Icestorm

by Theresa Dahlheim

  You have no control over it and no respect for it!

  Graegor winced. But he did respect it, and he would have control over it. Contare would teach him.

  “You have now had your first magic duel,” Contare said. Then, to Graegor’s shock, he grinned broadly and added, “Fun, wasn’t it?”

  Fun? Graegor found himself unable to answer. The mild-mannered old sorcerer thought fighting was fun, and Graegor, who would have called himself the more belligerent, never wanted to do it again in his entire life. Suddenly feeling like less than a real man, he forced himself to laugh a little and say, “It’ll make a good story.”

  “Make sure you properly embellish it.”

  “But isn’t it … evil?”

  “To embellish a story?”

  “No … I mean, to have fun hitting someone.”

  “It’s dark, yes. But there’s a world of difference between hitting a helpless victim and hitting a capable equal.”

  “Yes …”

  “And when that capable equal deserves your wrath, truly deserves it, physical violence can be immensely satisfying.”

  Graegor remembered a story he’d heard years and years ago. “Did you … did you really rescue some children in Mor Siuleth?”

  Contare’s eyes widened in brief surprise. “Yes.”

  “And did you have to fight your way through hundreds of magi to do it?”

  “Magi and others, yes.”

  “Was … was that satisfying? Because you knew … what they’d done?”

  “They certainly deserved it. They deserved worse, but I’d vowed not to kill anyone.”

  Telgard sorcerers vow to never take a life through magic. It was one of the first things Contare had taught him. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach at how close he had come to killing Ferogin.

  Contare shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground and tucked the end of his scarf under the high collar of his wool coat. “Who won, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “We called it a draw.”

  “You dealt some damage, then.”

  “I dislocated his shoulder and might have broken his femur. And … his neck was bruised when ...” He stopped. He was not going to tell Contare the rest. It didn’t matter. Ferogin knew the rest, and that was enough. “He was still able to walk away, though. At least I think he was walking.”

  “Swimming back to his ship must have been unpleasant.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind my asking … who won your duel? Or did you and Natayl call it a draw too?”

  “I won.” Contare absently squeezed his gloved hands together. “Natayl’s heart wasn’t really in it.”

  “You challenged him?”

  Contare nodded. “I couldn’t convince the Circle to punish him. I couldn’t change what he had done to you. I couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t do something like that again. And he wouldn’t even tell me why he’d done it. The only thing left was to come out here and hit him, and let myself enjoy it.”

  “He didn’t fight back?”

  “He fought back. But he wasn’t angry like I was.”

  “Are you … sir, are you still angry?”

  “What’s done is done,” Contare shrugged. “I believe that I’ve now started to move past it. In any case, the duel is supposed to settle the grievance.”

  “Is that why you came to the party? To show that you aren’t holding a grudge?”

  Contare raised an eyebrow. “Well, it was Tabitha’s party, not his.”

  “You don’t like her, do you?” He hadn’t meant to blurt that out, and he bit his lip.

  “Graegor, there are very few people whom I actually dislike, and she is not one of them.” When Graegor didn’t answer, he sighed. “I’m sorry. This is about me, not about her or you. I will move past it eventually. Just give me a little time.”

  Disarmed by the apology, Graegor nodded, and Contare went on, “Natayl and I have butted heads before. But this was the worst.” Then he gestured at Graegor. “I hope that this is the worst for you and Ferogin.”

  “So do I.” What could be worse than trying to kill each other? “I didn’t want a fight. I asked her before I went over there. I asked her if she wanted me to distract him so she could escape.”

  “Koren?”

  “Jeh. I asked her.”

  “Because you saw that she was having trouble getting rid of him by herself.”

  “He said something to her …”

  “What was it?”

