The Spirit Mage (The Blackwood Saga Book 2)

by Layton Green

  Right before Mari’s murderer crunched head-first into the cobblestoned street, Val stopped his descent and flipped him around, letting him crash land hard but alive. His legs broken, the man screamed and pulled himself to the side of the street, casting fearful glances up at Val.

  Two more of the black-sashed gypsies burst onto the roof. Val blew them back with a Wind Push. Nearing the end of his energy reserves, he slipped on the Ring of Shadows and flew off into the night. Unsure what to expect after the first act of premeditated violence in his life, he realized he didn’t feel satisfied, or guilty, or relieved.

  He just felt cold.

  Val collapsed onto the rooftop of Salomon’s Crib. After catching his breath, he climbed down the collapsible metal ladder into the kitchen, then descended the pantry stairs into the cellar.

  He needed a drink.

  While Val felt nauseous in the aftermath of the encounter, it was not due to the fate of the gypsy leader who had killed Mari and who knew how many others in cold blood. In Val’s mind, the man had deserved to die, and Val had cut him a break. At least he wouldn’t be walking the streets any more.

  He entered a cellar lined with casks of real ale, the temperature cold enough to keep them preserved. Val had no idea how Salomon kept the cellar cool, or maintained a cellar at all in a city with an average elevation below sea level.

  But the underground cellar was the least of the mysteries swirling around the arch spirit mage.

  After gulping down a mug of ale, Val leaned on the wall with his free hand—and felt the wall move.

  He jumped back, watching as the wall performed a slow rotation, stopping at a forty-five degree angle to reveal a hidden room. After dragging a cask of ale over to block the new doorway, in case it decided to close on him, Val stepped inside, curious but wary.

  The rectangular room, two hundred square feet at most, was made of rough stone. There was no furniture, but hanging from the walls on short wooden hooks were hundreds—if not thousands—of silvery-blue keys about the length of a smart phone.

  Keys that looked exactly like the one Will had described receiving from Salomon, and which had transported the brothers to Urfe.

  Upon closer inspection, Val noted that each of the keys had long blades with serrated edges, similar to keys back home. And each of them had a different cut.

  Val took a step back, the implications tightening his stomach. Was each of these keys a portal to another world? Had Salomon made them all?

  Just before he left the room, Val noticed a plaque hanging above the secret passage. In my Father’s house are many dwelling places.

  The phrase sounded familiar. As he refilled his mug and climbed the stairs to the kitchen, Val tried to recall where he had seen it. Then it hit him, causing him to stop and grip his mug.

  The phrase was a verse from the Bible.

  What the hell?

  Val paced the kitchen, thoughtful and unnerved, then climbed to the rooftop again, feeling the need for a dose of fresh air. As his head broached the lip of the trapdoor, he saw an old man with wispy gray hair watching him climb, causing Val to miss a step and spill his beer.

  Dressed in a worn tweed coat and stained white dress shirt, looking for all the world like a disheveled college professor, Salomon’s silver eyes glittered as he watched Val climb the ladder.

  “Such a pleasant evening, eh?”

  “Shut up,” Val said. “Take me to my brothers.”

  “My my, so different from your siblings, aren’t you? How do you rate my ale? I spent a good bit of time with the Trappist monks in the seventeenth century, you know. The seventeenth century of your world, that is.”

  “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Ah . . . yes . . . well . . . the thing is, as I told your youngest brother, I have decided not to be an active participant.”

  “A participant?” Val snarled. “Participant? This isn’t a game, you crazy old man. I’m stuck in a barbaric fantasy world, I don’t even know if my brothers are still alive, I just broke the legs of a man who killed my friend—” Val put his palms to the sides of his head and squeezed his eyes shut—“What are those keys doing in your cellar? They’re portals to other worlds, aren’t they? Are you God, Salomon?”

  Salomon laughed, and then started coughing. “God? I? What an absurd notion. I—” a wave of sadness crashed across his features, and his eyes drifted, as if he had gone to another time or place. “No, my boy, I am hardly God.”

