“That’s not possible.”
Chalayan smiled wanly. “That’s what I said.” He shuddered, though at the same time he wrung his hands together, and she saw a gleam come to his eyes.
“This isn’t good,” she said. “Sorcery shouldn’t be used to destroy; it’s against all we know. Evil cannot be allowed such an advantage.”
“But we could use it, too! Think of what we could accomplish, the good we could do.”
“No good could come from this knowledge. For sorcerers to be able to unleash such power…” Caitlyn drew herself up. “We have found this for a reason. We must make sure this knowledge never sees the light of day, and the practitioners are destroyed.”
“But—”
“No!” She cut him off and drew him close until their faces touched. “There can be no compromise with evil. Our duty is to excise these sorcerers from the world so they cannot corrupt anyone else. We must find out more about them, where they came from, where they were going, and what their purpose is.”
“It might be easier to ‘excise’ them after we find out more.”
“We will do what we can, depending on the situation.” She looked around at her men standing away from the steaming bodies, conversing in hushed tones. “Are the farmhands close? Are they watching?”
The sorcerer closed his eyes for the space of five breaths. “No,” he whispered. “There’s no one watching. They must have ridden out hard soon after the attack.”
Caitlyn nodded. “Good. Our message to the men is that this was alchemical, something you have seen before.”
“Lie to them? What about Aidan?”
“Him too. We do what we must.” She stared Chalayan in the eye until he looked away. “Sometimes it’s hard, but evil must not flourish. We must do all we can to stop it in its tracks, even if it means lying to those we cherish. The less people know about this, the better.”
Chalayan crossed his arms over his chest and held himself tight. Caitlyn slapped him on the back.
“Good man,” she said, and turned back to her men.
“Listen up!” she shouted. “Chalayan confirms this was alchemical, some reaction. He’s seen this type of thing before during his studies.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aidan giving her a strange look. She continued. “Leave the bodies here. We’ll go back to our camp and examine the area in the dawn light. We don’t know if they left by the road or cross country. Looks like we’ll have to give them a night’s head start.”
She could see they were not pleased, the excitement having heated their blood. Some of them would be in a killing mood. Or worse.
Caitlyn sighed heavily. You work with what you have, and if the tool gets the job done, then it’s worth it.
Chapter Fifteen
Passing people that barely registered, Caldan walked through the crowded streets in a daze. A few he bumped into stopped their protests before they began or broke off early when they saw the look in his eyes and his bruised scarred face.
The owner of the Otter showed concern at his state, but Caldan brushed off his questions. He needed a rest to recuperate. He lurched up the stairs to his room.
Passing his hand across the vertical door crack, he whispered words of unbinding that would disable his crafted lock. No vibration or smell of lemons came to him this time. Cursing, he turned the key in the lock and entered.
His belongings remained as he had left them. The room looked untouched. Quickly, he relocked the door and checked his crafting. All that remained were the two tacks driven into the wood, along with a few fragments of burnt parchment. At his feet, ashes littered the floor, stirred by a faint draft coming from the gap under the door. As with all craftings, the forces guided through it had ultimately proven too much for the material used. Still, it had served him well, and it wasn’t too much bother to create another.
Caldan caught himself and paused, palm resting on the door. He wouldn’t need to create another since he couldn’t pay for the room, which meant he couldn’t stay.
His thoughts were jumbled, churning in his head like clouds during an unforgiving storm. Sucking in deep breaths, he tried to calm himself, his palm resting on the solid door, creating a steadiness he could focus on. He had no ducats whatsoever, no loose coins around his room he could spend on another night’s accommodation at the Otter. His possessions consisted of the clothes he wore and a couple of changes, a leather satchel, and the odds and ends he had purchased the other day.
His trinket weighed against his neck, worth a fortune, but he would never sell it. Not even if he found himself homeless and starving on the streets.
First things first, he thought. Turning his back to the door, he collected his possessions and packed his leather satchel, taking his time to fold his clothes and neatly stow the parchment so it wouldn’t crease. He replaced his blood-stained tunic with a fresh one, although it was of a smaller size, so he self-consciously squeezed into it, remembering Miranda’s amusement at the tight fit the last time he had worn the shirt. He slipped his knife into a pocket. It was small and unnoticeable, and he felt safer with it after his run-in with the street thugs this morning.
Caldan shouldered the satchel and exited the room. On the way out, he attracted the innkeeper’s eye, telling him he was trying his luck at the Sorcerers’ Guild and would hopefully return later. The man wished him well before turning to a waiting well-dressed lady, a new customer.
Caldan stepped out into the midday sun and headed in the general direction he knew the traders’ quarter to be located, sticking to main avenues so as not to become lost. He knew there was another square off the main one in which the more influential guilds congregated, and he desperately needed to find work before the day was out. His stomach felt hollow, and unless his luck changed he would be sleeping on the streets.
His progress was slow as he still felt out of sorts after the attack and the subsequent dose of sedative. A sleep and a hearty meal would set him right. Stop thinking about food, he admonished himself. It makes it worse.
