by ML Spencer
Sergan rolled over onto his side, clutching his head and grimacing. “Light some candles.”
Markus obeyed. Rising, he found a silver candlestick sitting atop a chest. He carried it to the hallway, where he lit the beeswax candle off the flame of another. Returning to the room, he used the candle to light others, until the room glowed with a warm, wavering light.
Only then did he realize where they were, and that this must be Sergan’s private quarters. It was a large room with a table made of solid hardwood that had been either waxed or oiled. Sitting around the table were four carved chairs with high backs. There was a washtub in one corner and a chest in the other, and the entire back of the room was dominated by one massive bed enclosed by embroidered curtains. Tapestries covered the walls and the floor teemed with sumptuous rugs. Markus had never seen, or even imagined, such wealth, and it made him afraid.
With a groan, Sergan pushed himself off the floor and rose to his feet, bracing himself against the table until he caught his breath. Then he turned to look at Markus through stringy locks of hair that had fallen forward into his face.
“He’s out of danger,” he said in a ragged voice. “But he needs a healer.”
“I thought you healed him.” Markus frowned, confused.
“All I did was bring him back from the brink.” Sergan sank into a chair and rested his elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead wearily. He motioned Markus over, indicating the chair next to him.
Feeling uncertain, Markus slid into it.
“I’m going to go find a healer,” the sorcerer said, still breathless. “I’m not going to tie you up, because the guards will kill you if you try to leave, and you’re not that stupid, are you?”
“No.” Markus shook his head. He couldn’t run away and leave Aram behind.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” said Sergan, rising. “Put him in the bed and fetch a bucket of water.” He gestured toward the room’s only window, which was shuttered with wood.
Looking at the window, Markus felt confused. “Where’s a bucket? Is there a well anywhere nearby?”
The sorcerer gave a feeble grin. “Just open the damn window. I’ll be right back.”
With that, he left the room. After the door had shut behind him, Markus crossed the room to the window and opened the shutters. He was surprised to find that the window didn’t look out upon the outdoors, but rather opened up into a shaft that ran all the way down to the ground floor of the building, perhaps further. There were two long ropes hanging in the shaft. When he realized the shaft led down to a well somewhere below the building, Markus gasped, for he never would have thought of such a marvelous idea.
Pulling on the nearest rope, he found it pleasingly heavy. He tugged down hard on it, which drew the rope through a pulley above. The pulley squealed and squeaked as he kept pulling the rope, hand over hand, until at last, a wooden pail arrived from below. He hooked it onto a metal bar sticking out of the wall just for the purpose, anchoring it there, then went searching for a water jug. He found one under the bed, next to a glazed ceramic chamber pot. He filled the jug with well water then lowered the pail back down the shaft.
Carefully, he moved Aram to the bed, tucking him in under the covers and checking him to make sure his fever wasn’t coming back. The boy seemed to be sleeping peacefully, pale and clammy, but alive.
Relieved, Markus sat on the floor beside the bed, leaning back against the wall until the sorcerer returned with another man who carried a leather satchel at his side. Sergan motioned for Markus to come, but he didn’t want to. He glanced at Aram, not wanting to leave him.
“He’ll be fine,” Sergan assured him.
Reluctantly, Markus followed him into the hallway, where five other men had gathered outside the sorcerer’s door, all wearing blue mantles just like Sergan’s. They were all sorcerers, Markus realized, feeling his mouth go dry. And they were all looking at him as though he were a horse at the market.
“Gentlemen, this is Markus Galliar.” Sergan set a hand wearily on his shoulder.
Markus froze, looking from face to face. One Exilari sorcerer was too many, but five more … he wanted to crawl into Sergan’s room and hide. At least with Sergan, he felt like he knew what he could expect by now. These men, though … he did not like the way they were staring at him at all. One with a hook nose and a receding hairline glowered at him with a pinched expression that made him look constipated.
“What do you think?” the hook-nosed man asked a dark-skinned Odessian, whose clothing was cut in a style that was different from the rest.
