The Eighth Born: Book 1 of the Pankaran Chronicles

by C. Night

  Cazing grinned at his apprentice. “Well done, Rhyen. You’re right—my affinity is Water.”

  Rhyen whooped and thrust his fist in the air. “I knew it!” His smiled faded as he looked at his master. “I wish I could figure out my affinity that easily.”

  Cazing leaned back, watching Rhyen. “You’re affinity, I think, is not so obvious, Rhyen.”

  Rhyen threw himself into his favorite reading chair. “So you think it is an affinity of a Lesser God, then?” he asked.

  The sorcerer shrugged. “Maybe. Often the gifts of the Lesser Gods are a bit more complex than those of the High Gods. But you are very strong, and I think, if you have an affinity, it will be a very powerful one. I stand by what I said before—you might have several affinities, or a mix of two. You figured out mine, Rhyen, and I’m sure you’ll figure yours out, in time.”

  * * *

  The snow continued to fall heavily on Avernade. Cazing ran out of tobacco and braved the snowfall to make for the village and buy more. Rhyen declined accompanying him. The wind was howling bitterly and the snow rose past Cazing’s waist. Cazing didn’t return that night, nor the next day. Rhyen would have been worried about him if he didn’t know him better. As it was, snow was only frozen water, which played right into the sorcerer’s affinity. If anyone would be all right in the snow, it was Cazing.

  When his master didn’t return for several days, Rhyen took to wandering the Tower. There were still a few locked rooms. Now that he was better at wielding, Rhyen decided to try his hand at unlocking the doors.

  It took a few guesses to determine the right word, which was “click” for the sound of a key turning a lock, and when he figured it out he spoke. It was too new a spell to try silently. Rhyen felt very pleased when he heard the telltale bolt turning in the doorknob, and he was even more elated when the door swung inwards at his touch.

  It was the only door on the fourth level. Rhyen looked inside, but the windows must have been nonexistent or else shuttered, because it was too dark to see anything. He went downstairs for an armful of candles, and when he returned to the room, he lit them and sent them in afloat ahead of him.

  With the candles floating in the air around him, Rhyen saw that the windows were covered by drapes made of heavy velvet cloth, so dark a green it was almost black. It took some effort to uncover the windows—the drapery panels were substantial, and made much heavier by the years of wet that had seeped in through the windows. By the time he uncovered all five windows, he was sweating with the effort of lifting aside the weighty curtains.

  Rhyen extinguished the candles with a thought, and a wave of his hand sent them to the ground in a neat little heap. Rhyen looked around the room in the misty white winter light. It was set up identically to his room on the eighth floor, two windows to each the east and west, and one to the south. The north part of the room was walled, and the staircase wound upwards beyond it. Apart from that, the rooms couldn’t be more different.

  Rhyen noticed that the ceiling was painted the clear green of shallow waters. There was no furniture at all, but the room had the sweet smell of rot and springtime flowers. Despite the lack of furniture, paintings hung on every available wall space. Rhyen took a step closer to survey the largest of them all.

  It was remarkably well preserved, despite the rotten wooden frame. No dust lay on the surface, and Rhyen could clearly see every detail. It depicted a beautiful woman of timeless age. Her black hair was long and fell in waves to her waist, tinted ever so slightly green. Rhyen narrowed his eyes, searching her face. Her eyes were green and calculating. She was seated beside a stream. With a start, Rhyen recognized it was the stream just north of the Tower. The lady held a flower in one hand and a staff in the other. The staff looked to be made of sparkling water, drawn upwards into long funnel from the stream.

  “Cazing’s mistress,” Rhyen realized. He laughed softly. He now understood about all the things Cazing had said about her. She was clearly powerful, but the conceited, knowing expression in her face suggested she would have been impossible to study under. He guessed why she had chosen the fourth floor: Water was generally considered to be the fourth High God.

  Rhyen turned away from her portrait and looked at some of the other hangings. Not one was as well preserved, but still he looked interestedly around. As far as he could tell, water was pictured in each, and the mistress in half as many. Rhyen wondered where her furniture went. She clearly left, because the closet was empty and, except for the paintings, the room was void of personal objects.