  “I don’t know.” He shouldn’t have mentioned it. He didn’t want to tell Contare that he had felt Koren’s spike of fear at that moment. Contare was very likely to tell Josselin, who might then tell Koren, who already seemed very embarrassed about the whole thing. He didn’t want to make it worse. “Something crude, probably. It just … it made me angry. Maybe I should have minded my own business.”

  The older sorcerer looked at him sympathetically. “I think you did the right thing.”

  Graegor hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted someone to say that. “Thank you, sir.”

  “But did you have any idea what you were getting into when you agreed to the duel?”

  “I thought I did, but obviously I didn’t.”

  “You honestly didn’t think you might get hurt?”

  “I … I guess not.” Did that make him as arrogant as Ferogin was?

  Though he hadn’t consciously sent that thought, Contare picked it up anyway. “Oh, you’re just as arrogant. Just not as obnoxious.”

  That stung. “Do you really think I’m arrogant, sir?”

  Contare shrugged. “We all are. It’s a collective character flaw.”

  He was probably right. It was arrogant for Graegor to have assumed that Ferogin would never land a blow. But he had, and Graegor had been hurt, badly. And that had scared him, badly. “Why did I get hurt? I mean, why didn’t my gen protect me? Because I was using it to fight?”

  “It did protect you.” Contare frowned again. “If my own experience is any guide, the blows you two exchanged would have killed an ordinary person. You’re disturbed that your pelvic bone was fractured? A mammoth’s pelvic bone would have been shattered.”

  Graegor stared up at him in shock. “You’re joking.”

  “The first and last thing your power does is protect your life. Even when you think you’re throwing every ounce of your gen into whatever you’re doing, most of it is still protecting you.”

  “But Ferogin’s lash went right through my shields to my head. The more power I put into them, the more it hurt.”

  “Lash?”

  “He called it a ‘magnokinetic lash’. Is that something we can all do?”

  “If you’re describing a pain amplifier, then yes, we can.” The frown was deeper this time. “Is that what he used against you at the party?”

  “Jeh.” Graegor decided not to ask Contare to teach it to him. The name “pain amplifier” suggested that it had no benevolent use. “I don’t know how he attuned it to my shields. We have no link.”

  “There’s a way, since you have Adelard magic.” Contare shook his head. “But Pascin wouldn’t have taught him that. He must have read about it.”

  “I think Pascin taught him about healing, though. I think he was healing himself at one point, or trying to.” He paused. “Can we talk about it now? About why you haven’t taught me how to heal, before now?”

  Contare nodded, and his shoulders shifted as he settled a bit deeper into his cross-legged position on the damp stone. “What have I told you about it before?” he asked as he hunched against the wind. “Can you remember?”

  “There’s … there’s a difference between magical healing, and … I think you called it mechanical healing.”

  “And what is that difference?”

  “Mechanical … anyone can do that. Ordinary surgeons, with their hands and tools. Magi … magi without the healing talent can still move parts of the body, with telekinesis. Hold wounds closed, or straighten broken bones. It needs to be ve
ry … precise.”

  “And magical healing?”

  “Magical healing lets you … go inside the body, with your mind, and help the injuries heal themselves. Which is what you just helped me do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Diseases too.”

  “Some.”

  “It’s much faster than mechanical healing or letting it heal on its own.” Graegor paused. “And healers are killers.”

  “What?”

  “Jeff said that. If you know the body well enough to heal … you know it well enough to kill.”

  Contare made no comment on that. “Who can perform magical healing?”

  It was hard to think. He was tired. But he had asked. “All sorcerers can do it … but not all magi.”

  “Yes.”

  “And healing animals is a different talent … than healing people. Jeh,” he remembered, “and healing yourself is a different talent too. Some magi … can only heal themselves.”

  “Here we are.” Contare’s expression grew more serious. “It’s my belief that you can only heal yourself.”

  Graegor thought about that. “Why? I thought all sorcerers could heal other people.”

  “Do you remember when we talked about your magic, and the fact that it contains not just Telgard magic, but magic from all other races as well?”

  “But yours does too.”

