A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback

by Mitchell Hogan

  “I heard his mother was a witch. And even you have to admit that a stone house burning to the ground is odd.”

  “Well it must have had a shingle or thatch roof, with wooden beams and such. Caldan was lucky he was out feeding their goats at the time or he would have died as well. Though he was the one to find them, poor thing.”

  “Hmmm,” Yasmin said, coughing into her hand. “But you have to agree he is a loner and doesn’t go to any effort to make friends. Marlon doesn’t think he’s quite right in the head. He doesn’t, and I don’t, want you getting hurt, that’s all. Caldan may be intelligent and good at crafting and Dominion but I think you may be making a big mistake.”

  “I’m not in love with him, if that’s what you’re worried about. He deserves a chance. I believe in him and think he could become a remarkable person. He is true of spirit and has a good heart. That cannot be said of many people nowadays.”

  “Well, I’m glad you know your own mind about this. Just try not to…” She broke off as the door opened.

  Caldan entered bearing a platter with an assortment of sliced fruits and clutching a skin of wine. Bare feet slapping as he crossed the room, he put the tray on a waist-high table near the fireplace. Not used to having one person to entertain, let alone two, he was obviously ill at ease, hovering too close sometimes and at others completely ignoring them when he analyzed the game. Jemma picked at a piece of pear and looked at him.

  “I have not worked out a way to escape your clever little ambush. I guess you’ve won.”

  “Yes, sorry,” he said.

  Yasmin rolled her eyes at Jemma.

  He grinned, the rare smile transforming his face. “It was a good trap, though. I’ll have to remember it for another time. If you had seen my strategy a few moves earlier it would have been much closer.”

  “Some of the masters have said you might surpass them one day, not as gifted as the famous student Kelhak but certainly exceptional.”

  “No one could be as good as Kelhak,” said Caldan, shaking his head. “I’m sure he’s a myth.”

  Yasmin munched on a piece of pear she had snared from the plate, licked her lips and shifted in her chair, maneuvering closer to the wineskin. “What’s in this, Caldan? I could use a good drink after watching you two battle it out. The monotony was getting positively dreary.”

  “Yasmin,” warned Jemma. “You know how you get after one glass of wine. We wouldn’t want our friend Caldan to think you’re a drunkard, would we?”

  “Oh, one sip can’t hurt. Besides, that night I think I ate something which made me sick.”

  Jemma stepped over to the table and scooped up the wineskin before Yasmin could reach it. Breaking the seal, she took a quick swallow, eyes closing in delight as the taste hit her tongue.

  “My, my, Caldan. Where did you get this? You mustn’t waste your good wine on us, we’re not worth it.”

  Yasmin reached for the skin. “Speak for yourself. I for one fail to see why we shouldn’t drink good wine when it’s being offered for free.”

  Caldan looked down and smoothed a crease in his shirt. “It was another gift from a friend. I wouldn’t be able to drink even half of the skin by myself so I thought you two would appreciate a taste.”

  Jemma hesitated then stepped over to him and looked him in the eye. “Another ‘friend’ who had a problem and needed someone to help them?”

  “Yes. It was something small. For some things the city guards are… restricted. Sometimes a different approach is needed to solve a problem.”

  Exasperated, Jemma glanced at Yasmin, who sat there, eyebrows raised. She blew out a breath of air.

  “How long have you been doing this?” she asked. “And what problem is it that the city guard can’t deal with?”

  “Nothing. People with problems, that’s all. The guards have to have proof before they can act.”

  “What, and you don’t?”

  “No, it’s not like that. Some things I can see better, that’s all. I’m more observant than them. I see patterns a few steps ahead. It’s what I’m good at. Sometimes I have to act before the guards can be alerted, but mostly I can find a solution to a problem and the guards do the rest…mostly.”

  “So you work for the guards?”

  “No. People ask me to do things when they haven’t got enough proof to go to the guards. And they give me whatever they can for my crafting services. Silver ducats, food, wine, whatever they can spare. Although some families do not have much, so I try not to take anything from them.”

  Jemma walked to the game board, picking up a rose quartz piece carved in the shape of a strange furred creature with wings. Sometimes she didn’t understand Caldan. He was willing to take time out from his limited studies to help people less fortunate than himself when it could lead to expulsion. Perhaps living with the monks for so long, some of their attitudes had taken root in him.

  “Even if it’s not against the emperor’s laws you could still get into trouble from the monastery for undercutting the Sorcerers’ Guild. This island is still part of the Mahruse Empire and has to abide by the emperor’s laws.”

  Yasmin had remained silent, face lit by the glow of the fire. “Perhaps our friend here needs something to spice his life up. Or perhaps he is a man of noble nature, helping the less fortunate and all that. Do you see yourself as a good person, Caldan?”

  “It’s because I want to help. Not everyone has a perfect life like a lot of the students here at the monastery. There is a real world out there. Although I must admit sometimes lately things have seemed a little gray…dismal even.”

  Jemma placed the piece back on the board and smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Enough of this profound talk. Pass the wine, Yas, I’m parched, and my brain needs relaxing after such a difficult game.”

