by Lou Hoffmann
He might have squirmed just a bit.
“Thurlock suggested I stay here until he returned,” the librarian said, “but you know what? I don’t think I will. You’re not alone, and he posted those two abominable toughs outside the door, and knowing him I’m certain he gave you some other kind of protection. He did—I can smell it on you. I’m sure you’ll be fine. I have things to do. Good night. Please try not to drool on any of the books.”
She left without further ado, and Lucky went back to his table and the book he was supposed to be studying, wondering if arrogance was a requirement for working in the library, or if he really just seemed stupid, thereby inviting the contempt of those with schooling.
Not important, Lucky.
He sat down, shoved his hair out of his eyes, and resolved to find what he was looking for no matter how tired he got in the process. His task mattered. It could make a difference not only for him but for dozens—hundreds, maybe thousands—of people. Things like tired eyes, a stiff back, and unpleasant library employees were trivial in comparison. He needed to find the place where a battle was going to happen. Yes, it felt weird that he’d learned about it in a dream, that he’d found something out about the future, but as long as he knew, he should put the information to use. If he could identify the battleground, then the right people—the good guys—might get a jump on the enemy.
Determined, he began to thumb through the portfolio, finding nothing remotely matching the terrain in his dream for the first two-thirds of the volume. Then he came to a section entitled simply, “The Fallows,” and the sixteenth image matched the land in his dream so perfectly it might have been a photograph.
Relieved at having found it, Lucky sighed, then yawned, then folded his arms across the open book and laid his head down on them, closing his eyes—just to rest them, of course.
He was climbing a library ladder, chasing after the librarian’s spectacles so he could use the Charismata on them and have them tell him what time it was, when voices broke into his dream.
“He’s drooling! He’s going to ruin it!”
“I knew he was bad news. Wake him up before—”
He didn’t hear the rest of the sentence because another voice—a much more important one—called his name. “Blade-keeper,” Ciarrah said. “You must wake. There’s trouble at the door.”
He woke instantly and sat up just as the Lady Relian burst through the door, a wand raised in her hand. The two assistants, for no reason Lucky could understand, instantly moved to stand between her and the table where he sat. They raised their hands and opened their mouths, Lucky assumed, to do some kind of magic, but Relian simply swished her wand to the side and hurled them out of the way.
Lucky stood, and for a split fraction of a second, he felt panic course through him. Then time slowed and, in no particular rush and without thinking it through, he allowed the magic inside him to entwine with the Blade and Key. Perhaps because the deepest nature of his magic was to care for people rather than hurt them, or perhaps because he’d been dreaming about the Charismata, or perhaps for some other reason altogether, once again the Charismata manifested in his moment of need.
Relian stood smiling at him for a moment, but she must have disliked him very much indeed, because the effect of his magic wore off in a matter of seconds. Her face twisted with rage, she raised her wand again and opened her mouth to speak some awful spell.
No relaxed, slow-motion magic came to Lucky’s rescue this time. All he could think to do was clutch the Key of Behliseth and Wish for help before he, and possibly the snooty but innocent library assistants, got smashed to pieces at the tip of Relian’s wand.
He smelled the pungent scent of Uhlrik’s protection magic, and Relian’s strike went wide, taking down a shelf of books and shattering the clock, but not doing any harm to Lucky or, as far as he could see, to Mayli and Craytonh. Thurlock came rushing through the door then, held up his glowing staff and said, “Drop your wand, Relian. I Command it!”
The wand seemed to wrench itself from her grip, and she stood, seething with rage but held motionless by Thurlock’s magical strength. The two thug-like guards who’d been posted outside the door came in, looking like they’d just woken up.
“Arrest her,” Thurlock said. He took a circle of sun metal from the pocket of his robes, and muttered, “On,” causing the engraved runes on the band to glow. “Use this bracelet to disable her magic until she’s safely in a warded cell. Charge her with attempted murder.”
“Sir,” they both said.
When one of them held the closed circle to her arm, it opened and then snapped shut around Relian’s wrist. She began to weep, and Lucky had the feeling she’d not been totally herself as she attacked him. Maybe, she hadn’t been totally herself for a long while.
“Would she really have killed me?” he asked Thurlock.
“Perhaps,” Thurlock said, stepping close and peering at Lucky as if examining him for damage. “But she won’t be convicted. I don’t know why Relian has… turned away from me, from the light. But she is… someone who has had her share of troubles. I don’t want to hurt her. A serious charge will keep her out of our way until we get out of the city, and that’s my goal. We’re leaving now, by the way.”
“Now?”
“More or less. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes! Right here.” Lucky pointed at the portfolio.
Thurlock miniaturized the volume in much the same way he’d reduced the snake they’d encountered on the way to the city, and it went into his pocket. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Wait, what about Mayli and… Crayon. No, Craytonh. Relian hit them with her magic.”
“Hm. Let me have a look.” Thurlock went to examine the unconscious pair. “No cause for alarm. They seem unharmed, though perhaps they’re a little happier than one might expect. Did you happen to call the Charismata into play when Relian came at you?”
Lucky bit his lip and nodded guiltily. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but maybe.”
