by T. A. Miles
“Looking for your colleague?” Grisch asked, making it sound more like Merran was his cohort in something wicked. It was fast becoming apparent that the man was not particularly fond of mages.
“No,” Korsten said in reply. “Actually, I was looking for something in the way of a library. Do you have one here?”
Grisch took a forkful of his food, shrugging while he chewed. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Something in the way of one. It isn’t much. What do you need it for?”
Need was the key word. Korsten needed a library. He needed books. Studying was the only way he’d ever managed to relax and organize his thoughts. Rather than explain that to Captain Grisch, he said simply, “I like to read.”
Grisch broke a tiny smile. “Lars mentioned to me that you were an aesthetic. I suppose you slept uneasily in our coarse linen? Felt too much of a draft last night, did you? Will you be having your evening wine spiced and warm, then? Perhaps you’d like to leave a list for the person attending your room. I’m sure he’ll have a good laugh with the other lads on cleaning duty.”
Korsten was offended. In the past, he’d have demanded an apology from his inhospitable host. Now, at the strangely young age of fifty-three, he said calmly, “That was unwarranted, captain. I did not come here looking to exchange sharp comments with you.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I—”
“You’re being assigned to outer defenses for the time being. You’ll find Lars waiting for you at the north gate as soon as you’d like to find yourself there.”
Korsten left without inquiring further about the library or asking where Merran had been assigned. Doubtless, wherever the other mage was he would be looking for traces of the Vadryn. Korsten determined that he would do the same while simultaneously studying the keep’s outer defenses. He didn’t really know anything about battle—he’d had no experience—but he’d read enough accounts of past campaigns to know the difference between successful and doomed, he believed. The outpost already had the advantage of position. There was only one practical route to the fortification, and that was the road … straight through Lilende.
Stopping at a window within a stairwell, Korsten looked out at the terrain below. Lilende wasn’t even visible through the trees, but it was there … just like Haddowyn was. If the Morennish army had ever gone there in force, Haddowyn would have been ravaged. Of the soldiers there, the majority had resided on the manor grounds and without question all of them had died in the slaughter that took the town’s governor and family. The constabulary had a handful of capable men to put with what troops were stationed throughout Haddowyn, but they could scarcely be considered soldiers. Undoubtedly circumstances were the same at Lilende. If the Morenne come, those people will all be killed. Grisch doesn’t seem interested in protecting the townspeople, just this outpost. Perhaps he plans to evacuate them. However, as large as this place is and as empty as it seems, there isn’t any way the entire population of Lilende could fit up here. And how would they know when to come? Will the Morennish army provide any warning to them?
Korsten lifted his gaze to the horizon, which appeared deceptively tranquil this morning. They are coming. Taking this outpost is the first step to finally crushing the remaining forces of Edrinor. The Seminary will be next. They have to be stopped here. If Grisch’s attitude is any indication as to how the rest of the troops feel … morale has to be improved or there isn’t a chance at turning Morenne back. That means the mole or the demon, or both, will have to be rooted out.
Korsten found Lars at the north gate, where Grisch said he would be. The aging soldier greeted him as politely as he had before and a tour of the outermost wall followed. The men on guard duty regarded Korsten with various expressions of curiosity, uncertainty, and in a few instances awe. Korsten didn’t particularly care for their notice, no matter how respectful or even praising some of it may have been. He wasn’t used to such attention, not on such a large scale, and he didn’t like it. He preferred solitude, isolation, dealings with individuals, one to a few at a time, certainly not several all at once. He was especially unnerved by the entire line of soldiers who all but fell out of formation trying to get a better look at the stranger suddenly in their midst, who was not only unknown to them as an individual, but quite strange as well. Dressed completely in white with very dark red hair that he couldn’t justify leaving down in such damp, warm weather, he must have been quite the spectacle. He’d gone without the jacket as well and his arms were exposed … his very slender arms that adequately let onto the fact that he was not a soldier, or anything near to one. At least he wasn’t behaving too eccentrically. He’d always been poor with traditional masculine behavior, but he’d always just acted withdrawn or indifferent and no one seemed to notice much. Actually, it hadn’t been an act. Not before the Seminary. Though Merran hadn’t deliberately said as much, he was right in what he was suggesting on their journey here; nearly three decades of living without restrictions at the Seminary had spoiled him. He couldn’t dress and carry himself as he did there and honestly expect no one to think anything of it. Of course, not everyone would automatically suspect what to many of them would be the highest order of insult to any male. Perhaps if he let them think he was a tad off kilter … or somewhat of a fop, there wouldn’t have to be any incidents of degradation or otherwise ill behavior.
