by C. Night
Rhyen sloshed some Melden over his blanket. He set the glass on the table and buried his face in his hands. “I was feeling terrible about it. I wanted to leave. But… but the old man at the bar… he took my arm, and when he did—” Rhyen broke off. He couldn’t go on.
Cazing forced him to drink some more of the Melden. Rhyen’s throat was on fire—Good! He thought wildly. I deserve to hurt—I’m the reason Ellis is dead…
“What happened after the old man took ahold of your arm?” Cazing pressed.
“There was some sort of connection. I saw his memories. But it was... it was more than seeing—I was Ellis, in his memories. I felt what he felt. When he got hurt, I felt pain—when he was happy, so was I. I don’t know how I did that.” Rhyen grabbed his hair violently. “And even when the connection was broken, I still feel what he felt! I see it still! It’s as if I’ve lived a whole lifetime, but it was only seconds.” Rhyen gasped and saw memories flash before his eyes—pulling on the coarse rope as the ship was rollicking and the salty rain washed across him, hearing the chirping of the bird suddenly cease, ruffling his son’s hair, pride bursting in his chest. Rhyen slammed back in his chair to escape the memories that were not his, yet as rooted in his brain as though they were. “I’m going mad!”
“You’re not.” Cazing’s voice was firm now. “You listen to me, Rhyen of Avernade—you are not mad.”
The power in his voice drew Rhyen’s panic to a brief halt, and Rhyen was so startled to hear his name in a sorcerer’s title that he almost forgot to breathe. Eventually he collected himself enough to report, “Ellis didn’t get any of my memories. I don’t think he knew what had happened. He didn’t know me, but I knew him… and he got scared. He thought I had cursed him…” Rhyen trailed off. Had he cursed the old man?
Cazing narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. “Then how did he die?”
“He was so frightened of me, he backed away into the bar. And he was screaming for help, Cazing—and his heart stopped. He—he just died.” Rhyen’s face screwed up as he remembered the old man, terror in his eyes. He snatched the Melden off the table and downed the rest of the glass. “I thought I could help him—I wanted to heal him, but the others told me to leave. They said I killed him… they called me ‘Sorcerer’ and sent me away.”
Cazing refilled Rhyen’s glass. Sighing, he fell back into his chair. He looked very old.
“I’m sorry.” Rhyen whispered. He didn’t know whom exactly he was addressing. “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t kill him, Rhyen.” Cazing said in a low voice. “He had a heart attack. He was an old man, and he was surprised. It was an accident.”
Rhyen hung his head. “That doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.”
Cazing grimaced. “No, it doesn’t. But it should change how you feel about it.”
Rhyen heard the sound of seagulls echoing in his mind, and tasted the salty seawater. He almost laughed bitterly. He knew that he had never been to the sea, but he remembered these things as clearly as though he had been raised in a port city. As he sat there, the memories played over and over in his mind’s eye. And now Ellis was dead. A whole lifetime of thoughts and hopes and dreams, all gone. Gone, but not forgotten, for Rhyen remembered everything.
He was twenty-eight, yet he had lived more than seventy years. He was a wielder, but also a sailor—a first mate. He had never loved, but he had a wife and a son. The edges in Rhyen’s mind that separated him and Ellis were becoming blurred—perhaps Rhyen was a sailor? How else could he know how to hoist a mainsail and toss a crab net? And what was this about never loving someone? What about Rose?
Rhyen shook his head, trying to keep his grip on reality—he was Rhyen Hyldhem, apprentice to Cazing. He was not an old man. But it was getting harder and harder to remember that.
“I feel like I died too,” Rhyen said, lowering his face in his hands. “In some ways, his memories are clearer than my own. Will they ever go away?”
Cazing hesitated. “No, I don’t think they will,” he finally said. “But I do think they will fade, until you only recall them when you try to. I think, in time, your memories will be clearer than his.”
Rhyen looked up at Cazing. “You’re sure I didn’t kill him? Everyone in the pub thought I had.” He was feeling much calmer, but he admitted that that might be due to the large amount of Melden he had taken.
