by Wade Ebeling
“What would you have me do, sir?” Marcus pleaded. “Run? Hide away with the pledges? You, of all people, know that what I have done was …”
“Calm yourself, son. I know where your heart lies,” Grenaldt interjected, putting a large, rough-skinned hand up. After sitting again, Grenaldt looked at Marcus directly, unabashed pride showing in his eyes. The master grabbed his students knee to underscore the truth in what he was about to say. “You acted under my orders, Marcus, and mine alone. I had you sabotaging the Camaraderie’s labors when I still believed that true freedom could be achieved in this new world. I now understand that those were fool’s errands I was sending you on. I am … I am just glad that you are still among us. I don’t think I would have been able to forgive myself for robbing the world of the most talented pupil that I and my staff have ever met. This is beyond us now. You understand? You did your best to slow the tide, but I wish that I had never asked you to do what you did. I had no right. You see the futility in the odds, yes? It would be one thing if our task was to take on only the Church here in the colonies. Sadly, this is not the case. We simply cannot fight an entire population under their control as well. Soon, the wedge will be driven home. Those in power, whomever that is, has no choice but to poison the public against us.”
“The Builders have no desire to lead. That sentiment sits in direct contrast to our belief in equality. Even our own inept Assembly, God rest their souls, never dared inject our philosophy into other’s affairs. They sat only as curators of our pooled resources, allocating workers and material as efficiently as possible. Still, did they not choose one side over another? These conflicts of man make it impossible for us to remain neutral. We cannot take the reins, even if the horse threatens to plunge us over a cliff. Unfortunately, this always leaves a void for others to fill … Those who do not share our values.”
“Once the people are rallied around a new cause, a new flag, a new god, whatever it may be, they are already lost. They will believe the men who say, “We deserve freedom. We deserve liberty.” Soon, they will defend those men to the death, even as their freedoms are taken, their liberties trampled. The people will believe that they have been united, believe that these peddlers of lies will restore their autonomy at some later date. Worst still, they will believe those men are heroes, champions of a cause that no one held dear until those same pretenders came along to complain about it. It saddens me to no end, knowing how quickly and easily a few can manipulate events to gain from it. Look at the newspapers! Do they all not parrot the same skewed points? How is this possible? These charlatans talk of ‘no taxation without representation’ while stealing the wares of their own countrymen who dare disagree with them. The guise of ‘the common good’ can make brother betray brother. How does one fight against the kind of evil that would abuse this power? How does one change the minds of the people who follow these men, believing their atrocities to be somehow justified? As if … I mean, how can violence and coercion ever be justified?”
“Please, just be silent ... I beg you give an old man a few moments to think … I must right the wrongs within my power. There is no way to avoid the inevitable ... I can see that now.” Pushing the chair back as he stood, the headmaster made his way over to sit behind a cluttered desk. Busying himself with lighting a compact crucible, before focusing the attached lens so that the light shone on the jumble of books and measuring devices strewn about before him. Pulling a stack of paper from one of the drawers, he promptly set task to writing upon them.
Marcus and Catherine leaned forward simultaneously, faces intentionally passive. They were being overly cautious to not disturb Grenaldt or to show their real emotions. Their master’s temper seemed to be barely holding, making it obvious to perceive the good sense in giving him what he asked for.
“What’s he goin’ on about?” Marcus finally whispered, knowing she would never give in first. “Are we to join the others? What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s … well … complicated,” Catherine sighed, a distant sadness showing on her face.
“Hmm.”
“It is! Shush! Listen, you must believe me … I … I wanted to …”
“To what? Take off for a year without … Never mind … Fine, really,” Marcus said in an off-hand way. “I just thought ...”
“Thought what? That I forgot about you?” Catherine asked hurriedly, green eyes wide, acting hurt by the very idea.
“No. I just … You said that … Ugh … This is ridiculous. It feels so long ago. I just believed that we ...” Marcus tried to tell her how he felt but faltered. Words failed him in his time of need. He drank the last of the warm brandy instead of saying that, for all this time, he had been longing for contact and fretting over her well-being.
The silence stretched out for over half an hour. The only sounds that could be heard were the soft crackling of the cobalt fire and the ink well clinking as Master Grenaldt continued his feverish writing. Every time the words seemed right on the verge of spilling out, Marcus choked them back down. She was being obstinately silent. This irked him just enough to keep is tongue bit as well. He wasn’t going to break first. Not this time.
“Marcus? I am sorry … but,” Catherine started softly. “It’s just that … there are some things that I have been … I was told not to trust anyone … Not just …”
Marcus pounced. “So, you don’t trust me?” he hissed incredulously. It was now his turn to act hurt.
“It’s not like that at all …”
“Listen up!” Grenaldt barked, effectively breaking the darkening mood. “These are my instructions … Would you kindly stand before me?” – a threat that neither Catherine or Marcus could ignore. Without looking at each other, they took separate paths to stand like statues in front of his desk.