“Ah, well that explains the smiles. The magic has often been used for crowd control—it’s not terribly selective. Let’s see if we can’t make them a bit more comfortable. They should come around soon, and they’ll be fine. All the magic will wear off, including yours.”
They arranged Mayli and Craytonh more comfortably, using cushions from chairs for pillows and small crocheted blankets Thurlock called up with magic to cover them.
“Haven’t I seen those blankets before?” Lucky asked.
“Yes. They’re usually in my tower on the chair closest to the fire. Mishka especially likes the blue one, but she’ll be fine without it.”
“So… you just…?”
“Yes. Let’s go now.”
Lucky tried to get to his feet, but he felt suddenly exhausted.
“Oh my,” Thurlock said. “The day has caught up with you, then. You are getting stronger, though—small magic doesn’t knock you out like it did before. Take a few deep breaths, and let me help you up. I think you can manage a while longer if I give you a little magical energy boost. Not much, mind you, because the day has caught up with me too. But we do what we must, my dear boy. And right now, what we must do is get ourselves out of this city. Come now. I want to be well away before we stop for the night.”
THE WALK back to Thurlock’s apartment, the packing up, the ride from the residence hall to the city gate—all through that, Lucky operated in a kind of half-awake daze. Once they’d ridden down the sloping road that led from the city to the surrounding valley, his energy surged.
“Thurlock,” he said. “Did I say thank you? For everything, I mean. The lab… the library.”
“No need, Luccan, but of course you are welcome. If you’re feeling up to it, let’s pick up some speed. I’ll rest much easier tonight if we’re out of the district.”
They urged the horses into a ground-eating canter, and kept it up until they reached Stehldan’s farm.
Lucky reined Zefrehl
to a stop ten feet from the spot where Hehlios had died. Apparently taken by surprise, Thurlock rode ahead a ways before turning and coming back to where Lucky sat frozen in the saddle.
“Luccan, there is nothing here now that can hurt you. What you fear exists only in your mind, your memory.”
“It feels so real, though.”
“Sometimes the enemies in our minds are the most terrible to overcome. I have faith in your ability to mow this one down, however. Just keep moving forward at my side, and before you know it, we’ll be past it. You will have won the battle.”
Because Lucky trusted Thurlock, he nodded, and when Sherah started forward at a walk, he allowed Zef to follow. Just as the half-moon cleared the treetops, they passed the place where Hehlios had stood behind his wall of fiery magic. In a few more steps, they’d left it behind. There’d been exactly nothing there, not a scar in the dirt road, not even a remnant of ash or the lightning-like scent of the magical clash.
Lucky breathed easier, and though he said nothing, Thurlock and the horses must have sensed the change. By unspoken agreement, they increased speed again. At a trot, they climbed into the hills where the ambush had occurred. The moon’s light was largely blotted out by the taller, denser forest, but the feeling that came to Lucky with the darkness was one of sorrow, rather than fear.
“I’d be happier if we didn’t have to fight, Thurlock.”
“As would I.”
Nothing more needed to be said—it was pointless to comment about the inevitability of fighting when they both knew too much was at stake to simply stand aside and allow destruction. Rather than dwell on the impossible, Lucky rode on silently. Once they reached the open grasslands of the steads, they urged the horses back to a canter. The moon was high by the time they came even with the place they’d rested after the snake incident. The horses took them back to that place with no instruction at all—or at least so it seemed to Lucky.
They got to the little clearing by the stream and made their camp. Lucky tended to the horses, but they’d been well cared for in the city, and to be content they needed nothing more than a handful of oats, a few strokes with the brush, and a stand of grass by the stream. Lucky breathed easy while he and Thurlock ate a few bites of trail food to make up for having missed dinner. For once Thurlock didn’t even make tea, letting water suffice to slake his thirst.
“We’re both tired,” he said. “Magic is hard work and riding’s not all that easy either. It’s been a very long day. Let’s just sleep.”
“Good night, Thurlock.”
“Good night, Luccan. Sleep well and dream of pleasant things. Tonight, we are safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: Companions Found
IN THE cool of a cloudy morning, Lucky ate dried fruit and stale bread for breakfast, washing it down with cold water as Thurlock, who hadn’t eaten anything at all, sipped his tea.
“Thurlock, you seem unhappy. I take it you’re not counting our trip to Nedhra as a success.”
“On the contrary, we accomplished much. You got some much-needed education. You located the place where your dream showed you a battle would occur. You saved the Quarter from a lot of fire damage and saved lives—”
“In a fire that happened because of me.”
“Possibly. Possibly not. Don’t interrupt. You also restored the health of a good quantity of life force and drained back the effect of Mahros’s magic. You located the drake laboratory and….” Thurlock’s voice drifted into silence, and he spent a long minute simply staring toward the barely visible snow-clad peaks of the distant southern Ehls.
His next words were so quiet Lucky strained to hear them.