  “Mine didn’t, until I inherited Roberd’s power. Yours already does. I’m pretty sure it’s because you’re Roberd’s descendant. When Roberd inherited Felise’s magic, it changed some of his traits, which were passed on to his children. The same thing probably happened to me, but I didn’t have any children.”

  “Those traits are coming out in my magic?”

  “Yes. Now, you know that you have the ability to pull magical energy from any person in the world, because your magic is from all races.”

  Graegor nodded.

  “When a sorcerer pulls power, he receives power that the person donates. When a sorcerer heals, he donates his magic, and the patient receives it. But the patient can’t receive magic that’s foreign to him—just like a sorcerer can’t receive energy that’s foreign to him.”

  Graegor nodded again, more slowly. “Since no one has the blood of all races, no one can receive my magic of all races.”

  “Right. If your magic was solely Telgard, you could heal anyone with any Telgard blood, no matter what other race he or she might be. Your magic could be received, because it would not be foreign to him or her. But you could not pull power from that person, since some of his or her energy would be foreign to you. If your magic was solely Telgard.”

  A couple of comments that he had heard in the labyrinth clicked into place now. “That’s how all the others are. Daxod said he healed a Kroldon girl who was part Tolander.”

  “Yes.” Contare sighed. “Anyway, that’s why I haven’t taught you any magical healing before now—just the starting points for mechanical healing.”

  Some. When they visited the hospitals, Contare was usually very businesslike, spending most of the time in consultation with the magi healers, rarely performing any healing himself. He’d said it was better than he step in only when a sorcerer’s touch was needed. And he’d always avoided the role of a nurse, because … “Because it makes people nervous.”

  “It …” Contare seemed puzzled for a moment, but then he smoothed it away and just nodded. “You can’t practice on anyone but yourself, and you won’t be able to practice on other people until your Circle is forged.”

  “Why will I then?”

  “The Bond of the Circle removes race-based restrictions on healing, for us and for any pledged magi.”

  “Right.” He was feeling more and more drained. His eyelids were drooping and his words were slurring. “You told me that.”

  “Do you want to try to sit up now?”

  Tentatively, Graegor braced his arm on the ground and pushed himself to a sitting position. Some muscles stretched, and one or two protested, but it wasn’t bad. The hood of his heavy, wet cloak was bunched up at his neck, but when he pulled it over his head, the sharp wind almost instantly pushed it off again. He took a long, deep breath.

  “How are you feeling?” Contare asked.

  “I think I’m all right.” He turned his head to make sure his neck didn’t hurt, and he saw the base of the sea-stack, where Ferogin had been trying to translate the words etched into the basalt. “Sir, the Sixth came here, didn’t they?”

  “Yes.” Contare looked over his shoulder. “You saw their names?”

  “Jeh. Do you know why they were here?”

  “No,” Contare said thoughtfully. “Felise withheld that memory from Roberd. But he believed that it wasn’t much more than a private farewell among them.”

  “At a dueling ground?”

  “Maybe they wanted to change its purpose. On the other hand, there’s no evidence that they performed any ritual magic or altered anything here.”

  “Maybe they were looking for the crystal cave.”

  Contare turned back to him with a furrowed brow. “The what?”

  Graegor had no idea why he had forgotten his vision, or dream, or whatever it was—or why he had so suddenly remembered it. “I … saw a cave full of giant crystals. Deep underground. The earth magic is trapped inside them. That’s why we can’t tap it here.”

  Contare’s bright blue eyes were very intent on him now. “This was another waking dream? Like with the mice in the rafters, and the tunnels in the castle?”

  “Yes … it felt like those.”

  “Tell me everything you remember.”

  Graegor told Contare about traveling through cracks in the earth to reach the cavern where the giant crystals were submerged in water, and then traveling deeper to where the rock melted. Contare asked many questions, probing for details, until Graegor couldn’t give him any more and was feeling quite anxious. “Sir, do you think it’s true?” he asked. “Do you think it’s really down there?”

