Tarranau gave a shrug of the shoulders. “So they wish to make my last days here as unpleasant as possible? It doesn’t surprise me. I suppose I should be packing to leave, unfair though that might be. Still, I may be luckier than I expect. No sense worrying about it now though.” Tarranau made his way to his room, talking quietly to Magister Holbenth about happier times and places where things had not been so murky. As the student made his way across the school, he garnered reactions ranging from friendly and sympathetic comments to eyes down avoidance to the open sneers of a few students who took joy in seeing their betters fallen.
Magister Holbenth’s comments from earlier were particularly apt when he and Tarranau arrived; Magister Gothren had scattered everything, not bothering to keep clothes folded or off the floor. Items had been tossed about in petty vindictiveness, done just because it was possible to do so. The two men set about restoring things to their rightful place, doing so in a fitful manner, neither wanting to speak or come to terms to with what the packing likely meant. Soon enough, the quiet was broken by Holbenth speaking: “I’m sorry, but I have to go, I’ve got classes to teach. I likely won’t see you again until one of the disciplinary hearings. There will be plenty of things for me to do, including giving my own version of the search of the room to the board. Goodbye, Tarranau, and may water speed you swiftly.” That said, the teacher turned and walked out of the room, disappearing down the hallway before the corner at the end took him from view.
Tarranau spent much of the rest of the day sorting and restoring his things to where they belonged, undoing the damage that Gothren had caused in his vicious search to find the “stolen” amulet. With much to occupy his hands and little upon which to spend his mind, Tarranau looked to days ahead. The case was his word against Magister Gothren’s, and unfortunately all evidence swung to Gothren’s side, and even Magister Holbenth would be forced to confirm the amulet had been found in Tarranau’s room. The apprentice shook himself and sighed, head in hands. He was sure the trial would end in his expulsion from the school, a miserable send-off to what had been a pleasant experience.
There were two options ahead for Tarranau. The first was several choices lumped together, but for him they all resulted in one thing: being forced to give up the practice of magic and instead become a menial labourer. Tarranau had neither the money nor the connections for any job above that of a basic clerk, and with Magister Gothren sure to mark him as an unworthy boy, Tarranau would be consigned to running and repairing fishing lines, or farming the mussel beds of the eastern coast next to his family. And if he chose the mussel beds, Tarranau would always be among people who would remember him as the “failed apprentice”, for the mage’s school was the most prestigious institution on Bohortha Eilan. Tarranau was set against having his life defined by an act that he had not committed, and was considering his alternative: leaving Bohortha Eilan and going to a city where the actions of this one institution would not dog him. A place where he could re-establish himself as a mage, utilizing the abilities he had learned at this school, rather than letting his childhood efforts be thrown away. Where to go was uncertain, for Tarranau was not a trader and did not know the geography of Bedwar Barthu Dirio. He had heard names such as Bethra and Arnich, but knew little more than that. There was also the matter of trading ports. Frequented by ship’s mages, Tarranau could not avoid the reach of the guild in them. Thus, he would be forced into the interior, away from the shoreline and the ocean with which he had grown up. A sacrifice, but preferable to being marked as a failure for his adult life.
If Tarranau waited until the trial was announced, his name would be known among all of the sailors as a man who had been marked, and was not to flee Tregonethra. Tarranau was left with the option of leaving before the trial, a choice that would have him marked as guilty and fleeing a just punishment. However, the result would be the same either way, and he could at least leave on his own terms. Tarranau had finished repacking his belongings, and so when the time came, leaving would be easy.
The next problem that arose was the matter of passage. It was all well and good to go down to the docks carrying his chest, but Tarranau would be spotted and confined to his room until the trial was over. Should he not bring his chest, Tarranau would need to retrieve it, doubling the chance of him being spotted. Perhaps Tarranau could move bags of his belongings at night and hide them for retrieval. That was probably his best chance, making several trips tonight, sneaking his bags out and hiding them in a warehouse near the docks. There was a back way into at least one of them, if Tarranau could remember where he had played as a child. Why, he could even arrange passage tonight, for the traders would be awake at all hours, their world timed by the tide and not the passage of the sun. Tarranau grinned, the first since he had woken. Maybe his life wouldn’t be so bad after all. He hadn’t desired the life of a ship’s mage, and here he was, that life taken away from him and a new one chosen. His whoop of joy echoed down the corridors of his dormitory.