  Val remembered the story Alexander had told him, about a legendary two-thousand-year-old spirit mage named Salomon who traveled the multiverse looking for two things: his lost son, swept away by the astral wind; and proof for the existence of God.

  Val walked to the edge of the roof, crossed his arms, and stared out at the city. He had so many questions he didn’t know where to begin, and he knew Salomon was toying with him, playing at some game Val couldn’t begin to fathom.

  “Do you know where the entrance to the Planewalk is?” Val asked, knowing that he did.

  Salomon didn’t answer.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to find it. If I live through the trial, I’ll attempt to take the Pool of Souls to my brothers.”

  “You aren’t ready,” Salomon said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Val said, still not looking at him. “I have to help them. Unless you’d like to? I know you can, if you want to.”

  More silence.

  “Can one of the keys in the basement get us home, if I bring them back here?”

  “You have already utilized that key.”

  Val turned. “Then make another. But you won’t, will you? Not unless it suits your purposes, which it obviously doesn’t, because for some reason you want us here, don’t you?”

  Salomon’s eyes were sad.

  Val took a step closer. “You know that son you lost? The one who’s driven you to stay alive for a few thousand years and travel the multiverse trying to find him? The unbearable sadness you feel, the guilt? The rest of us can feel that, too, Salomon. I feel that, for my brothers. Just so you know.”

  “No,” he said quietly, “you are not like them at all. You’re more like your father.”

  Val turned away, the sight of the black-sashed gypsy’s legs crunching into the ground flashing through his mind like a splice from a horror film. “My father was a wise, kind, and gentle man. He was nothing like me.”

  “My boy, your father was all of those things. You saw the side of him he wanted you to see, as all children do.”

  “I suppose you knew him?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Val snorted. “What don’t you know?”

  Again the mournful eyes. “Many things. Many.”

  “What is magic, Salomon?”

  The silver eyes twinkled. “Sorry?”

  “What is it? Where does it come from?”

  Salomon’s eyes went distant, like an absent-minded professor working through a problem. “I’ve performed quantum-wave brain scans which have isolated the region of the interdimensional cortex activated during the use of magic. It is the same area triggered by psychic phenomena on your world. Wizards born on this world, of course, have a much greater capacity to harness this power. Yet these scans, advanced as they might seem, are limited. Psychic phenomena is far too simplistic an appellation for what is occurring. The source of magic lies deeper still, emanating from an . . . unknown . . . source. What exactly magic is and from where it originates, why mages possess different affinities and have varying levels of power, I’ve not yet discovered.” He blinked. “Does that help?”

  “No,” Val said. All he had gathered was that even Salomon didn’t understand the true nature of his power. That’s why they call it magic, Val supposed. “So what do you want?”

  “Your father once stayed here, you know. In the very room in which you now reside. In fact, he left something for you, in case you ever happened to find this world and decided to undertake a magical education of your own. Your father, of course, a
lso studied at the Abbey.”

  Val pressed his lips together. “What did he leave me?”

  “Before you rest tonight, check the floorboards underneath your bed. But, my boy—” Salomon stared at Val, the elder mage’s overgrown eyebrows curling like tongs under the sloping forehead, his strange eyes reeling Val in with the mesmeric power of a snake charmer—“since your father is not here, and I feel some duty to his legacy, I believe I should repeat my advice that you are not ready for the Planewalk.” The eyes drew closer, enlarging, making Val feel as if he and Salomon were occupying the same space. “Not as you are.”

  It took an effort of will, but Val jerked his gaze away, glancing down at the orb-lit streets of Uptown, a maze of golden-hued canals.

  When he looked back up, Salomon had disappeared.

  -48-

  When Will woke the next morning, he spotted Yasmina sitting alone by the river, legs crossed and wringing out her hair. As he approached, a badger gnawing on a root at Yasmina’s feet glanced up and bared its teeth at him.

