by C. Night
“You’re thinking of the Dark elves.” Cazing shrugged. “But all elves were originally from Wyda, just as all humans were from Thronder at the beginning.” Cazing caught sight of Rhyen’s confused expression and sighed. “Remember your history, Rhyen. There were four races to start—elves, dwarves, gnomes, and humans. Then sub-races, the lesser races, came about when the gods still walked on earth. This happened when the original four races intermingled. But even the original four moved about the earth, adapting and evolving to fit their new surroundings. That is why there are Wood, Water, and Dark elves in addition to the High Sun elves.
“Humans were the only non-magical race, and that is why the gods chose them to have magic wielding. The others races, including all types of elves, have magic inherent in their creation, so they all can ‘do’ magic—just not consciously. We humans are the only race that can actively wield, but only a few of us can do it. It balances out in the end. And you already know that magic, and everything in the whole world, requires balance.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Rhyen interrupted, grinning wryly. “I know all that. But what’s the difference between Dark and Water elves, then?”
“Well, Water elves are just elves that have a magical inherency toward all things of the water. And Dark elves tend to be in darker places. As the names would suggest.” Cazing rolled his eyes exaggeratedly at Rhyen and refilled his pipe bowl. He shook his head jokingly. “Either way, Water elves make damn good sailors—much better even than sorcerers with an affinity for Water.” He paused, blowing out a few smoke rings. Rhyen suppressed a grin. Cazing loved to tell stories, and took great pleasure in adding to the drama with suspenseful breaks.
“So you took all their money gambling and they still didn’t toss you overboard?” Rhyen prompted. “Sounds like good people.”
“Not this bunch! Lousy pirates. But they made good time, since they were dodging the Imperial elven fleet. Smugglers, you know.” Cazing chuckled and conspiringly admitted to Rhyen, “Tell you the truth, it was a load of fun.”
Rhyen lifted his eyes skyward. “So you illegally arrived in Wyda. Where did you make port?”
“Chanseny. That’s their capital. Rode lives more in the middle of the country. Distance wise, it’s actually a shorter route to get to his house over land, directly south and a few countries below Avernade, than it is to go by sea. But the terrain is treacherous—all woods and rivers and nasty bogs before you get to the plains. By sea might be the long way round, but it is always quicker.”
“Obviously, you got there eventually.”
“Obviously. Rode’s house was filled to bursting with his three wives and all their children, and household servants. He has more horses now than I’ve ever seen him with—the investment is paying off for him too.”
“What does it yield, again?” the apprentice asked.
Cazing reached for the magic satchel he had flung on the table. “I brought some, actually.” After a moment of searching, the old sorcerer fished out a goblet of golden glass. The light from the fire and candles in the chandelier above the table lit it, and Rhyen saw that it sparkled like diamond. It was almost clear, and the glass was stretched very thin. It looked extremely delicate. “Nice, isn’t it? Goldenmere. As far as we know, the mine we’re with is the only one in the world. The rarity lets us spike the prices.”
“It’s quite lovely,” Rhyen agreed. He appraised it shrewdly. “I bet you’ve many orders from queens looking to spruce up their royal tables.”
“And all the other nobles as well,” Cazing confirmed slyly. “But we are making more money off the armor.”
Rhyen snorted. “Armor? Decorative only, I’m guessing?”
Cazing shook his head. “No! That’s the best part. It’s extremely light, see?” He passed the goblet off to Rhyen, who was expecting the usual weight of a glass. He almost dropped it in surprise—it weighed as little as a quill!
He handed it back to his master with a grin. “Very impressive. But I still don’t see how it would make a useful suit of armor.”
“Then watch this.” Cazing gripped the goblet by the stem and raised it up into the air. With all his might, he smashed it onto the stone ground. Rhyen held up a hand to brace himself against the flying shards, but they never came. There was a ringing sound that echoed round the kitchen. The horses poked their heads in and whinnied reproachfully. Rhyen frowned at Cazing, who was beaming back, and peered over the edge of the table. The goblet lay upon the floor. It was in one piece.