“I was born in the foothills of those mountains, you know. Played in the meadows. Worked in the fields. Built myself a shrine to Behlishan one summer on a break from my education. But I never imagined what my devotion to the light would lead me to do….” He closed his eyes, breathed out a rough, forced breath, and shook his head almost violently as if clearing the entire past from it. “As I was saying,” he went on, voice restored to its usual strength and timbre. “Two very dangerous people were eliminated because we made this trip to the city. To be more forthright, I killed them.”
Lucky would have interrupted, because he saw how that admission hurt Thurlock and he wanted to offer comfort. But Thurlock continued so forcefully, Lucky didn’t have a chance to speak.
“You successfully employed the Charismata. I secured a little help—mind you only to keep tabs on the happenings in the city and try to balance the evil with the good—and I learned how very few our friends appear to be at the moment. That’s good to know.”
Lucky sat staring at Thurlock, unable to fathom that the “evil” could have found so much favor that most of the Sunlands’ greatest scholars, officials, and wizards would have allied themselves with it. “Thurlock, all those people you talked with—they’re on the side of the… whatever it is we’re up against with Mahros and Hehlios and… and Relian—whoever else is working with them? With the Terrathians?”
“No. Not at all. Most people have chosen to wear blinders and pretend nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Among those who acknowledge the truth of the matter, most choose to believe all they need to do is carry on as usual, and the pendulum will swing, restoring things as they should be, at least for a time until it swings again. A few are willing to help, but only in a circumspect way.”
“To keep themselves off the radar.”
“Exactly! Yes. Nice metaphor, though almost nobody in Ethra would understand it.” Thurlock’s smile was brief, but even so it dismissed some of the gloom hanging around their little camp.
As they mounted the horses moments later, a light, warm, summer rain began to fall, and somehow that also seemed to lift some weight off Lucky’s shoulders. Maybe it was just that the clouds, relieved of their burdens, began to lift, or maybe he sensed the gratitude of the plants and animals who depended on the generosity of nature for their lives.
Just as they neared the road, they heard a deep voice raised in song. Lucky couldn’t hear the lyrics—from a distance they sounded like “rumble mumble tumble.”
Thurlock began to laugh. “Behl’s whiskers, Bayahr!” he shouted. “What are you doing out here on the road?”
A stout, rotund man with a bald head came toward them from around the nearest bend. He appeared to be middle-aged, wore a rough-looking gray robe, and rode a donkey, and if this had been Earth, Lucky would have taken him for some kind of old-world monk. But it wasn’t Earth, and the conversation between this man—Bayahr—and Thurlock proved the point.
“Why, I’m on my way to the Sisterhold, Thurlock! I figure it’s been a couple centuries since I came to visit, and maybe my magic’s getting a little rusty. I’m looking forward to some fun and games with staves and stones—with you, my old friend.”
They climbed down from their mounts—Bayahr favoring one leg quite noticeably—and embraced, laughing merrily. But after some backslapping and “you crazy old dog” type comments, the two stepped apart, and things rapidly turned serious.
“So,” Thurlock asked, “had you heard that I asked after you while I was in the city? No one seemed to have any idea that you were out and about the country.”
“No, I hadn’t heard anything there, but I did get some vague mind-rumblings I’m pretty sure came from Han. Strange, that, as the power of his thoughts seemed… not weak, exactly, but like something interfered.”
“Ah, yes,” Thurlock said. “Luccan said more or less the same thing. I’m sure it’s all related to the general troubled state of things.”
“I’d agree. And the troubled state of things is why I’m here, and also why I didn’t think it wise to let it be known that Salvatohr and I had left home. My aim was indeed the Sisterhold, looking for you, but truthfully not for games. Ethra has been sending me distress signals, Thurlock. The stones, the bedrock, the sands and soils—all are shaken, much is changed. At her core, Ethra does not rest easy.”
Before they mounted, Thurlock turned to Lucky and said, “Luccan, this is the wizard Bayahr, second most senior wizard in the Sunlands and all Ethra.” Turning to Bayahr, Thurlock then said, “And this, Bayahr, is Luccan, whom you met when he was very small, during the testing. He is certainly living up to all we hoped for him. I couldn’t be more proud to help him on his way to great things.”
Completely embarrassed, but wanting to be polite, Lucky stumbled a bit over a “pleased to meet you, sir.”
“The pleasure is mine indeed, young man,” Bayahr said. “And I’d also like you to meet my friend and traveling companion, Salvatohr.” He patted the donkey’s neck.
Sal snorted, and Lucky laughed. He decided he liked them—Bayahr, and Sal too. As they started along the road, though, keeping their horses to Sal’s plodding pace, Thurlock and Bayahr rode side by side and spoke in low tones, leaving Lucky to get lost in his own thoughts. He recalled his moments in the city, pictured in his mind the teeming streets and alleys, the tall buildings with numerous residents, the busy shops—the mountains of garbage, even, and the degenerate magic running beneath it all, directed by men and women bent on… harm? Greed? Power? Destruction?
Among all those thousands of city people, are there even a handful who are true allies?
He could count the number of his known allies on his fingers and toes, he thought, and most of them were back at the Hold. The people he knew would support him—and whom he would support—were a comfort, but he was smart enough to understand they were going to need more—an army. He found hope in that thought, because an army might be something they would have.
