this road was empty, and Darc and Adlai looked back at the king. He nodded, and they instantly set spurs to their horses and raced away toward the forest. Graegor followed, and within seconds his black mount was in a full gallop that was exactly as Darc had described—fast as arrows and smooth as glass.
He hadn’t ridden like this in over a year, and old Lightning really hadn’t been up to it. He leaned into the black horse’s mane, his eyes in slits against the wind, his boots braced hard in the stirrups. He lost himself in the sound of the pounding hooves, the rush of warm air in his face, and the narrowing distance between him and Darc, who had fallen two lengths behind Adlai in their race for the treeline.
Adlai slowed when the road cut under the trees, and Darc and Graegor caught up seconds later. “I win!” he shouted, turning his horse in a tight circle toward them.
“I’m two stone heavier than you!” Darc shouted back. “Of course your horse runs faster!” Darc looked over at Graegor, grinning widely. “Good run, jeh?”
“Good run. I wish it’d been longer.”
“We’re lucky to get that much. There’s no way Father would have let us go like that if anyone else was on the road. I assume you like to ride?”
“You assume right. I’ve never ridden a horse like this one, though.”
“Take it with you to Maze Island.”
Graegor raised his eyebrows. “The king doesn’t mind you giving away his best-bred cavalry mounts?”
“To you, why not? The original mares came from Suhnhafen.”
Graegor didn’t follow, and his face must have showed it, because Adlai said, “Suhnhafen’s in the Central Isles. It used to be a Torchanes city.”
“A Rohrdal fleet destroyed it during the coup,” Darc said. “But when the first Carhlaan king took power, he rebuilt it as a protectorate, and our family’s held it in trust since then. Since you’re back, the city—the whole duchy—is yours now.”
Graegor shook his head slowly, remembering something Lord Contare had said during one of their long conversations. “I can’t. Sorcerers give up the right to hold kingdom land—something about how we can’t be anyone’s vassal.”
“Right,” Adlai nodded. “I knew that.”
“Do you have any brothers?” Darc asked.
“One sister. Would the city belong to her, then?”
“Yes, after your father.”
The idea of his father as a duke was too bizarre for words, but Audrey as a duchess—that actually seemed natural. “She’ll like that.”
“How old is she?”
“Almost nine. Too young for a while, I know ...”
“Wait, that’s perfect!” Darc gestured to his brother. “Adlai’s inheriting Tillhafen from our great-uncle. It’s r
ight across the strait from Suhnhafen. If he married your sister, that would—”
“Whoa!” Adlai cut his hand through the air. “Married?”
“Not right this moment,” Darc rolled his eyes. “But why not? You couldn’t do better than marrying a Torchanes.”
It was the offhand way he said it, as if it was obvious, that sent an unexpected rush of warm pride through Graegor. As if born to such courtesies, he found it easy to respond in kind: “And she couldn’t do better than to marry a Carhlaan.”
Darc nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s settled, then.” When Adlai protested that it wasn’t settled, Darc shook his head serenely. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little brother. We only want what’s best for both of you.”
The argument was cut off by the arrival of the king with their escort, and they turned back onto the road. The arm of the forest through which they rode petered out after only a few minutes’ walk. Karl and two other magi met them where the tall grass took over the land from the trees, and Graegor could see horsemen beyond them in a perimeter about a hundred yards back from the edge.
The new edge. He stared at the road ahead, for it cut into the line of horsemen, and then kept going ... right off into nothing.
Shaken, he hung back as Karl and the other magi talked to Lord Contare and the king, though Darc and Adlai rode right to the perimeter and stood up in their stirrups to try to see more. The sea to the east seemed even brighter than yesterday, under high clouds that didn’t so much block the sun as spread it across the sky. Gusts of wind bent the tall grass—and his hair—nearly flat, then lifted both straight up again.
“We’ll be careful,” Lord Contare was assuring Karl, and he turned back to look at Graegor. “Leave your horse here.”
Graegor dismounted and followed Lord Contare as he left the road and strode through the tall grass toward the perimeter of horsemen, who saluted as they passed. Lord Contare seemed to be making for a specific point, but he didn’t say anything as they walked, so Graegor didn’t either. It occurred to him that they were probably walking because the ground might not be stable enough for riding.
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