  Rhyen turned and gathered up the candles. He walked up the stairs. The only other locked doors were on the seventh and third levels. The first floor was the kitchen, great room, and stables, of course. The second level was divided into two rooms, one of which was a storeroom for the kitchen, and the other for their supplies—lumber, extra stone, tools. The third floor was Cazing’s room and a smaller side room. Rhyen remembered that the side room was locked too, both from the stairwell and through the door in the dividing wall in Cazing’s room. The fourth floor, as he had just discovered, was empty, but had once belonged to Cazing’s mistress. The fifth level was a library, although most of the books had been relocated to the great room downstairs. The sixth was the apothecary, and the seventh was still locked. Rhyen’s quarters were situated on the eighth floor, and above that there was only the roof.

  Rhyen decided to start with the seventh level, which, judging by the door, was only one room. He cleared his head and opened the door, speaking “click” again. The door swung inward at his touch, and he sent the candles in before him to light the way. Rhyen’s jaw dropped open, and he staggered against the door frame, amazed at what he saw.

  There were no windows in the room, yet it didn’t matter—the few candles that hung lit in the air provided only feeble flames, but the light was amplified by the mountain of gold piled in the center of the room. Gems, green and red and purplish-blue, and some as large as his fist, tumbled down the heap of coins at the shudder of his footsteps. There were pitchers and plates of solid gold tossed carelessly on top, and bejeweled goblets brimming with pearls and necklaces. There even was, Rhyen saw, a crown, elaborately worked and intricately designed, barely visible in the yellow haze that dimly radiated from the treasures.

  Rhyen stumbled forward. The candles dipped in the air some as he lost focus, but he whipped his head sharply from side to side to regain it. His eyes were wide as he beheld the treasures in front of him. He leaned against the wall just inside the room and slid down until he sank in a near-puddle on the floor. His mouth was still open. Rhyen laughed when he realized that, when seated on the ground with his back straight against the wall, the pile was taller than he.

  Presently Rhyen collected himself somewhat, and he closed his mouth sheepishly, glad his master wasn’t home to witness his reaction. In the cobwebby dimness that shadowed the walls, Rhyen saw dark shapes that resembled furniture, and on them spindly silver candelabra supporting thick, red candles. Rhyen thought one of the candles over to him and caught it out of the air. He pulled himself upright and ventured further into the shadows, where he lit the red candles, which had able wicks even if they were half-melted. As the new flames lightened the misty gloom of the chamber, Rhyen let fall the candles he had magicked in the air, their flames snuffing out as they plummeted down. Their landing was barely heard as they fell on thick rugs that were obviously rich and grand enough for a king.

  Rhyen put a steadying hand on the wooden side table. He was suddenly tired. He hadn’t thought that opening two locked doors and keeping a few lit candles afloat would have made such an impact on him, but he was weary, almost to the point of exhaustion. He found it strange that sometimes he could wield a great deal before becoming tired whereas other times he could not, but he suspected it had to do with focus, and his certainly wasn’t disciplined right now.

  Rhyen was too curious to leave, however. He gingerly put a
hand around one of the magnificent candelabra and hefted it. It was solid silver, and in his weary condition he needed two hands to keep it raised. He held it up so that he might see the things propped against the walls, lurking in the shadows.

  There were several suits of armor, dusty with age and neglect, and with them several swords. One looked to have a golden handle, another egg-sized rubies set in the pommel. The one that caught his eye had strange markings running down the length of the blade. He lowered the candles closer and saw that they were runes of a sort, carved in spindly script. Rhyen ran his finger along the edge while he tried to make them out, then snatched his hand quickly away. Even after all this time, the blade was still sharp, and there was a deep ugly gash across his first two fingers. Rhyen cursed under his breath and stuck his fingers in his mouth. Shaking his head, he moved on.

