“I suggest we go our separate ways,” said Corthain, flexing his hands. “I will give you this one chance.”
The Jurgur sneered. “You’ll squeal, before we’re done with you.”
They came at him a sudden rush, clubs in their hands.
Corthain drew his sword.
The hilt was new, under a year old. The blade was much, much older. Over fifteen hundred years older, in fact. The dark gray metal was a relic of the Old Empire, forged using secrets of metallurgy now lost. Lighter and harder than any other metal, it never lost its edge, and it never cracked or splintered. He had taken it from the corpse of a Jurgur chieftain after Dark River, and the Divine alone knew where the dead man had found it.
Then the Jurgurs were on him.
It had been four years since the battle, but Corthain had not let his sword practice lapse. Every day he performed the Forms of the Sword, and they had been etched into the muscles of his wrists and arms and legs. His blade blurred through the Noblewoman's Fan, and he blocked the swings of the Jurgurs’ clubs. He pivoted, his arms moving through the Falcon’s Dive, and one of the Jurgurs fell to his knees, gagging, blood spurting from his throat. The other three kept after him. They were not used to fighting in a group, and their attacks got in each other’s way. Corthain’s blade licked across another Jurgur’s arm, and the man fell back with a howl of pain. And that gave Corthain the opening to step closer and stab, sinking his blade into another man’s stomach. The Jurgur folded with a groan of pain, and Corthain kicked the man off the sword, bringing the bloodied blade up.
The surviving Jurgurs had seen enough. They flung down their clubs and sprinted, vanishing into the maze of dockside alleys behind the Inn’s warehouses. Running boots caught Corthain's attention, and he turned to see three men in the black armor of the Swords of Araspan running towards him.
“What’s this?” said the lead Sword. “We heard the sound of fighting. I’ll not have scum like you brawling on my streets.” He took in Corthain’s sword and fine clothes, and his attitude changed. “Er…are you wounded, my lord?”
“Hardly,” said Corthain, cleaning his sword on a dead Jurgur’s ragged shirt. Perhaps the Swords had mistaken his blade for a cortana. “Four men with clubs against an experienced swordsman is hardly a fair fight.”
“Indeed not,” said the Sword. He looked at the bodies and scowled. “More of these Jurgur scoundrels. Ever since the battle, they’ve infested the city, robbing honest folk. The Lord Governor ought to put the lot of them in orange and sell them on the block.”
Corthain sighed. “See to the bodies. I suspect you don’t want ghouls rising to terrorize the streets.”
“Of course,” said the Sword. “I’ll have them sent to the crematorium at once.”
Corthain nodded, slid his sword into its scabbard, and walked back to the Inn. Araspan had not changed, he saw. Still choked with slaves and fear and violence.
He wished he had not come home.
Home...
Home wasn’t Araspan any more, was it? Home was Moiria, his domnium, with its hills and vineyards and streams, its tough and independent people, so different from the slaves of Araspan.
Once his business was finished, Corthain could leave Araspan and go home.
The thought cheered him as he walked back to the Inn.
Chapter 3 - The Conclave
The astraljump ended, and it took Rachaelis a moment to regain her balance. Astraljumps always left her dizzy and disoriented, and the terror clawing at her stomach hardly helped. After a moment her head stopped spinning, and she looked around.
She stood next to Thalia in a large stone hall, gloomy shadows pooling in the vaulted roof. The only light came from spelllamps on iron stands. Clammy, cold air washed over Rachaelis, and she realized that they were in the vaults beneath the Ring.
Men and women in red robes and black stoles waited on the far end of the hall.
The Magisters of the Conclave.
“Come with me,” said Thalia in High Imperial, and then she switched to Callian. “And…good luck, Rachaelis. You can do this. I know you can do this.”
Rachaelis took a deep breath and followed Thalia to the Magisters.
One Magister stepped towards them, a tall man with close-cropped gray hair, bright blue eyes, and an aquiline face. Unlike the other Magisters, he carried a black staff of office in his left hand. He was Talvin, First Magister of the Conclave, leader of the Adepts and ruler of Araspan.
