The Far Far Better Thing

by Auston Habershaw

  They were Initiates. Students. For the briefest moment, Myreon felt like she’d stepped back in time. That could have been her, studying augury or enchantment.

  “Don’t make any sudden moves, understand?” Androlli said, grabbing her by her upper arm.

  That single, perfect memory of her past crumbled away as quickly as it had arrived. She forced herself to be calm, to hold her head high. “I know my part, Argus. Don’t forget yours.”

  The lawn and the elm tree stood just beyond the grounds of the Arcanostrum itself, deep within Saldor’s Old City. It was under this elm tree that Myreon had stood awaiting her entrance examination, and under this elm tree that she had spent so many summer afternoons going over her notes from various lectures. She knew it was the same for Androlli—probably the same for every mage in the West—and so it had made the perfect focal point when leaving the Black Hall.

  Beyond the lawn and across Polimeux Street stood a wrought iron fence, nine feet high, that marked the perimeter of the Acanostrum’s grounds. Beyond the arched gate were paved walkways and tall trees whose branches concealed the towering spires of the colleges themselves. In the daylight, one could catch glimpses of the silver domes of the Blue College or the seashell-ivory towers of the White through the branches. Here, in the dead of night, only the flicker of fireflies and the bob of illumite lanterns lit the darkness.

  They crossed the street and passed through the gate. No one raised an alarm, no sorcerous guardian came to challenge them. No guards were set because nobody actually broke into the Arcanostrum of Saldor—ordinary people wouldn’t dare cross the border if they could avoid it, and those who knew anything about the place understood the consequences of mischief all too well. Even Myreon, knowing they were not yet in any danger, felt a flutter in her stomach as the gravel pathways crunched beneath her feet.

  Androlli said nothing as he marched her along the winding paths beneath the ancient trees and past archaic sculptures of this or that famous mage. They both knew they were being watched by someone, and any conversation they had at this point could be easily overheard. It was Myreon’s hope that a Mage Defender marching a traitor to the doors of the Black College would not be sufficiently noteworthy to activate the suspicion of the Master Defender keeping an eye on them.

  Very soon, the colleges themselves became visible. Each had a different challenge needed to be overcome in order to gain entry—it was a rite of passage for Initiates who achieved the First Mark. Once they could enter the College of their choice, they could be officially declared Apprentices. Many—most, in fact—left without managing it, going on to a life of relative wealth as a private sorcerer of some kind.

  The Blue College had a mighty djinn who demanded a riddle answered before the doors would open. The riddles were reputedy of the most fiendish difficulty and you only got one guess (though you were free to think about it as long as you liked). As they passed the gates of the Blue College, there were three would-be apprentices sitting on the stairs, heads in their hands. One was talking to herself.

  The White College required the admission of painful truths and acts of atonement, the Red College demanded you best a mage in a wrestling match, and the Gray Tower—the place Myreon and Androlli had both entered—gave you an exhaustive examination on Arcanostrum law and history that lasted two days.

  The Black College, though, was simply a labyrinth. If you couldn’t find your way through it, you never got in. Some went in and never returned. No black-robed mage Myreon had ever interviewed had given her the same answer when she had asked them why. The challenge with mages of the Ether, as always, was figuring out when they were lying and when they were telling the truth.

  The Black College itself was a trapezoidal building overgrown with the thorny vines of innumerable rose bushes. Nestled deep within the grounds, it was difficult to determine how far back the college went or how large it was compared to the others. The gate was open, as it always was—a yawning rectangular portal thirteen feet tall. Beyond was a kind of darkness somehow thicker than the night itself.

  Myreon’s instinct was to pause and consider their options carefully before proceeding—there could be some kind of trap. Androlli, though, did not break stride and dragged her along behind him.

  Next thing they knew, they couldn’t see a damned thing. Myreon looked behind them—the gates were gone, as was the faint light of grounds. If they had slammed behind them, they made no sound.

  Androlli grunted. “Well, this is familiar.”

  “Illumite won’t work,” Myreon said, and summoned up a little ball of Fey fire in one hand. The harsh orange light illuminated the floor beneath them and gave the impression of walls to either side, but not much more.

  “What do we do, then? Just wander around until we stumble upon Archmage Xahlven’s quarters?”

  Myreon pursed her lips. “Let’s try following the left wall. If we keep doing that, we should find our way through.”

  “Says who?”

  “It’s a logic puzzle, Argus—that’s all it is. Stay positive.”

  They shuffled along in the darkness, coming upon a few intersections, but stuck to the wall to their left at all times. The darkness and the silence of the place was disorienting. Myreon felt at alternating moments like she was headed down an incline and also up. She felt dizzy and hallucinated flashes of light in her peripheral vision. Or, perhaps, it was all real, intended to disorient her.

  It was working.

  After almost an hour of them bumping into walls, casting spells, and making no progress, Androlli stopped and leaned against a wall. “This is officially the stupidest thing I have ever done.”

  “Oh, stop it,” Myreon said. “If apprentices can figure this out, two staff-bearing magi should be able to.”

  “It’s got to be some kind of illusion—where would a huge maze like this even fit, anyway?”