By midafternoon, Caldan arrived at the cobbled square bordered by buildings that housed the public offices of the more prestigious guilds and organizations, such as the Sorcerers’ Guild that was his destination. He lingered in the afternoon sun, leaned against a wall and surveyed the building from across the square.
Truth be told, he was delaying entering the intimidating entrance. Huge metal doors covered with intricate runes, framed by a carved stone doorway. Designed to overawe, it was doing its job well. He saw a number of people head towards the gleaming doors then veer off and busy themselves at a stall close by or continue walking out of the square. People like himself, who had never been inside before, and needed some time to gather enough courage to enter. Caldan recognized some of the runes carved into the doors, wards of strength twined into barrier wards, but there were many he couldn’t identify.
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Despite his ragged and bruised appearance, he needed to make a good impression. There wasn’t anything for it but to straighten up, pull his shoulders back and cross the square, which he did, striding through the imposing doorway.
On the other side of the metal doors was a vestibule designed to be a waiting room, with stone benches on the side walls. It now looked to be used as a cloakroom. A number of wooden stands were arranged around the room, littered with hats and cloaks. A boy stood as Caldan entered. About to speak, he stopped when he saw Caldan wasn’t wearing a cloak or hat to take charge of.
“I take it I go through?” Caldan queried, gesturing to the inner door on the other side of the chamber.
“Yes, sir. Um… are you sure you are at the right place?” The boy stared at Caldan’s battered face and lingered on his newly stitched scar.
“I am. This is the Sorcerers’ Guild is it not?”
“Yes, sir. Go inside. The apprentice at the desk will help you.”
“Thank you.” Caldan opened the doors, and cooler air from inside wafted over him. The walls were u
nadorned stone of pale brown, lit by an overhead cluster of crafted sorcerous globes. A long wooden desk dominated the room, behind which sat a young man absorbed in an open book, one of several in front of him. A corridor ran off from each side, and from down one came the muted sound of voices.
After a pause, the young man looked up from his book, blinking at Caldan and his obvious state of injury.
“May I help you?” he asked, with the same hesitation the boy before had shown.
“I’m here to see a senior sorcerer, to test for admission,” Caldan said as firmly as he could. He didn’t want to admit that any work would be sufficient; best to aim for an apprenticeship and see what happened. His armpits began to sweat.
The young man looked him over and nodded. “Indeed. We rarely have people wander in from the street for admission.” He paused for a moment. “I’ll see if someone can talk to you.”
He tugged twice on a thin rope dangling from the ceiling behind him and a bell sounded somewhere inside the building. A short time later another boy appeared, and a quick hushed conversation ensued. The boy ran back down a corridor, sandals slapping on the stone.
“A moment, sir,” the young man behind the desk said. “Someone should come to see you when they have time. Take a seat.” He gestured to a long bench and returned to reading his book.
Too nervous to sit, Caldan wandered around the room, satchel weighing on his shoulder. His face burned, and the skin felt stretched tight across the cut. He waited. And waited. Men and women entered and left periodically. Only a few waited with him, and those not for long. Tired of standing, he took a seat on the bench.
After what felt like an hour, he approached the young man at the desk again.
“Excuse me.”
The man looked up with an annoyed expression. “Yes?”
“Will it be much longer?”
“Got something more important to do, have you?”
“No, it’s been a while, and I thought…”
“Someone will come and see you when they are free. You don’t wander in and expect everyone to drop what they are doing and rush out here to serve you, do you?”
“No, I… Never mind.” Caldan went back to sitting on the bench. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young man shake his head at him.
Another hour passed to Caldan’s increasing frustration. The day was growing late, and he needed to find some food. His stomach growled. He was physically and mentally drained from the eventful and exhausting day, but still the wait dragged on. He felt like he had been stuck in this stuffy room for far too long. His stomach growled again. The young man glanced up from his book then busied himself with his note writing. He had been jotting down notes for the last hour. The scratch, scratch of his quill on the parchment had begun to irritate Caldan.
A few minutes later, the messenger boy returned. “Please, sir,” he said, approaching Caldan. “Follow me.”
Caldan nodded and followed the boy down a corridor. They passed a few closed doors until they reached one indistinguishable from the others. The boy rapped his knuckles on the door, said, “There you go,” to Caldan and ran off.
“Enter,” came a deep voice from behind the door.
Caldan entered the room. A glass window lit a desk, besides which two overstuffed armchairs were the only furniture. In one chair sat a pale, gaunt man. He stopped examining a round metal object, placed it on the desk and looked at Caldan.
“You want to become a sorcerer?” He motioned Caldan to take a seat in the empty armchair.
After the long wait, Caldan’s mind felt sluggish. “I have a talent for it, along with many other skills. I’m well versed in alchemy, metallurgy and smith-crafting, and history, some medicine and numbers. I can read and write a fair hand and am passable with the sword. I can also play a skilled game of Dominion.” Caldan threw that in there on impulse. The link between great Dominion players and great sorcerers was well known.