“Who comes before the Magisters of the Conclave of Adepts?” said Talvin in High Imperial, his stentorian voice booming off the walls.
Thalia bowed and answered in the same tongue. “I am Thalia of House Kalarien, an Adept by the Conclave by right of the Testing, daughter of Arthain of House Kalarien, a Magister of the Conclave.”
Thalia’s father stood to Talvin's right. Arthain Kalarien had the same bright green eyes as Thalia, but his grim face held not a hint of cheer or mercy. The Magisters tended towards plumpness as they aged, since they used astraljump spells to travel from place to place, but Arthain Kalarien, like Talvin himself, remained fit and lean.
“And who do you bring before us?” said Talvin.
“Rachaelis, of House Morulan, daughter of Aramane of House Morulan, a Magister of the Conclave,” said Thalia. “Before the Magisters of the Conclave, I declare that I have found her of worthy mind and skill, and do sponsor her for entry into the Conclave.”
“An Adept has sponsored for the Initiate,” said Talvin. “Will a Magister speak for her?”
“I shall,” said a soft voice with a Khauldish accent.
Magister Nazim hobbled towards Talvin, his cane rapping against the stone floor, white hair and beard a marked contrast with his dusky skin. “I have tutored the Initiate in the ways of the High Art, my brothers and sisters, and I have found to be keen of mind and strong of will.” He smiled. “And more, she has a kindly heart, and has mastered her fear.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Arthain, voice as hard as his face.
Talvin ignored the interruption. “An Adept has sponsored the Initiate, and a Magister has spoken for her. Then by the laws of the Conclave, I, Talvin, First Magister of the Conclave, do summon Rachaelis Morulan to undergo the trial of the Testing. Succeed, and you shall join the ranks of the Conclave as our beloved sister. Fail, and you shall surely die.”
“I am ready, First Magister,” said Rachaelis, her voice calm. She would not show fear before the Magisters. She would not.
“That is well,” said Talvin. “You will need that confidence. Remove your clothing.”
Rachaelis blinked. “Your...pardon, First Magister?”
“Each Initiate must face the Testing alone, armed and armored with nothing but your will and your magic," said Talvin. "And nothing else.”
“And some Initiates have tried to hide enchanted objects in their clothing,” said Arthain, “in order to cheat.”
“Here,” said Thalia, stepping to Rachaelis’s side. “I’ll help you.” Her voice dropped to a murmur. "We all did this. We survived. So will you."
Rachaelis managed to nod, and began to undress. She untied her sash, tugged out of her gray robe, and handed it to Thalia. The chill air raised goose bumps on her arms and legs. She stepped out of her shoes, the floor icy against her bare feet, took a deep breath, and then tugged her shift over her head.
It was freezing down here.
Thank the Divine, no one leered. The Magisters remained impassive.
“The necklace as well, Initiate,” said Talvin, his voice almost gentle.
“What? Oh, of course,” said Rachaelis. She had forgotten about it. With stiff fingers she tugged it over her head and gave it to Thalia.
Arthain’s frown deepened. “That is a silver rose, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Rachaelis.
“A symbol of the Temple of the Seeress?” said Arthain.
“It is,” said Rachaelis.
Arthain grunted. “It hardly seems meet to me, First Magis
ter, for the Conclave to admit an Initiate with such…superstitious religious convictions.”
For a brief, desperate moment, Rachaelis hoped the Magisters would send her away.
“We have discussed this, Arthain,” said Talvin, a hint of irritation in his voice. “An Adept may believe whatever he chooses. So long as he survives the Testing.”
“Very well,” said Arthain, still frowning.
Talvin turned back to Rachaelis, his voice resuming the stately cadence of formal High Imperial. “You will now undergo the Testing, Initiate. But to understand the Testing, you must know of the purpose and history of the Conclave of Adepts.” He lifted his ceremonial staff. “Of our purpose, and our founding.”
He rapped the butt of the staff against the floor, the echoes booming, and Arthain stepped forward.
“Know this, Initiate,” said Arthain. “Fifteen hundred years ago, the mages of the Old Empire embarked upon folly. For they sought to reach into the astral world, to summon the demons that dwell there, to use the powers of the demons to augment their own.”
