Skeg walked over to the counter and pulled out a box of candles. “Let’s make things a little more challenging for you ladies. Keep your body moving up and down just like you are now and try to light three candles at once.” A frown creased their brow for a moment before all three candles burst into violent flame. Skeg jumped to his feet, but the flames puffed out as quickly as they had appeared. The candles’ entire length had been consumed.
“Well . . . that was more than I expected.”
“But you said that doing more than one thing at once was harder, so I should feed a little more power to the weaves,” Nial said.
“That’s true, child. A sliver more in your case. Lighting two candles at once is about all I can do. In my time at the Arcanum, I only barely passed the First Order. What you just did . . . You certainly have power. But my old masters always said control was more important. A mage can always use a magical Source if they need more power, but there is no substitute for control. . . . Now, let’s try again.” Skeg set out five candles this time.
“Okay, now light three of them—carefully. Remember, it’s safer to give it too little power, and try again.” Three of the candles immediately flickered to life.
“Perfect,” Skeg said, smiling. “Now put them out and light four. . . .”
An hour later Nial and Zuly were surrounded with all the candles Skeg owned—twenty-seven of them. They were all floating up and down at different speeds, the wicks catching fire and puffing out. Nial had a slight frown of concentration marring her little forehead as she slowly rose up toward the ceiling. Skeg sat with his jaw hanging. None of the weaves Nial was making was particularly complex. But to make so many at once!
Nial looked at him. “How are we doing, Mister Skeg?”
“Incredibly well,” Skeg managed to say. “Isn’t it hard to keep all that going?”
“It’s a little tricky,” Nial answered. “But Zuly just took over to let me take a break.”
“Could you do as many again if you both tried?”
“Sure, do you have any more candles?”
Skeg swallowed hard. This little girl would make an archmage tremble. I don’t know what she will one day become, but I thank all the gods that I’m here to see it!
“That won’t be necessary, child. Let’s work on something else while Zuly practices that. Now this new weave I’m going to show you is to make light. Light but no heat.”
Nial’s first light weave nearly blinded Skeg. Clear white light filled the little shop. “Please, child! Put it out!” The light winked out as quickly as it had appeared. The shop seemed dark now even with all the candles still flickering on and off all around them. “Try again, Nial, but look closely at the weave I made. The strands are a lot thinner than the ones we use for fire.”
Skeg watched closely as she tried again. She went slower this time, weaving the simple little spell with extreme caution and a look of deep concentration on her face. “It’s hard to make the strands that thin.” She finished the weave, and a pleasantly bright light filled the room.
“You can just make the weave smaller if you like as well.”
Nial’s face brightened and, faster than Skeg could follow, she wove four incredibly small light weaves and placed them in the four corners of the room where they combined to make it only slightly brighter than the noonday sun. “I did it!”
“Perfect. Now this next one is very similar.” Skeg concentrated for a moment and his eyes glowed briefly and changed color.
“Oh!” exclaimed Nial. “It’s like the light weaves. What did you do different?”
“It’s a little illusion. Things like glowing eyes are great for putting a little scare into people who don’t know you’re a mage. All without actually doing much of anything. Now, watch closely while I do it again.”
Nial watched raptly. “I think I’ve got it.” She frowned for a second and her eyes blazed with bright light. Skeg was forced to avert his eyes.
Looking at him sheepishly, she said, “But I did exactly what you did.”
“With far, far too much power. An illusion is a delicate thing. The light you make has to mirror the light that’s already around you or it will glow too brightly. But you can’t make this one smaller like you do with the light weaves because they won’t cover the area that you’re trying to make the illusion on. Though what you just did might have its uses too.”
They tried for the better part of the evening, only occasionally stopping as Skeg went to help his infrequent customers. But try as she might, Nial just couldn’t produce the delicate strands required of a convincing illusion. Her strands, even her finest ones, were like braided steel cables next to the silken threads she needed.
“Don’t feel bad, girls, we’ll just keep practicing. And besides, there are worse things than being too strong.”
For four days, the people of Sacral did their best to spend time with any friends or loved ones who would be sent beyond the Wastes to assist the Abolians. Quartermasters and craftsmen of every description worked day and night to ensure orders were met while soldiers chafed at the waiting, eager to test themselves against the outside world.
When the appointed day finally dawned, the four thousand soldiers selected for the expedition assembled in neat ranks by the West Gate. Warchosen captains stood proudly in front of their companies. The armor and weapons of every soldier had been polished to a mirror sheen for the occasion. The thousands of tradesmen, drovers, and laborers who would accompany them bunched around their wagons waving at the crowd. Children ran and shouted. Musicians played. Brewers had set up stalls and were doing fine trade despite the early hour. The atmosphere was every bit that of a festival day.
