Unbelievably, things took a downturn from there.
He was on his way to the silversmith's. Rietta had taken it upon herself to order a wedding present from him to Ingrid, his "intended." If that wasn't bad enough, he hadn't the money to pay for it.
This ploy was a common trick of Rietta's. She would commission some piece of work from a local craftsman. It was considered quite an honor to be doing work for the lord or his lady. She would send a servant to retrieve the piece, with a promise that the bill would be paid the first of the month. The first would come and go without an exchange of money.
Occasionally a merchant would send a bill to the castle, but it was always ignored. The more aggressive ones would journey in person to the castle, only to be turned away at the door and never used again, a bit of a mixed blessing. The merchants didn't talk about it among themselves, for the shame, and for fear that Rietta would somehow persuade Cormac to shut down their businesses.
Guerrand knew the ploy too well. Several merchants had confided in him, knowing they could trust the lord's brother. Some even hoped he might be able to help them, but Guerrand was certain that Rietta would only deny blame, and Cormac cared too little for the welfare of the villagers to intervene.
Why does it have to be Wilor? Guerrand thought. He had known the silversmith as long as he'd known anyone. Wilor and Rejik DiThon had been of an age. Unlike Cormac, Rejik had treated his subjects with respect and even befriended many of them. Both men had told Guerrand stories of their youthful exploits.
He hated that he was being forced to participate in a scheme he felt powerless to stop. At first when Rietta had asked him to go to the silversmith's he had refused, insisting that if she wanted the trinket, she should go herself or send a servant.
"You're not showing the proper gratitude for my thoughtfulness, Guerrand," Rietta had said. "Placing an order is one thing. However, it would be most unseemly for the lady of the castle to be seen in the village, purchasing items like a common woman. What's more," she had sniffed, "I have no servants to spare, what with the preparations for your wedding. All you have to do is show up for the ceremony. The least you can do is help out in this small way."
In the end, Guerrand agreed to go so that he could admit to Wilor the silversmith that he had no money, but he would pay him in full after his marriage.
Guerrand snorted now, remembering her words. Yes, all I have to do is be married to the Bucker Princess for a lifetime, such a small thing for the family. She and Cormac, despite their fighting, are well suited, he thought.
The day was warm, hot even, and far too moist. Guerrand's skintight hose clung to his bony legs, made sweat run down his thighs in tiny rivulets. He'd never cared much about his attire; clothes never seemed to fit him very well anyway. He was all knobby bones and strange angles. He particularly hated hose, far preferring the baggier trousers worn by the lower classes-and by him until he'd agreed to be married.
"You're nobility, Guerrand," Cormac had said, tossing him an armful of new, expensive-looking clothing. "If you can't act the part, the least you can do is look like a lord and a cavalier. Rietta went to a great deal of trouble on your behalf for these clothes."
Not half as much as the unpaid tailor, Guerrand mused. He shuddered now to think of the amount of coin Rietta had cheated from some unfortunate workman, probably Bartholamin, whose shop stood next to the mill. Guerrand unconsciously circumvented that part of town on his way to the silversmith's.
Winding his way along the twisted streets between the thatched houses and gardens, Guerrand was surprised at the number of villagers still wearing mourning clothes. He began to feel very self-conscious, as he and everyone else at the castle had ended their outward mourning the day before, at Rietta's order. She felt it was inappropriate to prepare for a wedding while shrouds still hung in the castle. Yet these townsfolk still grieved for his brother. Perhaps they understood better what had been lost.
Guerrand knew the way to Wilor's too well these days. He'd been there just a week before to help retrieve the impossibly heavy, elaborately decorated casket cover for Quinn. Hammered into the likeness of his brother, the beauty of the silver cover would have taken Guerrand's breath away if its necessity hadn't brought such sorrow.
Wilor didn't need a sign to advertise his product; the heavy door bearing its silver unicorn signified Wilor's trade and set his stall apart from the much more practical doors of the other merchants. Next to the door, a pair of shutters were opened up and down. Serving as an awning, the upper shutter was supported by two posts. A display counter by day, the lower shutter dropped down to rest on two short legs.
Guerrand could see Wilor's wife at a workbench inside the shop, polishing some recent pieces of work with a tan scrap of chamois. Guerrand counted eleven anvils of various size about the modest, hazy shop. Next to a small furnace, one of Wilor's two apprentices held a glowing piece of metal on an anvil, while the master hammered it with incredible speed and accuracy, never once missing the metal. The other young apprentice, his face red and glowing with sweat, held a crucible of softened silver in the furnace with a long pair of tongs, waiting for Wilor's practiced hammer.
Guerrand tugged at the ornate door and slipped into the stiflingly hot shop. Wilor looked up from his anvil and smiled at Guerrand. Sweat ran down his beet-red face, detouring around his upturned lips.
Wilor was a short but sturdy man who had developed immense strength from his vigorous life. His hairline had receded to the midpoint of his scalp, as if to get away from the ever-present heat of the furnace. The thick, red forearms exposed below his rolled sleeves took on a gruesome sheen that always reminded Guerrand of the film that formed over the fatty sections of roasted meat. What teeth Wilor still possessed looked white against the cooked expanse of his face. Whatever his troubles, Guerrand was instantly reminded that a tradesman's life was far harder than his. He was annoyed anew at a society that allowed Rietta to indulge in common thievery.
