Guilds & Glaives

by David Farland

  “That’s likely your work room. We might have to get a locksmith in, unless you have a key on you?” She turned out her dress pockets, dropping a few pieces of lint on the floor, but no key.

  Carlin mused. “Do you feel anything here, Esther? A tickle at the back or your mind? Déjà vu?”

  Esther tilted her head in thought. “Nothing rattling free at the moment, but it does suit me, this house. It’s comfortable.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

  “I like the carpets.”

  Carlin sighed noisily and sat in one of the squashy chairs.

  “The books need a bit of work, but that’s not the worst thing.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “It’s one of the most extensive libraries in the nation. What could it possibly be missing?”

  “Well, there is an abysmal lack of pirate stories.”

  Carlin blinked at her. “Pirate stories.”

  “Maybe a book about genies.”

  He laughed. “Well, there is a treatise on magic-based familiars somewhere in here, but I’m guessing that’s not what you meant.” He cast about for a few minutes, not really looking at the books. “Look, perhaps we’re rushing it a bit. Let’s have you stay here for a few days and see if anything in the house jogs your memories, eh?”

  “What, alone?” Esther exclaimed, mildly alarmed. “In a strange fancy house? With no food or beer?”

  Carlin laughed. “All right, I’ll go get lunch, and we’ll see about arranging for someone to stay here with you.” He settled her on the sofa in the sitting room and left, leaving the door open behind him.

  She poked the sofa. Should a sofa be familiar? What about the arched shape of the windows, or the view of the garden, or the painting above the fireplace (a landscape she didn’t recognize)? Was that painting of a place she had been? What do you do when your memories might not be your memories, just place-fillers for the things you had accidently knocked loose, soon to fade?

  The panic that tickled under the surface of her mind threatened and she agitatedly walked out onto the porch.

  A woman stood in the walkway, barefoot, with a torn, dirty, and burnt dress, hair unpinned and wild around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and angry. “How did you get in?” The woman whispered.

  “Oh.” Esther gasped. “Well, I walked in.”

  “I couldn’t get in. The gate hurt me before and now it doesn’t. How did YOU get in?” The woman said, walking up to the porch. “Who are you?”

  “I’m not really sure at the moment.” Esther sat on the step. “I used to think I knew. I don’t like not knowing.”

  The woman seemed at a loss for a moment, then sunk down to sit beside her. She whispered, “Do you know me?”

  Esther took her in afresh. She’d known a lot of characters in her day, but very few wild-eyed savage women. “No, should I?”

  “I think I know this place. I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t know who I am, but this place feels safe. Do you live here?”

  “I think I do.” Esther looked at the porch lamp. It was shaped like a dragon. She loved it, but she loved it as a new discovery, not an old friend. “I don’t know.”

  “Damn, I was hoping for answers. Why can’t I remember anything?”

  “I know exactly how you feel.” Esther smiled a bit and extended a hand. “I’m Esther. Esther Worklin.”

  The woman stared hard at her hand, eyebrows drawing tightly together. “Esther. Esther? Why do I know that name?” She stood, walking agitatedly down the walk toward the gate, muttering.

  A man walked through the gate. He was dressed in oiled leather, covered in jingling charms, holding a large leather-bound book. Different face, but the clothes were the same as from the prison. Esther jumped to her feet. The woman in the walkway froze, planting her feet.

  “I’ve finally found you, you parasite!” The man cackled. He raised the book above his head. It began to glow. “By Ores’ Holy Flame, I will cleanse you from this world!” A tower of flame shot from his hands.

  Esther backed away, ankle hitting the steps. She fell backward on the stairs, knocking the wind out of her.

  The tower of flame hit the woman. She screamed and fell backward, crawling back up the walkway. The fire grew larger and hotter, swirling into a funnel. The woman stopped crawling and her screams cut off. With a roar, the flame burned out and a dusting of ash blew across the lawn. The woman was gone.

  The man ran towards Esther. She screamed, throwing up her arms in defense.

  He skidded to a halt, hovering over her. “Are you all right, ma’am? Did that monster hurt you?”