  O-kaaay.

  She calmed the badger, then gave Will a warm smile and greeted him as if it were normal to have a wild badger for a companion over morning coffee. He chatted with her for a few minutes, happy to see her animated and trying to probe the nature of her new powers, but she kept deflecting his questions. He suspected she might not even know.

  Before they left camp, Tamás told the troupe who he was, which caused a great commotion. After an impromptu celebration at the return of the leader of the Revolution, the entire camp gathered to see the party off, stuffing clothes and food and supplies into packs, and thrusting them at Tamás.

  As Will and the others made their way out of town, the villagers stared at Lisha and muttered, causing her to shrink into her cloak. Caleb put his arm around her, and the rest of the party glared back at the townspeople.

  Three days to the Valley of the Cursed, the gypsies had said, and the trail was hard to miss: when the twin ranges come into view, head for the pass that divides them.

  Will had asked Tamás about the valley. A place of last resort, the revolutionary had said. Home to freaks, genetic mutations, the creations of rogue menagerists. A place where the lost, the insane, and the criminal live out their lives apart from accepted society. We might pass through the Valley of the Cursed unmolested, or we might have to fight our way through.

  The alternative? Will had asked.

  The alternative was a month long journey to the next closest Rider outpost, through lands infested with trolls, tuskers, roving gangs of slavers, and who knew what else.

  The group opted for the quicker route.

  Rested and well-fed, the party’s spirits increased as the morning wore on. Despite the looming dangers, they had overcome so much that it was hard for Will not to feel optimistic. Back when he had longed for adventure, sitting in his Papasan with only the heft and mystery of a polyhedral die for company, this was exactly what he had dreamed of: strapped with gear, traipsing through an old-growth forest with air so fresh it felt alive, an illusionist and a rogue and a couple of trained fighters by his side, on their way to the Valley of the Cursed, no less.

  He allowed himself a few minutes of pure, unadulterated pleasure at the thought, because he believed in wallowing in the pleasures of life, and then he reined himself in.

  Keep it real, buddy. Keep it real or you’ll end up with your head stuck on a pike, as dead as Hashi and Fochik and Alexander and Charlie.

  Oh, Charlie.

  He missed his godfather dearly, almost as much as he missed Val. Two anchors for his life that this world had taken from him. Not to mention Mala and Dad, neither of whom Will could think about without feeling a lump in his throat.

  After making camp the first night, an hour before dusk, Tamás drew Will aside. “I promised to assist with your training, if you still have an interest?”

  “You bet.”

  They retrieved their weapons and cleared a space near the tents. After a quick sparring session to assess Will’s abilities, Tamás began to instruct him in classic Romani swordsmanship: an elegant style full of sweeping strokes of the blade, clever parries, and circular foot movement. Though Will recognized some of the core principles from Mala’s teachings, the execution was night and day. Mala preached economy of movement, pure and simple. Everything she did, every half-step and twitch of the blade, was designed to maximize positioning and damage.

  Will had seen Tamás in action, so he knew the style worked, but he also knew he was not in the presence of genius, as he had been with Mala. It made him wonder where she had gleaned her knowledge, and how much of it was her own amalgamation of styles.

  “You learn fast,” Tamás said when they took a break, both of them exhausted by the effort.

  “My first teacher was very gifted. I didn’t deserve to be her pupil.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Her? And who was this extraordinary swordswoman?”

  “Her name was Mala.”

  Tamás paused with his water skin halfway to his lips. “Surely you don’t mean the Mala? Of the Kalev clan?”

  “Um, I guess. Short, hot, long scar from her nose to the top of her forehead? Extremely dangerous and a bit intense?”

  Tamás’s eyes widened. “How did you come to be taught by Mala?”

  “It’s a long story. Do you know her?”

  “Aye,” Tamás said with respect, though Will sensed an underlying layer of animosity.

  “You two weren’t . . . .”