Finally, the king appeared on top of the gate tower to address the crowd. “People of Sacral!” he called. His voice magically enhanced to carry over the sounds of merrymaking. “Today we end our self-imposed seclusion. Today we remind the outside world what it means to be a man or woman of Sacral!” The crowd cheered. “We thank you, Captain Jenus, our champion, and each and every one of our brave fighting men and women for your service. We also thank all those who are going with them to ensure their carts are led, their meals cooked, and their swords sharpened. But most of all we thank the priests of the White Mother who will tend to their wounds and safeguard our people’s souls while they travel to a strange land. May the White Mother watch over each and every one of you and bring you home safe to us.” The king then stood still for a few moments and a whirling rift opened up in the gap of the gate. “I have fashioned a gate to speed you on your way, my brave children. Step through and you will find yourselves but a few short hours from the Abolian city of Sariah where your hunt will begin.”
The soldiers all saluted in unison. Jenus then lifted his arm and motioned for the army to move out. Soldiers disappeared into the rift without a sound. In a surprisingly short time, the four thousand soldiers, the thousands of cooks, cartwrights, smiths, and drovers, along with their carts and pack animals, were gone.
The festival air was gone the moment the last cart trundled out of the city. The people looked around and noticed the king had disappeared as well. No one could deny the unexplainable feeling of emptiness. Even the most boisterous of drunks and loudest of children cleaned themselves off as best they could and headed for home. Maura watched the last of the crowd disperse. The sinking feeling she’d had since the day at the arena deepened to dread.
It was a beautiful sunny day. Maura was walking back from the markets with a heavy basket. Several weeks had passed since Jenus and his soldiers had left the city. She had made every attempt to return to her normal life, but the faint feeling of dread never quite left her. She walked up the hill toward her house with playful children dodging around her and a few men and women going about their work.
Somewhere in the distance she heard a shout. It was repeated, this time by more voices. The sound built into a roar of shouts and screams. It was impossible to tell what they were saying. People started running pa
st her. Maura picked up her pace, eager to get home now, regardless of what was happening.
Finally, someone shouted right behind her, “Sacral is under attack!”
Maura felt her stomach clench. Everyone who heard the shout started to run. Panic swept up the street in front of her. More shouts and screams were raised. No more details, only the fact that they were being attacked repeated again and again. Questions boiled inside Maura, but none here would be able to answer nor would anyone even be willing to pause in their flight. She tried to move back up the street toward Beren’s shop, but the tide was against her. In moments her basket was knocked from her hands, the vegetables it held trampled by the panicked crowd. As much as it galled her, patience was the answer. She could hear Beren’s voice inside her head chiding her and telling her that if she was only a little more patient. . . .
Go home. Wait for someone to bring news and pray that Beren and Gerald are all right.
“Look at this, Jerik,” Beren said, holding up a sheathed sword. “I’ve finally gotten somewhere.”
Jerik looked up in excitement. “You managed to power more than one rune? Fully?”
“More than that,” he said with a smile. “The runes still need to draw power from a living body, of course, and a single body only gives off enough energy to power a single rune. But I’ve built a matrix linking them together inside the sword that can store some of that energy.”
Beren gripped the hilt of the sword, slowly counted to twelve, then drew the blade. It was an ugly construction; by far the ugliest thing Beren had ever made. The whole of the blade was covered in layer upon layer of runes, hundreds of them. It was so overworked it was beyond ludicrous. But Jerik’s eyes snapped to the three brightly glowing runes inscribed near the hilt. He let out a deafening cheer of approval.
“You did it! I can’t believe it!” Even as the words left his lips, the light faded and went out. He looked back at Beren, who shrugged.
“The period of a rune is still four seconds. Same as if you let go of any rune item. The size or type of the rune itself doesn’t seem to matter, nor does how many I link. The three that were powered here are for strength, speed, and healing, and I’ve managed the same with all kinds of other combinations. But four seconds is something I can’t seem to get around, and once the power drops I’m not even getting one to work.”
Jerik clapped him on the back. “It’s still amazing progress. Will four light up if you hold it longer?”
“Not so far. . . . I’m not quite sure why, either. I would have thought that sixteen seconds would give me four and so on, but it just doesn’t seem to work that way. Maybe I’ve reached the maximum amount of energy the internal matrix can hold. I’ll try to tweak it and test it again.” Jerik nodded and returned to his own work.
Beren slowly heated up the metal of the sword and channeled his power into the red hot blade, all while taking extreme care not to touch the weapon with his skin. With incredible patience and precision, he coaxed the alchemical mixture into an increasingly complex pattern within the blade. He also made minute changes and adjustments to the structure of the sword as he went. Nothing that could be distinguished with the naked eye, but no flaw could be ignored. The sword might be nothing more than an experiment, but Beren was too much of a perfectionist to craft anything without giving it his all. Then, all of a sudden, a feeling of completion hit him and he knew he would find no more flaws within the metal. The pattern within was somehow right.
Out of habit and a lingering doubt about the quality of his work, he continued looking over the steel and the conduit pattern for a long time before he set it aside to cool. After a few hours’ rest, he would test the sword again. If the conduits showed the properties he was after, nearly anything would become possible. His work would be sought after by every warrior in the city. Even what he had accomplished so far would be enough to give a warrior a significant advantage in the starting seconds of a duel—not something to be discounted lightly.
