He didn’t bother to ask her what she would do if he refused. “Very well. Avandar, you may return,” he said, quietly and dryly, to the empty air.
Avandar Gallais stepped into the room.
“And if I catch you doing that again, I’ll throw you out of the guild myself. I am your teacher, and if you are here to learn, you will learn. If it kills us both.”
Avandar raised a brow. “It won’t,” he said at last.
Unfortunately, Ellerson could hear the unspoken part of Avandar’s sentence as easily as he could Akalia’s.
* * *
Avandar attended classes. That was the first calamity.
At about the time the tabletop beneath his hands began to sizzle and blacken—causing an offending young adolescent to think better of his comments about age and stupidity—Ellerson had already decided two things. First, that the classroom was not the suitable place for a man of Avandar’s abilities, and second, that Avandar was perhaps not as familiar with the laws of Averalaan as one grew used to assuming everyone was.
He excused Avandar, continued to teach the class, and when that was finished, dismissed the boys under his tutelage as if, indeed, he dealt with mages every day.
After that, he sought Avandar out.
The new students were given quarters within the guild halls, rooms with a bed, a window which varied in size depending upon whether or not the boy in question was expected to live on his own or in a grouping of such young creatures, and the usual shelves and desk that had endured for so long they were proof that carpenters really were forces unto themselves.
Avandar had been granted a privilege reserved for few first year students: A room of his own. And given the depth of the black singe marks on wood that seemed to have melted beneath his spread palms, Ellerson considered it wise. Certainly wiser than when Akalia had first suggested it.
He knocked.
Avandar opened the door.
“I suppose you know why I’m here.”
He stepped out of the way, letting Ellerson into the admittedly tiny space before closing the door upon them both. “Yes.”
“You are a man. He is a boy.”
“He is a lucky boy,” Avandar replied coldly. “In my youth I lost many…friends who learned the lesson he survived.”
“Mockery is not considered a capital offense.”
Silence.
Ellerson walked over to the pristine bed. “I’m old,” he said, by way of preamble, “And I refuse to have this conversation standing up.” He sat. Avandar did not; instead he walked moodily over to the window and turned half toward it. His profile was a shadow with elements of color; he looked neither in nor out. Significant, that.
“Why are you here?”
“To learn how to serve.”
It was not quite what Ellerson had expected to hear. “What do you think that means?”
Avandar turned toward him; his face was haloed by a sunlight harsh enough to shadow his features completely. Ellerson kept the smile off his face, wondering if Avandar had chosen his place by the window for just that purpose. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, he thought; but I don’t need to see your face. I can hear enough of you in the words.
“To suborn my will,” the shadow said. “To suborn my will to another’s. To take orders with grace. To live in the shadow and glory of another man while taking credit for nothing.” Northern winters were warmer than his words. “To stand in shadow.”
“Avandar Gallais,” Ellerson said, his voice oddly gentle, “this is not the quest of a man of your nature, of your stature. I understand what you think you will learn from the guild. What I don’t understand is why you want to learn it.”
“Why is not your concern.”
“Why is the only concern I will have for the next four years. Most boys come searching for money. The balance come because they’re young and insecure and they’d rather attach themselves to greatness than take the risk of becoming great themselves. Some come because taking orders is easier than thinking of orders to give; some because they think the domicis are well paid house servants. Pedigreed. Expensive.
“In our first interviews, we attempt to discern the why; to place the boys where they are likely to have the most success in questioning their own motives. Not,” he added dryly, “that at this age there is much success in that.
“But you—you are a man who has attained his power.”
Ellerson straightened his shoulders. “You realize that we have no writ to protect you from accusations of rogue magery.”
“There are…mages among the domicis?”
Ellerson shrugged. “Being domicis does not convey immunity from the illegal use of magic.”
“This is not public property.”
“No. I see you have some inkling of the laws that you are breaking. Let me make it clear: There will be no unauthorized use of magic in these halls. Another such incident—even one—and you will find no teacher.”
Silk rustled as Avandar Gallais—if that was indeed his name—brought his arms up across his chest.
“Why are you here?”
“I will not answer that.”
“Very well. Tomorrow we will avoid the classroom. I have errands to run on behalf of the guild; you will accompany me.”
“As…errand boy?”
“As that, yes. I do not find your method of dress appropriate for the station you are to assume. If you have difficulty choosing the correct clothing, you may come to my quarters after dinner.”
The man nodded.
Ellerson knew he’d burn in the Hells for eternity before asking for help.
* * *
Averalaan was not a small city. It was not, in the estimation of most Imperial travelers, a city at all; it was a vast island of humanity, folding in and farther in upon itself, that harbored everything anyone might desire to see in a lifetime. Magery; money; the famed bardic College of Senniel; the Holy Isle upon which Avantari rose, circled by the three most important cathedrals in the land; Southern silk and Northern furs, exotic spices, gems, and the work of Makers.
The trees here were taller than all trees but those found in the deepings, where men seldom traveled, and if they were surrounded by cobbled stone and man-made stalls, by house and horse and cart and dog and donkey, they were no less grand for exposure.