  Tamás laughed. “No, no. Though I appreciate a spirited woman, I also prefer to keep my head on my shoulders.” He leaned on his sword and returned to his water skin. “Mala is Romani royalty, my friend. The daughter of the Catalan clan leader.”

  “Why did she . . . leave her clan?”

  “Her parents—most of her immediate clan—were killed in a raid near Londyn. A raid ordered by the Congregation.”

  “Ah.”

  “I’m unsure of the details, but Mala was very young when she was orphaned, and had to fend for herself on the streets.”

  “You don’t seem too fond of her,” Will said.

  Tamás shrugged. “She wants nothing to do with the Revolution. She turned her back on her people.”

  “Maybe she just wants to be left alone. It sounds like she had a pretty horrific childhood.”

  Tamás finished drinking and picked up his scimitar, locking gazes with Will. “We no longer have the luxury of choosing to be left alone, Will Blackwood. Not anyone who chooses not to bow to Lord Alistair.” He spat, and then attacked with a vengeance. Will fought back as best he could, but Tamás knocked him down, and stood with his sword pointed at his chest.

  Will tensed, but Tamás helped him to his feet, his eyes full of passion and warmth. “You should consider such things, my friend. We’re in desperate need of good fighters for the cause.”

  The next morning, the party passed through a series of small villages. Whenever a townsperson noticed Lisha, they started muttering and making finger signals as if warding off evil spirits. Will could tell it was starting to bother the poor darvish woman. He tried to ask her how long she planned to stay with them, but either the language barrier was too great or she chose to avoid the question. She seemed content to follow along behind Caleb.

  After lunch, the forest curved around a hill and they got their first glimpse of the Valley of the Cursed: a sliver of green on the horizon, poised between two jagged mountain ranges. The party spent a moment in silent contemplation of the sight, then pressed forward.

  As evening approached, they found themselves traversing a broad meadow with a stream running through it. Yasmina stopped to shield her eyes from the sun, then announced the approach of a group of humans. Will assumed the owl-tipped staff had something to do with her enhanced vision.

  To be safe, Tamás hurried them off the trail and into the woods surrounding the meadow. Will peered between the trees and watched a line of people in gray caftans pass, walking single f
ile beside the stream. All bore the same marking: three bright blue dots forming a triangle on their foreheads.

  “Followers of Devla,” Tamás said in a low voice.

  “Who?” Will asked.

  “While gypsies worship many different deities, they are all manifestations of Devla, the one true God.”

  “The god of vengeance,” Dalen muttered.

  “The god of all things,” Tamás corrected, “vengeance among them. While gypsies are not known for their piety, the Devlan take their religion seriously. Especially since the rise of the Prophet.”

  “Every world has its crazies,” Caleb whispered to Will.

  “The Prophet?” Will echoed, unable to help himself. He couldn’t stand being in the dark.

  “Has his name not spread to the north?” Tamás asked. “It seems to have spread everywhere else.”

  Marek grunted. “Aye.”

  “We don’t get much news in our village,” Will said.

  “Long before the Realm was established, Devlan prophecy held that the Prophet would herald the arrival of the Templar—the fist of Devla—a true cleric who will lead our people out of bondage.”

  “Lucka, history is full of charlatans claiming to be the Prophet,” Dalen added, “but there hasn’t been a true cleric in the Realm since the Pagan Wars. And the Congregation, of course, despise the Devlans and claim there has never been a true cleric.”

  “Aye,” Tamás said. “Tis no secret that Alistair wishes to eradicate the order.”

  “Are you afraid of them?” Will asked. “Is that why we’re hiding?”

  Tamás shifted to get a better view of the approaching people. “Unless they are protesting wizard rule, the Devlans are known to be kind and gentle, and seek only the peaceful spread of their religion. They can be unpredictable, however, if they feel their god has been slighted.” He glanced at Lisha. “I’m unsure how they would react to our darvish friend.”

  Will peered more closely at the line of people as they exited the meadow. “They look more like refugees than warriors.”