She looked up. The road before her was littered with the bodies of magicians.
As the last of the magicians fell, Tagin turned to grin at her. He beckoned. Obediently she followed him into the city. The people of Imardin shrank back, watching the lone figure and his sister. Indria thought back to the apprentices who had sought her brother out, traitors seeking to join him and thereby save themselves.
“You would give your lives to my cause?” he’d asked.
“Yes,” they’d assured him. So he’d taken what they offered, wiping their blood from his knife onto their robes.
As he turned into King’s Parade a chill of foreboding shivered through her. He was not heading for the Guild, he was heading for the palace. Somehow that realisation stirred up an emotion deep within the emptiness and she faltered. It briefly pushed away the numbness and after a moment of confusion she realised what she felt was anger.
“When you and I rule the world...” he had said to her, playing their familiar game. This was his plan all along. All the talk of changing the Guild has been a lie.
No. He was merely heading to the palace because he knew that was where the magicians would be. Tagin looked over his shoulder at her. His eyes gleamed with mad eagerness, but as he looked at her it faded and changed to concern.
“Are you well, sister? Am I walking too fast for you?”
She felt her heart lift a little. There was still good in him. She managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
As he turned back she let the chill in her heart numb her doubts and held onto a hope that had shrivelled and shrunk, but somehow refused to wither away entirely.
Record of the 235th Year.
My worst fears have come to life. Today Tagin killed Lord Gerin, Lord Dirron, Lord Winnel and Lady Ella. Will it end only when all magicians are dead, or will he not be satisfied until all life has been drained from the world? The view from my window is ghastly. Thousands of gorin, enka and reber rot in the fields, their strength given to the defence of Kyralia. Too many to eat, even.
Thousands of people are leaving the city while Tagin is too occupied with establishing control in the palace to stop them. The Guild is all but empty. Aside from a few brave magicians, we have all fled to safer locations to wait and observe. Some are planning to leave Kyralia. I am undecided. Should I leave the country and take this record with me, or stay and continue in my duty to document these events? Some would reason that the Guild is finished so there is nothing more to record. But we are not all dead yet.
Gilken, family Balen, House Sorrel, Record-keeper of the Magicians’ Guild.
The carriage bounced and swayed as Gilken put aside the record book. The driver had been instructed to get them all as far away from the city as possible, as quickly as possible so, once the vehicle had passed all the people fleeing the city on foot or in carts, it had sped up. The combination of speed and the rougher country roads made writing impossible.
His fellow passengers, two female magicians and one male apprentice, were silent. Along with me, a grey-haired old man, we are hardly a formidable force. He thought of the rest of the Guild members, now scattering across the country: mostly the older or younger magicians, a handful of women—and far more apprentices than magicians, since so many had lost their masters.
Though two hundred years had passed since the Sachakan War, the Guild’s Kyralian membership hadn’t reached the number of magicians that had existed before the war. Now, even if Tagin was somehow defeated and all surviving magicians returned to the Guild, it would take many more years to replace those that had been lost to the Mad Apprentice.
Not to forget the emptied villages and towns. And however many Imardians Tagin killed in future to keep himself in charge of the country. But I suppose he’ll have to keep some alive, otherwise he’ll run out of people to take power from. He’ll keep the ones with the greatest latent magic as slaves, most likely. Gilken shuddered. Maybe it is better that I am leaving. I’m not sure I’d be able to bear recording it all.
“They have what?”
The old servant flinched at Tagin’s anger.
“Left, my lord.”
“Where did they go?”
“I don’t know. They took carriages and headed in different directions. Some to the south, some to th—”
“Good,” Tagin declared. “If they’ve split up, they won’t be coming back to fight me any time soon.” He moved back to the throne and sat down. “I want a list of all the magicians that left.” Tagin narrowed his eyes at the man. “I know you’ll try to hide some. For every magician I learn you’ve left off the list I’ll...I’ll kill a member of your family.”
The man nodded. “I understand.”
Tagin looked away, his expression thoughtful. “I also want everyone in Kyralia to know that any magicians that are found are to be sent to me. And their apprentices. Let it be known that no magician is allowed to use higher magic to strengthen themselves.”
“I will summon the street callers,” the man murmured.
“Thirdly, I want all the books in the Guild sent here.” Tagin pointed to one of the courtiers he’d selected, after reading their minds, to serve him. “My assistant will go with you to make sure you don’t hide any.” He waved a hand. “Go.”
The man bowed and backed away. Tagin ignored him, reaching for his glass of water.
Indria watched from a chair that had been placed beside the throne for her. As Tagin drank, a memory flashed into her mind of a glass goblet full of clear water that had tasted faintly of rocks. Of Lord Arfon.
“There’s a spring in the Guild grounds,” he told her. “The water from it is the purest you’ll ever drink. It is piped only to this building and to the Royal Palace—and in the palace it goes first to the king’s rooms.” She had told Tagin about the spring, but not about its location in the Guild, and he had decided to only drink from this safe source.
“Oh, that’s right.” Tagin looked up at the retreating man. “Stop! I have another instruction. Send me the Guild records. I want to know what’s been said about me.”
