The conversation shifted and changed, sometimes informative, sometimes sad and often funny. When a slave came to announce the men were leaving Stara felt disappointment and realised she had been enjoying herself. And not just because I’ve been starved for company. I think I like these women. Which made it harder to know about their individual troubles. When she thought about their stories she felt anger stir deep inside. I do want to help them. But I have no idea how. I have magic, but what use is it here?
Magic couldn’t heal Chiara’s worn-out body, or rid Tashana of her disease. It couldn’t stop Sharina’s husband beating her, or stop Aranira’s lusting after another woman and contemplating murder. At this moment, magic seemed like a useless and pointless indulgence.
But it might discourage Kachiro from beating or trying to murder me, if he was so inclined, she thought. I wonder if I could teach Sharina and Aranira magic...
She followed as the women streamed out of the room, down the corridors and into the main meeting room. The men were on their feet, laughing at something. As the women entered they separated, moving to their wife’s side or beckoning their wife to join them. Kachiro slipped a hand lightly around Stara’s waist. He smelled of something sweet and fermented.
As the men began to voice their farewells, she forced her gaze to the ground. What she had learned about the other men made her want to stare at them. Then she noticed Chavori. The women had said nothing about the young man, except that he had recently returned from a journey to the mountains and would talk for hours about it if allowed to. He looked very drunk, she noticed. Even leaning against the wall he seemed unable to keep his balance easily.
She felt Kachiro stir. “What do you think of our young friend?” he murmured.
“I haven’t spoken to him.”
“But he is good-looking, don’t you think?”
She glanced up at Kachiro. Was this a poorly disguised test of her loyalty?
“He might be, if he wasn’t completely drunk.”
He laughed. “Indeed.” Looking up at Chavori, his eyes narrowed in assessment and approval. “I do not mind if you find him attractive,” he said, very quietly. He looked down at her again.
She looked back at him. His expression was expectant and curious. And, if she was reading him correctly, hopeful.
“I could never find him as handsome as you,” she told him.
His smile broadened and he turned away as Motara spoke his name.
What is he up to? she wondered. Is he testing me, or looking for a way for me to become pregnant? Does he have a reason to avoid siring a child?
She pondered this through the last of the farewells, on the way through the house to their wagon, and all the way home. During the journey she was acutely conscious of Vora clinging on to the wagon behind her. She itched to discuss everything with the slave. When she finally extracted herself from Kachiro’s company and retired to the bedroom, the information she’d planned to give spilled out too quickly and all jumbled together.
“Wait!” Vora exclaimed. “Are you saying he’s picked out a lover for you?”
“Not... exactly. He just said he didn’t mind if I found Chavori attractive.”
Vora nodded. “Ah,” was all she said.
“You don’t look surprised,” Stara observed.
“I have learned a great deal about your new husband’s friends and their wives.”
“About Sharina’s husband beating her, and Dashina’s having a taste for diseased pleasure slaves?” Stara asked.
“Yes.” Vora nodded. “And it’s no secret among the slaves that Vikaro wants to get rid of Aranira. They don’t like Chiara’s chances of living through this pregnancy, either.”
Stara sighed and nodded. “I thought my situation was bad, but now I can see that other Sachakan women have far worse lives.”
“They’re still better off than female slaves,” Vora reminded her. She looked away. “Cursed to be used for pleasure if beautiful, bred like animals if not. Their children taken and set to work too young. Girl children killed if there are too many already. Beaten, whipped, or mutilated as punishment, with no effort taken to find out if they committed the crime or not. Worked to death . . .” Vora drew in a deep breath and let it out, then straightened and turned to face Stara. “Or, worse still, handed over as a wedding gift to tend to the whims of a magician’s wife with no idea of Sachakan manners or her proper place in society.”
Stara made a rude noise. “You enjoy it. Admit it.” She paused. “How are your hands? I hope you weren’t stung too badly.”