Lars seemed to come to that conclusion all on his own, telling Korsten more than once that he was ‘a strange one’. The friendly connotation on strange seemed to imply a different way of thinking in general, and didn’t necessarily have anything to do with personal preferences where matters of intimacy were concerned. Overall, it wasn’t so intolerable, spending the day with Lars, meeting several of the soldiers stationed at the Lilende outpost, studying the fortification inch by orderly inch. Korsten personally didn’t see what Captain Grisch was worried about. The keep appeared to be in solid shape and the troops didn’t seem to be lacking in skill or discipline. Their overall morale did appear a bit low, but Korsten was sure he sensed an elevation of spirits after speaking to some of the men. The Seminary had sent help. If there was a demon in their midst, most of these men believed that the mages who had come to them would find and eliminate it. Most of them believed that mages did nothing else, that they were more hunters of the Vadryn. With someone like Merran, that was very close to accurate, but there were others from the Seminary’s ranks who concentrated solely on the war with Morenne and others still who gave all of their attention to the political restoration of Edrinor, particularly in the way of tracking down any possible blood relative to the late king. Such a person would be a symbol to the masses at the very least, helping to unify the remaining powers of their shattered country. Unfortunately, such an individual would quickly become a target of both Morenne and the Vadryn. The Seminary would be the safest place for them, but not the best place from which to reach out to the people. Korsten’s interest in this matter and his deep knowledge of Edrinor’s history promised him a future in that particular line of mage work, but not yet. He had too little experience to do much of anything specific or on his own right now. Ashwin decided that it was best for him to assist Merran. To learn how to handle the Vadryn by themselves before piling on too many added responsibilities, like locating and protecting a potential heir to Edrinor’s vacant throne. Even before that, he would likely find himself tracking down potential mages of any bloodline and escorting them back to the Seminary if they were willing. Waiting for them to be called by the powers within them was taking too long and the Seminary was in dire need of replenishing its numbers since the attack that killed such a large number of them.
“I’ve seen Morenne’s magic users working their craft against soldiers,” Lars was saying. “I’ve seen them cast an entire battlefield in fog, and somehow give unnatural sight to the Morennish soldiers.”
“Did you have a mage with you then?” Korsten asked and watched the senior warrior shake his head. “Well, if
you had had one, he or she might have been able to counter the mist. In fact, they probably would have had no trouble. Morenne has nothing like the Seminary, so far as I’m aware. They’ve no system to their magic. Their magic users are simply borrowers, tapping into various sources, needing to replenish themselves constantly. Don’t mistake me, Lars. We need to replenish ourselves as well, but it’s more like having to eat. The Essence was born into us, and never leaves us. There are simply times when a little extra nourishment is required. We can go long periods without and by focusing on areas of the Spectrum where our talents are strongest, we don’t waste energy on spells we’re not personally suited for. Those we are suited for become less effort and more instinct, thereby increasing the potency and effectiveness of the spell.”
Korsten hadn’t realized he’d attracted a small audience, until a young guardsman asked, “What do you mean by that, Master Korsten?”
“Can you show us something?” someone else requested.
“Well … show you something?” Korsten smiled a little at the curious soldiers. It was getting on evening, so it seemed appropriate to work a Lantern spell with some quick and simple finger work.
