A Dark Reckoning

by J. R. Rasmussen

  He droned on, but Wardin picked up his pace, he and Arun both taking advantage of having longer legs than the others to get a few strides ahead.

  The journey had been relatively easy thus far. Few of Tobin’s soldiers patrolled the paths they chose, and anyone they did come across was easily avoided with Erietta’s cloaking spells and disguises. Magical fires were not extinguished by falling snow, no matter how heavy, and warming spells cast by the two sages kept frostbite at bay. The greatest danger, it seemed to Wardin, was being crushed under the weight of Desmond’s incessant complaining.

  Though Wardin was still uneasy with the idea of Erietta traveling to Dordrin with nobody but that bore at her side, he had to admit the idea of parting ways with the doughy, fussy sage—tomorrow, most likely—was a pleasant one.

  Of course, he and Arun would still have Corbin with them, and he wasn’t the most pleasant of traveling companions either, between his permanently sulky face and shockingly loud snoring. The latter lasted through the entirety of every night; Wardin still didn’t trust him, and never assigned him a watch.

  But at least he was a more able traveler than Desmond. To Wardin’s surprise, Corbin seemed to know the mountains well, and traversed the rough, icy slopes with ease—almost as nimbly as Arun, who was the best mountaineer among them.

  He’d shrugged when Wardin asked him about it, early on in their journey. “I’ve spent time in this part of the country. I am half Eyrd, after all. And anyway, it’s hardly illegal for a Harthian citizen to travel in what is, officially, a barony of Harth.”

  The vague answer had left Wardin warier than ever of the man. If he was as close with his father as he claimed, then he must have known about Pendralyn. Had he been spying on them? For how long?

  “Stop brooding and pay attention.” Arun elbowed Wardin in the ribs. “We’ve got a bit of a climb coming up.”

  “Who says I’m brooding?”

  “I assume you weren’t frowning like that because you think it makes you look handsome.” Arun advanced on the rise ahead, taking the lead as he usually did when it came to challenging terrain. This wasn’t so bad—they wouldn’t need ropes or spikes—but with the slick snow and the rivulets of ice trailing along the rocks, even a reasonable slope could be dangerous.

  A fact proved by Desmond several minutes later when, with a scream that was bound to announce them to anyone within miles, he slipped and fell backward, tumbling many strides down the mountainside. More concerning than his cry was the sickening crunch when he landed.

  By the time the rest of them scrambled back down to kneel at his side, Desmond was openly weeping. For once, he had good cause to complain. The angle of his leg below the knee was all wrong. Blood pooled in the snow. And when Wardin carefully pushed up the leg of Desmond’s trousers, he saw bone jutting out of the mangled flesh of his shin, just above the top of his boot.

  Desmond, overcome by the sight of his injuries, turned his head and vomited, then promptly passed out. Wardin couldn’t blame him. He felt ill himself just looking at it.

  In the quiet that followed the abrupt end of their companion’s cries, Wardin, Arun, and Erietta stared at one another in horror. They were days away from their destinations, in dangerous territory near the Harthian border. Days away from Pendralyn as well. No matter what they did now, there was a very real threat to Desmond’s life. Not to mention Erietta’s mission. Perhaps both missions, if they tarried too long here.

  Finally, Erietta cleared her throat. She was pale, but her voice was steady as she said, “Desmond is the best healer in the group.” She glanced at Arun. “You could try?”

  “I could.” Arun shrugged, his face uneasy. Most sages learned some healing, but talented though he was, Arun’s interests had always leaned more toward the arcane and unusual. He’d never focused on it any more than the magisters had forced him to while he was at school.

  And this was no simple cut. Healing bone took a great deal of skill. Probably more than even Desmond had, much less Arun.

  “Better to wait until he wakes up,” Wardin said. “Let him try to do it himself. Though we should at least try to stop the bleeding.” He pushed his hands against the gaping skin above the bone. Desmond groaned, but did not wake.