  “I am unsure what I think.” The older sorcerer drummed his gloved fingertips against his knee, staring at nothing. “Castle Chrenste was built with earth magic at its foundations. And then Khisrathi used earth magic to seal her bloodspell into the stones. There are many other examples of that use of earth magic in the world. But what you’re describing sounds like a natural formation, not something sorcerers created.”

  “Because it’s so deep?”

  “That, and everything else.” Contare didn’t look up, still tapping his knee. Eventually he said, “Earth magic feels deeper in Khenroxa and Thendalia, too. It has something to do with the volcanoes.”

  Graegor’s eyes widened. “You mean we’re sitting on top of a volcano?”

  “The short answer is yes. The long answer is more complicated.” Contare paused again. “I’d like to tell Pascin about this, and about your other dreams. Is that all right?”

  “As long as he doesn’t tell Ferogin.” He didn’t like the idea of Ferogin knowing.

  “I shall stipulate that. I’d also like to discuss all your visions with Oran. They share some similarities with prescience, though I’m not convinced that’s what they are.”

  “All right … but I’d rather he didn’t tell Borjhul.” He didn’t like the idea of Borjhul knowing either, though the reasons felt less clear.

  “I shall stipulate that as well.” Contare’s gaze had refocused on Graegor, and he asked again, “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired.” His stomach grumbled. “Hungry.”

  “Understandable. Check yourself over again.”

  Graegor nodded and shut his eyes, directing his power inside himself as Contare had taught him. His bones were settled differently now that he wasn’t lying down, but nothing seemed wrong. His heart and lungs and other organs were where they were supposed to be, doing what they were supposed to do. Most muscles and nerves were fine, and those that weren’t yet fine were on their way toward it. His skin’s bruises and abrasions were considerably sm
aller and less tender.

  It really was miraculous. He had thought he was dying.

  The reminder sent a small stab of fear through him, which made no sense, and he hurried to push it away as he opened his eyes. “I’m all right now, sir. Thank you.”

  Contare looked relieved, as if he hadn’t been sure until now that Graegor was not damaged permanently. “Good.”

  “Does this mean I can skip the anatomy course I’m supposed to audit this term?” Graegor joked. “I feel like I’ve already learned everything.”

  Contare’s answer, however, was serious. “No. That course is the foundation for all healing the Academy teaches, mechanical and magical. Don’t pretend to know more than you do.”

  “I won’t, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Contare kept looking at him as if expecting another answer, but Graegor didn’t know what to say. Eventually the old man stated, “These classes you’ll be auditing are in addition to everything else you need to do. You should continue to train with Magus Darren. I expect you to be at the office just as much, learning from everyone there. I’ll have even more books for you to read. And I’ll still be taking up a lot of your time, teaching you what only I can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You won’t have as much opportunity to be with your friends, or with Tabitha.”

  “I understand, sir.” He didn’t like that part, but he did understand it. “I’ll do everything you need me to do. I’ll work hard.”

  “Good. I know you can work hard. When I first met you, you had to work to feed yourself, and it kept you motivated.”

  Graegor frowned. Did Contare think he wasn’t motivated now? His master saw his expression, and his own expression softened. “I didn’t mean that like it sounded. You do work hard. But I really should have set a more rigorous course of study for you, and I didn’t. I’m not a good taskmaster.”

  “You’ve taught me a lot, sir.”

  “Well, there’s always more.” Contare set his hands on his back and stretched. “Five hundred years, and the world keeps teaching me.”

  Graegor saw his quarterstaff lying on the rocks beside him. He grasped it, and the solid wood in his hand was comforting. It had kept him from falling in the water countless times today, always staying exactly where he planted it. He leaned on it as he got to his feet, and little twists of pain in his joints came and went. “Sir, how are we … how am I getting home?” Contare could fly, and the fishing boat was likely long gone.