The servant bowed again, then hurried out of the entrance to the audience chamber. Indria felt a pang of sympathy and sighed.
“Are you well, sister? You look pale.”
Indria looked up to find Tagin looking at her, and shrugged. “Just tired.”
He considered her thoughtfully. Since taking over the palace he had insisted she stay by his side. She told herself he was being protective, but sometimes she detected an old, familiar mood of suspicion and distrust. Worry grew like a tangled knot inside her. She knew that mood. It had always been a dangerous one. In the past it had led to accusations of imagined slights against him and, when she was younger, beatings. Now that he had grown accustomed to killing with little hesitation, what would he do if he imagined she was betraying him?
Suddenly he smiled. “Go on, sister. This has all been exhausting for you. Rest and return when you feel better.”
Somehow she forced her weary legs to take her to the rooms Tagin had chosen for her. The beauty of the decorations and furnishings within the palace only made her more melancholy. As she reached the door to her apartment a guard held it open for her. She all but staggered through to the greeting room, relieved when the door clicked shut behind her. Then she froze.
A man stood in the centre of the room. She blinked at him stupidly for a moment. He was not a servant. He was familiar, but for a moment she didn’t recognise him because he wasn’t wearing his robes.
“Lord Arfon?”
He nodded. She glanced back at the door. Had the guard noticed the intruder? Surely if he had, he would have said or done something. Or did the guard know Lord Arfon was here and was helping the magician?
“Tagin will kill you if he sees you,” she warned.
Arfon nodded again. He gazed back at her, saying nothing but looking hesitant. As if he wanted to say something, but didn’t know where to start.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
> He swallowed. “To find out if there is anything that can be done.”
She looked down at the floor, realising only as the feeling faded that the sight of Arfon had lightened her heart a little.
“Nothing. Even if there was, it’s too late.”
“He trusts you.”
She looked at him. His eyebrows rose suggestively, even while his expression remained grim.
“I can’t do that,” she told him. “I can’t kill someone. Least of all my own brother.”
Arfon nodded, then sighed and sat down on the edge of one of the chairs. All the determination fell from him and he shook his head.
“I wish the world could have heard you say that. It is such a strange thing, that the sibling of the worst killer in history has the gentlest of natures. It is too hard to believe, for most people.”
She frowned. “What do they believe?”
He looked away. “That you are his ally. You are, aren’t you?” His gaze returned, and his eyes were now hard and judgemental.
I tried to stop him, she wanted to say. But that was a lie.
“I was never able to stop him, once he got something into his head,” she said instead. “Not when we were children. Not now.”
Arfon nodded, then rose and walked to one of the large paintings. To her astonishment, it hinged away from the wall like a door. Behind was a square opening. He paused and looked back at her.
“If you decide to do something, I will help you.”
Then he stepped into the hole, reached back and pulled the painting-door closed behind him.
Indria stared at the painting. She felt a strange disappointment. I wanted him to stay and argue with me, she realised. He accepted my excuse too easily.
But she had tried to stop Tagin. In her mind she heard the argument begin again. No. You haven’t, the quiet voice in the back of her mind replied. You could have stopped him many times. But you were afraid of what he’d do if you failed, or he escaped. You were a coward.
But he was her brother.
And your responsibility. What would have been worse: Betraying him to the Guild when he had only murdered a few, or letting him kill again and again until he became the monster he is now?
Her head spun. There was no point acting now. It was too late. Tagin was on the throne. Things could not get any worse.
Oh, yes they can.
He would have to keep killing to stay strong enough to repel attempts by the Guild to rescue the city. Or else he would enslave people so that he could take power from them, over and over.
Slaves. We’ll end up like the Sachakans. Only there’ll be just one master, my brother, and all Kyralians will be slaves.
There was nothing she could do.
Oh, yes there is.
Her mouth went dry as she thought of it. The solution had been there right from the start. She only needed the courage to use it. She walked slowly to the cabinet that held the few possessions she had carried these last months, and took out a small vial, paper, ink and a pen.
Nothing stopped her. She resolved to keep going until her nerve failed, or her conscience stopped arguing with her, and stilled her hands.
Some time later she found Tagin digging through a chest of dusty books in the middle of the audience chamber.
“Look!” he said as she approached. “Books from the Guild.”
She grimaced. “They smell old.”
“They are,” he told her. “This one is a record of the Guild magicians who ruled Sachaka after the war.” As he dug through them dust billowed up and he coughed. He waved a hand. “Get me a drink, sister.”
Her spine tingled as she picked up the goblet beside the throne and moved to the back of the room. The spring water was clear and cold. She filled the vessel and returned to Tagin’s side. As he watched, she raised the goblet to her lips and sipped.
Satisfied, he took the glass, drained it and handed it back to her. He selected a book and returned to the throne. She watched as he began to read. Then, as his eyes closed and his head began to nod she set her glass aside.
Moving to the throne, she leaned close as if to look at the pages. He swayed as he looked up at her.
“Sister,” he said, his eyes slowly closing and opening again. He let the book drop. “I am very tired.”