  “Even if he can heal it, it won’t be instant, or perfect,” said Arun. “He’ll need rest and time to recover. It’s going to be impossible for him to do any physical labor to restore his balance. Not to mention, a wound like that …” He grimaced and waved at the gore Desmond’s leg had become. “It looks like stew meat. Let’s just be honest with ourselves. We have to take the leg. The sooner the better.”

  “It’s likely to fester if we do that, and he can’t heal himself if he’s insensible with fever.” Erietta bit her lip. “We’d be killing him.”

  “We may be killing him if we don’t,” Arun countered. “Festering is exactly the problem. Look at it.”

  “You’re right,” said Wardin. “There’s a strong chance it’ll fester no matter what we do. We have to try to guard against that, whatever else we decide.” He stood and gestured for Erietta to take his place pressing on the wound. “I’ve got some dried herbs in my pack we could try to make do with.”

  He knew he didn’t sound hopeful, and he saw his own fear and sorrow reflected in his friends’ faces. None of them liked Desmond much, but that didn’t mean they wanted to bury him here.

  Yet the probability that they would have to seemed almost certain. Even if they somehow managed to heal him, a fever might still follow. He was a soft man, and it would be extremely difficult to care for him while he recovered, in this wilderness. He’d catch a chill at the least. It wasn’t a mild winter, and even with magic to stave off the worst of the cold, none of them were ever really warm. It would only take one strong storm to kill all hope.

  A heavy sigh behind him reminded Wardin that Corbin was there. He bumped Wardin’s shoulder as he dropped to one knee beside Desmond and said, “Give me a bit of space, please.”

  “Are you a sage?” Arun stepped back, but he narrowed his eyes at Corbin. “You didn’t tell us you could do any magic. Where would you have learned it? Or are you some sort of mundane healer?”

  “Not a sage.” Corbin pressed his lips together and gently touched his fingertips to Desmond’s leg. “And not mundane.”

  “What are you doing?” Wardin gripped the hilt of his dagger—it would be faster, at this distance, than the sword strapped to his back—though he couldn’t have said what made him wary. Corbin had no reason to hurt Desmond further; this was as much an obstacle for him as for the rest of them.

  Unless, of course, he meant to end the debate by killing the man.

  “What I should have done right away,” Corbin snapped. “And would have, if I didn’t know full well that you don’t trust me, and that this will make you far more suspicious than you already are.”

  Wardin didn’t like the sound of that. Apparently Erietta didn’t either. She was the only one who hadn’t moved away from Desmond, and now she clasped the unconscious sage’s hand. Her nostrils flared as she glared at Corbin.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  Corbin didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, his lips moving soundlessly. Wardin already felt magic building in the air. He stepped forward and put his hand on Corbin’s shoulder, while Arun bent to grab the man’s elbow.

  Corbin proved shockingly difficult to budge. It was as though his hands had fused with Desmond’s leg. He ignored them all and bent his head, hair falling over his face.

  “Get away.” Wardin drew the dagger, being conspicuously loud about it, hoping Corbin would take this last chance to do as he was told before their situation became even more complicated than it already was.

  It was too late. A small flock of crossbills had been chattering in the pines at the top of the slope they’d just been trying to climb. Now the birds descended on the travelers in a cloud of red and brown feathers, their calls unnaturally, almost unbearably loud. Wardin ducked in surpr
ise as they circled low.

  Then, one by one, a dozen of them fell to the ground, dead.

  Desmond sat up, his eyes clear and alert, his color already returning. As though waking from a particularly refreshing nap.

  The crossbills—what remained of them—departed as quickly as they’d come, leaving behind an eerie silence. Wardin’s heart hammered as he stared at Desmond’s leg.

  It was still covered in blood, but it was straight and whole again, with no trace of the errant bone.

  * * *

  “A conductor.” Wardin stared aghast at Corbin by the light of their small fire. The cave where they’d taken shelter for the night was filled with smoke, giving the other man’s flickering face an unreal quality. Perhaps he wasn’t real, but a specter out of legend. “That’s … it’s practically necromancy! You mean to tell me you give life to the dead?”