“What the…?” Rhyen collected it and held it up to the light. There was not so much as a hairline fracture. It was perfectly whole. He looked wide eyed at his master with due astonishment.
Cazing broke into peals of laughter. “It’s nearly indestructible! We’ve brought in master gnome smiths to work it. We find it in little flakes, you see—when first pulled from the mine, it’s like sand. The gnomes heat it to a specific temperature and melt it all together, and they have to keep it molten until it is molded, because once it hardens, we haven’t found anything yet that can break it.”
“Incredible,” Rhyen breathed, running his finger along the edge of the goblet.
Cazing stretched, smug. “Goldenmere is too rare to do entire suits, so we’re focusing on breastplates and helmets. But it’s still going for a pretty penny, I can tell you that much!”
Rhyen contemplated the golden glass for a while, imagining indestructible golden armies. At last he remembered that he wanted to hear more about his master’s trip, and he gently placed the mesmerizing Goldenmere goblet on the table. “So,” he asked finally. “Are you going to tell me about your narrow escape from marital bliss or not?”
Chapter 17
Once again, it was winter. Snow was thick about the Tower and falling still. It had been more than ten years since Rhyen first arrived in Avernade. Ten years had not aged him. He still looked much the same as he had the day he began his apprenticeship, and only the quiet maturity that presented itself in the carriage of his head and shoulders and the compassion that reflected thoughtfully in his eyes even indicated that he had lived ten more years at all. Cazing, too, remained unchanged. As Rhyen looked at himself in the mirror that morning, he began to fully understand the consequences of magic.
The realization saddened him somewhat. Cazing was nearing two hundred and looked no more than forty. How long would Rhyen have to live before he looked older than eighteen, twenty tops? It was strange that he should know so much more now than he did when he arrived at Avernade, yet look like the same person.
But he was different. He was not the same little boy who had first wielded against the well in Yla. He was not even the young man who had exploded the fire in the Tower.
He was now a master wielder. He knew the secrets of magic. He no longer needed to shrug to clear his head, or to concentrate before letting the cold numbness seep over his mind before he wielded. He rarely spoke when casting spells anymore and, when he did wield, the spells lasted for far longer than Cazing’s. He had listened to his master and learned diligently from him. Rhyen understood the tricks of his trade… and yet, for all his knowledge and experience, he looked still like the young man who had been afraid of apprenticing under a sorcerer.
Rhyen sighed. He had thought, once, before he’d been summoned to the Academy, that he would live a relatively normal life. Grow up, find a trade, get married, have children… normal things. Even after he’d wielded the little girl out of the well, he hadn’t thought the course of his life would change, although from that moment on he’d known he had magic. But still he expected those ordinary things. He’d even had a childhood sweetheart—the little girl from the well, actually—and he didn’t consider that magic would much alter his course from her, or his family, or his dreams.
He had been wrong. Magic had claimed him, and his life could not have been more altered from his imaginings. Yet, it was not a bad life. In fact, Rhyen enjoyed his life. The excit
ement that came with wielding far outweighed any consequences, and his master was all the company Rhyen cared now to have. The two wielders of the Tower. Just as it should be. This was his life now, and, good and bad, Rhyen would not trade it.
Rhyen looked away from the mirror and directed his gaze out the window. Snow was swirling prettily in the gray of pre-dawn, and what light there was sparkled off it. Suddenly Rhyen realized that he hadn’t been riding in some time, and thought the prospect sounded pleasant. He dressed quickly.
He made his way down the chilly stairwell to the second floor, and from there down the ladder to the kitchen. His feet were cold even through his boots as he stepped onto the stone floor. Rhyen gasped at the chill and glared at the fireplace, causing the logs to burst into flame. At once warmth rolled through the kitchen. Rhyen grabbed a muffin from the basket on the counter and strode over to the stable.
It took awhile to prod the sleeping Cinnamon awake, and when he did his horse stared at him reproachfully. “Fancy a ride, Cinnamon?” Rhyen said, stroking her neck and scratching her forehead. She turned away grumpily, but Rhyen wasn’t above bribery. He slipped her a handful of sweet dry oatmeal, and after she lipped at it she became much more agreeable.
