“You can kill me,” Livillia replied, no fear in her tone, only pride and superiority, “but I will find everlasting life in the Holy Flame and these good people will still kill you.”
“At least you won’t be around to see it,” Emlyn replied, her tone matter of fact as she drew the sharp edge across the priest’s neck.
For the first, and only time, Kyron saw shock and pain upon the thin woman’s face. An expression which faltered as the blood arced from her severed neck across the mob and cobbles.
Emlyn let the body fall as the people cried in alarm, stepping past and grabbing Kyron’s arm.
“We need to run,” she said, drawing him away from the sight.
For a moment it looked as though the crowd would give way to the knife-wielding woman and magician with the flaming sword. They did not. They rallied, driven by shock and anger, by revenge and outrage. Their screams shook the buildings around.
Objects flew from the mob. Stones, boots, lumps of wood, food. It all sailed over their heads and into the clearing around Kyron and Emlyn. Some was thrown too hard and landed amongst the people on the opposite side and there were groans of pain amongst the rage.
Kyron shuffled aside from a length of wood which clattered against the cobbles and felt something strike his leg. A sharp shaft of pain sped along his nerves and he stumbled. Emlyn’s grip kept him upright.
He siphoned a little magic, drawing it into a shield above their heads. The knots were simple to tie, the work of a moment’s thought and the next rainfall of missiles bounced harmlessly away.
Thwarted, the anger of the mob grew and weapons were drawn. Old swords, knives better suited to the kitchen, brooms and garden tools, hoes and spades, were brought forward.
A man broke ranks ahead, running forward, raising his adze-hammer over his head and shouting for Kyron’s death.
Another siphon of power, enough to forge a hammer of his own which he threw with a grunt of effort from his outstretched hand. The bolt of force struck the carpenter in the face, smashing his nose flat and splattering blood across his chin, cheeks and mouth. The adze-hammer fell to the cobbles followed by its owner.
The magician turned at a call from Emlyn to see her launch one of those carved sticks at the crowd in her way. It flared with green light as it tumbled end over end, coming apart into tiny, acorn shaped ovals. They struck the three who menaced her. Each burst against their clothes and a vibrant yellow liquid spread across cloaks and tunics. Twisting tendrils of smoke rose from their clothes and they slapped at them, an instinctive reaction. Instead of extinguishing non-existent flames, the people screamed even louder as their flesh began to steam and then burn without fire.
Fire cleansed, the priests taught, but Kyron now saw the truth, heard it in those screams. It burned. It destroyed. Lumps of charred meat, scorched stone, night dark charcoal wood, the residue it left behind was a husk of all it had once been. Smoke rose upon the air, spreading the pollution, the reach of the fire, to everyone and everything, tainting all with its touch.
It was not holy to be cleansed, to be cremated, it was destruction. It was not a new beginning: it was the end. Fire did not create, it consumed.
The flames upon his sword flickered and died. He lowered the warm steel and held out his free hand, palm up. The magic flowed from him, weaving into the cobbles at his feet, wrenching them free, lifting and spinning them around Emlyn and himself. A spiral of warning and destruction. With a little change to the construct, all the debris which had been thrown at them was added to the whirling shield.
He took hold of Emlyn’s arm, pulling her close as he stepped forward, pushing the tornado of rock, wood and metal, forward, keeping them at its epicentre. The crowd backed away, and he stepped again, and again, intent upon the road opposite and the tenuous safety it offered.
It was within reach when the whole city, the crowd around them, even the buildings which towered over them seemed to take a deep breath. The mob shared glances, and Emlyn’s sharp fingers dug into his arm.
The ground beneath their feet bucked and rumbled. Buildings shook and a wall of wind, laden with biting dust swept over them all, obscuring everything.
His spell failed and the debris he had raised flew free, no longer held by the magic. Beneath the howl of the onrushing wind, he heard people scream as stone struck flesh, breaking bones, ending lives.
A desert heat of dry air stole the moisture from his skin, eyes, nose, and open mouth. He stumbled, falling, and dragging Emlyn to the cobbles.
