Morvash nodded.
“What will it cost?”
“Oh, I can’t put a price on it in coin. I’ll have to earn it.”
“What? Why?”
“That’s how the Guild works, Uncle—if I need to learn a spell from another wizard I can trade one of my own spells for it, or I can pay for it with labor, but I can’t pay cash. We aren’t allowed to buy and sell the knowledge of how to perform spells.”
“Why?”
Morvash turned up an empty palm. “I don’t know, Uncle. Some of the Guild’s rules don’t make any obvious sense, but they’re still the rules. There was probably a good reason for it a couple of hundred years ago.”
“And how will you learn it, once you have the formula?”
“I’ll practice it until I can work the spell reliably.”
“But it won’t be reliable at first?”
“Probably not.”
“So you’re proposing to experiment with dangerous magic you don’t really know, here in my home? In a mansion I am responsible for, but do not own?”
“Well…yes.”
Gror slowly shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“Uh…what?”
“Morvash, I can’t stop you from doing whatever you please—you’re a grown man and a journeyman wizard, and I’m not your father or your master. But I can forbid you to do it here. You’re going to need to find your own place. I don’t want you blowing holes in the walls, or turning my guests into spiders, or whatever.”
“But…but this is where the statues are!”
“You’ll have to take them somewhere else to cast your spells on them.”
“But…” Morvash stopped. He had been going to say that Lord Landessin’s family might object to seeing their property carted away, but if he succeeded they would be losing the statues anyway, and his uncle had said something about the heirs giving permission to sell off parts of the collection. He bowed his head. “Very well, Uncle. I can see the logic in your position. I’ll find another place.”
“Thank you,” Gror said. He smiled sadly. “You know, I do appreciate that you’re trying to do the right thing and help out these enchanted unfortunates, but I hope you haven’t underestimated the risks.”
“So do I,” Morvash replied.
“What’s the next step, then? How do you go about learning the spells you need?”
Marvash had not really thought that through yet. “Well, I’ll have to ask around until I find a wizard who can teach me,” he said.
“There isn’t some spell you can use to find the wizard you need?”
Morvash smiled wryly. “Actually, there is such a spell—in fact, there are several such spells—but I don’t know any of them, so I’ll need to do it the old-fashioned way and ask other wizards.”
Gror nodded, then paused. “How do you go about that, when you’re new in town? Do you just walk along Wizard Street asking the shopkeepers at random?”
Morvash pursed his lips. “Actually, I…well, I was thinking I would ask people I knew back in Ethshar of the Rocks, but that won’t work, will it? I’m forbidden to go back. So I may have to do exactly what you suggest. I may do better, though, by talking to the nearest Guildmaster. He probably knows.”
“Ah. You said you would want to let him know you were in town, as I recall. Who is the nearest Guildmaster?”
Morvash sighed. “I don’t know. But I’ll find out.” He looked down at his empty plate, then wiped his fingers on his robe. “I could go do that now, in fact.”
“At this hour?”
“Why not? It’s unlikely he’d already be asleep.”
“You would know better than I. But how will you find him?”
Morvash waved a hand. “I’ll manage. I have a spell that should serve.” He declined to explain further.
* * * *
A few minutes later he was strolling down Canal Avenue.
He had refused to explain because he found his method slightly embarrassing. He did not, in fact, have an actual spell that would locate a Guildmaster. Instead, he planned to use his athame’s natural sensitivity to wizardry. He had his hand clamped tightly on the hilt, and as he walked, he felt for the faint tingling that indicated the presence of magic. That would, sooner or later, lead him to a local wizard who could advise him.
Not all wizards were sensitive to the presence of other magic, but he had discovered early in his apprenticeship that he had an inborn talent for it. He had cultivated it ever since, doing what he could to enhance his athame’s inherent response, even though his master had thought it was a waste of time. One reason to do his exploring in the evening was that darkness made it easier to see the glow when his athame reacted to nearby magic.
He had headed down the street to the north simply because going downhill was easier, and it was only after he had gone a block or two that he realized—if he remembered his lessons about the city’s geography correctly—that the Wizards’ Quarter lay in the opposite direction, to the south. Or maybe the southeast, but certainly not north. Undoubtedly wizards lived throughout the city, though, or at least in the wealthier areas, so after a moment’s hesitation, he continued as he had been going.
There were few other pedestrians about, even though the street-lamps were lit; the weather was unseasonably cool, and most people clearly preferred to stay indoors. That suited Morvash. The people he did see did not pay any great attention to him; he drew a few glances, but nothing more.
One of the green-skinned, froglike little creatures called spriggans followed him for a few yards, but when he turned and shouted at it, it fled into an alley and did not pursue him further.
After another block, he sensed something ahead and to his right. He hoped it wasn’t just some wealthy merchant’s talking gatepost or animated teapot. He picked up his pace.