“I’m positive. He had a heart attack. You did not use magic to stop his heart.”
“What did I do, then?”
Cazing rubbed his eyes and took another swig of his drink. He sighed. “You used the Sorcerer’s Trance.”
Rhyen blinked. “The Sorcerer’s Trance? I don’t remember you teaching me that one.”
“That’s because I didn’t. I’ve never been capable of using the Trance.”
“What?” Rhyen asked slowly. He was feeling overwhelmed and muddled. “What do you mean you’re not capable of using it? You’re a sorcerer!”
Cazing chuckled. It sounded a little hollow. “I’m nowhere near as powerful as you are, Rhyen. I’m not, never have been, and never will be strong enough to reach the Plane.”
Rhyen shrugged the blanket off his shoulders. “What are you talking about? I’m not stronger than you—I’m your apprentice, dammit! And what the hell is the Sorcerer’s Trance? Or Plane?” His Opposite was riling up inside of him, overtaking the confusion and guilt and causing his rage at himself over Ellis’ death to flare up. He stared angrily at his master. “Explain!”
Any other time, Rhyen was certain Cazing would have smacked him over the head for his rudeness. Now, however, his master only rubbed his eyes tiredly. There was a pause as Cazing collected his thoughts.
“The Sorcerer’s Trance, Rhyen, is something only the most powerful sorcerer’s are able to do. It requires so fine a wielding that even the most skilled have difficulty with the spell. Most who have managed to achieve it are often only able to perform it a handful of times in their lives, because it taxes them so, tires them so deeply that they are unable to wield for months afterwards. But you are strong—stronger than I could have possibly hoped for, and much more so than you know.
“All I know about the Trance was told to me by Calascada, my mistress. She never was able to do it either, but her master was. She passed down everything she knew, and it is time I told you everything I learned.” Cazing paused again. Rhyen watched him struggle to find his words.
“The connection you felt with Ellis took you somewhere,” Cazing began.
“To his memories,” Rhyen said gloomily. His Opposite was being overcome by his grief, and the anger ebbed away, only to be replaced with sadness.
But Cazing shook his head. “No, Rhyen. You went somewhere first.”
Rhyen looked up at him skeptically. “We didn’t leave the pub. I told you, the whole thing was over in seconds.”
Cazing sighed, this time in exasperation. “Just listen, will you? In order to wield the Sorcerer’s Trance, you first must be able to access the Plane. The Sorcerer’s Plane. It is something left over from the gods, a place where time and physics work differently.” He smiled wanly. “I’ve even heard it said that the Plane in another portal to heaven. But because time is different there, you were able to remember Ellis’ entire life, yet here in Avernade, only seconds passed.”
Rhyen thought back to the first blur of colors. “There was a wide meadow,” he said slowly. “There was nothing but an endless sea of green grasses. And the clearest blue sky I’ve ever seen, without a single cloud…”
Cazing leaned forward a little. “Is that what it looked like?” He seemed wistful. “You must have wielded yourself there, and you took Ellis with you because he was connected to your arm. And then you performed the Trance—you literally went inside of Ellis’ head, and that is how you relived his memories.” Cazing laid his hands flat on the table. “You performed two extraordinary pie
ces of magic today, Rhyen—you reached the Plane, and you wielded the Trance. And you are still yourself!”
Before today, Rhyen might have laughingly asked, “Who else would I be?” But now, after living Ellis’ life through his memories, he was not certain Cazing was accurate in saying he was still himself. And yet, everything his master said soothed Rhyen—if he had, albeit accidentally, performed known bits of magic, he must not have done something terrible after all. Though he still felt horrified at Ellis’ death, he also—grudgingly—accepted the fact that he did not kill the old man. But Rhyen knew that he would forever live with the guilt, the knowledge that he had sped up Ellis’ death by giving him such a scare. And Rhyen felt even guiltier at the small comfort he found in the knowledge that he had not wielded the old man’s heart still.