Stone, plaster and wood above their heads ripped, tore and broke free of buildings. It rained down upon them, mob, magician and guide, caring not where it landed. Past the crowd and above their heads, a fireball rose into the night sky, trailing dark smoke, from the roof of the Gymnasium.
He wrapped his arms around her, letting his sword fall to the ground, and pulled Emlyn in close. His conjured shield above their heads their only protection. Every mote of magic he could draw to him, he added to the shield, and knew it would not be enough. His mind sped along the lines of his construct, strengthening bonds, twisting complicated knots which could resist the falling blocks, and knew he would fail.
“Here,” she whispered, putting her faith and two carved sticks into his hands.
Her magic, the power she had hidden and which he recalled Padarn had noticed but done nothing about, joined his. The shield flared into cerulean and green, flickered yellow and red, turned egg-shell white and became all they could see as the buildings fell on them.
LXIV
The Magician
Two years ago:
A hand came to rest on his when he moved to open the door to the Grammaticus’s room.
“Not today,” said the owner of a neat beard and stone-grey eyes.
“Master?” he said.
“Some learn by listening, by reading, by quiet thinking, but you learn, I am told, by doing. Today, you will do,” the magician said. “And if you do well enough, I will take you as apprentice.”
A flush of excitement washed through his body, bringing heat to his face.
Kyron staggered towards the gate, limping on his bad leg while Emlyn cradled her arm. Both were covered in a layer of brick and plaster dust, the ash of many fires, and scratches too numerous to count. The torches and lanterns hung on the walls cast shadows on doorways and though most citizens had barricaded themselves in their homes, there were a few about to watch them pass.
Along the street, the sounds of violence, the army trying to restore control followed them much as the smoke from the ruins of the Gymnasium. The tall buildings, those which had survived the destruction of his home, funnelled the sound and it hammered into his skull, a reminder that this was all his fault. He carried the blame of every magician’s death upon his shoulders.
As they had expected, the gate was guarded. Five soldiers in lorica segmata, carrying shields, and armed with swords. Three remained by the gate, the smallest in this wall which led out of the city, and the one he had thought least likely to be busy. Most of those trying to escape the violence which was sweeping the city, the wealthy who could afford to start anew elsewhere or who had homes in safer parts of the Empire, would leave via the main gates, their carts full of possessions.
“We will have to kill them,” Emlyn said, wincing as she let go her arm and reached for the last remaining wand in her belt.
“I can’t,” Kyron said, guiding her into a shadow. “There has been enough death, and they are my people.”
“That didn’t bother you when you struck down the Emperor, or the others tonight,” she pointed out.
The truth was like a sharp needle in his eye, it hurt and clouded his vision with tears. His excuse sounded weak in his ears. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“We don’t now, not if we want to live, and I do want to live, Kyron,” Emlyn said. “I can kill one, maybe two of them. The others are yours, kill or disable, I don’t care, but we need to get out of that gate.”
“Maybe
we can talk our way past?” he suggested, glad she could not see the pathetic hope he knew was written across his face.
“They are looking for us, Kyron,” Emlyn whispered. “They have our description. We can’t talk our way out.”
“I won’t kill them.” He found the words contained truth, whether determined by weakness, submission, or morals instilled by his grandfather or Padarn, he could not say.
“I’m glad to hear it,” a voice said from behind them.
Kyron spun on his heel, stumbling on his weakened leg, but he grabbed the hilt of the gladius at his waist. Emlyn grunted in pain as she too turned, levelling the last of her own magic at the dark figure who stood there.
“Your grandfather would not approve of killing soldiers,” the figure said.
“Borus?” Kyron gasped. “How did you find us?”
“It was easy enough, I know you both well,” Borus replied, stepping into a pool of light. He was dressed in armour, a parma shield in one hand, but his sword remained sheathed.
Kyron’s hand trembled on the hilt of the gladius, the desire to draw it, ready to defend Emlyn and himself if needed.