  There were large shapes stacked along the rest of the far chamber wall. They were covered with once-white sheets, and Rhyen interestedly uncovered a few. He saw handsome furniture, worked so elaborately that they might have been carved from butter instead of wood. There was a desk, a few small tables, and a chair made from a stickily smooth fabric that did not seem to fade. Rhyen gingerly reached out and touched the cushion. Perhaps a kind of leather? He soon lost interest in the furniture, magnificent though it was, and wandered on.

  Along the last wall sat a lone chest, a sea chest, judging by the salty smell, but no matter how he pried at the old lid, Rhyen could not get it open. He held up a hand, as though he was about to channel magic, but then sighed and lowered it. He was far too tired to wield more today. Just as he was about to turn back toward the door, a glint caught Rhyen’s eye.

  There was a shelf, built into the corner of the room. On it stood several statues. They looked somewhat familiar. Rhyen’s brows creased together as he drew closer. This part of the room felt different, as though it was occupied. His mouth dropped open again. There was displayed a diamond, as large as his head. Carved from the center was a waterfall, cascading brilliantly in the candlelight. Rainbows sprang from the sparkling depths.

  Rhyen’s eyes eagerly found the next silhouette—it was some sort of reddish orange gem, jagged and sharp in many peaks until it climaxed into a singular point. Rhyen thought it looked reminiscent of a fire…

  “It is a fire,” Rhyen breathed, moving even closer. He stared around the shelf, searching—yes, there were seven figures. Rhyen stood a little straighter as he realized they were monuments to the High Gods.

  He had already seen the tributes to the goddess of Water and the god of Fire. The god of Earth was a circular stone that was plainly a globe, delicately balanced on a marble triangle. It looked highly polished despite the years of neglect. The statue for the god of Air was carved from a sapphire, clearly discernable in the hollowed jewel, blue as the sky and just as unfathomable—there were even swirls of white that obviously were gusts of wind. An amethyst was accentuated with shards of diamond and two circles of yellow gems, one larger than the other. It represented the sun, moon, and stars—the goddess of the Heavens. An opal egg, brilliantly white, was set upon a pedestal for the goddess of Life. Rhyen peered at the base; the pedestal was white and delicate, and carved entirely from figures of creatures and flowering vines. And last he saw a flat triangle of some jet black jewel, so smooth and shiny that his face was reflected as in a mirror. The goddess of Death.

  Rhyen was amazed at the craftsmanship of the statues. Clearly only masters of the highest skill had made these. He gazed at them a moment longer before turning away, but, once again, as he did so, something caught his eye. It was just a small shine, away in the very back corner of the shelf. Rhyen brought the candle as close to the relics as possible, but could not make out what caused the little glint of light. He hesitated, and, looking around a little guiltily, he reached into the darkness. Carefully he withdrew, ever so slowly, the object. It was an hourglass. Rhyen’s shoulder’s dropped somewhat with disappointment. The hourglass was simple—just regular golden sand inside the bulbous shape, framed by three cylinders that were wooden supports. Even the glass was only glass.

  It was rather underwhelming after the wondrous splendor of the statues, or indeed even the rest of the room. Rhyen shrugged—clearly it didn’t belong on the shelf with the tribute to the High Gods. It must have been placed there by accident. Besides, Rhyen had only ever heard of seven High Gods. He gingerly put it back, though, unsure of what else to do with it.

  He was really very exhausted now, and he backed slowly out of the room. Rhyen practically crawled up the last few winding stairs to his room on the eighth level and collapsed on the bed, asleep before he hit the pillows and certainly before even realizing that he had brought the silver candelabra, red candles now thoroughly melted, with him.

  He woke hours later, when the sun was just a golden glow on the western horizon. Rhyen groaned. His hand was stiff and sore. He looked down and saw that he had been clenching the candelabra while he slept. Rhyen clicked his tongue when he saw that he had splattered the dripping wax across his blankets. There was very little remaining of the candles, and Rhyen scratched at the wax on his bedspread awhile before giving up.

