The Choice of Magic

by Michael G. Manning

  “Get out,” ordered Isabel. “This is my tent. I’ll dress however I like here.”

  Will heard footsteps retreating, and after a moment Isabel shoved her chair back and stood up. She started to speak, but Will put a finger to his lips, warning her to stay quiet. His ears had caught the sound of the other woman stopping not far away. Silently he mouthed the words, ‘She’s still outside.’

  Will fanned himself. It had been hot beneath the blanket. As he stared at Isabel, he saw her face flush red. After a minute he heard more footsteps and he said, “She’s gone.”

  “What did you do?” demanded Isabel.

  “Nothing! I tried not to even breathe. It was your idea to shove me under the desk and—and—”

  “Not that! What did you do to those sorcerers?” snapped Isabel. She was searching through a chest as she spoke. She found what she was searching for a moment later, and she slipped into a thick, quilted housecoat.

  A little late for that, thought Will dryly, trying to hide his smirk. “I did what I had to,” he said at last. “I killed them. They were trying to burn me alive, so I didn’t have many options.”

  She noticed his faint smirk, and her face lit up with indignation. Isabel held up one finger imperiously. “First, you shouldn’t have the power to kill a sorcerer—”

  “There were hundreds of men on the field,” he said, interrupting. “I wasn’t alone, and just so you know, a sword works just as well on your kind as it does on anyone else.”

  “My kind?” spat Isabel. She shook her head as though trying to clear a bad taste from her mouth. “Never mind. If it was one sorcerer, I’d believe you, but three? No one gets that lucky.”

  “Well I did.”

  “And what about their elementals? Explain that for me,” she demanded.

  Will’s temper was beginning to rise. She had finally shown her true colors. “That’s what you really care about, isn’t it?” he accused.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. All you people care about is collecting more power,” said Will coldly.

  Isabel’s eyes were flashing with fury. “You have no idea who you’re talking to, and after everything I’ve done for you!”

  “I didn’t ask you to do anything for me,” Will shot back. “And one way or another I’ll pay you for the armor. I don’t intend to owe you anything. You can find some other wizard to kiss your feet.”

  “You ungrateful churl!”

  “There it is,” said Will acidly.

  “If you don’t explain what happened to those elementals, they’re liable to execute you for warlockry.”

  “None of your damned business,” ground out Will, heading for the exit. “And I’d rather be called a warlock than a goddamned sorcerer!”

  “William!” she hissed, trying not to yell. “Get back here.”

  “I’m late for an execution,” he said, stomping out of the tent.

  Chapter 53

  Will’s temper cooled rapidly as he walked, leaving him feeling foolish before he had even reached Company B’s campsite. That was stupid, he thought. Changing directions, he decided to circle the perimeter. He needed time to think.

  “I’m about to be interrogated for black magic, and I just pissed off the one person with some power who might actually believe me,” he muttered to himself.

  He tried to figure out why he had gotten so angry. It’s her superior attitude, he told himself, but he knew that wasn’t true. Sure, she had called him a churl, but that had been after they started fighting. Was it because she was trying to make him into some sort of lapdog?

  No, that wasn’t it either. True or not, he found the idea intriguing. There were worse things in life than serving a beautiful lady of wealth and power. It was the sorcery.

  When his grandfather had first told him about the magical slavery that gave sorcerers their power, it had been something distant from him. It had been unrelatable. But after freeing several elementals, it felt different. He knew for himself how repugnant the practice was. Arrogan had been right. They were worse than some warlocks. A warlock might only sell himself, though the really bad ones traded in other people’s lives. But every sorcerer was a slave master.

  Yet he had met several sorcerers without getting this angry. Why did it bother him so much that Isabel was one? The answer was simple. Because he wanted her to be better than that. She was seemingly perfect in every other way—and he liked her.