“You’d kill me with the sword I gave you?” Borus asked, making no move to draw his own sword.
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Kyron said.
“Walk away, Borus,” Emlyn said, her wand rising to point at the soldier.
“I saw you use those at the execution, you discarded them straight afterward. If you use it against me, you’ll have nothing left for the guards” Borus said, “My condolences, Kyron. He deserved a better fate.”
“He did,” Kyron answered. “Put it down, Emlyn, I don’t think he is here for us.”
“Wisdom, finally?” Borus said. Kyron saw the flash of teeth as the soldier smiled. “I can get you through the gate.”
“Why?” Emlyn’s question was brittle.
“For him,” Borus nodded to Kyron. “For his grandfather who served the Empire faithfully his whole life.”
“I am a traitor, Borus,” Kyron said, lowering his voice. “I killed an Emperor.”
“You won’t be the first,” Borus said, “and probably not the last. I’ve served in the army my whole life, boy, and most of that under the General’s care. He never spent lives needlessly, looked after his men, and was loyal to the last. He also cared for you. He spoke to me, on the journey back. Did you know? Asked me what you’d done and how you’d served. Thanked me for looking out for you, even the little that I did. Hauling you back to face justice from whoever it is that takes power serves no purpose.”
“Godewyn,” Kyron said.
“Looking that way,” Borus nodded. “He was a good officer, the High Priest, and the most senior council member remaining. The army and Church will follow him. It makes sense.”
“The Church and army are supposed to be separate,” Kyron said. “That’s what I was taught about our Empire. Godewyn will have power over everything, everyone, Church, army, and Empire. The Holy Flame only destroys, Borus. I realise that now.”
Borus raised his hand. “I’m a simple soldier and a follower of the faith. Life’s a lot easier that way. Don’t make me change my mind.”
“The Gymnasium’s gone, Borus,” Kyron said, “and I saw the priests with torches in hands, leading the people in, setting fire to it all.”
“People need something to blame, lad,” Borus explained, “and they know magic killed their Emperor, and word got out it was used against Prince Alhard too. They also need someone to look up to, and Godewyn might be that man for a time, until things settle down.”
“You’re letting us go,” Emlyn cut across their discussion. “How?”
“All I said is, I can get you through the gate,” Borus answered, “and without killing any of those men.”
“I’ll take it,” she said.
“After that, you’re on your own,” Borus said. “Don’t come back to the city, Kyron. There’s nothing for you here anymore.”
“I know,” he said, the weight of loss almost forcing him to his knees.
“Good,” Borus said, straightening back. “You did well, lad. Helped get us back safe and there are a few hundred men and women who owe you, even if they don’t know and can never repay the debt. I’m here, doing it for them. Wait here. You’ll know when to go through the gate.”
Without another word, Borus swept his cloak back and strode out of the side street towards the gate.
“You men,” he called as he went, drawing their attention to him, “I need four of you to get to the market square, we’ve got civilians thinking they’d like to get rich off the traders’ stockpiles.”
“We’re supposed to guard the gate, sir,” one of the guards said.
“I know,” Borus said without a pause. “I’ve got five men coming to take over from you, but the market is more important. One of you stay here with me. I’ll make sure the gate stays locked.”
“Yes, sir,” another guard said. “I’ve got the key.”
“Then you’re the one staying,” Borus said. “Rest of you get moving. Try not to kill anyone but secure the market. Times are bad enough with all the merchants shutting their stalls and shops. People still need to eat, but if there’s nothing to sell, no one will be able to buy.”
“You think the Empire will be all right, sir?” the gate guard asked as the other men trotted away, their armour clanking and rattling as they went.
“Survived so far, don’t see why it won’t continue,” Borus said. “It better do. I need to get paid or the wife will be wanting to sell me on the streets to earn money. I don’t reckon I’ve got the right skills for that.”
“You could always send her out, sir,” the other guard said, adding a nervous chuckle.
“If I have to, but I don’t think other men would pay for that dubious pleasure,” Borus said.
“I don’t think…” the guard began.