Avandar Gallais did not condescend to notice them. Which meant either that he had visited the Common before—which Ellerson doubted—or that he refused to display the weakness of awe to anyone. It was interesting.
As they walked—more slowly than Avandar would have liked, judging from his slightly sour expression—Ellerson observed. Not Avandar, but rather the people who moved out of his way. Women stopped, or stared at him from under the shadow of umbrella or awning; some very few gawked, but not even the young were moved to act foolish. Men also moved; the elderly and the wise. Young boys pretended not to notice him.
There were men who smelled of power, and Avandar was one of them.
A domicis.
Ellerson put a hand up to his forehead to massage the wrinkles from it. They were unbecoming.
In four years we hope to accomplish what with a young man? Civility, for one. A better understanding of the life of a domicis. A clear acceptance of the value of service, and of what service itself must mean.
This man did not need to learn civility; he understood it, and would practice it or not as flawlessly as he probably practiced his magic. Ellerson thought that a month would be long enough, and four years too short a time, to teach him what service meant.
He was lost in thought. As teacher, and not domicis, he took the luxury of such reflection. He would remind himself of this later.
But something caught his attention: the tone of Avandar Gallais’ voice.
“And I tell you, ADarias, that you have approached the wrong man. Do I make myself clear?”
“You are not the mage who calls himself AGallais?”
“Have I not just said so?”
“Three times
.” A man wearing House Darias colors drew himself up to his full height. “Three times. I seldom give a man a chance to lie to my face three times. But I am in…a tolerant mood.” He lifted an arm, this House crested man.
Something was wrong with the gesture. It was innately foreign. But the Houses were not constrained in who they chose as members; the Ten did not birth their family; they adopted it, choosing merit instead of bloodline to carry the name. At least that was the theory.
Four men stepped out of the crowd. They, too, wore Darias crests, but again, the crests were odd. More significant—much more significant—were the swords they unsheathed.
Ellerson cursed.
The Common was crowded. Too crowded for a fight of this nature. He himself had barely mastered the use of a sword—if master was a word that applied to his ability to lift a blade without losing fingers or toes to it—and he carried no weapon.
But he thought they might brazen or at least speak their way out of the difficulty until he saw the expression on Avandar’s face.
A cool, an icy, smile. A gesture of welcome, almost of relief.
“I will tell you again, ADarias, that you are making a mistake. You are seeking a man. I am not that man. Let us say that in theory you are incapable of making such an irresponsible mistake. Let us say, as your ego decides, that I am, for whatever reasons of my own, lying to you.
“If I were the man you were seeking, and I refused your request—a request which you have not made and which I have not heard—what do you think the wisest course of action would be?”
Ellerson couldn’t see the ADarias’ face, but he could hear, in the reply, the same chilly pleasure, the same recognition, that marred Avandar’s features.
“This, of course.” He lifted his arms again, and this time there was no mistaking the utter wrongness of the gesture. Ellerson was a man who had learned over time to trust his instincts. He moved. “While I admit a certain surprise at your foolish reluctance, there really is only one course of action, Warlord. We couldn’t leave you alive to join our enemies.”
Magic.
Fire.
Death.
* * *
The battlefield was alive with magic. The winds carried it. The fires burned with it. The swords—drawn under a sun not quite bloodied by its fall—reflected its light, glowing and burning where they struck. All around him, in the fresh air of a bloody spring dusk, the dying screamed, their words an accusation, a cacophony of voices that he could not recognize, they’d been twisted so badly by pain and fear.
The trees cast long shadows where they still stood; many of their thick, ancient trunks had been splintered by the movement of earth, sudden and sharp, beneath their great roots. He felt it coming, a distinct, a distant, surge of power beneath his feet. Bodies flew to either side, a press of momentary flesh, stilled where it fell—or swallowed by turning earth.
He smiled. Sometimes he chose to play games with his enemies. Sometimes he pretended to give them the advantage; sometimes he let them see fear where none existed. They were fools; they believed in their own power although they had heard—they had all heard—of his.
But today, he felt no such desire. Enough of toying. He had come to the city to cleanse himself of war, and the war had come—as it always came—to him. This time, it wore the guise of an old, old foe, and an older ally: Demon. Kialli and its kin; one greater, four lesser. Had he so chosen, he could have seen them from miles away, and, in truth, had he suspected their presence so strongly, he would have called the power forth instead of letting it slumber so uneasily.
But it woke; it always woke. That was his curse and his gift.
“Impressive,” the kialli said.
“Indeed,” Avandar replied, cool now. He lifted his hands, palms up. No one would have mistaken the gesture for a surrender. His fingers snapped down, making fists of his hands. The four lesser demons snapped just as easily, spraying blood—then nothing at all—into the crackling air.
The kialli lord drew his blood-red sword; its flames were dull in the harsh light Avandar’s magic cast.
“I tell you now,” the would-be servant said coolly, “that I have no battle with you. I am here for my own purposes, and until you cross them you are of no interest whatever to me.