  Will tried to clear his head. Isabel was not his main concern. His biggest problem was that he was about to be accused of a capital crime. There were only two practical solutions, run or stay. The congruence point that would take him home was only quarter of an hour’s walk away. He could easily disappear.

  Running would be the end of his effort to free Barrowden. It would be the end of his friendship with Tiny and Dave. Isabel’s face drifted through his mind. Leave me alone, he thought.

  Staying was potentially the end of his life. That fact should override all other considerations. Will stopped, turning in the direction of his freedom, but he couldn’t take the first step. What if they didn’t arrest him? What if he could convince them he was innocent? Even if they did put him in shackles, could they hold him? He was no longer the helpless young man he had once been. If that happens, I could escape, he told himself.

  He turned around and began walking purposefully toward the center of the camp.

  The commander’s tent had a new banner beside the entrance, the same red-and-black quartered design with gold oak leaves that he had seen carried by the reinforcements. Two guards stood in front of the tent, and one went inside as soon as they spotted him. A moment later he was escorted in.

  The man who sat at the center desk was known to him. It was the Baron Mark Nerrow, his father. Will could see several elementals hovering invisibly over the man, one each of fire, earth, and water. The baron looked at his guards. “Leave us.”

  They left, and Will found himself alone with his father for the first time in his life.

  “Have a seat, William,” said Lord Nerrow, gesturing to a chair that was probably meant for one of his aides.

  Will sat. He hadn’t expected this, though perhaps he should have. Does this mean I have more hope, or less? he wondered.

  “Do you know who I am?” asked the nobleman.

  He nodded. “You’re Baron Nerrow. You visited our house last year.” He wasn’t sure what else to say, but then he remembered. “Milord.”

  The baron nodded. “You can drop the formalities since we’re alone, William.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mark Nerrow leaned forward; his features stern. “I’m afraid to ask this, William, but I have to know. Forgive me if this causes you pain. I know you escaped Barrowden, but what of your mother? Is Erisa alive?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is she here, in Branscombe? Is she safe?” asked the baron.

  Will stared at the man who was his father. The question made him feel defensive, or perhaps it was protectiveness. “She’s safe.”

  Mark Nerrow paused, then replied, “You don’t want to say where she is. Very well. Perhaps that is for the best.” Rising from his chair, he went to a small chest on one side of the room and removed a bottle and two glasses. He filled each halfway and handed one to Will. “You’ve become a man, William. It seems I will have to entrust Erisa to you now.”

  Will held the glass but didn’t drink. His reply shocked even himself. “She was always mine. You weren’t there.”

  The baron sipped his wine, closing his eyes for a moment. “I can’t deny that. Whether you believe me or not, all I can say is that I had my reasons.”

  Unsure what to say, Will took a drink from his glass. The taste was a shock. Was it really wine? The taste was a far cry from what he had drunk in the tavern.

  “You say that she is safe,” continued the baron. “If so, why are you here?”

  “You called for me?”

  “In the army, William. Why did you volunteer? Y
ou know I paid a hefty fee for your exemption.”

  “Oh,” said Will, feeling foolish. He didn’t have to think long about his answer. “They killed my aunt and one of my cousins.”

  “So, it was your uncle that you passed the exemption to?”

  Will nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you make a deal, William? A deal to gain power, so you could avenge your family?” Nerrow’s eyes were piercing as they bored into him.

  His mouth went dry. Will knew his life probably depended on what answer he gave. Yet he wanted to be honest. The man in front of him was his father, and this was the first real conversation they had ever had. Nerrow was a sorcerer, but he wanted to believe the man wasn’t evil, if that were somehow possible. “It wasn’t that sort of deal. I didn’t bargain for power.”

  “Who did you deal with?” asked the baron, his voice neutral. “And what did you gain?”

  “One of the fae,” said Will. “She helped me sneak into the enemy camp, but everything else was done with my own abilities.”

  “The fae?” Mark Nerrow’s spine stiffened, and he nearly spilled his glass. “That isn’t possible.”