“He’s too old to start the training,” the Odessian man proclaimed in a deep, accented voice.
Sergan sniffed. “He repulsed the fire of a void dragon.”
The men exchanged glances. Turning back to Markus, all five subjected him to even greater scrutiny, making him squirm under their combined attention.
“I suppose we can find a place for him,” said the Odessian man at length.
The man with the hooked nose frowned harder, until the edges of his mouth practically sagged from his face. He gave a slight nod. “Take him, then.”
The Odessian beckoned Markus forward and, grudgingly, he went with a glance back at the doorway.
Chapter Eighteen
Sergan waited in the hallway outside the chamber of the Synod. He was nervous, and that was unusual. It had always been his aspiration to become a member of the Synod himself, and in that way improve his status at the Imperial Court. With the delivery of the two unique boys, he could taste his ambitions coming to fruition. As a member of the Synod, he would have all the wealth and influence he could want, perhaps even access to the Emperor himself.
He paced nervously across the marble floor before the double mahogany doors of the Synod chamber, the sound of his boots ringing hollowly off the stark walls. He had broken a sweat despite the cool temperature. He fidgeted with his collar, which suddenly felt much tighter than it should.
With a creaking sound, one of the doors swung open, and a man appeared, dressed in formal white robes. Beyond him, the Synod chamber was dark, so much so that Sergan couldn’t see any details within. Composing himself, he squared his shoulders and offered his hand to the man in the doorway, careful to press his thumb upon the second knuckle of the man’s right hand, a secret handshake known only to members of the Exilari Brotherhood.
He walked into the dim room, his eyes adjusting just enough to make out silhouettes of men and women seated before him in a semi-circle. On the floor in front of them, the symbol of their Order was depicted in a tile medallion: a coiled serpent within a silver sun with curving rays. Light streamed down upon the medallion, the only light source in the room. Anyone who stood upon it would be bathed and blinded in a flood of light, while those looking on would remain anonymous, cloaked in shadow. Sergan walked forward to stand at the center of the medallion and there bent his knee, bowing his head deeply.
He heard a rustle of fabric behind him and the soft, metallic hiss of a sword being drawn. The sword’s wielder came up behind him and slid the blade across him, the cutting edge kissing the skin of his neck. He couldn’t see the sword, but he could hear the shiver of the nine rings that had been laced through the spine of the blade.
“Do you know the sacred watchword?”
It was a man’s voice, loud and formal, ringing sharply off the cold marble walls of the chamber.
Sergan knew the ritual well, and he was ready to play his part. He responded, “Agaedian.”
Behind him, the man’s voice announced to those ringing the chamber, “The word is right and has been duly received.”
“Who comes here?” asked a disembodied voice.
“Brother Sergan Parsigal, if it pleases the Synod,” Sergan stated loudly. There was a brief pause, ripe with silence. He kept his eyes squeezed closed in an effort to acclimate his vision to the darkness more quickly.
“Brother Parsigal, why do you come?”
Keeping his head bowe
d, Sergan replied, “I have come to beg the Synod to receive my petition, as one who has bound himself to this Order as both serf and slave.”
“Is it the will of this Synod that this petitioner might stand before us?” asked a woman.
“It is our will,” many voices responded in unison.
There was a moment of pause. Then an old man asked, “Sergan Parsigal, do you come naked and humble before this Synod?”
“I do, Revered Master.”
“Then rise and be heard.”
The blade withdrew. Sergan let out a protracted breath, grateful that the ritual was finally over. He rose and stood with his hands clasped in front of him, gazing around at the silhouettes seated before him. His eyes were slightly more acclimated than they had been, and he was able to make out the features of some. The Revered Master sat in the center of the half-circle, an old man who had presided over the Synod for more years than Sergan had walked the earth. To his right was Master Exilar Sutto Maeor, a dark-haired man whose face and body seemed strangely elongated. He had the honor of being the Seneschal of the College. On his left was Master Exilar Saranda Cowler, a woman with unblemished skin and hair the color of nutmeg who currently held the position of Chamberlain.