If it was a rich man’s toy, it was a very powerfully enchanted one; the awareness of nearby wizardry grew stronger as he continued down Canal Avenue, and by the time he turned right he was sure that he was approaching the locus of multiple spells. He thought he might have passed some minor magic along the way, but if so, those enchantments had been drowned out by the massive concentration of power ahead.
He wondered what street he was on; he had not yet learned his way around Ethshar of the Spices, and no one seemed to use street signs here. Not, he reminded himself, that they were common back in Ethshar of the Rocks, either, though there were a few here and there.
He crossed another north-south street, one narrower and not quite as steep as Canal Avenue, then spotted what must be his destination. It was a gray stone house near the end of the north side of the next block, and two gargoyles were perched on the cornice at the top of the facade.
That might not have been definitive; after all, even though he had not yet seen any others in this city, back in Ethshar of the Rocks a great many of the larger houses and other buildings were ornamented with gargoyles. These gargoyles, though, had turned to look at him. Apparently they were as sensitive to his efforts at detection as he was to their inherent magic.
Nor were the gargoyles the only magic he felt here. That gray house reeked of magic. Morvash smiled; any place fraught with that much wizardry had to be home to a Guildmaster. He would be able to report his presence in the city and inquire after anti-petrifaction spells all at once. He picked up his pace, pushing his athame back into its sheath as he reached the unknown wizard’s house.
The gargoyles watched him, but remained at their posts. They said nothing as he stepped up to the door and knocked.
Immediately after knocking he noticed the bell-pull; embarrassed, he decided to wait and see whether anyone had heard his knock.
Someone had. A voice like nothing he had ever heard before, reminiscent of stone grinding on stone, spoke from somewhere above him
.
“What do you want?”
Startled, Morvash looked up to find one of the gargoyles had moved from its perch to crouch almost directly above him. It peered down, wings spread.
“I’d like to speak to the Guildmaster,” he said, hoping that he had not misjudged the situation.
“Who are you?”
Morvash smiled. This was a Guildmaster’s house! “My name is Morvash of the Shadows,” he said. “I wanted to introduce myself and bring a certain matter to his attention.”
The gargoyle shifted and folded its wings. “Maybe you have the wrong house. My Guildmaster is not a ‘he.’”
“Ah! My apologies,” Morvash said. “I used a spell to locate the nearest Guildmaster, and did not concern myself with the details. I would very much like to bring my concern to her attention.”
The gargoyle shook itself. “I will let her know you are here, Morvash of the Shadow.”
“Shadows, plural. Yes.”
“You wait.”
Morvash did as instructed and waited as the gargoyle withdrew onto the roof, out of sight.
Morvash looked around at the surrounding homes. This was clearly a wealthy neighborhood, but he saw nothing to indicate any of the other residents were magicians. What should he make of that? He glanced up at the remaining gargoyle; it was watching him. He read nothing in its stony expression.
Then, just as he was beginning to wonder how long he should wait, a woman in a white robe door opened the door and said, “I’m Ithinia of the Isle, the senior Guildmaster. Come in.”
Even back in Ethshar of the Rocks, Morvash had heard of Ithinia of the Isle. She was said to be one of the half-dozen most powerful wizards in the Hegemony. He had not expected to find anyone quite so famous, but he was not about to say anything about that. He did not want to risk offending her.
Morvash bowed and followed as the woman led him into the house.
Chapter Four
Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice
15th of Harvest, YS 5199
Darissa had not really expected to hear anything more from Prince Marek; she had written a brief polite letter expressing her gratitude for his assistance and thought that would be the end of it. Yes, he had taken an interest in her, but surely it had only been a passing fancy. He had almost certainly moved on to some other girl.
She was astonished, therefore, to see him once again leaning on the oak. At the sight of her he straightened up.
“Darissa,” he said. “You didn’t say when you might come to the castle.”
“I didn’t… I’m an apprentice. My time is not my own.” She knew this was misleading at best, since Nondel did not care what she did with most of her time, but she could think of no other excuse. She had not thought for a moment that the prince would really care whether he ever saw her again—she knew well that men could be intensely interested in any pretty girl they happened to notice, and then forget about her once she was out of sight. She had assumed that she had been just such a whim for Marek, but here he was.
“I would not have thought Nondel was such a tyrant,” Marek remarked.
Darissa stared at him. He knew her master’s name, though she was fairly sure she had not mentioned it. Had it been in her letter, perhaps? He was also suggesting he knew Nondel’s reputation, and from what she could feel of his thoughts, that was the truth.
He was watching her, and she could feel his lust—but also concern and gratitude and warmth and a host of other emotions that far outweighed simple desire. He really cared about her. He even admired her. And his intentions were about as honorable as could be asked of a healthy young man.
She glanced back at the door of the house. She had no particular duties or obligations at the moment; she had already attended to her basic morning chores. “I could… Perhaps this afternoon…” Then she took a deep breath. “Or right now, if Nondel doesn’t mind.”
His face lit up in a smile. “That would be wonderful!”