  Will shrugged.

  “The fae haven’t dealt with humanity in centuries. They won’t even speak to us. Any who cross into their realm are never seen again. How did this happen?”

  “I crossed by accident, without knowing what I was doing,” explained Will. “A girl there stole something from me, but I escaped. Afterward she told me she owed me a debt. The help she gave me was to repay that.”

  “And that’s it?” asked his father. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.” Will took a second drink from his glass, hoping it would relieve his nerves.

  The baron finished his glass and put it down. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not, but I know others won’t accept that as an answer. They’re already whispering about you. When King Lognion arrives, I won’t be able to stop them from beginning an investigation. Have you considered leaving?”

  “Sir?”

  Mark Nerrow leaned forward. “Running, William. You could run before the king’s inquisitors take you.”

  Will had just been considering that very thing not long ago, but he had made his decision. “I thought about it,” he admitted. “But I won’t run.”

  His father’s face changed subtly, showing an emotion that Will couldn’t decipher. “Then you need an answer that won’t get you hanged. You need power to prove you aren’t a warlock.” Getting up from his chair once more, Mark Nerrow left, heading into the private portion of the tent. When he returned, he was carrying a wooden box ornately carved with a depiction of waves. He held it out to Will. “Open it.”

  Inside was a glittering knot of magic, a heart-stone enchantment. Will had never seen one that wasn’t attached to a person—or a corpse. He gasped.

  “Take it, William,” said the baron. “With that, you can explain your miraculous luck. All that is left is to explain what happened to the elementals of the sorcerers you slew. Do you know what became of them?”

  Will was staring at the box in his lap. “No, sir.”

  “Then the most likely possibility is that the enemy claimed them after you left,” said the baron. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t take them yourself. Do you have any idea how much power you left behind?”

  Will felt his heart sink. For a moment, he had dared to hope. His next words would probably be his doom. “I do, sir. I didn’t leave them behind. I freed them. If you give this to me, I’ll do the same for the spirit trapped within.”

  Mark Nerrow’s eyes seemed to bulge. “You—what? What did you say?”

  He closed the box regretfully, feeling fresh guilt for not freeing the spirit within. I can only do so much, Will told himself. Then he stood and placed the box in his seat and finished the wine in his glass.

  The baron was on his feet. “What are you doing? I haven’t given you permission to leave!”

  “Sorry, milord,” said Will. He put his glass on the camp desk and headed for the door, but he turned back before he stepped outside. “I’m not a warlock, and I won’t be made a sorcerer either, which is an even greater evil. I know you mean well, but you’re wrong.”

  And then he left, while Lord Nerrow stared at his back as though he had grown two heads.

  Thanks to Isabel he had the day off, which suited him just fine as he didn’t want to face his squad mates—or anyone else for that matter. Plus, he had just pissed off the man in charge of the army in Branscombe. The last thing he wanted was to go somewhere he would be found and given new orders.

  So, he went into Branscombe instead. He stopped at the armorer’s shop first and found Jeremy, since that was the only apprentice whose name he knew. After a frustrating conversation, he finally convinced the man to look up how much Isabel had paid for the rush job on his mail shirt. He left in a state of shock. “Thirty-seven gold,” he murmured to himself. There was no way he would ever be able to come up with that much money.

  “Accept no debts,” Arrogan had told him. He felt like he understood better now. The human world might not have the same black and white rules that Faerie operated under, but the wisdom of those words was still true.

  With seven clima in his purse, Will went to the only place he could afford, a cheap pub that catered to soldiers. The sign in front had no letters, but the name was obvious from the garish painting—it was called the Red Goat. He went inside and ordered two ales. “Space them out for me,” he told the barmaid.

  Even drinking slowly, though, he finished them in less than an hour. Unwilling to spend more, he got up and left. The world had a slightly fuzzy feel to it now. I’m starting to see why Sven liked his drink so much, thought Will. As he started to step out into the street, he spied an unusual sight.