Vora’s lips thinned, but Stara could tell she was pleased. “My hands will be a little stiff tomorrow. I have a paste for the stings.”
Yet Vora did not seem at all pained. Her movements suggested a repressed excitement. Stara watched the woman move about the room, restless and efficient.
“You seem unusually pleased with yourself tonight,” she remarked.
Vora stopped and looked up in surprise. “I do?”
Stara considered the woman’s expression. Was that surprise, or dismay? She couldn’t tell.
She shook her head. “So what should I do?” she asked. “If my husband does want me to bed pretty Chavori, should I?”
Vora’s expression became thoughtful. As the woman began to list the possibilities aloud, and their consequences, Stara felt an unexpected surge of affection and gratitude.
One day, she thought, I am going to repay her for all her help. I’m not sure how yet. I’d give her her freedom, but I’m not sure she’d take it. And besides, I need her with me.
She smiled. The best I can do for now is consider all her advice, and treat her as little like a slave as possible.
To Jayan it felt as if they had been travelling in circles. The last day had been a repeat of the same scene, over and over.
The army had risen at dawn, packed and waited while the leaders deliberated. Then a message spread that they would retreat further south-east towards Imardin. Magicians, apprentices and servants travelled west until they reached the main road, then continued on towards Imardin, setting a pace that always seemed both excruciatingly slow and immorally fast. Slow, because all were conscious of the Sachakan army following. Fast, because every step they took meant giving up land to the enemy.
Each time they passed through a village or a town, the occupants came out to greet them, awed at the number of magicians visiting their home but anxious about what it meant. They did not always take kindly to orders that they leave their homes and flee the advancing army. But most understood warnings that every person who stayed behind would not only be killed, but add to the enemy’s strength. People had begun to regard avoiding evacuation as an act of treachery, as bad as returning to steal from abandoned homes. More than a few times, Jayan observed villagers chasing down those who refused to leave, tying them up and throwing them into carts.
The magicians encouraged the villagers to collect what food and livestock could be gathered quickly and take it with them. They didn’t want to leave the enemy anything that could be eaten or provide magical strength. More important, we’ll need supplies to feed our people, Jayan thought. The Sachakans don’t have increasing numbers of ordinary folk to care for. They’ll probably manage to scrounge up enough food, but we aren’t going to make it easy for them.
Hearing a smothered sound, Jayan turned to look at Mikken. A glint of light reflected out of the corners of the apprentice’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” Jayan asked.
Mikken glanced at him. “Yes.” His jaw tightened, then he sighed. “We just passed the place my family used to visit in summer, when I was a boy. How much more are we going to let them burn and wreck?”
“As much as we have to,” Jayan replied.
“I can’t help wishing the king would hurry up.”
Jayan nodded in agreement. Dakon had told him the army would have to keep retreating until it met the king, who was bringing the last of Kyralia’s magicians with him. Jayan suspecte
d they might also retreat further in order to give the Elyne magicians, travelling down from the north to offer their assistance, time to reach them.
Looking ahead, Jayan saw that Tessia was riding beside Lord Dakon, as she had these last few days. It was to be expected: she was Dakon’s sole apprentice now. Jayan felt a tiny thrill. I am a higher magician now. Independent. In charge of my own life. Able to earn money in exchange for magical tasks.
A pity it had to happen in the middle of a war.
A new weight rested against his chest, within his tunic. He had no idea where Dakon had found the decorated knife he’d presented to Jayan as part of the ceremony. Blades of that style, with fine scrollwork along the handle, were usually made solely for the use of higher magicians, but where would Dakon have found a craftsman to do it, or the time? Had he been carrying it all along, anticipating that he would grant Jayan his independence soon?
Jayan considered the information Dakon had given him. Higher magic had been surprisingly simple to learn, once he’d stopped trying to work it out intellectually and consciously, and simply felt how it was done. But it would take some practice before he could use it efficiently.