  Esther froze, peering at the man between her arms. “Sorry?”

  “You’re so lucky I got here in time. That woman was the worst kind of witch. She’d have killed you for certain.” He grabbed her arms, levering her to her feet.

  “You … you just incinerated a woman in front of me and SHE was the dangerous one?” Pins and needles were in her hands and feet. Spots were in her vision. She thought she might faint.

  The man bowed low. “Madam, I’m so sorry for that violent display, but I assure you, what I did was highly necessary. That woman was a demon.”

  “She didn’t even know who she was! She was asking me for help!”

  “I know it. I’ve been tracking her for weeks since she escaped me by blowing up an entire city block and lost her mind in the process. Even without her memories, the Great Witch of the West was a formidable foe.”

  Esther stopped breathing. “Great Witch of the West?” She whispered.

  The man struck a proud pose, his charms jingling. “Yes. You’ve just seen the demise of Esther Warklin, the Black Blade of Sindara.”

  “Sindaria.” Esther said absently. She sat heavily on the step.

  “Pardon?”

  “Oh gods, this has been the worst month of my life.” Esther lay back onto the porch and threw an arm over her eyes.

  The man crouched down and patted her knee awkwardly. “I advise you to go drink a tonic and forget this ever happened. You’ve had luck today, thanks to the White Watch.”

  “Thank you?”

  He looked at the overturned hydrangea pot, the smoking lawn crater, the still smoldering pile of ash, and coughed uncomfortably. “What is your name, madam, so we can reimburse you for the damage?”

  Esther broke into a cold sweat, sitting up abruptly. “Oh, no. No. I’m sure we can manage it. I couldn’t possibly burden the … White Watch.”

  “The Protectors of the City.” The man beamed.

  “Yes. Your help here was quite enough for me.”

  He looked around uncertainly. “Well, I’ll have to note the owner of the house in my follow-up report. What was your name?”

  Esther blinked at him, looked past him, and zeroed in on the initials on the gate. “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Woods.” She stated firmly.

  * * *

  An hour later, Carlin strolled up the path with a basket over his arm. He paused several steps past the smear of ash when he saw her sitting like a sack of potatoes on the step, exhausted. “Esther, what is the matter? Did something jog your memory?”

  “You could say that.” She sighed.

  He set the basket down and sat beside her on the porch.

  “Carlin,” she began hesitantly, “you know me, right? From before I lost my memory?”

  Carlin propped his chin on his hand. “Only by reputation. I’m newly promoted to the office. I worked case files on the other side of the city as a Second Adjuster. The previous First Adjuster retired after his eyebrows stopped growing back.”

  “Those mages who worked on getting my memory back, they knew me? From before?”

  “I’d imagine not. You move in very elite circles within the guild.” He looked puzzled.

  The dread settled home in her stomach, yet she started to feel better. “How did you know who I was, then?”

  “Well, they arrested you. It was pretty simple to confirm it. And after all, you still r
emembered your name.”

  “Esther Worklin.”

  “Yes, Esther Warklin.”

  “Carlin, what is my middle name?”

  “Philomena, I believe.”

  “It’s Lavinia.”

  Carlin’s eyebrows drew together. “No, that’s not right. Esther P. Warklin.”

  “Esther L. W-O-rklin, Carlin.” Finally, finally, she knew who she was.

  His mouth opened, worked silently for a few moments, then closed. “That’s … not possible.”

  She nodded, feeling better and better. “But close enough for the White Watch to mistake it and arrest me. Similar age and a funny way with magic.”

  Carlin slumped down in shock. “Oh, my god. Then where’s the real one?”

  Esther looked at the pile of ash. “About that. You can resurrect people, right?”

  His eyes slowly followed hers and he swallowed hard. “Well, depending. How intact are they?”

  Esther coughed delicately. “Let us suppose not very.”

  Carlin looked at the pile, then at her. “How not very?”

  “Particles?” She pointed.