Rhyen sank back into his chair. There was so much to think about. Carefully he said, “I performed the Sorcerer’s Trance? The people in the village called me Sorcerer, too.”
Cazing nodded. “You are a sorcerer, Rhyen. No other wielder could have managed such a feat.”
Rhyen shook his head. “I don’t understand. I’ve only been your apprentice for ten years. I knew I was a master wielder, but a sorcerer? How can I possibly be a sorcerer?”
“You are so strong, Rhyen. So powerful.”
Rhyen flung his hands in the air. “You keep saying that! I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel powerful. I feel tired! Guilty… regretful. And because of my inexperience, I cost a man his life today.” He held up his hand, stopping Cazing as the old master tried to speak. “I might not have stopped his heart, but I was the reason he died. How can I be a sorcerer now?”
“It is your inherent capacity for magic that meant you would be a sorcerer one day, Rhyen. And that day is now—marked by the complexity of your wielding. You’ve done something only sorcerers since the Golden Ages hoped to achieve. And that was without even trying! Imagine what you will be able to do next time, understanding what you do now.”
Rhyen looked sharply at Cazing. “What makes you think I’ll even be able to do it again?”
Cazing looked steadily at Rhyen. “I think you will.”
Night had fallen early. Rhyen could hear the wind howling against the Tower. He saw that the fire was low and, groaning a little, he stood up. He physically threw a few logs on the fire, so bone tired that he would rather put the logs on by hand than summon the energy necessary to wield them there. He stoked up the fire. It was good to be doing a normal household chore as it let him forget everything that had happened, at least for a little while.
He knew in his heart that his friends were his friends no more. He was not Rhyen anymore, but a sorcerer of the Tower Avernade. No more could he stroll to the village for a day of games and drinks. No more could he bustle about Avernade as one of the villagers. Those days were gone, and he could not go back or change it. He understood for the first time how difficult it would be for him, as a sorcerer, to have companions. Suddenly, he remembered how much he valued his master. Rhyen poured both Cazing and himself more Melden before taking his seat.
“If I am able to do it again, it will only be for a few more times, won’t it?” he asked finally.
“Why do you say that?”
“You told me that most sorcerers are only able do it a handful of times because it is so taxing.”
“You, my friend, are not most sorcerers,” Cazing said matter-of-factly.
Rhyen sighed. “How do you know?”
Almost absentmindedly, Cazing let go of his glass. Rhyen glared at it and commanded, “Stop!” The glass froze in mid-air, inches from the ground. The Melden sloshed around in the glass but did not spill. Rhyen held out his hand and the glass rose until his fingers curled around the stem.
“That is how I know.” Cazing’s voice was quiet, but Rhyen heard a hint of pride shadowing his words.
Rhyen almost laughed. “I’ve been levitating for ten years now. I don’t think it’s all that impressive anymore.”
Cazing smiled. “It is when you consider that an hour ago you performed the most complex bits of magic known to humankind.” Cazing plucked his glass from Rhyen’s hand. “You should be utterly exhausted. The stories say that most sorcerers were too exhausted to wield for weeks after a trip to the Plane. You went there, taking an ordinary human with you, and proceeded to perform the Trance. And yet here you are, wielding. And quickly, too—you didn’t have to work to compose yourself. Your focus was already there.”
Rhyen frowned. “But I am tired.”
“I know. But you are less tired now than when you exploded the fire all those years ago, yes?”
Rhyen recalled the bitter exhaustion that had followed that episode. “Yes. Far less tired now than I was then.”
Cazing nodded. “That means you’ve wielded within your limits. And that means your limits are so much greater than most sorcerers, even those from the Golden Age.”
They sat in silence until very late, both lost in their own thoughts. Finally Rhyen croaked the thought that was most present on his mind. “I feel so terrible about Ellis’ death.”
“You’re the most compassionate person I know, Rhyen. I would expect nothing less from you. It is all right to feel grief. It is normal to feel regret. Just be sure to learn from your mistakes.” Cazing stood up and patted Rhyen on the shoulder. “Go get some sleep.”
