by David Hair
‘Uh, yes. Just now.’
‘Oh good. Well, that’s that wrapped up then.’ He was in some sort of daze – all of the watchmen were; it was weird – and within two minutes they had all disappeared back up the road.
All the strength in Alaron’s legs evaporated and he sagged against the doors. ‘Did you do that?’
Cym shook her head slowly. ‘I never did a thing.’
‘They walked past the old man like he wasn’t there – they swallowed that bullshit story about the skiff without a question, then he couldn’t even remember where he’d searched. Someone messed with their minds in a big way.’ Cym was already shaking her head as he said, ‘It was you, right?’
They both turned and looked at the old man. He returned their stare, smiling vaguely.
Alaron looked at Cym. ‘Who is he?’
Cym stayed another week and they finished off the skiff. Alaron had got used to having her around, but he still couldn’t sleep for longing, wishing for the courage to knock on her door at midnight. A hero from one of the old folk tales would have just gone straight on in and swept her off her feet, but she’d probably kill him if he tried anything like that.
Then the Rimoni arrived, Vann Mercer riding alongside their wagons, puffing a pipe and chatting to Mercellus di Regia. Cym’s father ran an appraising eye over the two of them when they appeared together from the stables and Alaron had the uncomfortable feeling that if he had laid so much as a finger on her during those past two weeks he would now be extremely sorry, mage or no. The gypsy chief pulled his moustache thoughtfully and finally nodded, after which Cym hugged him affectionately while the gypsy boys went back to staring at Alaron with postured menace.
This time the test-flight went much better: they managed to miss both the house and the trees in the yard, and if they weren’t always in complete control, they managed well enough to ensure they didn’t crash, and landed safely. Money changed hands and Cym kissed his cheeks and hugged him before slipping away to rejoin her people. The black-eyed Rimoni youths eyed Alaron with a deal more respect as they left.
‘Well done, son,’ his father said, ‘On all counts.’ And at Alaron’s quizzical look, he explained, ‘Not making a fool of yourself with the girl. And finishing the skiff and flying it without crashing.’ He slapped his shoulder. ‘In that order. Now, how’re the repairs going?’
Alaron grinned. ‘Good. I’ll show you the drawing room. I had to put in new glass and everything—’
He talked with his father into the night, but somehow he failed to think about the old man at all. He had glimpsed him, standing beside the stable as they flew around the manor, but the Rimoni had not appeared to notice him and he had vanished again by the time they landed, and didn’t reappear all evening. Alaron meant to broach the subject with his father, but it kept slipping from his mind.
The next day they unlocked his mother’s library. Her books were gone, but there were other things left behind: old coins and medals, a rolled-up map from the Revolt with handwritten notes showing troop positions, and an old Keshi scimitar that had fallen behind a desk. Cleaning it all up took most of the day. They enjoyed one last meal with Gretchen and Ferdy and turned in. The Manor was sold; the new owner, Jostyn Weber – Gina’s father – would take possession tomorrow.
‘Ironically, Weber can only afford it because he married young Gina off to some vintners in Bricia.’ Vann chuckled, then peered at Alaron. ‘You’re not upset about that, are you?’ Alaron shrugged. ‘I didn’t think so – though we ought to be trying to get you married at some point. Just because you can’t legally use your powers doesn’t mean you can’t breed magi; you’re still a catch, lad.’
Alaron decided to ignore that.
Jostyn Weber arrived next morning to collect the keys. He had promised to keep Gretchen and Ferdy on, which pleased everyone. Alaron was relieved Gina wasn’t with him.
After Weber had left, Alaron poked into the stables one last time, checking to make sure he’d packed all the woodworking tools. I’m going to miss this place, Cym, the skiff. Everything, really …
A hand fell on his shoulder and he nearly hit the roof.
The old man was standing beside him, his face expressionless, his eyes full of mystery. How did I forget him? Alaron’s heart raced. ‘Da,’ he called, ‘Da!’ He didn’t take his eyes off the old man, in case he vanished the moment he blinked.
When Vann arrived and saw the old man, his mouth dropped open, his pipe falling unnoticed to the ground. Alaron had never seen his father so shocked. He watched dumbfounded as he reached out to the old man as if trying to touch a phantom, but when he felt the old man’s hand, Vann fell to his knees and kissed the old man’s hand, crying, ‘My Lord – my Lord—’
The old man stared down at Vann, and then across at Alaron, his eyes unfocused.