  He leapt off the porch, ran over to the pile, and crouched over it. Several minutes passed as he waved hands over it, circled it, poked at it, then finally dropped his hands and walked very slowly back to her. He dropped dejectedly onto the step next to her.

  “Are you going to lose your job?”

  “In a manner of speaking, I’m going to lose a lot of things. Possibly my limbs. Maybe my mind. If I’m lucky, my life. And my gods, the paperwork. So many mismanaged accounts! She had no next of kin, so at least we won’t have to pay out the death benefit.” He put his head in his hands.

  “I don’t suppose what they’ll do to me will be any great shakes, either.”

  “Your death will likely be swift and painless, as you’re not responsible for the losses and not a beneficiary.”

  Esther felt surprisingly calm about that idea. “It’s a shame we can’t just pretend that I was Esther all along and send me out to the countryside.”

  Carlin snorted out a little laugh. “No, of course not. That would be … entirely plausible.”

  She smiled a bit, folding her arms. “Better fun would be to retire a fictional Esther out to the countryside, pocket the stipend, and give me a job as a magic breaker in the guild.”

  “You’re not a mage, Esther.”

  “No, I’m like an unmage. Which is rarer than a mage and worth more. Think of the things I could do for you that no one else could!” She nodded.

  “Esther, I am somewhat alarmed at your willingness to bend the spirit of good fellowship in our guild to your benefit.”

  “So you’d rather die horribly?”

  “I didn’t say THAT.” He snorted.

  “Carlin, I never claimed to be an angel, just not an orphan-exterminator. A good con for money is right up my alley.”

  “You’d fit right in.” He looked at the sky. “I suppose I could modify the medical staff’s memories to Esther’s actual appearance. This could actually work! You’d have to study on all the policies and addendums so you could work by guild law, but it’s not as if you’re an imbecile. You can read.”

  “Thanks ever so. I want a desk. And maybe to keep this house.”

  “Don’t push it, Worklin.”

  She winced. “I think I’ll need a new name.”

  He gave it some thought. “Lavinia?”

  “Lavinia Woods, Ward Breaker, Spell Sunderer, and Black Hammer of the Hills?”

  He laughed. “No. For gods’ sake, you don’t give yourself titles, woman, the peons do.” He held out a hand for her to shake. When she reached for it, he dropped a massive black key into hers. “Work room key. Found it in the ashes.”

  Esther—Lavinia—mused at the key, dusted the ash off it, and burst out in a pained laugh. “Oh, this is just awful. That poor woman.” She pocketed the key and opened the basket, fishing out a sandwich, and was quietly delighted to see two bottles of beer. She handed another sandwich to Carlin, keeping the beer for herself. “I’m putting pirate stories in the library,” she decided, taking a bite.

  Carlin looked at his sandwich and chuckled, resigned. “Lavinia Woods, welcome to the Black Mages Guild. Try not to burn it down on your first day.”

  Oathbreaker

  David Farland

  The King’s Despatcher was a man of few words. He spoke more in soundless gestures and said all that was needed in a sigh or a look. He was old, Dval knew, but he didn’t know how old. He’d had a name once, but seemed to have forgotten it. Yet his mind always seemed to be going, and the Despatcher often lay awake at nights, just pondering.

  There was something otherworldly about the man—the way he seemed to smell an ambush on the road ahead, or the time three months back when he was twenty leagues from town and suddenly stopped, mid-stride, and said, “The king needs us.”

  Tonight, as they climbed a peak high above the Courts of Tide, the Despatcher seemed to be responding to some sort of alarm. Their route lay straight up the face of the mountain, not by an oft-trod footpath that doubled or tripled its distance with switchbacks, nor even a scant trail made by the horned goats that sprang from crag to pinnacle to browse on spiny grasses. The moon had yet to rise and so they felt their way in darkness, probing outcrops and stone pockets for handholds and toeholds. This was no handicap for Dval, who was born with the night vision of his people, the Woguld.

  In his year or so as an apprentice, Dval had learned never to question the King’s Despatcher. Finally, he could not hold his curiosity any longer. Dval touched the Despatcher’s nearest boot, soft-soled for walking silently and climbing. “Master,” he asked, “where are we going?”