Like children, the soldiers who’d never been in the presence of a mage made various sounds of awe or amusement.
“This is a very minor spell,” Korsten explained, the teacher in him emerging instinctively. “It requires virtually no concentration and it doesn’t tax me in the least. Summoning the light by gesture is as simple to me by now as speaking a simple phrase, one I don’t even have to think about, that I just know. The spell is canceled as easily.” A simple twirling motion of his right hand proved that and Korsten added, “A wild mage, on the other hand, might be able to cast the spell easily enough if he’s well-studied, but he may have to use it sparingly in order to save some of his borrowed energy for later uses. So, getting back to Lars’ comment about an enemy magic user enshrouding an entire battlefield; the individual would probably have spent a great deal of energy in the casting as well as the sustaining and, once a mage with natural talent and many more years of training dashes the spell, he may not have the time or the stamina to summon it again.”
“And the demons?” someone asked innocently. “What of them?”
Demons … the Vadryn … Areld, Markam … Ren…. “Master Mage,” the youthful soldier prompted.
Korsten pulled himself out of the trance he was falling into and put on a quick smile. “Well, a Lantern spell isn’t going to scare them away, but they’re not invincible. They can be stopped.” His expression fell helplessly. “The souls they torture can be released.”
They can be. You can be saved, Ren. Time is all that stands between us now. When the time is right … I’ll save you.
Hours after nightfall, someone tapped at Korsten’s door, drawing him out of his glum ruminations. He hadn’t planned to return to his room and plant himself in the window sill, where he proceeded to stare and think, but he couldn’t help himself, just as he couldn’t help the trace of a smile that came to his lips when he looked toward the door at Merran, entering. “You’ll never change, will you?”
“You should be keeping this locked,” the other mage advised.
Korsten shrugged a bit. “I meant to, actually, but I got to thinking … and … well, I don’t think that I got much accomplished today. And I don’t think that Captain Grisch likes me at all.”
Merran came further into the room, closing the door behind him. “Captain Grisch thinks that you carry around an intolerable air of superiority.”
“My, but he reads people well, doesn’t he?”
“Korsten, be serious,” Merran admonished. Korsten didn’t like that for some reason and gave his gaze back to the night sky. Merran continued to talk. “The fact of the matter is that Grisch doesn’t like you. I don’t think he cares much for either of us, to be frank, but you especially seem to irritate him.”
“Perhaps I remind him of someone he had an unpleasant experience with,” Korsten suggested, not really caring. Why should I give a damn what Grisch thinks of me?
“Perhaps,” Merran said. “Maybe it’s your noble blood he resents. It’s obvious that you’re from higher stock than most of the men here. Grisch is no peasant, else he wouldn’t hold the rank that he does, but maybe he’s disenchanted with his peers and doesn’t need you reminding him of the lifestyle he left behind him.”
“Maybe he needs to learn to judge individuals rather than groups,” Korsten argued, frowning at his view of the forest that hid Lilende. “But then I suppose that he still wouldn’t like me. There’s nothing to be done for it. I have to be here and so does he. We’ll just have to avoid getting under one another’s skin as much as possible.”
“Here’s a side of you I haven’t seen for several years,” Merran commented, drawing a sidelong glare from his colleague. The dark-haired mage came closer to the window. “Is it being away from the Seminary that causes you this upset?” he asked, and then discreetly touched a finger to Korsten’s bare arm. “Or … is it something I’ve done?”
Korsten lost his frown and leaned back against the window’s frame to escape the other man’s touch. “You’ve been distant, Merran,” he noted, perhaps irrelevantly. It didn’t matter, except that…. “Sometimes I feel as if I left the Seminary alone.”
“There is work to be done,” Merran said. “I’ve had my mind on it since we left. I’m used to being alone when I….”
Korsten slid his gaze at him without meaning anything by it. He just wanted to look at a face he knew.