“Watch out,” Borus interrupted, pointing with his shield over the soldier’s shoulder and drawing his sword. As the man turned, Borus dropped the hilt of his gladius down upon the man’s unprotected neck.
The soldier collapsed, boneless to the cobbles in clatter of shields and armour.
“Sorry about that,” Borus said, and waved Kyron forward, grabbing the key from the fallen soldier’s belt. “Emlyn, get the gate. Remember, don’t come back.”
“I promise,” Kyron said. “Thank you.”
“One more thing,” Borus said, “draw your sword.”
“Why?” Kyron stopped as Emlyn took the offered key.
“Cut me,” Borus explained. “I’m not looking forward to it, but I’ll need a good story.”
Kyron drew the gladius and looked down into the short length of steel which Borus had given him back in the forest. “I can’t. What if I cut too deep, or hit something important?”
“You need to, lad.”
“I’ll do it,” Emlyn said, passing Kyron the key and snatching the sword from his hand.
“Now, girl,” Borus said, raising his hands, “I don’t want to die or get maimed.”
“I’ll be careful,” Emlyn sighed. “Where do you want the wound?”
“Well, I was thinking—” Borus’s words were cut off by a hiss of pain.
“It’s barely a wound,” Emlyn said as wiped the blood from the sword.
“By the Flame, girl,” Borus hissed between clenched teeth. Kyron saw him clamp a hand to the wound on his thigh as blood trickled down his leg. “You could have warned me.”
“Better this way,” she explained.
“Get going,” Borus said, limping to the wall and slumping down against it, “and good luck to you both.”
With a last look at the Cohort, Kyron limped his own way through the gate.
The air outside the city carried the stench of civilisation, of ash and flame, of dust, plaster, and rot. Kyron peered into the gloom of night, seeing the faded colours of patchwork farms and a straight Empire road, heard the waves crashing against cliffs,
and tried to let the guilt fall from his shoulders. It clung on, wrapping fingers around his throat, digging with clawed hands into his bones, piercing his heart with dirty fingernails.
“Where to?” Kyron asked, shaking the sadness for a moment.
“North,” Emlyn answered. “There’s nothing for you in the Empire, not anymore. In the forests, you can be free.”
“And the army in the North?” he said. “They’re going to come back through the forests.”
“There are more trees than people,” Emlyn pointed out. “If we need to hide, it won’t be difficult.”
He started to hobble along the track. “If we make it there.”
“We will,” she said, “one step at a time.”
Kyron sighed, refusing to look back at the city where he had spent much of his life, where his family had lived, once fled from, and where his grandfather had died.
I’m fleeing too and like them I’ll never return. Borus and Emlyn were right. Padarn travelled to learn, perhaps I can do the same. There is a bigger world than I know, and it is not constrained by high walls and rigid structures.
The Empire and home he had known were ash upon the wind, never to be reborn.
Acknowledgements
Writing these acknowledgements will, by the very nature of memory, be an imperfect exercise. So I will begin, as is customary, in mentioning that I will forget people—not on purpose or through any desire to not recognise their help, but purely because my memory is not the best. To all those I forget, I am sorry, and know I am still thankful.
These will also be the first acknowledgements I ever write to a book which will be found on the shelves of a bookshop. The chance may not come again to say these things, so bear with me, or skip to the end. They’re going to be long whereas subsequent books will consist of “Yeah, thanks” and “refer to previous acknowledgements”—I half-promise.
Let’s begin with my mother, Angela, (“The Mothership” as she is known to my brother and I) without whom I wouldn’t be here (obviously), but more importantly I would not be the person I am today. Blindingly intelligent (with occasional forays in whimsy), and incredibly caring, she has always encouraged me (and my brother) to find our own path in life and I know beyond doubt that she just wants us to be happy. You can’t imagine (though I truly hope you can) what that means to a growing boy, a man, and an adult—knowing she will, and continues to, pick us up when we fall, dust us down, and tell us to get back to it. Paul, you are a saint and you keep doing what you are doing, you make her happy and for that I thank you.
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