  It was definitely chillier in the Tower than it had been earlier. Shivering, Rhyen donned a sweater. He returned the candelabra to the seventh floor treasury on his way down to the kitchen. While he was there he scooped up the candles he had left scattered on the floor.

  The kitchen was even colder as the fire had gone out. Rhyen threw a few logs into the hearth and let the numbness seep into his mind. He shrugged, and then without a word he focused on the fire and the flames rose at once, crackling merrily. Rhyen shrugged his shoulders contentedly. He was glad he was rested enough for wielding again. He fixed himself tea, and while he was waiting for the kettle to boil, he speared a few pieces of bread on a poker and held it over the fire.

  Night fell. Cazing still hadn’t returned. Rhyen had just put the finishing touches on a domino formation. He flicked the end piece and watched with satisfaction as it fell into the others, causing them to link together and fall in quick succession. Then he remembered that there was still one room left to discover. Rhyen lit the candles he had brought back from the seventh floor and, just like last time, floated them in front of him as he wound his way up the stairs to the third level.

  He went to the second door and let his mind go clear. He thought click when he was focused and smiled as he heard the door unlock. Rhyen pushed it in and, the candles lighting the way, stepped inside.

  The room was like nothing he would have expected in the Tower. It was brightly decorated—so bright that Rhyen could easily see even with only a half dozen candles. It was done in light colors that might once have been pink. Rhyen looked up. The ceiling had not faded much, and was painted like a blue summer sky, complete with white, fluffy clouds. There was a four-poster bed in the corner, raised up on a little dais and heaped with pillows. Rhyen could make out miles of lace, even though it was half rotten.

  Rhyen took a step forward and heard a crunching noise. He lifted his foot and saw that he had trodden on something. He bent over and picked it up. It was a doll. Rhyen slowly raised his head and looked closely around the room. There were toys and little dresses everywhere. There was even a tiny table with a little tea service set upon it, with little sewn animals and dolls grouped around it. This had been a child’s room.

  Rhyen looked down at the doll in his hand. Though the fabric was faded and moldy, he could see a button smile sewn onto its happy face. Rhyen had never seen anything so sad. Everywhere around the room were touches of life and youth and laughter. A child, a little girl, had once lived here, but now the room was empty and rotting away silently. Rhyen could almost hear the ghosts of laughter echoing around the room.

  Who had lived here? What had happened to them? Rhyen noticed a painting hanging next to the door that he guessed led to Cazing’s room. He gently set the toy on the tiny table a
nd moved toward it, bringing the candles with him so they lit up the painting. Rhyen gasped—he almost yelled in shock—at the figures in the portrait. It was a woman, pretty and made prettier by the joys of motherhood, for in her arms she held a little girl, smiling with large blue eyes, long heavy dark hair, and pale porcelain skin. She was missing her front teeth, and was holding the doll Rhyen had just set down. But what startled Rhyen the most was the man in the picture. He was very familiar, for Rhyen knew him well, and he had not aged a day since the picture first was painted: Cazing.

  Rhyen slept poorly that night. Long before dawn he gave up sleep as a bad job and headed downstairs. There he sat, facing the fire, lost in thought, until the sun was high in the sky. He heard a voice calling him, but he didn’t move. He kept thinking about the little pink room on the fourth level.

  “Rhyen!” Cazing called, stomping the snow off his boots and throwing his cloak on the kitchen table. “Look what I brought,” he said smugly, pulling a slightly squashed package from his magic bag. “Compliments of Dierdre at the inn.”

  Rhyen tore his eyes away from the fire and saw a pile of gooey cinnamon roles. “Eat them while they’re hot! Or at least, while they’re here. I doubt they’re warm anymore.”

  Rhyen didn’t say anything. Cazing looked closely at him. His expression grew concerned. “What happened to you?”

  When Rhyen spoke it was little more than a croak. “I went exploring.”

  Cazing stiffened somewhat, but casually asked. “Oh, yes? What did you find?”

  “Your daughter’s room.” Rhyen said quietly. Cazing’s face looked suddenly tired.