  Yasmin handed the skin to Caldan instead. “Caldan should have some first. He earned it, after all.”

  Jemma wrinkled her nose at her friend and laughed.

  “All right, the winner of the game should get something for his trouble, I guess. Pass it over here when you’ve finished, though.”

  Caldan took the wineskin and poured a long stream into his mouth. It was good. He wondered if Yasmin would keep quiet about what she had heard. After all, she was Jemma’s friend and not his. If she wanted some reason to hurt him, she could easily do it now. Stop it, he told himself. She couldn’t care less about what happens to you, you’re mistrusting her for no reason.

  The warmth of the fire, and the wine he had consumed, helped him relax. He was enjoying the evening so far and was content to exchange small talk with Jemma and Yasmin as the night wore on.

  The logs burned to coals in the grate, and the silences between conversations grew. Eventually, Yasmin yawned and Jemma flashed her a smile. They both stood.

  Jemma leaned over him as he slouched in his chair, one leg swinging, eyes half closed.

  “We have to leave now. We have a crafting class in the morning and don’t want to perform less than our best, with the end of year places still being decided. Don’t finish the rest of the wine by yourself. Save some for another time. Bye.”

  Yasmin waved at him over her shoulder as they went out the door. Traces of their perfume left lingering in the air gradually got lost in the scent of the smoldering fire. Struggling out of his cozy chair, Caldan placed a few sticks on the fire and stirred the coals to life. He wandered over to the board and started laying the pieces in their velvet-lined holders.

  He realized his actions were reverent, as if the pieces contained some meaning. As he put the last piece away he stopped, conscious that, after lightening while the girls were here, his mood had descended back into despondency. Jemma and her attempts to befriend him only served to highlight the times when he was alone.

  On his way to the door his fingers traced one edge of the board. Sighing, he hesitated before a smoky quartz piece. His hand came up to rest on its head. It resembled a thin man clothed in feathers, clutching something in his righ
t fist. He was named the Wayfarer. Nobody knew what he represented, whether he was based on an ancient hero or villain or what he was supposed to have clenched in his fist. The piece was unpredictable on the board, its properties varying from one colored square to the next, depending on where it was positioned.

  Lately, it had started featuring in many of the tactics and strategies he had been employing in his games, surprising many for its unpredictability as it was often not utilized. Was he deceiving himself, or did he feel some communion with the piece?

  Snorting, he shook his head to clear it. He gave the room a final glance to check all was in its proper place. Satisfied, he closed door and made his way towards his room, oil lamps lighting the way. Some sleep would be a good idea before his morning duties and the crafting lesson, followed by his long dreaded meeting with the masters.

  Chapter Two

  Caldan walked up the final flight of stairs and along the corridor that led to the crafting chambers. Dim light from dusty whale-oil lamps helped to illuminate the way, along with a few windows. Crafted sorcerous globes would have provided a constant light source, but they were expensive and the monks frowned on excess.

  Stone statues decorated the passage. Many mimicked or looked to be related to various pieces from Dominion, weird and sometimes unnerving creatures and misshapen humans.

  He stopped before a large door banded in a gray metal, its surface covered in numerous runes and wards, a few of which he recognized, though their style was old and obscure. The door swung open on screeching hinges.

  The room was large, yet the numerous dark wooden tables and chairs, all covered in crafting materials and books, gave an impression of clutter. On one wall stood a stack of shelves containing wooden and stone carvings and a number of mechanical devices, whose function was unknown to him. The other three walls sported chalkboards covered with writing and diagrams

  Students were mostly lounging in chairs, while a few were at work at different tables. Although they had studied together for a few years, he gave each barely a nod as they noticed him — those that bothered to acknowledge his presence. Most of the students came from positions of wealth and influence and made it all too obvious they didn’t like him joining their classes. Those that went out of their way to poke fun at him, he ignored, even though it made him seem more reclusive and an outsider.

  He walked to the desk at the back and sat on a chair. One or two of the students had their noses buried in open books, trying to memorize what they could before their final exams, which were due to start soon. Luckily, as a ward of the monastery and not a student, he didn’t have to sit any of the exams — for which he was eternally grateful.

  The door opened to admit the Craftmaster, a wrinkled thin nun no taller than Caldan’s chest. As always, she wore crumpled dark brown clothing, her gray hair tied in a bun secured with enameled metal pins. Limping across the room to the large padded chair at the front, she settled into it, taking her time to make herself comfortable before looking up. Piercing green eyes surveyed the room, and the few students who were trying to look attentive could not meet her gaze for long. With a grunt, she looked away and surveyed the mess.

  “Everyone will have to take their work back with him or her when they leave today, announced Master Kilia. “I don’t want anything left over or it will go straight into the refuse pit.”

  Groans of dismay met her announcement. Most of the students had been crafting in stone, clay and metal, and some of their works were heavy.

  “And don’t complain to me about needing help. If you’d followed my advice and worked in lighter materials, such as wood and clay, instead of rushing ahead, there wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “We aren’t all able to craft using parchment like Caldan,” one student complained. “Some of us more normal students need to work with harder materials.”