“I know all of your concerns before you even raise them. Just hear me out and do what is asked of you. Whether you think it makes sense or not, I do not care,” Grenaldt stated flatly. Leaning forward onto his elbows revealed a troubled countenance. His eyes were reddened and shiny, like he had just been on the verge of tears. “There is but one way out of here. Soon, if all goes well … Oh, never mind that for now. I will be staying. Take the focus off you lot. It’ll be me that gives those bloody crosses something to fixate on. Don’t worry yerself none, Catherine. I can take care of myself.”
“Young as you both are, you are still members in full-standing of the Builders … Meaning, I will expect you to act as such in the coming days and weeks. Fate is not on our side at this moment. This is of no matter to us, history is full of moments and it will, sooner or later, be on our side once again. So, here it is, the three of us against the full brunt of the Deacons.” Ever the teacher, Grenaldt paused to let his words sink in. “I need to complete some works that have … Let’s say, gone unfinished during these better times, which, as usual, were far too short. My attention will be there …”
For the first time, Marcus saw the true effects of age showing on his master’s face. Behind the sadness, Grenaldt looked weary thinking about whatever task he had awaiting him. “Sir, if I can be of any help, please do not …,” Marcus began to say, regretting his inability to keep silent almost immediately.
Grenaldt seemed to be ready for the platitude, “Do not interrupt me,” he sighed, the weariness even showing in his voice. “You will be busy, no doubt. Yours is a different path entirely. Without divulging too much, let’s just say that young Catherine has … found herself in a spot of bother. Prathorn … sorry, old habits and all … Marcus, my hope is that you will escort her to where she should have been all along.”
Grenaldt handed Marcus a thick envelope. Exuding importance, it was tightly bound with a crossing of hemp twine and sealed with red wax, which had the triangular symbol of the Builders emblazoned upon it. The consummate headmaster then continued, his voice and demeanor much softer, “Inside is a map that will help get you to … where you are going. Beyond that, there are some other odds and ends that you might fi
nd of interest down the road. Do not open it until you are well out of town! I want your word on this. Do not let these papers fall into the wrong hands! Strictly speaking, I am breaking the confidence of an old friend by giving this to you. That said, I doubt he will turn you away if you do manage to make it all the way there. You have much to accomplish, with only three days to do it in. It will be most challenging, but as long as you work together, I’m certain you will find a way to persevere.”
Grenaldt slumped in his chair and began rubbing his temples. After thinking for a moment, choosing his words very carefully, he continued, “You must prepare yourselves for a long journey. This will require several things of you. We will first address Catherine’s concern over the travel ritual. Again, I am sorry, there is just no way around it, dear. You have both just arrived from … err … a long way away, so I would wager that you could use an attentive ward to get your bodies back in shape and ready for what is to come! There, that is settled. Agreed?”
Catherine and Marcus shot each other the same look, one laced with pure anxiety. Just the cleansing part of the Ritual would require them to be naked in the baths together, the ward searching every inch of their charges bodies for injuries. Marcus had never heard of opposite sexes sharing roles like this before, beyond that of married couples.
“C’mon, you two. It’s not all that bad, is it?” Grenaldt laughed, trying to lighten the mood. This, of course, did not help in the least. “Well, anyway … while you might have noticed that none of your brothers and sisters are here, you have yet to feel the full effects of their absence. The fires need to be tended in the baths, ‘less you don’t mind cold water. Provisions will need to be baked and dried … Kindly make a few days’ worth for myself while you’re at it. Marcus, you will need to devote most of your time to an alchemy station, I would think. And lastly, this one’s for you, Catherine, I believe there is a need to make two new sets of clothing. Ones that will insulate you from the cold …”
CHAPTER 3
~ The Ritual ~
In hushed tones, when they were certain of not being overheard by members of the school staff, the students often referred to pain as the sixth tenant of magic. Throughout recorded history, there are many examples of people using physical discomfort to focus the mind. The Builders refined this practice down over the centuries to better control their gift. Each separate thought can become stretched, time being relative to the beholder. To the well-trained mind, these moments could then be elongated to the point where slight manipulations can be performed, instilling certain characteristics into charms, personal items and potions.
Marcus sat before a highly organized table. Stretched out before him were ingredients and reagents sectioned off in oaken pillboxes and spindly vials in rowed holders. He had just failed to make a complex healing salve. While this might be commonplace for others, it was not for him. His mind struggled to focus, so he angrily jabbed his thumb into the weeping sore on his left arm again. The amount of pain that could be gathered from the week-old, self-inflicted burn was waning, nowhere near enough to shake the frustrating image of Catherine’s smile. Dropping the sharp edge of a calcinator onto his thumb nail was a temporary fix, just enough to successfully complete a large batch of the thistle and honey-based ointment.
There were no reserves left in Marcus’ body and he looked over his work without satisfaction, despite it being a wondrous accomplishment. All set and sealed, the healing salves sat beside the hydration and consumption tonics, everything needed to sustain one person for more than a month. Smoke, trenching and hardening decoctions were stoppered in small, wax-dipped vials, in case anything arose that would require a more defensive posture or open subterfuge. He had even brewed two different types of poisonous oils, which were then pre-applied to packets of shot stones for use in their slings. The holly and nightshade distillation would kill targets almost instantly. The other poison, its components ripped from a mixture of more exotic plants, would incapacitate the average sized male for about an hour. The completion of all this would have taken a fortnight for most wizards. Amazingly, using his immense affinity for the craft, Marcus had accomplished it all over the course of two days.