Talvin rapped the staff against the floor, and Nazim stepped forward.
“Know this, Initiate,” said Nazim, leaning upon his cane. “In their folly, those mages shredded the border between the mortal world and the astral world, and loosed the demons upon mankind. The Old Empire fell in blood and horror, and even to this day, if a corpse if left unburied for a sunrise and a sunset, a demon will enter into that corpse, and raise it up as a ghoul.”
Talvin rapped the staff, and a woman stepped forward. Mauriana, the Magister in charge of Initiates.
“Know this, Initiate,” said Mauriana. “But not all mages joined in this folly. Some fled westward before the doom, and settled at last upon the Isle of Aras. Here they formed the Conclave of Adepts, to stand forever vigilant against the powers of demons and dark magic.”
Talvin struck the staff against the floor, and a blocky man with an oft-broken nose stepped forward. Magister Jonas, who commanded the Swords of Araspan.
“Know this, Initiate,” said Jonas. “The Conclave alone guards the world of men from the powers of the demons. The Conclave alone stands vigil against the darkness beyond the world. The Conclave alone can defeat those who turn to dark magic, who loose their powers against their fellow men. And it is the Conclave alone that has mastered the High Art, that preserves the secrets of magic passed down from the first days of the Old Empire.”
Talvin himself strode forward, stopping a few paces from Rachaelis.
“As an Adept, you must master the High Art,” said Talvin. “As an Adept, you must stand vigilant against the forces of dark magic, against the forbidden powers. And as an Adept, you must defeat the demons of the astral realm. You must prove that you are strong enough to bear this responsibility.”
“Or I will die,” whispered Rachaelis.
“Or you will die,” said Talvin. “And you cannot turn aside from this Testing, Initiate. You have magical talent. You may either master it, or it shall destroy you. If you feel you cannot face the Testing, then we will kill you here and now. The death shall be quick and painless. You may choose this, if you wish.”
Rachaelis lifted her chin, her teeth chattering from the cold. “I…I will go, Magister. I will take the Testing. Let’s…let’s get on with it already.”
Thalia nodded, and Nazim smiled, and Rachaelis thought she saw a glimmer of satisfaction in Talvin’s eye.
“As you will,” said Talvin. “Follow.”
He beckoned, and the rows of the Magisters parted. Beyond them, against the far wall, stood a curved stone arch. Within the arch Rachaelis saw the pale, silvery flicker of a waiting astraljump spell. If she stepped into that arch, the astraljump spell would take her…elsewhere.
“Pass through that arch,” said Talvin, “and the Testing shall begin.”
Rachaelis nodded, shivering.
“Pray to your god,” said Arthain. “If you think that will help.”
Rachaelis took a deep breath, let her arms fall to her sides, and strode towards the arch, looking neither left nor right. She would not show fear. She would not show fear.
She prayed anyway.
Then she stepped into the archway, and the silver light reached up to take her.
Chapter 4 - The Banishment
Corthain awoke before dawn.
He had gotten into the habit while still a homeless mercenary, guarding caravans and petty merchants as they traveled from city to city. Even now that he had wealth and power, he still awoke before dawn. There was no reason not to, after all.
He walked to the window and threw open the shutters. The docks bustled with activity in the predawn gloom. The loading and unloading of cargoes never stopped in Araspan. He could not see the Ring, but he remembered how it looked at dawn, strong and grim. How some mornings he had hidden, hoping to avoid his father. How he and Thalia had played games, before their father had taken her to the Ring to become an Initiate...
Corthain blinked, shook his head.
Enough. He had more important things to worry about than the ghosts of his past. The people of his domnium, for one. He had sent Luthair to speak with the seneschals of the city's lords and prominent Adepts. Soon he would negotiate with them.
But first, he needed to clear his head.
His sword leaned next to the bed, within easy reach. Corthain drew the blade, both hands around the hilt, and moved into the Lion At Rest. Then into the Striking Serpent and Opening The Veil. A shift in his stance, and he moved to Harvesting The Wheat and the Tailor’s Needle.