‘Da?’ His father was crying.
Vann wiped his eyes, staring up at the old man in awe. ‘Alaron,’ he whispered, ‘it’s Big Jari – it’s General Jarius Langstrit.’
The anniversary of the Ascension, otherwise known as the Sacrifice of Corineus, was the most important religious event of the Kore, but in 928, as the Third Crusade loomed nearer, it took on even greater significance. Most legions were already marching to the staging camps in Pontus, soldiers, suppliers, messengers and myriad others choking the arteries of the continent in a massive eastward flow. Manipulation of the weather kept the main roads east dry, but resulted in tempests and flash-floods everywhere else. Vital crops were ruined by torrential rain, unnatural hail and unseasonal snowstorms, and farmers cursed and wept as young battle-magi flitted overhead on skiffs, oblivious and uncaring. There were scores of casualties in the camps too, as parochial pride demanded violent settling of scores. The whole continent of Yuros was in turmoil.
Despite this, at dawn on 18 Martrois, Sacrifice Day, silent congregations gathered in every city, town and village, cramming into churches and cathedrals to pray and give thanks for the Ascension of Corineus and the Blessed Three Hundred. White-clad magi kept vigil from dusk the previous day, emerging for the six-hour ceremony as the sun rose. Each of the Three Hundred was named aloud, to the tolling of a great bell, and descendants of that Ascendant would rise and lead the prayers. None of the Blessed Three Hundred were ever forgotten; magi would ‘adopt’ any now-extinct lines, so they would always have someone to stand for them. Only one was unclaimed: dread Selene or ‘Corinea’, the treacherous sister whose blade had martyred Corineus.
The last named was Corineus himself, of course. Prayers were led by the most senior mage present – in Pallas, that was Emperor Constant himself – and afterwards Mater-Imperia Lucia received the twenty-one genuflections the theologians had decided were due a Living Saint.
The ceremonies ended at midday and gave way to the biggest street party of the year, at which the local rulers distributed alms to the poor; men like Governor Belonius Vult were not the sort of people to neglect their reputations, despite other calls on the public purse, and the Sacrifice Day celebrations were always magnificent.
Alaron had grown up expecting to keep the vigil, to stand beside his mother and Aunt Elena before the people as the name of Berial, his progenitor among the Blessed Three Hundred, was read out. Another dream lost …
‘Are you sure you won’t come, son?’ His father paused at the door. His mother, wearing a red-hooded cloak and gauze over her face, clung to his arm. Alaron liked seeing them together, even though all they ever did was argue.
‘And see all those self-satisfied creeps being lauded by the ignorant? I don’t think so, Da.’ He waved them off cheerily, then filled the kettle, brewed some tea and took it upstairs to the lounge, which was now full of Ma’s old books. Jarius Langstrit spent his days there, reading poetry. They had tried the histories of the Revolt on him, hoping they might trigger something, but he’d shown no interest. Alaron had managed to dissuade his parents from getting a healer-mage to look at him. ‘If the Watch meant him well, they wouldn’t be loo
king for him in secret,’ he’d pointed out. ‘They’d have announced that a national hero was missing and asked for his return, but instead they’re sneaking around as if he’s a dirty secret.’ His mother took his side, and no healer-mage was called.
Tesla spent hours talking to the general. She had no more success in getting him to speak, but at least it was giving her an interest; she was more engaged than Alaron could ever recall her being before.
He found Langstrit in his usual seat and poured them both tea, then picked a poetry book at random and started reading aloud. The general tapped his finger in time to the rhythm and made displeased noises if he disliked the verse. He didn’t care for war-poems like ‘Retton’s Charge’, but he enjoyed old rural favourites like ‘Gardens of Sol, Gardens of Lune’ and ‘Love like water runs through my hand’. Alaron had just about given up on him remembering anything.
The bells started pealing: the ceremonies were obviously done. Alaron got up and peered through the grimy windows in time to see huge flocks of doves exploding into the air from Cathedral Plaza, quarter of a mile away across the roofs. He wished for a second he was there; he had always loved Sacrifice Day whilst growing up. There would be money in his pocket, the smell of cooking sweets on the air, the best in performers and entertainments, his friends at his side – but now the thought of being there, a rejected outsider at the fringe of the crowd, hiding his face lest someone recognise him, had turned those fond memories to poison. A wave of misery swept over him and he fell silent.
