“This is beautiful,” he said, reaching out to touch one of the pieces, a disc-shaped peon. It was surprisingly heavy for its size--about the size of his thumbnail--and carved in the likeness of a flattened helmet.
“It belonged to my grandfather, and his grandfather before him,” Tom explained, as he lined up the rest of the pieces on the field: a rank of peon at the front; superior grenadiers, cavalry, samurai and bastions behind them; and, as it was a Sky Warden set, the Alcaide and Syndic ruling all from center rear. “It belonged to my brother for a while. Now it belongs to me.”
“What happened to your brother?”
Tom didn’t answer, just finished laying out the game. “I like to play silver. Do you mind playing gold?”
“No.” Sal wondered idly if Tom’s brother had died, but didn’t press the subject. “Gold goes first, right?”
“Yes.”
Sal dug deep in his memory for the rules. If he recalled correctly, a peon could cross either one or two squares on its first move, but he wasn’t willing to push his luck just yet. Selecting the piece in front of his Alcaide, which was stern and upright in brass, with a heavy sword representing the law held diagonally across his chest, Sal moved just one square.
Tom responded with an immediate two-square move from a similar position, confirming Sal’s guess. Advancing a grenadier, then a peon to expose his left cavalry, Sal thought hard to remember the rules and rituals of approach and combat. Advance was hard enough to learn, and even harder to play well. The unfolding fact that Tom had taught himself to play very well didn’t make it any easier.
Only a handful of moves passed before Sal’s Syndic was backed into a corner, her upraised horn no match for the twin samurai Tom had sent to dispatch her. Once she fell, defeat for Sal’s Alcaide didn’t take long. And when he, too, had fallen, the game was over.
Sal leaned back and wiped his hands on his shirt. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed playing, even against someone much better than him.
“You sacrificed your bastion too early,” Tom said. “That exposed your flank.”
“What else could I have done? You had my cavalry under threat.”
Tom’s hands danced across the board, recreating that moment of play from memory. “You’re right, but you could have distracted me.” He pointed at the other side of the board. “Here was my weakest point. A single peon in the right spot could’ve unraveled my defense--and you had one, here, perfectly placed. If you’d moved it like this, I would’ve had to back away from your bastion and defend myself.”
Sal struggled to visualize the play Tom was describing. “I didn’t think of that.”
“It’s not the sort of thing an inexperienced player would notice. They tend to overlook the subtle for the obvious, never thinking that a peon can be used for serious attack. In Advance as well as real battle, sometimes the smallest thing makes the greatest difference.”
Sal couldn’t help but stare as the boy swept up the pieces and began arranging them in their proper places.
“Another game?” Tom asked, without looking up.
“Yes,” he said. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll try harder, this time.” And he promised himself he would, simply because Tom was not patronizing or berating him for being a poor player, but because the boy really wanted him to learn to play better. While he didn’t enjoy losing, the fact that Tom didn’t act as though he was enjoying winning made it easier to stomach. Tom seemed to be more interested in training a potential competitor than gloating over his skill. Sal doubted that many could play as expertly in such a small town, where there were few accomplished teachers, if any at all.
They played a second time. Sal thought he performed a little better than before, but he was still roundly defeated. This time he had advanced too slowly, resulting in his senior pieces being trapped when Tom inevitably broke through his defensive wall. Again Tom made sure he learned from the experience, pointing out how Sal could have attacked more effectively as well as demonstrating what mistakes had led to his downfall. Sal swore he wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.
Soon he stopped worrying about losing so much. The pieces moved in a dance beneath their fingers, sparkling in the sunlight coming through the leaves of the tree above them. Sal almost became hypnotized by the ebb and flow, sensing his own awkwardness in the way his pieces stumbled and bumped into each other, whereas Tom’s slid smoothly and elegantly on their deadly errands. Slowly, Sal’s moves attained a measure of Tom’s grace, but he knew he still had a long way to go. Even if he played every day for a year, he doubted he would ever be as good as Tom.
He certainly wasn’t as focused on the game. Every time Sal tried to raise a different subject, Tom brushed it off and returned to Advance. Even when they packed up the set to get a drink from one of the stalls, Tom talked about nothing but strategies and end gambits until they returned to their place in the shade and commenced again. Sal wondered if Tom’s obsessive interest in the game hid something, or whether Tom was just obsessive by nature. Or both.
After his twentieth or thirtieth defeat--he had long lost count--he rolled onto his back and said: “No more! My brain is going to explode!”
Tom blinked large eyes at him, apparently mystified. Then he recovered: “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you too long. Do you have somewhere else to go?”
“Well, no…” From some other person Tom’s words could have been a jibe at the fact that, patently, Sal didn’t have anything to do, otherwise why would he have been lying around in the shade? But Tom meant the question innocently.
“I’m tired, I guess,” Sal said. “Maybe we can just talk.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Whatever comes to mind.”
Tom nodded and looked blank for a minute. Then he suddenly came alive again, as though someone had flicked a switch. “I saw you talking to Kemp before. Are you helping him, too?”
Sal suppressed a bitter laugh. “That depends on what you mean by ‘helping’.”