They were gone not even half hour. The sun had risen golden over the mountains, but the look of the warm yellow light was deceiving. It was still well below freezing. Rhyen hadn’t realized how cold it was or how icy the snow was. It had looked so soft and inviting from his bedroom window, but once outside he realized it had frozen over, and crunched with every step. They hadn’t gone far before Rhyen started to worry about the cold seeping through Cinnamon’s hooves. Disappointed, he turned her back to the Tower.
He rubbed her down and fed both her and Brefen, who had woken and wandered over. Rhyen gave them both a good grooming, brushing their soft coats and checking their hooves. He worked up a sweat as he flung more straw over the earth after mucking their stalls. Neither of them were young anymore, and he didn’t want them to catch a sickness from the cold ground. He gave them each a final pat and went to the door that lead into the great room.
Rhyen leaned against the door frame. Cazing was next to the fire, his feet propped up. One hand was holding some sort of muffin, the other his pipe, and he was happily alternating between the two, taking a bite here and a puff there. A book was propped open in his lap. It must have been funny, because between swallows and breaths Cazing kept snorting with laughter. Rhyen bit his lip to keep quiet. He watched him for a bit.
“Cazing,” Rhyen finally said. His master looked up with a yelp of surprise.
“How long have you been there spying on me?” he demanded.
“Long enough,” Rhyen snickered. Cazing narrowed his eyes. His apprentice broke into a grin. “Listen, I’m going into Avernade. Do you want anything?”
Cazing brightened at once. “Just in time! I need more—”
“Tobacco,” they said at the same time. Rhyen raised his eyebrows, amused.
Cazing adopted an injured air. “I could want something besides tobacco, you know.”
“Really? Like what?”
Cazing looked suspiciously at him. Then he laughed. “How well you know me!”
Rhyen smiled and waved. “See you in a bit, then.” He turned and left, but before he could close the door he heard Cazing holler after him, “Bring back more food!”
“That’s why I’m going,” Rhyen answered quietly. He set off in the white light of the winter sky, snowflakes raining down on him, his crunchy steps muffled somewhat by the thick layer of fresh snow that now blanketed the ground.
Rhyen always like walking down the steep hill to the village in the winter, but he especially enjoyed it at night. The cozy little homes and shops cast rosy glows on the white ground from their picture windows, and smoke curled in picturesque spirals into the starry sky. Now, however, the smoke from hundreds of fireplaces blended with the white sunny sky of winter, and there seemed to be no boundary between the white of the ground and the white of the sky. The snowflakes fell around him as he made his bundled way down into Avernade.
He decided to go to the pub for a warming drink and a game or two before completing his errands. The bell that was rigged to the door tinkled merrily as with frozen fingers he pushed his way inside. He didn’t know that this day of games would be his last.
“Rhyen!”
He broke into a smile as he saw a group of his friends in the corner, smoking and drinking and playing a heated game of cards. Rhyen shook off the loose snow from his shoulders and stumped over to them. He left a trail of slush behind him, and the barmaid rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and pointedly ignored him when he flashed an apologetic smile in her direction. She sauntered out from behind the bar and placed a mug of ale at his elbow, sloshing a little over her fingers. She patted his cheek, wiping them dry.
“That’s for tracking in the slush,” she said coquettishly.
Rhyen grinned up at her. “Cheers, Milly.”
He took a few sips while he watched the game. “Deal me in the next hand,” he said to Stven, the blacksmith’s apprentice, who had just folded his hand, flinging the cards on the table with many curses. Stven nodded at him and jerked his chin at the shepherd on his left. “Bec is cheating today.”
“Bec always cheats,” grunted Pattar grumpily, tossing his fold on top of Stven’s.
Rhyen shrugged. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
They played for hours. It was pleasant and warm in the pub, and there were plenty of drinks and food and games to keep them all happy. Rhyen enjoyed gambling with his friends, and was thankful that none of them ever collected their debts, because he was horrible at best and nearly always lost. He reflected that if they had been gambling seriously he would have put quite a dent even in the mountain of coins piled in the Tower’s seventh floor.