  For a moment the only sound was wind sighing over rocky ledges. The Despatcher said nothing, then whispered, “Patience,” and crept higher.

  Dval wondered. Were they storming some marauder’s hideout, or did the Despatcher just want to get high enough to view a layout of the land? The lights of the Courts of Tide were a muted orange glow, like stars on a dim night.

  Perhaps it is only a test of my climbing ability, Dval considered. But he had been born in the mountains and lived in the underworld. He did not fear climbing at night. He inched higher.

  At the crest minutes later, a hand reached over a wall of scree to grasp Dval’s, a younger hand than his master’s scarred one. Its grip guided him through the rubble into a hollow a dozen yards across, shallow as a wooden trencher, but rougher. Curved fragments of stone, some as long as his body, lay crumbling against the encircling talus as if swept there. They smelled of ancient decay and Dval wrinkled his nose. Bones. Old bones and egg shells.

  Dval froze. This is the nest of wild sea graaks. They will be enraged if they return while we are here. The leather-winged creatures were large enough to grab a man in their jaws and send him over the precipice.

  Before he could question his helper, he spotted other dark shapes standing about. All of the men were hooded and robed in black: Despatchers.

  His helper flung back his hood and grinned. Surprise surged through Dval once more. This Despatcher couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than his own fifteen years.

  “Brooding season is long past,” the young Despatcher said. “The chicks that came from these shells are ancient themselves, if they still live. No graak nests in this aerie now.” Still eyeing Dval, he added, “I call myself Three. I am third in line among all of the king’s Despatchers. Your master is First.” Among Despatchers, this young man seemed gregarious and long-winded.

  Dval nodded.

  At that moment the moon burst clear of the clouds crowded on the distant horizon, separating the sea from the sky. Its silver face sparkled among the crystal-faceted towers and spires of the Courts of Tide, the castle and city built on the shore of the Carrol Sea. There reigned King Harrill of Mystarria, known as “the Mad” since the death of his queen in a carriage crash two years before.

 
; And there lives his daughter, the Princess Avahn, Dval thought, but quickly banished the longing that welled in his heart. He had saved her from dire wolves once, at the cost of injuries to himself.

  The moon’s brilliance outlined the distant peaks of three black Toth ships as well, shaped from stone and teeming with monsters. Dval shuddered at the memories of darkness and stench and snatching hooks inside one obsidian hull. All three ships had been conquered weeks ago.

  “Son!” His master’s voice snapped Dval from his waking nightmare. “Come.”

  His master joined with two cloaked figures at the aerie’s center, around a simple altar, a low table made of a single carved stone.

  In the moon’s glow Dval recognized the others as more of the king’s Despatchers, these middle-aged, and with a hardness in their eyes that spoke of warriors accustomed to killing without a second thought. Dval recognized their faces, but he didn’t know their names any more than he knew his master’s. They were all just Despatchers.

  A meeting? he wondered. But who called for it, and when? Dval had not seen another Despatcher since midwinter. Do they always meet here on the midsummer’s full moon?

  Dval followed the youth who called himself Three to stand with the other men.

  His master stepped back and tipped his head up to search Dval’s face, because Dval stood at least a head taller than all of them. With his white Woguld skin and silvery hair like a smooth waterfall down his back, Dval knew he appeared as pale as a specter in the full moon. He bore the gaze, waiting wordlessly. He is judging me, assessing me for some purpose.

  Dval surveyed his master in return. Far older than these others, he knew, by his leathery visage and wrinkle-shrouded eyes. The old Despatcher remained as broad of shoulder as a bull, with thighs as thick as the forest elms, and his hair still gleamed black as a raven’s wing, untouched by the hoarfrost of his years.

  At last his master said, “You have proven yourself in the king’s service time and again. I consider you my son, though you are not of my loins. I judge you as ready. But if you are to join the Despatchers in full you must take our oath. That’s why we have revealed to you the ancient circle.” He thrust out his jaw as if pointing and turned his head slowly to trace its boundary.