“School work. Assignments. History. That sort of stuff.”
“Why would I do that? He’s a pain.”
“I tutor him,” Tom said. “He’s not stupid, you know. He’s good at mathematics and languages. Even without me he’d be bright enough to skip School some days and help the Alders. His dad’s an Alder. Did you know that?”
Sal nodded dumbly, surprised by this quite different portrait of the town bully.
“He’s old enough to be of use on the boats,” Tom went on, “but Alder Sproule wants to keep him studying as long as possible. He’s hoping Kemp will be Selected. I think he might, if he keeps working right up to the examination.”
“All thanks to you,” Sal said.
“I’m only doing what Mrs Milka doesn’t have time for. Besides, it keeps me on Kemp’s good side.”
Sal thought it a very pragmatic solution to what might otherwise have been quite a problem. Young, intense Tom would have been no match for Kemp under any other circumstance.
“What about you?” Sal asked. “You’re going to be Selected too, I hear.”
“Yes. I’ll be Selected. They’d be mad not to take me. I’ve had the highest standard test results in this area for fifty years.”
“Wow,” Sal whistled, genuinely impressed. “You’re really bright, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.” Tom looked down at his hands, brooding again. He didn’t seem particularly excited by the thought of being Selected, Sal thought. Or was he hiding something?
Instead of finding another topic of conversation, Sal let his gaze drift idly across the crowds of people milling through the marketplace and around the common ground by the podium. He recognized a few faces from his short time in Fundelry. Most seemed to be having a good enough time. Shilly wasn’t around, though, despite the return of the odd feeling in his gut that she was near, somewhere.
On the far side o
f the clearing stood Euan Holkenhill, the representative of the Selector, doing little to alleviate his weight problem with a meat roll in one hand and a tankard of beer in the other. Sweat dripped from his exposed skin. Sal hunched down slightly in the shadows for fear that the man might see him, but Holkenhill wasn’t looking his way. He was laughing at a comment made by a woman at his side, then stuffing his mouth full of food.
As Sal watched, though, Holkenhill’s expression grew puzzled, and he cast his eyes upward. Intrigued, Sal followed his gaze, wondering what he had seen or sensed in the sky.
Far above the market hung a tiny speck of silver. It moved slowly across a wispy cloud, then disappeared for a moment. A second later, it reappeared, brighter than before. Squinting, Sal could just make out the shape of a bird around it, as though a star had sprouted wings and was descending toward the earth.
Black and white feathers fell into focus as it grew nearer, flapping steadily to reduce its speed. The light reflecting off it faded as its angle to the sun changed, and it revealed itself to be an ordinary seagull gradually coming in to land. It seemed to be wearing something around its neck--a necklace or band--from which the light had gleamed. As it flapped to a halt a few meters above the heads of the crowd in the market, others noticed its approach. It looked around briefly before gliding down. Someone gasped as it came to a perfect landing on the outstretched arm of Euan Holkenhill.
Instead of reveling in its appearance, though, Holkenhill moved purposefully through the crowd and away from the markets, his face serious, the half-eaten meat roll and ale left behind in the care of his friend. The bird didn’t move at all as he walked. When Holkenhill disappeared from sight, it was still balanced on his arm, like a statuette.
Sal was left with an uneasy feeling, as though something bad had happened--or was about to happen.
A premonition? Just his imagination, he hoped.
He sensed Shilly standing behind him a moment before she spoke.
“Interesting.” She was leaning against the trunk of the tree shading them. “Hi, Sal. Hi, Tom.”
“Hello, Shilly.”
The younger boy looked up at her and nodded curtly. Gathering the shining pieces with rapid, practiced motions and putting them back in the leather box, he stood and walked away.
“Thanks for the game,” Sal called after him, without receiving a reply.
“Bye, Tom.”
Sal stood and turned to face Shilly. She watched with her arms folded as Tom hurried away.
“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “That’s probably the friendliest he’ll ever be.”
“He was fine before.”
“Well, I did notice that you got to see the precious Advance kit.”
“Yes.” The note of disdain in Shilly’s voice bothered him. “He’s very good.”
“That’s no excuse for being antisocial.” She shrugged. “But who am I to talk? He’s got Kemp in the palm of his hand, and that’s no mean feat.”
“What happened to his brother?”
“Tait? Oh, he was Selected three years ago. He and Tom were very close, apparently, and the family tried to keep Tait back an extra year so Tom could get used to the idea. But the Sky Wardens insisted it was either then or never. Tait, naturally, chose to go. Tom’s never quite gotten over losing him. He was always a bit … dependent.”
Sal saw how it fit together, now. He was certain Tom had always been bright but this need to join his brother would account for his urgency to pass the Selection exams quickly. For Tom to be in such a hurry, his love of his brother and his grief at losing him must have been very great.
Sal felt bad for him. He wondered if Tait, Tom’s older brother, knew just how much sorrow he had left behind.
“He’s hoping to follow in his big brother’s footsteps, I presume.”
“Maybe.” Shilly’s expression was sly. She was relishing the story. That much was obvious. “There’s more. You’ve met Aunty Merinda, our local seer?”