That evening saw Tarranau repacking all of his clothing and valuables into several large haversacks, each a dull and nondescript colour. There was a brief pause to get food, for tonight would be a long night. When Tarranau sat down to eat, none would stay near, for the story of Magister Gothren had been heard around the school, but many gave Tarranau quiet nods and pats on the shoulder as they walked by. Other students could be seen making comments to those at their table, but there was no jeering, afraid that any noticeable gesture would dump the apprentice who made it into their own trouble.
Meal completed, Tarranau retreated to his room. He lay on the bed, thoughts running through his head of where he could go. The apprentice had acquired a map of the continent from the school’s library, but it was hidden near the bottom of the haversacks, and so Tarranau was unable to do more than recall his brief glimpse at it. Many of the cities and towns were concentrated along the coast, in the fertile trading region. Aside from a few oases and spurs of bounteous land, there was a barren waste in the middle of the map, a great desert. To the north and west of that were the mining settlements and mountains, where the sand petered out into a rocky badlands. Without remembering the names, Tarranau could not link up places that the sailors had spoken about with where he might want to go.
Muttering to himself, Tarranau rolled off the bed, pulling at the bags, hand searching inside to find the map. He wasn’t going to make a fool of himself by walking up to a merchant and saying “I’d like to go north-west.” The sailors would be suspicious of such ineptitude. “Damn it, wrong bag.” Tarranau dug in the second bag, and after a few moments he pulled the map out, rolling it across the bed and weighting the ends down. Tarranau leaned over the map and peered, his finger searching for Tregonethra. Having not grown up in a sailing family, his practical experience with maps was limited. “Ah, there it is, Tregonethra.” Tarranau’s finger hovered over the bottom right corner of the map, pointing at the western side of the large island there. “Three routes, three routes… South would take me past Niam Liad, but there is a large collection of guild members there, for the city is the capital of all that it sees. Preferably not that way then. Straight across is Miath Mhor, but again, a trading port populated by men from Bohortha Eilan who would know me, or know of me. To the north then, to Arnich. Smallest of the three ports, and on a trading route. A good enough place to start.” The student’s finger had moved almost directly north from the city where it had started, pointing at a moderately sized town on a spur of the continent. “Yes, that will be my destination.” Tarranau knew little of the place, having heard of the other two ports far more, but that was a good thing, for it meant there would be fewer mages to avoid. The size of Arnich reduced Tarranau’s chances of finding passage, but if no ships were travelling there, Tarranau would go to Miath Mhor and strike out to the north with whatever caravan or ship was willing to take him.
Furling the map, Tarranau walked to the window, eyes turning to the west, where the sun was setting over the waters, a white stre
am of light shimmering across the waves, pointed directly at him. There were the cliffs off to the left, where he had spent many a relaxed day, and where Tarranau had seen the boy who had fallen from their steep heights. The docklands stretched away to the right, the shouts of porters and of men heading to the bars echoing back up to his solitary window. The apprentice would leave behind good friends and many acquaintances. Tarranau watched the scene until the last sliver of the sun sunk below the horizon. He bowed as it slipped under the water, resting to appear another day.
Turning from the window, Tarranau resumed his old position on the bed, hands cradling his head, thinking about life with new customs. There was still two hours of waiting to be done, and pictures of flowing green fields and cliffs tinged gold by the setting sun gave Tarranau happier days to look forward to. There was, however, the matter of money to be taken care of. Tarranau had enough to afford the passage, but once he arrived, his stock of coins would be sorely depleted. No matter. he had the entire journey to conjure an answer.