During a normal day at the school, a student would most likely be flogged for not cleaning up after themselves. There had been nothing normal about this day. But, Marcus could no longer keep his eyes trained. Besides, Master Grenaldt Thressor had all but disappeared, so there was little chance of being caught. They had seen nary a trace of the surly man, other than the rumbles emanating somewhere deep in the stone that could be felt every now and then. Familiar with their master’s continuous work schedule, they attributed these shimmies and shakes to the ‘projects’ that Grenaldt had alluded to. Marcus shuffled away from the orderly mess, lack of sleep messing with his balance. After making his way into the furthest berths, he collapsed of exhaustion on a covered straw bunk.
Marcus would not hear Catherine approaching his bedside during the night. He would not remember her stripping off his dirty waistcoat and pants to get accurate measurements of his proportions. He would not stir as she applied a soothing balm to his chest, which she had made especially for him, ensuring that his sleep was deep and restful. He would not feel her kissing his forehead, or his body being covered back over with a warm blanket.
When Marcus awoke late the next morning, he felt better than he had in months. Uncoiling his wiry frame, legs and arms stretched out wide like a wheeled prisoner. Wanting to savor the trapped heat under the blanket for a moment longer, he pulled himself into the fetal position and rolled onto his side.
“Finally! Are you up?” Catherine asked playfully. Wearing nothing but a chemise, she sat cross-legged on the cot next to him. “When you are ready, could you join me for breakfast in the common room? Master Grenaldt expects us to leave today … Gain some distance before it gets dark, I expect. Um, and we still … need to … Anyway, your new clothes are here.” She patted a neat pile beside her. “You can check the fit later. After we eat and perform the travel ritual.”
Not giving Marcus a chance to reply, her wide smile lit the dark space for the briefest of moments before she stood and left the room.
It was only after the vexing woman had gone that Marcus realized he was laying there wearing only a shirt. It took him a moment to fully understand what this meant. The smell of lilac and eucalyptus wafted out when he pulled the thick blanket off to sit up. Part of him wanted to squeal with joy and part of him wanted to hide back under the covers. She had sounded so casual when mentioning the ritual that the blanket seemed to be not only the best option, it seemed to be the only option. Marcus suddenly felt that he would rather face a contingent of fully outfitted Deacons again than Catherine Halsworth in the baths.
Giving up was never an acceptable option under Grenaldt Thressor’s tutelage. The headmaster gave each of his students the drive to be the best that they could possibly be. The ability to push someone well past their own perceived limits was one of his greatest attributes. This was only accomplished by the pupil facing and burying their own personal fears, whatever they may be. These hard-learned lessons were what got Marcus up and on his feet. A desire to not let Catherine have the upper hand was what gave him the fortitude to leave the room.
There was not a scrap of his soiled, former clothing laying about, so Marcus lit a small nugget of cobalt to better see what Catherine had left behind. It was immediately apparent that the woman had gone far above any of his expectations. Marcus, like the rest of the students, was quite used to wearing the basic garb of a tradesman. While never at the height of fashion, wearing simple wool and leather clothing was the perfect combination of comfort and protection. It also allowed members of the Builders to enter different areas without so much as a second glance given to them by those who believe themselves to be a working man’s better.
With just a glance, Marcus could tell that this would be the finest set of clothing that he might ever wear. A cotton cravat and an off-white, soft
linen shirt with long tails sat on top of the pile. A pair of dark green wool stockings, complete with garters, lay underneath the shirt. Moving these aside fully exposed an impressive pair of emerald breeches festooned by gold trim and a matching twelve-button waistcoat. Laying on the bed was a stiff frock made of the same material and in the same style as the breeches. The pants and coats were lined with imbued woolen felt for added insulation against the cold.
Beside the pile of clothing was a newly steamed tricorn hat, its simple ivory cockade standing out majestically against the hardened black felt. A new pair of shoes came next, which had obviously been taken from the school’s stores. Catherine attempted to gussy them up a bit by means of a good polish, darkening of the silver-moss soles and the attachment of shiny buckles. The interior of the shoes had a thick layer of the same charmed felt that would be most welcome in the snow. Gone was his usual cloak, all its charms and talismans now sewn into an impressive great coat. Colored the same forest green as the stockings, the outer covering was perfectly padded and held beaver fur linings at the foldable cuffs and collar for additional protection against the elements.
For two solid days, Marcus had been grumbling under his breath about being expected to do all the alchemy, as well as bake the hardtack and dry the remaining venison for pemmican, while Catherine was only charged with doing the tailoring and some simple maintenance. He had thought himself most pious for the extreme amount of exertion that he had been giving. That false sense of superiority started to drain away as he fondled the masterful stitching bordering the interior pockets that reinforced the great coat. When he discovered an attractive white silk kerchief in one of the capacious pockets, which was wrapped around a set of knitted, wool mittens, the feeling faded away altogether.