Sal nodded, remembering the ugly old woman in the market the day after he arrived in town.
“Well, she’s not as much of a fake as some people think. Lodo will admit that, if you ask him. Tom’s family went to see if she could do anything for him--help him get over Tait, whatever. They didn’t want a reading, just a tonic to help their boy sleep. Aunty Merinda did what she could for them, and sent them away. That was the end of it, she thought--until the middle of that night, when Tom appeared at her window. He’d snuck out of bed after a nightmare and come to her on his own for advice. It turns out he’d been having prophetic dreams ever since Tait went away, and they were bothering him just as much as being alone.”
“Prophetic dreams?” Sal echoed, confused.
“Visions of things that haven’t happened yet--but when you’re asleep, not awake. Not many people get them, and they’re hard to tell from real dreams. They usually recur, but not every recurring dream is prophetic. Anyway, Tom’s were, and in them, among other things, he saw Tait coming home to Fundelry in the middle of a storm, guided by a bell. Or something like that. Dreams are always confused, prophetic or not, and the only thing Tom was sure about was that it was important he should be ready. So, every time there’s a storm--”
“He’s standing in the rain ringing a bell, hoping to guide his brother home.” Sal shook his head at the thought.
“How do you know that?” Shilly asked, annoyed at having the punch line taken from her. “Oh, the other night. You saw him, did you?”
“I wondered what he was doing.”
“You’re not the only one.” She rolled her eyes. “We all wonder, at times.”
Sal ignored her jibe, concentrating instead on Tom’s peculiar gift.
“What else does Tom see?” he asked.
“Eh?”
“In his dreams. You said he sees his brother coming home in a storm--among other things.”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. You seem to be great mates, now.”
Sal nodded distantly, remembering the day Tom had first spoken to him, under the School’s fixed weathervane. They had been talking about the Haunted City, the Sky Warden citadel. You’ll go there one day, Tom had said.
Sal shivered. He had never believed in prophecy before--but he had never really believed in the Change, either, since his father had kept him away from it all his life. Now he had the Change himself, who was he to say prophecy wasn’t rubbish too?
He wanted to ask Shilly if any of Tom’s prophecies had come true, but he was afraid of what her answer would be. He didn’t want to go to the Haunted City. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the Sky Wardens. He just wanted things to stay the way they were.
“Anyway,” Shilly asked, interrupting his thoughts, “are you ready?”
“For what?”
“For your training to begin.”
Sal’s stomach turned. “I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good. Let’s go.” She reached down a hand to help him up. “Lodo’s waiting.”
He brushed grass off his backside. “Do I need anything?”
“Just your wits.” She smiled--maliciously, he thought--and led him away from the marketplace.
Chapter 9. “Trial by Fire”
The moment Lodo removed the anklet charm, Sal felt the background potential rush through him, as welcoming and vital as an eager puppy. But at the same time he felt the teeth and claws buried in the sensation. They weren’t properly there yet, but they would be, given time.
Not a puppy, then. A wolf. And wolves sometimes bit their handlers …
“You feel it?” Lodo rose to his feet with the charm in one hand and looked Sal up and down. “Yes, you do. It’s practically making your hair stand on end. The second thing we have to do is dampen your sensitivity to the background potential by better means than a simple charm.”
“What’s the first thing?”
Lodo didn’t answer. He turned away and began rummaging through items in his workshop. Sal watched curiously as the old man lifted rolled-up parchments, jars and bags of pebbles. The air, as always, was thick with heat. Three round stones, protruding out of the chamber’s rough-hewn walls, glowed yellow-red to provide indirect lighting. Shilly knelt on a cushion in one corner of the room with her hands folded in her lap, apparently ignoring them.
“Ah, here.” Lodo turned back to Sal with a smile on his wrinkled face. His eyes were bright. In his left hand he held a section of rope one meter long. It wasn’t ordinary rope, though. The intertwined fibers were much coarser than usual and had threads of metallic blue and red wound among them. One end terminated in a silver cap, and Lodo gripped the other by a black leather handle, lending it the appearance of a short whip. When Lodo moved it through the light, it glittered strangely.
Again, Sal felt the faint buzz that accompanied an object or place heavy with the Change.
“I don’t expect you’ve ever seen one of these before,” said the old man. “Few people have. It’s sometimes called the Scourge of Aneshti. Every great teacher of the Change has had something very much like it, be they Sky Warden or Stone Mage. I’m not saying I’m a great teacher, mind.” He waved the scourge experimentally through the air. “But I did listen to what my own teacher taught me, a long, long time ago.”
Sal watched the scourge, hypnotized by the shining threads. “What does it do?”
“It’s not a magic wand, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s not a weapon, either, despite its name. It’s more like a magnifying glass, or a telescope. It reveals.” He held it out before him. “Take the end opposite the one I’m holding.”
Sal did so. The silver cap was icily cold, and the cord squirmed in his fingers like a snake. Startled, he almost dropped the end, but grabbed it tightly with both hands and fought the urge to let go. Lodo was watching him even more closely than usual. If this was a test, he told himself, he wasn’t going to fail.
The Stone Mage & the Sea (Books of the Change Book 1) Page 13