“Brother,” she replied. “I am, too. Lean on me. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”
She caught him as he fell and held him as his eyes closed. Slowly his breathing slowed and his lips turned blue. Reaching out to take her glass and drain it, she marvelled at how the taste of the drug was barely noticeable in the clear water, even when strong enough to kill.
Then her eyes were assailed by a flash of intense white, and a sensation too brief to register as pain.
A few weeks’ absence had not made the tower steps any easier to climb. This time Gilken had a burden to carry, too. The record book and writing equipment felt heavier than they had when he’d taken them out of the room. Finally he reached the last step, and the platform before the door. He stopped to gaze at the plain wood, and the plaque stating that this room was for the “Record-keeper of the Magicians’ Guild.” For a moment he was overwhelmed by emotion.
Taking a deep breath, he pushed into the room beyond.
There were a few signs of disturbance. Cupboards had been opened. A glass water jug had been smashed. The bed was at an angle, suggesting it had been moved. But the small, high table on which he always worked remained whole and in place.
He put his burden down on the table, then moved to the window. What he saw made his breath catch.
Though he had seen the ruins of the city as his carriage had passed through to the Guild, it had been a confusing jumble of stone and wood. Now, from the higher position, he could see patterns in the devastation. The explosion that had levelled so many buildings had fanned out from the palace. It had missed the Guild, instead smashing everything between the throne room and the docks. It was a terrible sight, but it stirred a guilty relief.
Tagin was dead.
So were thousands of people. Magicians and non-magicians. Lords and servants. Men and women. Adults and children. Either murdered by the Mad Apprentice, or killed when all the magic he had stolen had been released on his death.
Gilken stared at the view for a long time, until he could no longer bear the sight. He turned from the window and moved back to the high table. Taking the record book out of its wrappings, he placed it on the sloped surface. He returned the inkpot to its place and removed his pen from its carry case.
He wet the nib.
And began writing.
Record of the 235th Year.
It is over. When Alyk told me the news I dared not believe it, but an hour ago I climbed the stairs of the Lookout and saw the truth with my own eyes. It is true. Tagin is dead. Only he could have created such destruction in his final moments.
Lord Eland called us together and read a letter sent from Indria, Tagin’s sister. She told of her intention to poison him. We can only assume that she succeeded.
Did she know that killing him would release the power he contained? Did she know it would blast the palace and much of the city to rubble? Why did she support him despite all he did, only to turn on him at the end?
We will never know. It is likely we will see more stringent rules governing apprentices and the teaching of higher magic. Some have even suggested higher magic be banned altogether, though that would leave us foolishly vulnerable to attack. Still, Sachaka is no longer a threat and we are on friendly terms with our other neighbours.
One suggestion gaining support is to encourage magicians to dedicate themselves to learning and using magic for fighting and warfare in the same way that some of us do with magical healing. Perhaps then we’ll be ready for the next threat, and not repeat the many mistakes we made in dealing with the Mad Apprentice.
Change is certain. I suspect the effects of this tragic story will haunt us for many years to come, but I am starting to believe that
we will grow stronger and wiser as a result.
Good things can come from awful events, so long as we learn from our mistakes, and record what we have learned for future generations.
Gilken, family Balen, House Sorrel, Record-keeper of the Magicians’ Guild.
Otherling
Juliet Marillier
Juliet Marillier was born and brought up in Dunedin, New Zealand, and now lives in Western Australia. Her historical fantasy novels for adults and young adults have been translated into many languages and have won a number of awards including the Aurealis, the American Library Association’s Alex Award, the Sir Julius Vogel Award and the Prix Imaginales. Her lifelong love of folklore, fairy tales and mythology is a major influence on her writing. Juliet is currently working on the third book in the Shadowfell series, a story of tyranny and rebellion set in a magical version of ancient Scotland. When not busy writing, she tends to a small pack of waifs and strays.
It was a harsh winter, a season of slicing winds and ice-fettered waterways, of hunger and endurance. The days were always short in the shadow season, but this year dark seemed hungry to devour light. Bellies yearned for fresh meat; hearts ached for the sun’s blessing. The Songs told of the coming of seals, and sanctioned the killing of three: sufficient for a good feast for every man, woman and child of the Folk. Bard’s Singing set out how the hunting must be done. The men went masked, their leader garbed in the hunt cloak, soft and grey, shining and supple as if he himself were a seal. The spearing was prefaced by apologies and words of gratitude. Afterwards there was feasting, and oil for lamps, and the Folk took new heart. Now they might endure until the days began to lengthen again, and the first cautious leaf-swellings appeared on the wind-battered trees.
But Bard felt the rasping in his chest, his cough like a stick drawn over wattles, and he knew he had seen his last spring. He watched his student. She had been apt to learn: she could draw forth the pipe’s piercing keen, and conjure the subtle rhythm of the bones. By candlelight she summoned the voice of the small harp strung with the gut of winter hares. Its melody hung bittersweet in air: call and echo, substance and shadow. The girl had endured the days of fasting, the sleepless nights, the necessary trials by water and fire and deep earth. She had heard the Songs; had held within her the voices of the ancestors, a burden precious as an unborn child. All this she had learned. But she was young: perhaps too young.
Epic: Legends of Fantasy Page 53