Matching his gaze, Merran finished what he wanted to say. “I didn’t think about how you would feel. I apologize.”
“I’ll have to get used to working alone, won’t I? Eventually.”
Merran nodded. “There are too few of us.”
“Yes, there are,” Korsten replied. And then, as it occurred to him, he said, “Ashwin blames himself. He believes that it’s somehow his fault, what happened at Vassenleigh all those years ago.”
Merran’s expression indicated discomfort just then, with the topic, not the individual. “Ashwin made a decision.”
“The wrong decision?” Korsten asked, gently, seeing and knowing Merran’s respect for the Mage-Superior.
Merran gave his blue gaze briefly to the floor. When he looked up again, he said, “He made the better of two bad choices. And that’s all I’m inclined to say about it.”
“Ashwin never speaks of it,” Korsten continued, still in a quiet tone. “Just like he never speaks of Sharlotte. Where do you suppose she and Lerissa are now?”
“I can’t say,” Merran answered.
Korsten lifted the corners of his mouth in a smile that was somewhat forced. “Did you know I believed that you and Lerissa were lovers at first?”
“We weren’t,” Merran said, not embarrassed, not really much of anything.
Korsten’s nodded. “I know. I’m curious, though, as to why you don’t have someone.”
Merran allowed his gaze to travel outside, toward the distant blackened horizon. He lifted one shoulder, as if that were sufficient answer.
“Well, no one’s tried to kill me since Sharlotte,” Korsten pressed. “So I know that I didn’t steal you for my own selfish purposes. Still, there must be someone….”
“There is no one,” Merran told him, firmly.
Korsten stopped smiling. There was not much behind it, so it was easy enough to drop. “Forgive me,” he said after a moment.
“You haven’t said anything wrong,” Merran answered. “I’m simply not interested in this conversation. If we have nothing else to discuss concerning our task here, I’ll say goodnight.”
Korsten shook his head, confirming that he had nothing else to add. He watched his friend leave, seeing Eolyn flutter after him, then mumbled, “Goodnight, Merran.”
“You’re very beautiful … I’ve a
lways thought you were beautiful … I’ve listened to you with him … I wish that I could be him … I want to hear you sigh….”
Korsten cried out in momentary panic, and opened his eyes to perfect darkness. In a moment he realized it was night and where he was. He relaxed a bit by forcing himself to draw a deep breath. It escaped quicker than he intended, but he still felt better.
“A dream,” he whispered to no one. In a moment he lifted his hand toward his face, pushing his hair back from his brow, feeling warm sweat on cold skin. He hadn’t dreamt about Markam since the demon controlling the boy attacked him thirty years ago. Why did it feel like yesterday? How could time be so much different now? How could a flower alter a life so drastically? How could a boy become a beast?
Rolling onto his side, Korsten closed his eyes again. It’s blood. The blood is the connection, between our bodies and our souls. It gives life to the body and carries the essence of our souls in its current. Each time we bleed we lose a little more of ourselves. We are nothing without it, but a husk. When it becomes tainted, so do we. It’s blood. That’s what makes us what we are.
It’s blood…. The cycle of thought repeated itself in his mind, eventually lulling him back to sleep.
Korsten rose early when morning came. After a session of indulgent stretching exercises, he decided to abandon his bedroom and wound up in the rather simple dining hall provided to the keep’s soldiers. It seemed clear to him that the only way he was going to be able to tell whether or not any of the men were especially untrustworthy or maybe under the influence of a demon was to mingle with them. If Merran had a similar idea, he was going about it differently, for he was nowhere to be found anywhere Korsten had ventured during his exploration of the outpost. Perhaps Merran anticipated the type of reception he would receive.
Several of the men stood from their seats at the first table Korsten came to, as if he were royalty … gods, or a woman. For that reason Korsten was quick to invite himself to an available space on the nearest bench and the soldiers lowered themselves back down before too many others could notice why they’d risen. He was used to admiration, but not like this. This bordered on worship and he could do well without it.