  Again they give voice to their ridiculous objections. Stop worrying about what other people can do and concentrate on your own talents, Caldan wanted to tell them. If they spent less time complaining and more studying they wouldn’t find crafting so hard.

  “I’m sure you have a talent for something as well,” Kilia responded. “It’s just hidden from us.” Her wry statement elicited a few sniggers around the room, but they died down at her stern glare.

  “Everyone has strengths and weaknesses to their crafting. Remember that,” she continued. “A few have a talent that buffers the forces more effectively, like Caldan’s. Others are able to create harmonious works that last much longer. Everyone is different.”

  Another student spoke up, a young girl. “Not everyone needs to craft something so quickly that the materials need to be light enough to carry around. The days where speed was needed for battles and self-defense are over.”

  “They never existed in the first place!” exclaimed someone else, a boy who had joined the monastery recently and whose talent had already elevated him to this class.

  “There are plenty of books on the sorcerers of old and how they could use offensive sorcery. Fire from the sky, shattering castle gates,” retorted the young girl.

  Master Kilia stood and the room fell silent. “Old tales are just that. Some people still think sorcery can be used that way, but have any of you been able to do so?” She paused for a response. None came.

  Caldan leant forward, eager to catch the words from the master. Stories held kernels of truth, and he believed any sorcery lost from before the Shattering could be discovered again. Sometimes he dreamed of discovering how to make trinkets, like most who had a talent for crafting did when they were young. Though so far, in the thousands of years since the Shattering, no one had come close.

  “Of course not, since it cannot be done. Oh, I’m sure many of you have tried since you found out you had talent for crafting. Heads full of the tales your mothers told you or read from one of the old storybooks. But it isn’t possible. Crafting is able to create useful items. A good sorcerer is a valuable member of the community.”

  How could it be impossible? wondered Caldan. We know trinkets exist, and someone had to have made them. Only the knowledge is lost, and what’s lost can be found again.

  Another student raised his hand and spoke after receiving a nod from Kilia.

  “Valuable but boring. The days where sorcerers were out in the wild having adventures to bring peace to the land are long gone.”

  “Over, are they?” said Kilia. “Well, I guess you had better not leave this island! You might not like what goes on in the rest of the world. “How do you think I injured my leg?”

  “We thought you got it falling down some stairs,” retorted one wag to widespread laughter.

  Kilia gave a wry smile. “The truth is that it happened a long time ago, when I was young and foolish, like you.”

  The room quietened as the students now strained to hear her every word. Caldan realized they had never heard her mention how she had come by her limp. He leaned forward with the rest of them.

  “Back then I was sure of myself and my skills, until I came up against something that was…adaptable, shall we say? My stone craftings failed and I was injured. There was no time to craft out of stone or wood and imprint them with runes and unveilings. I was glad I had a few sheets of paper to fall back on.”

  The room fell silent. Kilia’s intensity had become too much for them. Caldan placed both elbows on the desk. “What was it? What happened?”

  She looked straight at him. “What it was is best left unsaid. As to what happened…I escaped from there as fast as I could.” Kilia paused and shifted in her seat. “Everyone has a proficiency or predilection for how they want to use the craft. Some prefer wood or metal and others paper. As you now know, the difference is durability. The forces you access through your well require an anchor, and the anchor needs to weather the force being focused through it. To create something that lasts takes time and effort, and harder materials. On one end of the spectrum there is paper and on the other are trinkets. The same manipulation can b
e made with any medium, but the strength of the material determines how long it will last.” She stood, resting her weight on her good leg, and leaned on her chair for support. “Enough of me talking for today. I want you to split into four groups and discuss theories on making a trinket. At the end of the class you can present your best theories to the rest of us.”

  Groans echoed around the room. One student spoke over them. “But no one’s been able to make a trinket for hundreds of years!”

  Kilia gave a smile. “Then maybe you’ll be famous.”

  Caldan’s knock on the door echoed down the corridor and he flinched at the harsh sound. He bit at one of his fingernails as he waited for a reply.

  “Enter,” barked a commanding voice from inside.

  Steeling himself, he stepped into the doorway and saw three of the senior masters were sitting around a table in the center. All of them looked as if they had been chewing iron nails. With a rustle of cloth, the masters exchanged glances and shifted in their chairs.

  Caldan looked around in vain for an empty chair to sit in, but he guessed the masters wanted their visitors to remain standing. He hesitated a moment, then seeing the open window decided to stand in the cool afternoon breeze. He would not to let them dictate the terms of discussion this time.

  “Well, boy, don’t just stand there. Come inside, for the ancestors’ sake!” Master Rastar chided, giving him a stern look as he closed the door. Rastar, a pale, wrinkled man with a wispy gray beard, appeared pleased Caldan was flustered.

  On the table were the remains of a midday meal, along with pile of letters in brown paper envelopes sealed with wax. Next to the letters was a package half as big as a fist, tightly wrapped with oilcloth and bound with string.

  Across from Rastar sat Master Delife, taller and thinner than Rastar, though beardless. Farthest away sat the third master, Joesal, whom Caldan had little to do with over the years. All three monks were bald, heads shaved according to their tenets, though Joesal’s was covered with a layer of stubble.