Other thoughts gnawed at the edge of Tarranau’s mind, his family uppermost amongst them. What could he tell his family? Nothing, so as not to let anyone know where he had gone? That he was innocent and fleeing because he would be able to make a better life? But if Tarranau did not write, his family would only have the report from the school, a report that would besmirch his reputation. The apprentice knew that he had to write the letter.
Grabbing parchment and an ink well from his desk, Tarranau sat down, hand dipping the pen into the ink. There it held for many minutes, opening sentences and greetings playing out in Tarranau’s head. “How do I say I’m running away and may never see my family again? My parents will be crushed, no matter whether I am innocent or not. So will my siblings. I was the great hope that the next generation of my family would not have to farm the mussel beds. Now here I am, penning them a letter that will sink their hopes and dreams. I don’t even have money to send them. Should I send my mother any of my things, she’ll keep it instead of selling it, giving it pride of place in my room, the last remnant of the memory that was her child. A family shrine to a prodigal son.”
Satisfied with his thoughts at last, Tarranau began to write, letting the emotions he felt pour through him onto the page, recalling incidents when he was little, swimming on the beach under the watchful eye of his family as they worked on the mussel beds, playing with other children in the village square, the moment when the whole family’s life changed as Tarranau was selected to be an apprentice at the school. That last event was to have been bracketed by the graduation ceremony only a month hence. Tarranau’s parents might have left by the time the letter reached their house, coming here in the vain hope of seeing their son’s named called and placed into the roll of honour, a boy who had become a man in the service of the guild. That, at least, Tarranau wished to spare his parents, and he would spend the money to ensure the letter went by fast courier. He owed it to his family that they not witness the public proclamation of his embarrassed status, and that they hear it through his own words.
The apprentice grabbed another page of parchment, the black ink continuing to scrawl, more memories and wishes coming to mind. Tarranau tried not to dwell on what might have been, the great and deadly phrase “What if?”, but it came all too frequently into his writing, laments about lost futures, family events such as a birthday or a marriage. There were two promises in the letter: he would never marry unless his parents were there to witness the event, and that he would see them again. If Tarranau made enough money, he could afford to have his parents come live with him. It was a nice thought, and even as he was writing it, Tarranau knew that it would never happen. He could no more uproot his parents and carry them half-way across Bedwar Barthu Dirio than he could undo the charges against him.
The pages continued to flow out from under his pen, pent up emotions, sad wishes, long forgotten memories. Feelings generated in the stress of the last few days, the blissful pause at the beach, all of it became entombed in parchment. The sound of the nib scratching away dominated the room, commanding all other sounds to subservience. Five pages laid out across the table, black ink drying upon their surface as Tarranau signed his name to the last, followed by “I will always love you and cherish your memory”. There was nothing more that could be said.
Time had passed along enough that Tarranau was soon able to gather his things, ready for the first trip down to the harbour. With a bag slotted over each shoulder, he headed out of the room, peering around the door to see if there was anyone there. Empty, he slid down the hallway, heading for the nearest stairs. Once out on the grounds, he stuck close to the buildings, hiding in the shadows on the side away from the moon. Tarranau would have to head out through the main gate, closed at sunset but with a smaller personal gate for people who wished to go in and out of the city, such as the teachers of the school.
Tarranau peered around the edge of his dormitory, looking out over the grounds before the gate, the area that was used for the school’s public ceremonies, the graduation that he would not attend. Seeing no one there, he jogged over to the personal gate. Listening for a moment, Tarranau heard none coming in or out, and so the apprentice slipped away, leaving the door slightly ajar for his return. Making his way down to the city, Tarranau felt the fool carrying two large and heavy sacks on his shoulders. At least he had remembered not to wear his robes, which would mark him out and betray him. Yet, as one of the graduating class, he would be known among the docklands people, for they had worked with him over the past several years. It was that same familiarity that he was counting on now, but it could also lead to his capture.