“Let me ask,” she said, ducking back inside.
Nondel was standing in the front room, and before she could say a word, he said, “Go ahead. It never hurts to be on good terms with the royal family.”
Darissa blinked and nodded, then turned to go—but as she did, an uncomfortable thought struck her.
Technically, it could hurt to be on good terms with the royal family, if carried far enough. It was forbidden for any member of any royal family to personally perform magic; that was one of the handful of edicts of the Wizards’ Guild that applied to people who were not members of the Guild. There were a few special cases where magicians could hold power, as they did in Klathoa, but those were all in places where there was no royal family.
Legally, the Wizards’ Guild had no authority to tell other people what to do, but pragmatically, they were wizards and could do pretty much as they pleased. There were undoubtedly limits to what rules they could enforce without provoking violent opposition, but most people agreed with them that combining political and magical power was dangerous, so that particular demand was widely accepted, and no one would protest too loudly if a magic-working king was assassinated by some sort of spell.
Or if a witch was prevented from marrying into a royal family. Even if that prevention was lethal.
But it was obviously far too soon to be thinking about such things. And she had no reason to think Prince Marek would ever want to marry her. He was more likely to consider her a brief indulgence before he married some surplus princess to cement an alliance.
She didn’t find that idea especially unpleasant. One of the biggest advantages of being a witch—one she had never considered before starting her apprenticeship, since she had not yet hit puberty at the time, but which she had come to greatly appreciate—was that her magic could prevent any sort of infection and keep her from getting pregnant. A dalliance with a handsome prince could be enjoyed for its own sake, without any great risk.
Of course, even that might be getting ahead of herself. They had hardly met and had yet to really get to know one another.
She smiled at Prince Marek as she emerged from the house. “Lead on, your Highness,” she said.
He smiled in return and offered his arm.
The castle was, of course, located atop the highest hill in central Melitha, but since Melitha was located on the broad coastal plain of the northwestern Small Kingdoms, that was not saying very much. It was, in fact, the only real hill in the kingdom, rising a good fifty or sixty feet above the surrounding farmland; legend had it that the kingdom’s name, which derived from the Old Ethsharitic word for “struck by lightning,” had originally applied only to the hill, as its height had made it a prime target for storms blowing in from the Gulf of the East.
Now, of course, the castle had various magical spells and devices defending it from lightning; kings could not use magic themselves, but they were always free to hire wizards or other magicians to serve their needs. These protections had allowed Melitha’s rulers to build a very impressive fortress, one that towered over the capital.
As Darissa and Marek approached, the young witch looked up at it appraisingly.
From the foot of the hill the curtain wall was largely hidden by the surrounding homes and shops, but the battlements rose a story or two above the rooftops, so that they could see the turrets and crenellations that adorned the structure. The keep was, in turn, mostly hidden by the curtain wall, but its slate roof and corner turrets were visible.
And the central tower rose up from the keep, thrusting at least a hundred feet into the air, its strange metal cap gleaming in the sun. Darissa didn’t know what sort of magician was responsible for that shining summit, but it was known to have great protective powers. Lightning had reportedly struck it any number of times, but it remained completely undamaged, and since its completion lightning had never hit
any other part of the castle, nor the surrounding town—it seemed to somehow draw all the storm’s power into itself, away from the rest of the kingdom.
Darissa wondered where all that power went; as a witch, she knew that natural energy was never destroyed, only absorbed or dissipated or transformed.
She had seen the castle many times before, of course; when the leaves were off the trees the great tower was visible from Nondel’s kitchen window, and she had spent plenty of time in town. She had never been inside it, though. She allowed Marek to escort her into town, past the market and up Castle Street, past the bakeries and wine shops to Castle Square.
She had been that far before, but now the prince led her up the right-hand stair to the raised platform above the inner end of the square, where half a dozen soldiers in the king’s livery were standing guard—or standing, at any rate; they did not seem to be particularly attentive about guarding anything.
All of them simply watched as she and Marek walked up the steps; no weapons were drawn, no challenges issued. As they reached the top step, the nearest guardsman nodded politely and said, “Good morning, your Highness.”
“The same to you, Arra,” Marek replied. “Is your wife feeling better?”
“Somewhat, your Highness. I’m sure she’ll be fine in another day or two.”
“Let us hope so.” He glanced at Darissa, and she knew he was wondering whether he should ask her to take a look at the sick woman. She shook her head slightly. If the soldier wanted to hire a witch, he was free to do so, but she did not want to intrude. He did not sound particularly worried about his wife, and she sensed that he did not want to trouble the prince with personal problems.
The guards were stepping aside, clearing a path to the stone bridge that led across the dry moat to the castle gates. Marek strolled on, and Darissa followed.
The bridge was broad, but Darissa ambled over toward one side to look down at the fifty-foot drop onto jagged rocks. Then she hurried to catch up to Marek, who waited for her with an amused smile.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 4