  “They could just be expanding space Astrally to accommodate it. Besides, none of our dispels worked. We should keep going.”

  “Going where?” Androlli kicked the wall. “I can’t even say for certain we’re not going around in circles.”

  “We should have brought a spool of thread or something,” Myreon said.

  “What are we, seamstresses? Who in hell wanders about with spools of thread?”

  “Stop complaining! Gods, you’re always complaining.”

  Androlli folded his arms. “And you’re hopelessly naive. We’re trapped, understand? We can’t get out.”

  “We can get out. Plenty of people have.”

  Androlli snorted. “You know what I think? I think this is some kind of trap.”

  “Of course it is—we knew that going in!”

  “Not this maze—you, Myreon. You led me down here, convinced me to abandon my unit, and now are going to get me caught with a fugitive trying to infiltrate the Black College. It will be the end of my career. If they don’t take my staff, they’ll have me posted in some godforsaken dump in the middle of the Eddonish frontier. I’ll be eating beef jerky and freezing my arse off for the rest of my days.”

  “Will you stop thinking about your career for one damned minute? None of that nonsense is going to be of any help right now.”

  “I think of my career, Myreon, because thinking that way has gotten me everything I have. Maybe if you had spent more time thinking about your career and less time thinking about justice or social equality or whatever other nonsense we learned about in Gulter’s civics lectures, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”

  “Riding other people’s coattails isn’t a career, Argus,” she sneered.

  “Very pithy,” Androlli sneered right back. “You pick up that kind of wordplay from your dead boyfriend?”

  Myreon’s stomach went cold. “You leave Tyvian out of this. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course not,” Androlli said. “That’s the whole point, right? Argus Androlli, the human joke, has no idea what he’s talking about. How many times did that co
nceited, grinning scum make me look like a fool, eh? Every time I thought I had him pinned down, he’d weasel out of it. I take it back—you aren’t the reason I’m stuck here, Myreon. It’s all because of Tyvian bloody Reldamar!”

  Myreon wanted to hit him, but as she was thinking about it, something else occurred to her. Tyvian had always said that the best tricks were the simplest ones—the ones that merely confirmed the mark’s assumptions. Lyrelle had said much the same thing to her over the years; Xahlven was a living embodiment of the theory. Xahlven, it was well known, had solved the Black College Labyrinth when he was younger than Artus. What if . . .

  Androlli was looked at her. “What?”

  “There is no labyrinth!” she said. “Of course!”

  Androlli rolled his eyes. “We’ve been through this, Myreon—the dispels didn’t do anything.”

  Myreon shook her head. “That’s because we were dispelling the wrong thing!” Pointing a hand at herself, she performed a simple Astral dispel that would knock any enchantments off her person. There was a breath of icy cold across her shoulders and a soft pop.

  She was standing in a corridor lined with black marble pillars, lit by sconces flickering with green demonfire.

  Androlli had been leaning against one such pillar. He stood up, his eyes searching for her. “Myreon? Myreon, where did you go! Myreon!”

  They hadn’t been wandering in an illusory labyrinth at all—they had simply been enchanted to think they had. Laughing, Myreon dispelled Androlli’s enchantment as well. The Mage Defender’s eyes bugged out as he realized the ruse. Then, eventually, he chuckled. “Damn. Damn—I really am a fool, aren’t I?”

  Myreon only smiled at him.

  “Myreon Alafarr and Argus Androlli?” The voice, flat and cold, came from an . . . entity that emerged from the shadows of the hall. It was little more than darkness, somehow folded and given solid shape. The look of it made Myreon’s skin crawl.

  Androlli put an arm out to ward Myreon and leveled his staff at the thing. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  If it was bothered by Androlli’s show of bravado, it didn’t show it. “Archmage Xahlven would see you now. Please follow me.”

  It did not turn around, but it floated away a few paces, barely visible among the actual shadows cast by the thick pillars of the hall. It was waiting for them to follow. “So much for the element of surprise,” Myreon said.

  “At least we’re going to find his office.” Androlli winked at her. “Stay positive, right?”

  The shade led them through a number of secret passages and blind turns. Myreon tried to keep her bearings, but it was difficult—the place was a painstakingly built optical illusion, subtle and elegant. Where the hanim’s palace in Freegate had been a maze of brazen phantasms, the Black College confounded with the truth as often as it did with lies. Stairways that looked painted turned out to be real, and doors that looked as though they could not possibly go anywhere revealed whole rooms behind them.

  In time, they entered a winding corridor with many branchings—a kind of confused nautilus chamber, with doors in seemingly every corner. They wound their way, somehow, to what Myreon would consider the center. And there, seated on a throne of onyx, a scrying pool at his left hand, was Xahlven Reldamar.

  He rose, giving Myreon a suspicious look and then favoring Androlli with a stern nod. “Mage Defender Androlli, I assume there is an explanation for this.”

  Myreon watched Androlli out of the corner of her eye. She prayed he would have enough guile to know what to say and what not to say. She found herself holding her breath.

  Androlli pointed at Myreon. “It has been revealed to me that this woman is a member of the Sorcerous League. She is trying to get a more lenient sentence by providing us with evidence of the association’s existence, but she claims Trevard won’t listen to her. I did.”