Tarranau struggled through the outskirts of the city, the bags on his shoulders beginning to weigh him down and pull at his arms. Tarranau moved in the shadows of the houses, built in haphazard fashion on whatever land the owner could buy. There was little to worry the apprentice here, but as he made his way to the docks, there would be thieves, waiting to pick on the drunken sailors and merchants who were seeking to make a journey with the night-time tides. Tarranau was not going all the way to the waterfront this time, but rather to a small warehouse on the side of the docks, looking for a place to store his goods. There was one that he knew, a derelict building, its owner a poor trader who spent much of his time in the warmer lands of the continent. Tarranau had played here as a child, and hoped that it still stood untouched, for otherwise he would have a hard time hiding his belongings.
Grunting with effort at carrying the heavy bags, Tarranau began to see the large inns and warehouses that marked the edge of the docks district. Turning off down a side street, the apprentice headed in the direction of the old warehouse, looking where he had played as a child. More than a few times, Tarranau had to hide or go back the way he had come, stepping aside from the drunks, beggars, and other types who lived in the back alleys. Soon he was lost as the twists and turns of the narrow streets took their toll on his sense of direction. He stumbled and meandered for a time, before dropping his haversacks to the ground and resting, his arms too exhausted to carry his belongings. When he rose, he turned and sniffed the air, searching for the bitter tang of the sea. Following his nose, the apprentice began walking towards the scent, hoping to orient himself once he was freed from the maze in which he was caught. His nose did not lead him awry, and he was soon out on the piers themselves.
Tarranau turned and examined the structures behind him, and saw his goal peeking over the edge of the smaller buildings before it. Stepping back into the alleyways that ran amongst the buildings, he followed one that would take him to the side entrance of the warehouse. It was dark and foul, for it had been used as a urinal by generations of sailors, and tonight it smelled as if there had been a sick drunk as well. A groan from underneath a pile of rotting crates spoke eloquently to the drunk’s presence, and Tarranau moved past as quickly as he could, shifting his feet carefully in the refuse. Reaching the side of the building, he slid along it until he found the door, still in a
sturdy condition.
Dropping the sacks, he pushed at the door, making the hinges squeal, rusty and tight from ill-use. Tarranau lent his weight against the jammed portal, shoving it hard, but it moved not at all, and so he eyed the door for a moment, then took a step back and rammed his shoulder into it. The door screeched and slid back half a foot, just enough for Tarranau to slip inside. He turned to grab his bags and saw the drunk emerging from the alley, woken by the sound of the protesting door. Snatching at the satchel that he had left outside, Tarranau pulled it into the hidden darkness of the interior, hoping that the movement escaped notice.
The drunk banged into the wall near to Tarranau, leaning against it and groaning as he made his way towards the open door. Tarranau could hear the lush as he walked down the alley, his shoulder dragging against the wall. The sound stopped for a moment, and Tarranau held still, listening to the loud and ragged breathing of the alcoholic. The drunk began moving again, stumbling along the wall of the warehouse, walking towards the partially open door. The sound was very close now, almost at the open doorway, the coughing and spluttering marking the drunk as clearly as if Tarranau could see him. Two more steps would place him at the portal, and there went the first, the shoulder thudding into the wall. Another, and the drunk stumbled, the wall suddenly no longer there for him to lean upon. He slammed into the door, tripping over his feet and falling heavily to the ground, stunned.
Tarranau had been leaning against the panelling, listening through the cracks in the wood, and the impact of the drunk knocked him back, opening the door a few more inches. With the way the drunk had fallen, Tarranau could not get out through this opening, and did not think he could pry apart the main gate of the warehouse. All the lush had to do was to remain in front of the entrance, lying there in a stunned and drunken stupor, and Tarranau would be stuck within. The apprentice stepped around the door, looking at the filthy, rag clothed man on the floor beneath him. Dare he risk moving the sot? If the drunk awoke, he would think nothing of taking the apprentice for his money. The noise could also attract more awake and less inebriated types of thieves. Tarranau decided to wait for a moment, to see if the drunk would regain his footing, or if the alcohol had stewed his brain into one of the mashes out of which the drink had been made.
Wolven Kindred Page 10