Beren looked up from his worktable in surprise as a half-dozen soldiers crowded into the room. One of the soldiers was an officer, a regular customer Beren recognized.
“Captain Harrow? What brings you here?”
“Sorry, Beren. We’ve all come to get our gear back, finished or not.”
“But why would you want it back unfinished? The next games aren’t scheduled for another two weeks.”
“You haven’t heard? We’re under attack, man!” one of the other soldiers said, almost yelling.
Harrow silenced him with a look. “The whole city’s in an uproar. An army’s moving on Sacral. There can be little doubt we’ll soon be under attack. I’d expect them to come at us at dawn.”
“Of course, of course, just a moment while I find your things.” Beren jumped up and fumbled through different pieces of equipment and scraps of paper before giving up and calling for his son. “Gerald! Please come find the armor and weapons belonging to these kind people!”
Gerald stuck his head through the door, looked at the soldiers standing there, and nodded. “Could you follow me, please? All your equipment is in the outer rooms. Captain Harrow, you are fortunate—the work you requested for your shield was completed this morning.”
Beren sat back down on his seat and shook his head. War. . . . For the first time in a thousand years Sacral is at war. Gerald walked back into the workroom a few minutes later. His usual frantic, yet efficient movements were gone. He looked lost.
“Father? What do you think will happen?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been in here all day. I’ve only just heard the news. Have you heard who it is by the way? How many they are?”
“It’s the Abolians. I’ve heard all kinds of numbers. Lots, thousands anyway.”
“And nearly half our soldiers are away helping them?!” By the Lady, I wish you’d been wrong, my dear Maura.
“The White Mother will protect us,” replied Gerald with little conviction. “Do you suppose Jenus and the Lightbringer are lost?”
“All we can do is pray they make it back. Jenus and his men are the best Sacral has to offer; they won’t let anything stop them.” They sat in silence for a time, both lost in morbid thoughts.
Gerald cleared his throat loudly. “Should I get back to work, Father?”
“Yes, Gerald. Let’s keep ourselves busy. The streets are a mess at the moment from all accounts. Going home will have to wait. Besides, the army might have need of our services.” Gerald nodded and turned to go.
“Gerald, before you get back to it, would you be so kind as to run out back and make sure Jerik knows what’s going on?”
“Of course, Father.”
Beren sat back down at his worktable and looked at the sword he’d been working on. For the first time he could remember, he had no interest in his work. Maura was right. She was rarely wrong, of course; few were as adept at reading people. Still, he had hoped she was wrong this time.
The chaos in the streets continued unabated for hours. People were panicking, but the soldiers were all needed to prepare for the attack that would surely come with the dawn. At dusk, Beren lost patience. He made hasty farewells to Jerik and made Gerald promise to stay inside, then hurried out himself before they could try to stop him. People ran in every direction, some carrying random possessions probably in the hopes of finding safe places to hide them. Others ran around shouting out contradicting news and rumors. Within moments of getting outside, a large man racing down the street slammed into Beren and sent him tumbling into a wall. It took him almost two hours to make what would normally be a fifteen-minute walk.
When he finally arrived at his house, he was bruised and bleeding from a number of small cuts and scrapes. He reached for the door handle just as it flew open. Maura dragged him in by his rumpled coat and slammed the door shut behind him.
“My love! Thank the heavens you’re safe!” Then her expression changed to anger in a moment. “But what possessed you to go out in this mess? You should have stayed at th
e shop!” She led him inside and cleaned his cuts with a damp cloth, never giving him a chance to say a word. Finally, she quieted and looked into his eyes. “Is it true then? Are we being attacked?”
Beren nodded sadly. “The Abolians have come with an army. Captain Harrow tells me they expect the attack to come at dawn.”
“I knew those people were up to something!” She shook her head. “How could the king have trusted them?”
“He couldn’t very well say no to a request from the temple. Not without a good reason anyway.”
“I suppose. But I just can’t believe Yeltos Rogayen and the king could be so shortsighted!”
“We should rest while we can love,” Beren said, leading her to their bedroom. “We can go see what we can do to help after the streets clear.” Maura agreed silently, tears brimming in her eyes.
No one in Sacral slept that night; the tension was palpable. No one needed to be told they didn’t have enough soldiers to hold out against what was coming. Some claimed the king would save them. Others mentioned the White Mother. But her priests were conspicuously absent from public places after a rising number of accusations had been heard about them being the reason Jenus and his cohort had been sent away from Sacral.
Shortly after midnight, there was a knock at the door. Their neighbor Karim, a retired soldier himself, had taken it upon himself to organize a militia of sorts to defend the neighborhood should things come to that. “We’re putting all our children, and anyone else who doesn’t think they can fight, in a few houses and arming ourselves as best we can. If we have time, we’ll move some of our valuables in as well, though we’re not worrying about that sort of thing just yet. If you’d like to join us, just bring all the food and water you can.” He pointed back toward his house. Maura’s eyes lit up. At last! Something to do! It may not be much but it was better than this horrible waiting.
The Bones of the Past (Books of Dust and Bone) Page 7