But even after the old master had climbed the ladder to the second story, and long after the sound of the bedroom door closing echoed down the winding staircase, Rhyen sat up, staring into the fire, thinking.
* * *
The following weeks passed strangely for Rhyen. He was terrified to go to the village, afraid of the looks on the faces of his old friends—scared and hostile—for he was their friend no more. Something had changed in him once he made the switch to sorcerer. It was not like so long ago after the fire accident, where he was afraid to wield. This time he was not afraid of his powers, but rather curiously resigned to them, and any tears he might have had for his lost life were meaningless and unshed. After all, those friends would have passed on in a fifty years anyway, and Rhyen would have been almost unchanged. It was a harsh reality, and Rhyen felt cold, calculating, and cruel to think of them and himself in such a light, but deep down he knew it was for the best.
Cazing had quietly shook his head when Rhyen tentatively broached the subject of attending Ellis’ funeral. “But I knew him so much more than anyone else did!” Rhyen feebly protested.
“True, but only through magic. Let the villagers mourn their own without our interference,” Cazing answered. What he didn’t say was that, while the villagers, now that they had time to reflect and calm down, accepted that Rhyen didn’t actually kill Ellis, they were still afraid of him, and not at all very welcoming at the moment.
The day after Ellis’ death, Cazing had gone down to the village. He hadn’t said anything to Rhyen, but all the same the young sorcerer suspected that his master had spoken to the villagers on his behalf, for the one person from Avernade that he saw, the letter carrier Cal, hadn’t blamed him for Ellis’ death, or indeed had said anything at all other than, “Good Morning.” And although Cal had been frightfully formal and respectful, he did not seem to have blame in his eyes for Ellis’ death. But Rhyen, through an unspoken agreement with his master, felt no real inclination for visiting the village, and his brief interlude with Cal was enough to reinforce that decision.
Still, Rhyen felt a deep sadness wash over him as he heard the village bells tolling at Ellis’ funeral. His memories from Ellis’ life, so clear and present at first, became like shadows in his mind—always present, but never in his direct thoughts. As Cazing had predicted, Rhyen’s memories took the foreground in his mind, and if he wanted to think about Ellis’ life at all he had to draw the memories out as though from the depths of a deep well. He wanted to say goodbye to Ellis, for he knew him as well as the old
man had known himself, and Rhyen wished fervently that attending the funeral had not been out of the question.
Rhyen, despite the fact that he had accepted his title and had resigned himself to his long life of wielding, was a little glum as the weeks slipped by and as winter began to melt into spring. Cazing kept a close eye on his apprentice, and encouraged him whenever possible. He was going through his whole repertoire of potion making, teaching Rhyen the ancient art. Potions were difficult and complex, and the challenge helped pull Rhyen out of his gloom. They were also very time-consuming to create, and so the days were filled with mixing fascinating concoctions on the sixth level, and, as Cazing had hoped, Rhyen hardly noticed that all his days were filled with potion making instead of playing games with lost friends.
“Now, potions, Rhyen, are really just time-released spells. If I were to break this,” Cazing said, holding up a little glass vial with some silver tongs, “you could wield it together again, couldn’t you?”
“Of course,” Rhyen answered with a smile. He could do that in his sleep.
“But how long would the vial stay mended?”
Rhyen shrugged. His spells always seemed to last longer than Cazing’s. He did some quick estimations. “A week, perhaps.”
“Right! But that is because you invoke the magic as soon as you focus on the spell. Potion making differs because you seal the magic within the bottle, so it doesn’t take effect until the bottle is opened again. A spell has the potential to last for weeks, or, in your case, a month or two!” Cazing loved potions. His Water affinity went far in this arena as all potions are based upon liquid, so he was a very skilled potion maker. He was working himself into an excited fervor as he strolled through the apothecary, talking enthusiastically and running his hands around all the ingredients, bottles, and instruments.
“Is that what the ingredients are for?” Rhyen asked. “Suspending the magic in place?”
“Yes, partially. It depends on the potion. For healing potions, for example, we include medicinal plants and minerals. Can you guess why?”