  “And death to the living.” Corbin shrugged. “But it’s not quite so dramatic as necromancy. I can’t bring back anyone who’s really dead. I can only transfer life between living things.” He gestured from Wardin’s shocked face to Arun’s furious one. “And this is why I didn’t tell you I’m a magician. Conductors are not exactly looked upon with favor.”

  Erietta passed around some apples—wrinkled, by this part of their journey, but still edible—and dried meat, then sat down beside Wardin. Of all of them, she was the least disturbed by Corbin’s revelation. She seemed more curious than disgusted, despite the fact that many magicians considered conduction to be an evil art. It was associated not only with necromancy, but with Graddoc, the necromancer deity himself.

  Desmond refused his share of the food, and unrolled his blanket as far away from Corbin as possible. Appalled and not at all grateful to have been healed in such a way, he’d been alternating between haranguing Corbin and stomping around in uncharacteristic silence. The fact that he owed his ability to stomp at all to the very man he was denouncing seemed lost on him.

  “Now, then.” Erietta ignored Desmond’s conspicuous sniffs and fixed Corbin with a sharp stare. “We’ve all got our dinner, and we’re sheltered from the weather. You were going to tell me how it is that you’ve managed to learn conduction when it hasn’t been taught in magisteries for at least two centuries.”

  “Was I?” Corbin snorted, but he didn’t hesitate to answer. “You mean it hasn’t been taught in Eyrdon. You are an infernally superstitious lot, and terrified of anything to do with death, every one of you.”

  Erietta shook her head and swallowed her bite of apple. “It’s not just Eyrdon. Pendralyn came into books and scrolls from every magistery in Cairdarin after the dissolution. Everything that could be saved came to us. But as far as I know—and I know a lot—we haven’t a single written word on how to practice conduction.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Corbin said. “Perhaps nobody wanted to admit to teaching it. But I can tell you for a fact that it was taught at the magistery in Heathbire. The baron’s own great-uncle was a magister there. He fled, before Cadric’s men came. A few of his things have been preserved in secret.”

  “So you learned conduction from the Baron of Heathbire?” Wardin asked.

  “In Heath Castle. And thereabouts.”

  Wardin did not miss the difference between this answer and Yes, I learned it from the baron. But Corbin took a large bite of his apple, and said no more.

  “There’s a reason conduction is despised, and it has nothing to do with superstition.” Arun had remained mostly quiet, settling for giving Corbin the nastiest looks he could manage. But apparently he could no longer contain himself. “It’s dark magic.”

  “People say the same about contrivance,” Erietta said quietly.

  “That’s different,” Arun said. “Conduction is stealing life.”

  Corbin scoffed. “I’m fairly certain you stole some life yourself, this past autumn. That is what one does, when fighting a battle. Someone stole some life to provide us with this meat we’re eating. All magic, of every affinity, has the power to kill. Along with all the ordinary weapons people use to do it every day.”

  “It’s Graddoc’s magic. His priests did it.” Arun scowled. “And if you can’t tell that Graddoc himself is on the wrong side of things, you’re soft in the head.”

  A thought occurred to Wardin, turning his meager meal cold in his belly. “You said you’ve been in these mountains many times,” he said slowly. “Did you actually mean Sarn Graddoc? Tell me you aren’t a priest of Graddoc.”

  Corbin’s sour expression didn’t change. “Of course not. I don’t worship him.”

  “But you’ve been to his shrine,” Wardin said.

  He didn’t deny it. “I suppose you could say I’m a student of Graddoc. I’ve studied his story as well as his magic. I think he was a bit misunderstood.”

  “The deity who tried to abduct Eyrdri herself and force her to marry him was misunderstood?” Arun’s nostril’s flared, and he made no attempt to hide his loathing.

  “Well, we don’t know the circumstances, do we?” Corbin spread his hands. “We don’t even know if it happened at all. It may just be a story. But here is something I can tell you for a fact.” He held up one finger, jabbing the air for emphasis as he spoke. “Nobody values balance more than a magician, and conduction is the ultimate expression of that. Life for death. Death for life. The two must always be balanced. There’s nothing dark about it. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  Erietta cocked her head. “Are you saying you can do this magic without having to balance it? That it’s self-balancing, in some way?”