Sergan raised his voice to address the gathering, so that it would ring off the walls of the chamber. “Thank you for receiving me, Revered Master, members of the Synod.” He inclined his head in greeting. “I come before you today because I have brought two new boys into our fold. One, Markus Galliar, is a True Impervious. The other, a boy by the name of Aramon Raythe, is…” he drew a deep breath, “a True Savant.”
His words provoked the expected exclamations of surprise. The silence was broken as several members of the Synod started speaking hurriedly, their voices cut off by the rapping of the Revered Master’s wooden cane. When silence and order had at last been restored to the chamber, the Revered Master asked:
“Are you certain the boy is a Savant?”
“I am,” Sergan replied, staring the Revered Master in the eyes. “He opened a rupture on his own, which is what alerted us to his Gift in the first place. In my own presence, he dispelled a void dragon along with its cadre. He sees the strands of the world in color and has the ability to bind them.”
Once again, his words inspired quiet commotion among the men and women of the council. This time, the Revered Master let it go on for longer before silencing the voices with the butt of his cane.
“Where are these boys now?”
“I released Markus into the care of Brother Ando Nambe. Aram was afflicted with a wound that festered during our journey. He has been admitted to the infirmary, but I’ve been informed that he is expected to make a full recovery.”
The Revered Master bestowed upon him a rare smile of approval. “This is excellent news. Brother Parsigal, it’s entirely possible that you have just saved our noble Order. Today, you have taken a large step toward assuming your own place among this body … a step that has placed you on the very threshold of our doorstep.”
Sergan’s mind spun dizzily from the thrill of such lofty recognition. He bowed his head in gratitude, exhibiting the proper humility demanded by such high praise. For the first time since he had fallen from his noble father’s graces, he could feel his dreams growing tangible once again.
“I humbly thank you, Revered Master,” he said.
The old man swept his gaze around the seated members of the Synod. “Unless there is objection, I hereby order Markus Galliar’s name entered into the sacred Roster of our Order, under the rank of Novice. I further order Aramon Raythe released into the care of the Extractors. Unless there is objection, of course.”
Silence followed his words, during which Sergan’s apprehension swelled. He could feel perspiration erupting across his skin, squeezed by anxiety from his pores. He almost let the opportunity to speak pass him by. It wasn’t a matter of finding the courage. It was a matter of finding the resolve.
“Begging your pardon, Revered Master, but I do have an objection.”
The Revered Master frowned at him with a look of great confusion. “What is the nature of your objection, Brother Parsigal?”
Sergan expelled a deep breath, struggling to gather his scattered thoughts into some type of order that might resemble logic. Paramount was the argument of the rope Aram had spoken of, an image which had moved him so much that it had motivated him to present the same argument before the Synod.
“I understand Aram’s value in terms of essence production,” Sergan said, speaking slowly and looking directly into the face of each of the twelve members of the council. “But I don’t believe that relegating him to the cellars is the best use of him. Think about it—we might be able to extract a few dozen casks of essence from him before he dies—but what then? What’s left? Will we ever find another with the ability? It’s unlikely.
“Members of the Synod, I submit to you that Aramon Raythe’s true value lies not in his body’s production of essence, but in what he can do with it. As a True Savant, Aram is capable of performing bindings that are far beyond the abilities of any sorcerer. From what I have seen, he has vast potential. Vast. So much so, that I believe it possible that he may even be able to destroy the Anchors of the World themselves, and then we would never have to worry about a source of essence ever again.
“Revered Master, members of the Synod, I hereby move that Aramon Raythe be trained as a Rift Warden.”
The ensuing uproar provoked by his words made Sergan regret having the audacity to propose such a notion.