“Well, don’t tell me everything at once. You won’t find any need for sword fighting here,” the man responded disparagingly. Caldan assumed from his bearing and questions he was a sorcerer, and possibly a master. “Is that how you were cut?”
“No, sir, I was waylaid this morning near the docks. There was some trouble with a few thieves. The harbor watch ran them off.”
“Hmm.” The sorcerer nodded. “Rough district. First things first, though. What’s your name?”
“Caldan, sir.”
“Why didn’t you use crafting to defend yourself and give them a few broken bones for their trouble?” He waved his hands and wiggled his fingers in what Caldan understood was meant to be an uneducated person’s idea of a sorcerous gesture.
Was he a master? He was testing him, probably the beginning of a few challenging questions. He wanted to find out how much knowledge Caldan had.
“Sorcery on the spur of the moment is virtually unachievable. There has to be some preparation.”
“Go on.”
“Defensive wards are possible, but destructive sorcery is impossible.”
“Why didn’t you ward yourself against the attack?”
Caldan spread his hands, palms up. “Wards are generally tricky and take time to activate, so I have heard. If I had known I was going to be attacked, and if I had the materials, and if prior to the attack I had a few moments to access my well and empower a crafting, then yes, I could have warded myself.” He hesitated. “But I have not yet been shown how to do this,” he added.
“Could you smith-craft a shield that you can activate in the time it takes to blink?”
Caldan paused. “Well,” he said slowly, giving himself time to think. “The crafting would have to be made of metal, probably an alloy. It would have to absorb the forces directed at it so… no, it couldn’t do that. Wait… maybe it could be completed with a secondary locking shaping… I’m not sure, sorry.”
The sorcerer waved a hand in dismissal of his apology. “Don’t worry. It took greater minds than yours a long time to discover how to solve that puzzle. But once solved, like all breakthroughs, it all seems relatively easy in hindsight.”
Caldan nodded. The sorcerer shifted his weight in his chair.
“Young man, how old are you?”
“I come of age in a few months, sir.”
“That’s old to be seeking an apprenticeship. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sir, I grew up in Eremite and have studied at the Monastery of the Seven Paths for a few years.” The man raised his eyebrows, though Caldan couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or skeptical of his claim. “I have many skills, but the monks do not go into great depth with anyone except their most talented initiates.”
“I’m aware of the monastery, and the arrangement they have to educate the sons and daughters of some noble houses. You haven’t run away, have you?”
“No. I’m an orphan. The monks took me in when I was young.”
“That explains your shaved head. Why should we accept someone a few years past the age we usually accept apprentices?”
“Truthfully, sir, as I said, crafting isn’t my only skill. It may be I can work in some capacity other than as an apprentice, an assistant perhaps? All I ask is for you to consider favorably what I can do and see if I can fit in somewhere. Please.”
The sorcerer’s expression remained unchanged. Again, he shifted in his armchair. “One moment.” He closed his eyes and sat still, unmoving except for his chest rising and falling with each breath. He gave a few twitches then opened his eyes.
“You have a strong well, straight and not as rough as most.”
“So the monks told me, since I can’t sense my own.”
“You can sense others?”
“Yes. I know not many can, but I have that talent.
“That’s rare. Show me what you can do, crafting-wise.”
“Excuse me?”
“Show me a crafting you’ve completed, or craft something for me here and now.”
Caldan hesitated then
placed his leather satchel on the desk and removed a square sheet of parchment, his ink and quill. The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward to watch Caldan’s work. His interest was obvious.
Bending over the table, Caldan drew with swift smooth strokes, the quill scratching on the parchment. Soon he had covered the parchment in thumbnail-sized glyphs, evenly spaced. He had an idea, a variation of the ward he had placed on his room door at the Otter. Finished with this part of his crafting, he began to fold the paper, firmly creasing some while others lightly, working as fast as he dared.
“You can work with paper,” said the sorcerer. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. This shouldn’t take long.”
“I hope not.”
A few final folds, and Caldan held up a box with a lid in his palm. Without asking permission, he scooped up the round metal object the man had been examining when he entered the room, placed it into the box and closed the lid. Accessing his well, he linked to his crafting and felt a vibration from the box.
“There.”
“Well? What is it? Paper isn’t the best medium, you know. It won’t last long.”
“I know, but it’s quick and easy to carry around.”
The sorcerer harrumphed and held out his hand. Caldan gave him the box, which he shook. A faint rattle came from inside. Slipping a nail under the lid, he tried to pry it open, but to his surprise it didn’t move. He pressed the box between both palms and grunted with exertion, but the box stayed uncrushed. He gave Caldan an amused look.
“Interesting. Open it, please.”
“Sure…” Caldan stopped. “Um… I forgot… in my rush…” He felt heat rush to his face. A stupid mistake, which could cost him dearly.
“You didn’t include a way to unbind your crafting? That’s a novice error.”
“Yes, I agree. I’m sorry, I forgot.”
“What will I tell the master that lent me his crafting, the metal ball? He wants it back tomorrow.”
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 16