Mikken had volunteered to be the source for Dakon’s demonstration of higher magic. Jayan had been glad it was not Tessia, as the thought of taking power from her had made him strangely uncomfortable. Yet he also found taking power from Mikken disturbing, too. It felt wrong to be sapping the strength of people he knew, even if it didn’t affect them physically.
When Mikken had then offered to be Jayan’s ongoing source, Jayan had fought off a strong reluctance to agree. At first he suspected he didn’t want to out of jealousy. He often saw Tessia and Mikken talking now, and couldn’t help questioning his resolve not to get too attached to her while Kyralia was at war. The only thing that kept him from refusing was the knowledge that, as a new higher magician, he was weak and vulnerable. He needed to build up his strength so he could fight in the next confrontation with the Sachakans.
But then, so did most of the magicians in the army. More than half of them had been exhausted by the confrontation with the enemy. The only consolation was that the enemy must also have depleted much of its strength, too.
If the conclusion of the next battle was decided by a race between the two armies to recover their strength, then the Kyralian side had the advantage. By removing as many sources of strength from the Sachakans as possible, they were preventing the enemy from recovering.
But we are doing no better than they. It’s taken all our time and persuasion to get the people to leave, leaving no opportunity to gain any power from them. None of the magicians wanted to round up the villagers and forcibly take their strength from them. Jayan kept hearing them muttering that they would have to find time to convince the people to co-operate later.
His attention was drawn to a rider who galloped past and pulled up alongside Werrin and Sabin at the front of the army. Recognising one of the scouts, Jayan watched as a short conversation followed. Then the rider steered his horse away.
He watched as information melted back through the army. One by one the magicians riding before him looked over their shoulder at those riding behind, lips moving. Narvelan turned to speak to Dakon. Then Tessia’s horse moved to the side of the road and slowed. She looked back at him.
Stop it, he told himself as his heart suddenly began beating faster.
“What are you scowling at?” she asked as she guided her horse in alongside his.
“I’m not,” he told her. “But everyone else is. What’s got them stirred up?”
Her brows lowered and she glowered at the back of her horse’s neck. “News has come that another group of Sachakans have been attacking villages in the north-west. They might have headed west to cut off the Elynes, or they may be taking advantage of the fact that the people in the western leys weren’t evacuated.”
“Oh,” he said. He opened his mouth to say more, then realised he had nothing to say that wasn’t obvious or didn’t involve cursing. Not that Tessia wasn’t used to cursing. But he wasn’t about to break a long habit of avoiding it around women just because she was used to it.
They continued in silence for a while. “Sorry,” she said eventually. “I keep forgetting to call you ‘Magician Jayan’.”
“So do I,” Mikken inserted quietly.
Jayan looked from one side to the other, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re my friends. I’d rather nothing changed between us.”
Tessia looked up at him, her eyebrows rising. “Really? Nothing?”
“Yes.”
“How wonderful.” She looked across at Mikken. “I guess that means he wants to continue to be as rude and annoying as ever.”
Mikken laughed, then, as Jayan shot him a glare, covered his mouth.
Jayan turned to her. “If I have been rude I apologise. I do believe, as a higher magician, I have an obligation to . . .” He stopped. Tessia’s eyes were bright with humour and anticipation. Relaxing, he allowed himself a rueful smile. “Yes, I promise to be as rude and annoying as before.”
She sniffed with disappointment. “You were supposed to promise to not be rude and annoying.”
“I know.”
“Hmph!” She urged her horse forward, leaving him and Mikken behind as she returned to Dakon’s side.
“You two are like old friends, or brother and sister,” Mikken said. Then he added: “Magician Jayan.”
Jayan stopped himself from wincing. But I don’t want us to be. Curse this war! Sighing, he resolutely set his gaze on the road ahead.
CHAPTER 37
Towards the end of the day, reports of the distance between the army and the king grew more frequent. At first both forces were on the road, closing the gap between them steadily. Then news reached them that the king had camped outside Coldbridge. He would wait for them to arrive. Dakon could not help feeling annoyance that the king was giving up more ground to the Sachakans, probably for the convenience of having a town nearby to service the army.