When he lost for the fifth time in a row, and Stven, his partner, was gesturing rudely at him from across the table (although smilingly), Rhyen pushed back his chair. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
Over the groans of the rest of his friends, Stven called, “It’s just as well. You’re a lousy partner, Rhyen!” He laughed.
“We don’t mind that, do we, Pattar?” Bec taunted. “The worse he is the more we win!”
“Watch it now, Bec, or he’ll be your partner next time,” Stven threatened, pointing a finger at the redheaded shepherd.
Bec paled slightly and raised his hands defensively. “What have I ever done to deserve such a harsh punishment?”
“I’m standing right here,” Rhyen reminded them, and they roared with laughter at the expression on his face.
Milly dashed up beside him and put a small hand on his elbow. “Before you go, Rhyen, can you help me?”
Rhyen looked down at her. “What do you need?”
She giggled and clutched his elbow. “We need the candles changed in the chandelier.” She looked up and Rhyen followed her gaze. The chandelier in the pub was taller even than his reach, and there were about twenty candles that were little more than waxy stubs.
“Of course,” he said. “Where’s your ladder?”
“It’s broken!” she said cheerfully. She was regarding him with eager contemplation, and he saw that the other maids were eyeing him earnestly as well.
Rhyen paused, reluctant understanding creeping over him. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
Milly pushed him playfully. “Use magic, silly. We all know you can!”
Rhyen was silent, thinking. He licked his lips and looked around. His friends were just as excited about the possibility as the maids, and they were watching him from the edge of their seats. There were two old men at the bar, and they too had turned and were staring interestedly, holding their mugs and forgetting to puff on their pipes.
Rhyen was conflicted. He heard Cazing’s voice in his head, as clear as though the ol
d sorcerer was standing next to him now: People will come to you for magical solutions to their problems… it is best not to interfere. Rhyen hardly thought that lighting a few candles constituted as magically solving their problems. He was in the spotlight, and everyone was staring avidly at him, urging him to wield. Which is the lesser evil: doing a bad thing for a good reason, or a good thing for a bad reason? Rhyen shifted his weight nervously. It was such a small thing, lighting a few candles. He did it at home all the time. There was nothing evil about it. And who was to say that it wasn’t a good thing for a good reason? After all, he’d be helping Milly and his friends, and he’d earn their respect as well…
Rhyen pushed aside the thoughts he heard in Cazing’s voice and smiled at the giggling barmaid. “Where are your candles?”
She clapped her hands delightedly. “I knew you’d help! Can’t you just make those candles bigger?”
Rhyen shook his head, smiling. He said nothing—he didn’t want to explain to everyone that spells wore off and that, if he made the candles tall again, they would just be little stubs of wax again in the morning. The girls behind the counter pulled out a basket of new white candles and set it on the bar top.
Rhyen, even though he changed and lit candles at the Tower every day, found that, in the presence of an audience, he was a little nervous. He hadn’t needed to speak to float candles or light them in years, but he had enough sense to say the right word now, so that he wouldn’t lose his focus in his nervousness and cause a magical accident. He let the chilly numbness overtake his mind and muttered “change” to the candles. At once, the ones in the basket rose into the air and burst into flame and those in the chandelier fell neatly into the basket. It took only seconds from the time the fresh candles were produced until they were glowing rosily in the chandelier.
The girls squealed with delight and the fellows guffawed. “Well, I never,” croaked one of the old men at the bar. Rhyen smiled at their praise, but felt guilty. He knew before he wielded—and now it was as though the knowledge had increased tenfold—that Cazing would be disappointed when he heard how Rhyen traded his magic for a favor. The guilt settled in his stomach like a block of ice, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to go to the Tower. He dreaded the thought of telling Cazing, but wanted the peace that came with a clear conscience. Sorcerers, he knew, were not supposed to behave like children trying to impress their friends.