“Order!” The Revered Master smacked his cane against the marble floor, raising his voice above the commotion. It took long moments of consistent banging before he was able to draw the Synod back into a semblance of decorum. Turning back to Sergan, he asked, “That’s an intriguing proposition, Brother Parsigal. But never before has our Order admitted a Gifted student into our ranks. Even if we did decide to attempt this route, who would be his mentor? We have no one with the knowledge of teaching a Gifted how to bind.”
Sergan smiled, spreading his hands. “Revered Father, Synod, I would ask you to reflect on exactly what it means to be Gifted. A nodomancer’s talents are mostly innate; all he needs is a working knowledge of knots to teach himself how to bind. Mostly, he would just need a mentor to oversee his progress and indoctrinate him in our ways.”
His gaze distant, the Revered Master nodded. “Thank you, Brother Parsigal. Your objection has been noted. You may go.”
Sergan bowed low before the members of the Synod and departed the chamber, the large mahogany doors closing behind him with a resounding thud.
Once outside, he slumped against the cold wall of the hallway and struggled to catch his breath. He ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, wishing he had a kerchief to blot his brow. He regretted proposing such an outlandish suggestion to the Synod, especially after they had bestowed upon him such high praise. He could tell by their reaction that his petition would be denied, which brought him disappointment. He had desperately wanted to be named Aram’s mentor. He had convinced himself that the boy was the last steppingstone on his path to the Imperial Court.
Pushing himself off the wall, Sergan made his way down the hallway. He was exhausted from the journey, and he could smell his own body odor, which repulsed him. He had spent too many days without a bath.
He decided it was high time he found one. He had nothing better to do; it would take the rest of the night to get Markus processed and settled into Small House. The Extractors would be coming to claim Aram from the infirmary, to take him to the cellars where his body would be prepared for harvest.
Sergan let his feet carry him out of the fortress and into the Palazzo, where he summoned a carriage to take him to one of the more renowned bathhouses in the city. As the carriage rocked gently along the streets, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the soft cushions of the seat, struggling to relax.
Chapter Nineteen
Aram woke to a dull ache
in his leg which, after the anguish he had suffered for so many days, was a joyous thing. Opening his eyes, he found that he was lying on a cot in a large room full of many other cots, some occupied, most not. He got the impression it was a place for sick people. He was covered in soft linens, his head resting on a pillow stuffed with goose down, the softest he had ever felt. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there.
He didn’t remember much of anything after the dragon. Just an ocean of agony worsened by the constant jolting of the wagon that had seemed to go on forever, every minute a different torture. He remembered feeling like he was burning and drowning at the same time. But he was better now. Much better.
A cold hand squeezed his. Turning his head, he took in the sight of an old man seated on a stool beside his bed. The hand that held his was bony, covered in thin, wrinkled flesh and mottled by liver spots. Turning his head further, Aram saw that the hand belonged to a frail old man with sparse white hair and a skeletal face. The man’s dark eyes were sunken into their orbits, as though hollowed by the evils of what they had seen.
Noticing him awake, the man’s thin lips gave a faint smile. “You are Aramon Raythe.”
Aram nodded, looking up into the man’s face, not sure whether to be glad or afraid of his presence.
“My name is Evanar Valeda, though few alive have ever heard it. I am more commonly called ‘Revered Master.’” The smile slipped. “And you, child, are a True Savant.”
It sounded like an accusation. Aram looked away, feeling suddenly ashamed. He didn’t know what a Savant was; he’d never heard the term. By the way the man was looking at him, it sounded like something terrible. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Besides, there was something about the old man that made him afraid.
In a gentle voice, the Revered Master continued, “I don’t know who has the potential to be greater: you or me. But being great is not always a happy thing. I, certainly, have never enjoyed what I do. I have never considered myself evil, and yet, I can think of no man who has visited more evil upon this world than myself. My word alone has sent thousands to their graves: humans and Auld, dragons, therlings … you could say I have made a career out of plucking wings off of butterflies. I have stolen the lives and souls of countless innocents and sentenced scores of undeserving wretches to decades of torture.”