“It is the last chance I will give you; you are insignificant otherwise. But choose, and choose quickly.”
The kialli were creatures of power and arrogance; there really was very little choice to be made. They closed, warrior-mage and demon, and where they touched they could not be seen for the crackle and glow of brilliant light. The earth thundered beneath them, the winds howled, the air snapped with lightning.
And when it was over, when the maelstrom had cleared, Avandar Gallais stepped out of the floating dust and the shattered ruin of the Common ground. He was not unblooded; he granted the kialli some respect for that. But he was, as always, undefeated. As always.
He had come down from the mountains too early.
He had known it when he left them, driven North by the ghosts of the dead and three dark dreams. But the dead had become tricky over the passage of centuries; they waited until the battlefield loomed around him then snuck out of the shadows and debris, finding bodies, lingering in the whimpering screams of the dying.
He found the boy that way.
Found him bleeding to death, his chest a puckered, blackening wound that would not hold until a healer could be found. Young boy, not more than four years old, and beside him, arms broken on impact, his mother or grandmother. Hard to tell; the magic had scarred her face completely. The boy was not wild with pain, nor yet with fear, but he was wild with the desolation of abandonment, and no magic that Avandar Gallais possessed—or had ever possessed—would bring back the dead.
He should not have touched the child; that was his first mistake. But his body had given in to the glory of the fight and the satisfaction of the kill; it was satiated now, and other things had room to play.
He knelt by the boy. Reached out for him, his long sleeves sticky with blood that had not been shed in decades. This blood, his own, he was not used to seeing. But the boy’s blood—the blood of others, had become his life. Was his life.
In the foreign, Weston tongue, the boy cried out for his mother. Avandar Gallais spoke a few words, a few comforting words of enchantment, and then, after a second’s pause, snapped the child’s neck cleanly.
He had done it countless times before, but he had always had time to recover; had given himself that much. The ghosts were so strong in these streets. Almost without thought, he held the child’s corpse to his chest, tucking the lolling head beneath his chin.
There, in the dimming day, Avandar Gallais began to weep.
And it was weeping that Ellerson of the guild of the domicis found him.
* * *
They did not speak.
Ellerson, because he could think of nothing at all to say at the sight of a child in the broken city streets, and Avandar for his own reasons.
The magi were summoned. The magi arrived.
The witnesses—the few that had somehow stayed near the scene and survived it—were unclear about what had happened. They had seen men wearing the awkward crest of Darias, they had seen another man, taller and prouder of bearing, and they had seen the earth break, the sky rain fire, the trees snap like kindling on a hot, dry day. Not that the port city had many of those.
Ellerson’s duty was to the guild, and not to the magi; to the guild, and not the magisterial guards. He did not speak, except once, and that was to say that in his considered opinion as a longtime member of the domicis guild, the House Colors that the five men wore were so sloppily put together they were obviously forgeries. That much was true.
Avandar said nothing. He rose as a witness, spoke as a witness, lied as a witness. The magi who had come to question him took his name and his occupation—apprentice guildsman—with some surprise, but the surprise was clearly not one of recognition.
“Come a
long, Avandar,” Ellerson said, when the magisterial guards were finished questioning him. “It is time, I think, to go home.”
Avandar looked up, beyond the fringe of Ellerson’s remaining hair; looked South. He staggered to his feet, looking once over his shoulder at the unknown child the magisterial guards were bearing away on a simple cot.
“No,” Ellerson said softly, “not South. To the guild, apprentice.” He was gentle. He had not thought to be gentle with this man. “We go to the guild. Come. Follow me.” Even in gentleness, he could not bring himself to touch his student.
Avandar pulled himself up to his full height, as if stung by the softness of Ellerson’s tone. He followed.
* * *
Every life you take will become yours, Warlord. Its power, although not its knowledge, will be your strength.
And what price? What price will I pay for this gift? I am a man, and I will not give up my life to night or darkness in order to prolong it. I will not feed like an animal upon my own kind; I will not play kialli games or dance Arianni dances.
Do you think you do not prey upon your kind even now? No, do not answer. You are wiser than I thought you would be—an interesting sign. I cannot confer eternal night; I cannot change your essential nature. If you fear either from me, be easy. That is not my intent.
What is your intent?
To give you immortality, Warlord. War is an interest of mine, and you will keep it alive.
* * *
He woke to a darkened room. His arms ached. His chest hurt. The stench of the dead was in his nostrils, and to breathe he must rise, must seek the open air. The bed he left behind; his step to the window was almost, but not quite, flight. He threw the latches off, pushed the window up, sought the open air. The dream was thick and heavy and he had seen it often enough that he knew what would follow.
He would stand, at the foot of a god, waiting.
The mists of the halfworld where god and man might meet, if not as equals, then not quite as slave and master, would be thick with a life of their own, sensuous and disturbing. They had never seemed so immediate before; it was almost as if his answer would make him part of them, part of their dominion. His first intimation of immortality.
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