But it made sense. The army servants were exhausted. Several were ill and were travelling in a cart. With all the best food served to the magicians, some of the servants had cooked meat kept too long after slaughter for themselves. Two had died, and neither the guild healers nor Tessia had been able to help.
“What water or sustenance we give them goes straight through their bodies,” she’d told him. “We’ll see more of this, if we begin to run short of food.”
It was incredible that she could mend a broken back, yet was helpless to stop simple gut sickness claiming lives. Refan had the advantage of magic giving him resilience, though. Tessia’s description of sensing magic repairing Refan’s body had fascinated Dakon. It confirmed what all magicians had long believed without any proof, except the observation that they lived long, healed fast and were resistant to disease.
A murmur among the magicians and apprentices around him brought his attention back from his thoughts. Looking ahead, he saw what the others were remarking on. A town lay ahead, houses dotted along each side of the road.
Coldbridge. Spread before it were lines of tents and wagons, with tiny figures roaming about the space between them. The king and the rest of Kyralia’s magicians, he thought. Which should increase the size of our army to just over a hundred.
At the centre, beside the road, was a large tent striped in the colours of the king’s family. Already a crowd was gathering around the tent, no doubt in expectation of meeting the advancing army.
The pace quickened and the sound of voices rose around Dakon. He glanced around, noting the excitement and relief in the expressions of magicians and apprentices alike. Tessia, however, was frowning.
“What are you worrying over, Tessia?” he asked.
She looked up at him. “I’m not sure. Every time we gain more magicians we have to teach them so much. Not just Ardalen’s method, but not to wander off, or who’s in charge. Do we have the time, this time?”
; Dakon looked at the tents ahead and considered. “We may have to give up more ground in order to gain the time we need.”
She nodded. “There is another thing I’ve been wondering about.”
“Yes?”
“Lord Ardalen taught us how to give power to another magician. He died at the pass. Would the Sachakan who killed him have had the chance to read his mind and discover the trick?”
Dakon shook his head. “Mikken said his master was killed instantly, once his shield was overcome.”
She grimaced. “I guess we should be thankful for that.”
He sighed. “Yes, I guess we should. Though . . . I’m not sure a Sachakan would have paid much attention anyway. He or she would not have known the significance of what he saw, since we hadn’t fought them in direct battle at that time. If a Kyralian magician were captured now, however, I’m sure their mind would be thoroughly searched.”
“Let’s hope they don’t get the chance, then.”
The front of the column had reached the edge of the field of tents now. All fell silent as the leaders of the army approached the king’s tent. Dakon saw that a line of three men stood waiting. He recognised the young man standing at the centre. The two men on either side of King Errik were magicians more than twice his age, regarded as two of the most powerful and wealthy men in Kyralia.
Werrin and Sabin signalled for the army to stop several paces from the king. Slowly the long column widened as magicians and apprentices gathered before the tent. Then, as all movement ceased and sounds quietened, Werrin and Sabin dismounted and bowed, and the rest of the army followed suit.
“Lord Werrin,” King Errik said, stopping before them. “Magician Sabin. My loyal friends and magicians. It is good to see you again.” He grasped their arms in turn, then straightened and faced the army, raising his voice. “Welcome, magicians of Kyralia. You risked your lives to face our enemy, responding quickly and bravely to the country’s need. Though the first battle was lost, we are far from beaten. We have the rest of Kyralia’s magicians with me, bar those too feeble to ride and fight. We are now one army, and as such we must ready ourselves to face the enemy with our full strength. We have the assistance of magicians from other lands.” He turned and gestured towards five men standing nearby. Dakon saw, with surprise, that two were tall, well-tattooed Lans and the other three were of the less imposing Vindo race. Between them stood Magician Genfel, looking pleased with himself.
Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 00] - The Magician's Apprentice Page 45