A hand touched his and he saw that Langstrit was looking at him. The old man pointed to the open pages and the poem he had stopped reading.
‘I’m sorry, old man – General, if that’s who you really are. I just wish …’
The old man tapped the page querulously, the line where he’d stopped reading.
‘Okay, okay—’
Mid-afternoon, Alaron was woken from his dozing by a sharp knock on the door. The old man didn’t stir, so he shouted, ‘Coming,’ went down and opened the front door – and froze.
Cymbellea di Regia leaned against the doorframe. ‘Happy Corineus Day, Alaron.’ She kissed his cheek and breezed past. She was in her normal Rimoni attire, white blouse and colourful swirling skirts, but today she wore even more bangles and her gold earrings were bigger. Her loose ebony hair hung to her waist in a silken cascade. Bells on her ankles jingled as she walked. She was stunning. ‘You look stressed,’ she observed lightly. ‘Oh and leave the door open,’ she added.
‘Why?’
‘So I can get in too.’ Ramon peered around the door, grinning merrily. He was clad in a black and silver doublet of velvet and leather cuffs. His thin black moustache made him look almost grown-up.
‘Ramon!’ Alaron gaped. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Yeah, nice to see you too. We’re looking for somewhere to stay; have you got a spare room?’ Ramon grinned and hugged him. They had brought food and drink, lots of it, and they dragged Alaron into the sitting room, everyone talking at once.
‘Ramon, you look like you’re – well, rich,’ said Alaron, puzzled. He was struggling to cope with his friend dressed in anything but worn-out hand-me-downs.
Ramon smirked. ‘Of course I’m rich! I’m the only Rimoni mage for fifty miles in any direction from my town, so I can charge what I like. The local familioso are eating out of my hand. Life is good, if you don’t mind a little paranoia.’ He looked a bit fuller about the face and had a rakish confidence he’d never had at college. He remembered Cym telling him Ramon had asked her to marry him; at the time he’d not credited it, but now he understood how Ramon’d got up the nerve.
‘I’ve got to join a damned legion for the Crusade, of course,’ Ramon noted with resigned annoyance, ‘but apart from that, all is well. So what about you, Al? Cym says you’ve been keeping a low profile after what those pricks did.’
Alaron sighed. His own life was so dull compared with his friends. ‘Well, I can’t use the gnosis in public, so I stayed at the manor for a while – Cym and I built a skiff together,’ he added, emphasising the ‘Cym and I’ part.
Ramon laughed. ‘I heard you flew it through a window and half-flattened the house.’
‘Only the first time,’ Alaron said quickly.
‘And what’s this about an old man?’ he asked. ‘I heard there’s a thousand-krone reward.’
That much? Good grief! Alaron looked at him seriously. ‘It’s a secret – he just showed up at the manor.’ He told Ramon the details, and ended, ‘And he’s upstairs.’
‘Do you know who he is yet?’ Cym asked.
‘Come upstairs and I’ll tell you,’ he said.
As the three of them stood around the old man, he woke abruptly and peered at them all. His lips moved a little, and then he fell back asleep again.
Ramon looked at the others. ‘Did you feel that?’ He rubbed his temples. ‘He rummaged through my mind – he used Mysticism or Mesmerism – and then left me alone again, but he could have done anything he wanted; it’s like my shields weren’t even there.’ He stared at Alaron. ‘Who is he?’
Alaron closed the door and whispered, ‘Da says he’s General Jarius Langstrit.’
‘Isn’t Langstrit supposed to be dead,’ Ramon said with a frown, ‘or mad or senile or something?’
‘Da says it’s him – and he would know; he fought with the general in the Revolt. He doesn’t speak, and he uses gnosis without even knowing he’s doing it. Da wants to go to the Watch, but I’ve talked him out of that, for now at least.’
‘Why?’ Ramon asked.
Alaron motioned for them both all to sit. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Remember my thesis? I said I thought Langstrit might have something to do with the missing Scytale—’
‘The dreaded thesis again!’ Ramon rolled his eyes.
‘But if I’m right—’
‘That’s a big if, Al!’