He had practiced his sword work every day for over twenty years, ever since his father had earmarked him for a career in the Conclave’s Swords. After his banishment, he had practiced with veteran mercenaries, with Callian knights and peasants, with Khauldish masters and Saranian courtiers. Finally he had met an Orlanish swordmaster who had taught him the Forms, the swings and thrusts and parries used by the swordmasters of the Orlanish court.
Even now that he was a domn, he kept up the practice.
As the fight with the Jurgur thugs had proven, only a fool let his skill with the blade lapse.
After an hour, Corthain had gone through every Form three times, and his face and chest dripped with sweat. The Silver Coin Inn had pipes and hot water, and Corthain scrubbed the sweat away. Afterward he dressed himself in his usual black coat and white shirt. No doubt his father would have been scandalized. A proper Araspani noble did not dress himself, but relied upon a body slave.
Corthain smiled at the thought of his father’s displeasure, buckled on his sword belt, and left the bedroom. The rooms he had rented included a dining room, and some of his guards and porters sat around the table, eating breakfast. Morwen saw him coming, and hurried over with a plate and mug.
“Breakfast, my lord,” said Morwen.
“Thank you, Morwen,” said Corthain, sitting down.
“These Araspani,” said Morwen, shaking her head. “Beer for breakfast. It is most inappropriate. Mixed wine is better.”
Corthain shrugged and took a bite of bacon. “It’s not surprising. There’s enough farmland on the Isle of Aras for wheat and pigs, but not for grapes. So there’s bread and beer for breakfast, but not wine.” He took a drink of the beer. He had not had Araspani beer for years, and the taste brought back a welter of memories. “We could have whiskey for breakfast, if you’d prefer.”
Morwen sniffed at the thought and walked away.
“She’ll be in a foul mood all day,” said Rikon. He sat nearby, tearing at a loaf of bread.
“For a woman who started as a camp whore, she’s developed a remarkably sharp sense of propriety,” said Corthain.
Rikon snorted. “Women do, after they get married. You’ll understand, once you find a wife.”
Corthain shook his head. “The first time I met her, she was chasing a pig outside of our camp. Do you remember? When we were in Orlanon, chasing off those raiders.”
“Aye,” said Rikon. “It
made for a fine roast, as I recall.”
“My point is,” said Corthain, “the woman once followed a mercenary company around the countryside, and she’s now worried about the propriety of beer for breakfast?”
“But she’s the domn’s steward now,” said Rikon, flashing one of his rare smiles, “and you’re the domn now, not just a mercenary captain. Things are different.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Corthain. “But the wine we’ve brought is to impress the seneschals and the merchants, and not for us. So, beer for breakfast.”
“Sensible,” said Rikon.
“Is Luthair back yet?” said Corthain.
“No, my lord,” said Rikon. “No one’s seen him since yesterday.”
“I expected that,” said Corthain, finishing up the food. “I need to write some letters. Keep an eye out for Luthair, and bring him to me at once if he shows up. Also, keep watch over the warehouse. The locals might try to steal our wine casks. The porters and maids have leave to do what they want today. But don’t let them go wandering in the city alone. No one is to leave the inn without a guard.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Rikon. “It shall be as you say.”
Corthain finished the beer and returned to his bedroom. He dug paper, pen, and ink out of his baggage and settled down to write. Yesterday he had sent Luthair out with twenty-five letters, addressed to the seneschals of the various lords and Adepts he thought might prove amenable to his wines. Now he started to write the same letter, over and over again, to different seneschals. His domnium produced some of the finest wines in Callia, indeed in all of the West. Both rare wines to sate the most refined palate, and cheaper wines of the highest quality…
“You ought to hire a secretary, my lord.”
Corthain looked up to see a grinning Luthair walk through the door, a mug of beer in hand.
“The Araspani nobles consider it an insult to write a letter of introduction in something other than one’s own hand,” said Corthain.
“Ah,” said Luthair. “Well, outlanders have all sorts of queer customs.”
“You were speaking of letters?” said Corthain.
The Third Soul Omnibus One Page 3