  Four armored guards were escorting two women. One was a slender girl with brown hair and a round face. She seemed young, probably in her teens, and her dress was made of the finest material he had ever seen, dyed in shades of yellow and green. It had to be Lord Nerrow’s daughter. My half-sister, he thought idly. Remembering the baron’s visit to his mother’s house the year before, he tried to remember her name but failed.

  She was spoiled, though. That part of his memory was still clear.

  The woman beside her almost missed his notice. She was taller and wore a subdued dress of dark gray material with no jewelry or other ornamentation. It was a match for her hair, which was darker still, almost black. When she turned to look at her younger companion, Will saw her face. Isabel.

  He studied them for a moment. Isabel looked as though she was playing the part of the young noblewoman’s handmaid. Typical for her, he observed. Why was she so protective of her identity?

  Before he knew what he was doing, he began following them, keeping his distance. The younger woman seemed fascinated by the shops, but none of them held her interest for more than a few minutes. She looked bored, and Will could see her complaining to Isabel as they walked. He was close enough to hear their voices, but the noise of the street made it impossible to pick out what they were saying.

  An old woman, obviously a beggar, approached them, and Will saw the guards begin to push her away, but Isabel ordered them to let her speak. Nerrow’s daughter reached into her purse and pulled out several coins, but Isabel put her hand out to stop her. She spoke to the old woman for a moment, then they moved on without giving her anything.

  So much for charity, he noted. He continued to follow them, until they stopped at a bakery where they bought several loaves of bread.

  They almost saw him when they turned and headed back in his direction. Will was forced to duck into the closest shop and pretend to be interested in tallow candles until they had passed. He dropped the ruse and returned to the street after they passed by.

  He didn’t go far before he saw why they had bought the bread. Isabel was giving it to the old woman. Goddamn it. Why can’t she just be evil? It would be much
easier for him to understand her if she wasn’t so complicated. Will started back toward the camp.

  Sergeant Nash was waiting for him when he reached Company B’s tents. “You’re relieved of your duties, Cartwright,” said the sergeant without preamble.

  “I had the day off, Sergeant.”

  Nash sighed. “I know that. I mean you’re permanently relieved. You aren’t in Sixth Squad anymore.”

  Will gaped. “But—”

  The sergeant held up one hand. “Let me finish. You’re being assigned to Doctor Guerin, to assist with medical duties. Apparently, they think you’ll do better there.”

  He could almost hear Sven’s warning in his mind, “Never volunteer.” One good deed and now he was being sent away from what he really wanted to do. “Shit.”

  Sergeant Nash looked almost sympathetic. “Grab your gear, Cartwright. The doctor will have a place for you to sleep. Give the armband to Shaw. He’ll be the new corporal for Sixth Squad.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Will went inside. His squad mates were still out, laboring at whatever duty they had been given for the afternoon. He felt some relief at that. At least he would be spared any awkward goodbyes. Moving quickly, he rolled up his bedding, grabbed his kit bag, and hefted the oiled sack that held his mail.

  As he walked toward the medic tent, he kept thinking about Isabel and the beggar. He had no illusions about his new duty. He wasn’t being assigned to Doctor Guerin; he was being claimed by Isabel. He paused as the bread reminded him of something Sven had once said.

  “An army marches on its stomach,” Will repeated to himself. The biggest problem in the current war with Darrow was that they held Barrowden and the pass, making their supply line invulnerable to attack. Even if the king showed up soon enough to save Branscombe, it would be bloody. Unless something happens to their supplies.

  Will began walking again, picking up his pace. He was almost to the tent when he heard Isabel’s voice, talking to one of her patients. Damn, she’s back already. He most definitely didn’t want to see her. Skirting the tent, he went past the smaller tent that had originally been the main medic tent and found Isabel’s. Even though she wasn’t there, a guard stood by the door.