‘Yes, but let’s say I’m right – Captain Muhren said – did I tell you about that? Well, later; anyway, if my thesis was right, it would explain everything: Langstrit is the only one of the rebel generals still alive. But he’s got amnesia or something. So if you thought he was hiding the Scytale, wouldn’t you hide him away until he becomes lucid enough to tell you where to find it?’
‘But why would they keep him here? Why wouldn’t they pick his brain apart in Pallas?’
‘Maybe they tried that and failed? Maybe they brought him back here hoping the local sights would bring his memories back? Or maybe the locals kept him here and Pallas doesn’t even know?’
‘But – and this is all assuming your far-fetched explanation is correct – how did he get away if his memory is gone? And why would he come to you?’
‘I don’t know – perhaps someone rescued him, then lost him? Or his powers came back and he simply walked out without realising he was hiding himself? Maybe it’s an experiment, to see what he does under his own volition, and they’re tracking him …’ His voice trailed off. That was an ugly thought.
‘If they were tracking on him, there’d be a general identifier rune on him.’ Ramon brandished a glittering ebony gem on a silver chain. ‘Do you like my periapt? The previous owner lost it, can you believe that?’ He winked, then turned back to the old man. He held up the periapt and concentrated. ‘Nope, I think he’s clean, unless it’s been hidden by someone better at illusion than I am.’
‘So most of the population then,’ put in Cym, but she checked the old man too and shook her head. ‘I agree with the Sneak; he’s clean.’
The door opened and they all whirled into combat positions. Vann Mercer chuckled at the circle of determined faces and cried, ‘I surrender – have mercy.’ He looked at Alaron. ‘Been discussing our guest, have you? I hope everyone is staying for dinner?’
‘Actually Da, they’re staying for a while, if that’s okay?’
Vann Mercer smiled tolerantly. ‘Of course.’
The company of his friends was balm to Alaron’s lonely s
oul. Even his mother was happy as they sang seasonal songs and drank far too much mulled wine. He was envious of his friends’ freedom, but he obtained promises of more frequent visits, and even made tentative plans to visit Ramon in Silacia.
‘Alaron, you mustn’t,’ Cym laughed. ‘They’ll rob you blind.’
‘Hey, I’m a mage,’ Alaron protested. ‘I can look after myself—’
‘You’re the most naïve greenbud on Urte,’ Cym scoffed. ‘Silacians eat fools like you.’
‘Not all Silacians are thieves,’ replied Ramon defensively, ‘unlike all Rimoni!’
‘Ha! ’pon my honour, that’s it: a duel it is,’ Cym announced, her eyes flashing.
Alaron called encouragement as Ramon and Cym defended their respective pieces of cake from the other’s fork, manipulating them by gnosis. The cutlery clashed and darted and feinted, until Cym won and danced, crowing, around the room. In the corner beside the window, Vann and Tesla recited from memory rhymes by the poet Colliani to the dozing general, while the three young magi showed off gnosis balancing tricks, getting more ambitious and less accomplished with each glass of wine. It was the happiest evening Alaron could remember for years.
Finally they all helped get Langstrit and Tesla to bed, then found their own rooms. The boys took the stable at the back, leaving Alaron’s room for Cym. They talked until they couldn’t keep their eyes open, about everything – college, the Crusade, Langstrit – and about nothing at all. Ramon admitted to having a maid who warmed his bed back at home, which made Alaron feel like the last virgin on Urte. They wondered about Cym, and speculated whether she was about to be married off. ‘I’d have thought she’d be wedded by now, not free to wander around doing what she likes,’ observed Ramon. ‘Usually Rimoni are worse than Silacians for marrying off girls as soon as they bleed.’ He poked Alaron in the ribs. ‘She’s probably told her father she’s waiting for you to propose, amici.’
It was a cheery thought to finish a wonderful night upon. But not one he could quite believe.
Everything changed on Freyadai evening, two weeks after Sacrifice Day. Ramon was making noises about returning home before he had to reconquer his own village. No one had heard anything about the hunt for the general for ages, and Alaron had begun to hope it was over. His parents were arguing downstairs about the arrangements for when Vann left on his trading run to Pontus, and the three young people were upstairs, reading to Langstrit, even after the old man fell asleep. Cym found a book of Rimoni poetry and read aloud, performing in her native tongue – only she and Ramon spoke Rimoni, but they all enjoyed her passionate rendition of the lyrical words. She was in the middle of Mecronius’