  Xahlven steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And so you’ve come to me, then? Hoping I’ll put in a good word for you with the judges, Myreon?”

  Myreon said nothing. She was too busy trying to tame the raging beast inside her—the one that so desperately wanted to accuse him to his face of what he had done. But that wouldn’t work—it was becoming obvious to her that things like that never worked.

  “Am I the first person you’ve come to?” Xahlven asked Androlli.

  Androlli nodded. “I, of course, will file my report with Trevard as soon as I’m back with the army.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Xahlven rose from his throne and reached out to shake Androlli’s hand.

  Androlli grinned and took it.

  Xahlven pulled the Mage Defender close and pressed something small and black beneath Androlli’s chin. There was a hissing sound and Myreon was hit in the face with some kind of dust.

  Androlli’s headless corpse sank to the floor, the stump of his neck smoking. The mageglass helm fell backward and bounced into a corner.

  Xahlven slipped the deathcaster back up his sleeve. It was then that Myreon realized what had hit her in the face—the dust that had once been Argus Androlli’s head.

  The Archmage of the Ether sat back down in his throne. “Now, Ms. Alafarr—let’s you and I have a more . . . candid conversation, shall we?”

  Chapter 38

  Blood in the Water

  Hool watched the Battle of Dunnmayre from the roof of the Dragon, where Harleck had built a small but comfortable porch concealed on three sides by the thick boughs of the tree. Harleck had a Kalsaari spyglass—some contraption that allowed somebody to see something far away without the use of sorcery. They passed it back and forth as they watched the fleet of war barges intercept the crossing Saldorians. In the distance, she could see the signal flags on Sahand’s command barge. He was there—Banric Sahand, the Mad Prince, the monster of her dreams. No more than a mile or two away, almost taunting her across the water. She thought about making Damon row her out there, just close enough to get her alongside . . .

  Damon nudged her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Hool. You’d never make it.”

  Hool put her ears back. “How do you know what I was thinking?”

  “Your thoughts are always all over your face,” he said, shrugging. “Shroud or no shroud.”

  Hool balled her fists. Over the last few days, she’d eaten well—nearly eaten Harleck out of business—and she felt that her strength was back, if not all her flexibility. The wounds still hurt, but that was to be expected—they were wounds. She was more than a match for any dozen Dellorans. More than a match for any Banric Sahand. “We should do something.”

  No one answered, since the answer was clear. There was nothing to do but watch the Whiteflood stain itself red with blood.

  “Why do they do this?” she asked Harleck. “Why do they fight for him? Why do they kill? If you hate him, why do your brothers and sons wear his mark?”

  Harleck considered. “Because we fear the alternative. Because we are afraid of what might come after, or that there might not be an after. The Mad Prince is the tyrant we know. We have learned to live beneath his heel.”

  “And they kill for him? They do this?”

  Harleck nodded. “Sometimes it is better to be the heel than the throat beneath it.”

  Hool felt a new fire inside of her. A new kind of hatred for Sahand was growing—one born of something different than her lost pups. She saw that Sahand was like a blight that killed everything it touched. It rotted the world from the inside out. He needed to die not just for his deeds, but also for what he had made others into. She thought back upon all those brutes she had murdered in Sahand’s service. They were men who had taken an oath, like Damon. But unlike Damon, they had done it because they were afraid, and that fear transformed them into monsters. It made her sick to think about it.

  One of the barges buckled, some invisible force breaking its hull. There was an explosion of water from its center, throwing men through the air. It began to list to one side, sinking in the river. Hool waited to see if the two oth
er barges would move to assist their ally. They did not. A series of flags flashed from the top deck of the command barge, and they turned away, heading toward the opposite bank.

  Beneath them, the Saldorians cheered—a minor victory. A short-lived one.

  “I’ve seen enough of this,” Hool growled. “Get me some rope. Big, thick rope.”

  “Wait, what are you going to do?” Damon asked, but she was already heading down the stairs.

  As she passed through the common room, she saw the men all crammed around the doors and windows, watching the battle. “You! You fools of Dellor! Come with me!” She pushed them away from the door. “Bring rope and things that float.”

  “Like what?” someone asked.

  Hool rolled her eyes. “I have no idea what floats! You live next to a big river—you figure it out!”

  She went down the stairs and out of the tree. On the ground, mirror men were running back and forth, their firepikes on their shoulders. It was not immediately clear to Hool what they thought they were doing. She grabbed one. “You!” she bellowed. “Where is your leader?”

  The man’s eyes bugged out. “Wh . . . what are you?”

  Hool shook him. “Leader! Now!”

  He pointed, and so Hool found herself standing in front of a short little man in a big mirrored helmet waving around a sabre. She didn’t waste time introducing herself, she just started telling him what to do. “We are going to save men out of the river now. If you shoot at me, I will kill you. If you help me, I will save your people, too.”

  The little man froze, staring up at Hool through his visor. He took a deep breath and straightened his breastplate. “Sir, if you have a plan, I’ve got men to make it happen. For me, I’m fresh out of ideas.”