  Wardin didn’t like the way Corbin’s eyes lingered on Erietta before he answered. Was that admiration? And when he spoke, his tone was as pleasant as the man ever got. “No. The magic is balanced, but the magician … it still takes a toll. You still need to tend to your balance.”

  “How?” she asked. “What sort of magic is it? Physical?”

  “Not exactly.” Corbin’s eyes finally left hers, and he looked into the fire. “Truth be told, nobody is sure. Or if they knew once, the knowledge has been lost. It seems like it should be all three, doesn’t it? Physical, mental, and imaginative. But if it were using all three in equal measure, it wouldn’t need balancing at all.”

  “Perhaps it doesn’t,” Arun said. “Perhaps this toll you speak of isn’t the same as the toll other magic takes. Perhaps it’s the result of doing something wrong, that you were never meant to do.”

  “Superstitious nonsense,” Corbin muttered.

  “But you’re using magic you don’t understand.” Erietta idly twisted her thick braid around her hand, as she often did when considering some problem. “If you don’t know how to balance it, how do you?”

  “We don’t, not really. Not through anything we do, anyway. Some will try physical or mental exertion, or mundane chores, or all three. But the only thing that really helps is time. You can’t use conduction too often. The more intense the spell, the longer you need to recover.”

  Wardin narrowed his eyes, considering the man. His sullen face was no moodier than usual. There was certainly no air of madness about him. “You don’t seem off balance now.”

  “I’m experienced. I’ve been practicing a long time, and I’m good at it. That helps. It also helps that I know my limits, and I don’t push them.”

  “Well, then.” Erietta tossed an apple core at Desmond, who was still huddled beneath his blanket apart from the others, scowling. “If you can’t use it often, Desmond should thank you for using it today.”

  “I’d sooner sell my soul to Graddoc himself,” Desmond grumbled.

  Arun looked back at the sage for a long moment. “Perhaps you have.”

  * * *

  Wardin crept slowly through the dark, so as not to wake his companions, and hunched deeper into his coat as he stepped out of the cave. Erietta stood watch a few strides from the opening, still sheltered from the biting wind by the overhanging rocks above.

  It was a clear, bright
night, but Wardin knew it wouldn’t last. He sniffed the air. Tomorrow would bring snow.

  “I’ll take over,” he whispered. “Go get some sleep. You’ll have a long day tomorrow. Once we part ways, you’ll have nobody to distract you from Desmond.”

  She chuckled. “I can manage him.”

  He knew she could. She’d been in good spirits this whole journey; even Desmond’s accident hadn’t dampened them for long. “You’re looking forward to going, aren’t you?” For some reason, the idea put a lump in his throat.

  “Well, not the Desmond part, no.” Erietta’s teeth flashed in the moonlight. “But do you know I’ve never seen the sea? Or smelled it. I’m usually the one seeing you or Arun off on adventures. Waiting and worrying until you come home.”

  “I have a newfound respect for that job.” Wardin swallowed. “Turns out it’s the harder of the two.”

  “Waiting and worrying?”

  He nodded, though he didn’t meet her eye. He couldn’t explain why he was so loath to let her go, not even to himself. He tried to imagine whether he’d feel the same way if it were Arun leaving, and he thought not. Yet his attachment wasn’t romantic. It hardly could be. He was in no position to consider such things. He didn’t even know what he would be, when this winter passed. A king? A corpse? There was far too much uncertainty surrounding him—all of them.

  But he could be certain of her. Perhaps it was as simple as that.

  “Well, it’s not as though you’ll have time to pace around, counting the days until I come back,” Erietta said. “You’ll be busy enough.”

  “I’ll still worry,” he said softly, then waved a hand when she started to speak. “Don’t bother telling me not to. You know as well as I do that you can’t just talk yourself out of worrying.”

  She smiled again, and looked down at her boot as she traced a circle in the snow. “Are you worried about Corbin, too? Arun is.”

  “But you aren’t.”

  “Perhaps I should be.” Erietta sighed. “But I know what it’s like to have people be suspicious of you just because of your affinity. Magic isn’t dark or light. Magicians are.”