Guerrand would have been surprised to read the returned pity in the smith's mind at the moment. Guerrand, his sister Kirah, and their dead brother Quinn were too good for their family, thought the smith. Guerrand!" he cried, stepping forward to heartily clap him on the shoulder. "How are you holding up, lad?"
"Well enough, Wilor," said Guerrand with a smile more rueful than he realized. "What with the wedding preparations, we haven't had much time to think of other things."
"I've been wanting to tell you how sorry we all were about Quinn." The old smith's salt-and-pepper head shook sadly. "A finer lad you'd be hard-pressed to find."
"Thank you," Guerrand said softly, his head bowed slightly at the tribute. "I've been wanting to talk to you as well. About that coffin cover you made… It was… incredible. There's no one who can fashion metal like you, Wilor."
Wilor chuckled, his flush of pleasure unnoticeable in the ruddy, round face. "I know what you're here for today." Wilor rushed over to his wife, who was still polishing pieces of jewelry and several chalices. He held out his hand; she knew just what he was looking for. Wilor came back and unfurled his fingers. In his moist, fleshy palm lay the most exquisite piece of craftsmanship Guerrand had ever seen. Wilor smiled at the young man's indrawn breath.
"Do you like it?"
"Like it?" exclaimed Guerrand. "It's far too good for Ingr-for me," he quickly amended.
Ingrid's flaws would only be accentuated next to this exquisite necklace. The pendant was in the shape of a swooping falcon. Beneath it, a crescent moon was suspended by nearly invisible silver strands, so that the moon seemed to be floating by itself. The whole thing shone with the pale luster of moonlight.
"I took some liberties with the design," explained Wilor. "I hope Lady DiThon won't mind overmuch. She wanted the moon to be full and for the birdie to be attached to it solidlike, but I thought that would spoil the delicateness of it, don't you see. Other than them things, it's mainly the same as Lady DiThon requested."
"Don't worry, I won't let Rietta say
a word against it," vowed Guerrand. He looked intently at Wilor. "That brings me to what I wanted to speak to you about. Have you been paid for the… for the work you did for Quinn?"
He knew the answer before he saw Wilor's shaggy head shake. "I'll see that you are, as well as for this stunning necklace, after the wedding." Guerrand flushed with embarrassment. "I wish I could pay you now, Wilor, but, well, I just can't." His voice trailed off. They both knew he had no funds of his own under Cormac.
Wilor's expression contained both relief and pity. "The promise of Rejik DiThon's second son will always be good enough for me." With a sly wink, he took the necklace from Guerrand's hand. "Marthe will wrap this securely for you. I'll not have my handiwork marred before it's delivered to the bride."
Guerrand smiled his thanks, but could not suppress a slight shudder at Wilor's last word. While Wilor and Marthe fussed over wrapping the gift Rietta would insist on rewrapping, the young man looked at Wilor's display of uncommissioned pieces available for sale. There were delicate necklaces, heavy armbands in the shape of intertwined serpents, brooches, and cloak fasteners. He picked up a dagger pommel in the shape of a boar's head.
"He has a way with metal, has he not?"
Guerrand jumped at the sound of the strange, yet somehow familiar, voice at his shoulder. He could hide neither his surprise nor his dismay at the sight of the man he'd last encountered outside Cormac's study.
Shorter and thicker than Guerrand, the mage was clothed entirely in blood-red robes from neck to booted feet. In the darkness of the keep's hallway, Guerrand hadn't noticed how deeply pocked was the man's face; nature had not been kind to him, nor likely his peers in adolescence. His complexion was ruddy, only several shades lighter than his robe; the skin hung loose upon the bones. The irises of his eyes were so large and dark they seemed to blot out any white, making them look as beady as a bird's. Above them were two thick, black, short, straight brows, like dashes. His chin was covered with the small, perfect triangle of a goatee. His pearl-shaped head was shaved smooth, though a shadowy stubble ringed his head in a perfect wreath.
"It's amazing what he's able to accomplish through skill and craft alone." Thin, tapered fingers with inch-long, red-tipped nails took the pommel from Guerrand's sweaty palm. "One can only imagine what Wilor could make if he could wield the powers we do."
The mage's voice was almost too soft for even Guerrand to hear. Still, the youth looked about the shop anxiously. "I don't know what you mean-I know nothing about magic," he hissed.
The mage's thick eyebrows raised. "Strange that you should assume I was speaking of magic."
Guerrand flushed. He hadn't meant to sound defensive. He knew he shouldn't be speaking to the mage at all. Guerrand looked toward Wilor and frowned. The smith and his wife were still fussing over his package. "I've some other errands to run, Wilor," he called, heading for the door before the smith could respond. "I'll just stop back later."
"I hear congratulations are in order, Guerrand," the mage pressed.
The young man paused long enough to say, "Thank you."
"You must be sorry to give up your dreams of magic to become a knight. I expect you're not very good at soldiering."
Guerrand whirled on the mage, his face livid. "I don't know who you are or why you think you know so much about me, but you're wrong."
"About you being a lackluster cavalier?" The mage shook his shaved head mildly. "I don't think so."
"You know what I'm talking about!"
"Yes, but do you?"
The conversation was quickly getting out of control. Guerrand had to end it. The apprentices were starting to take notice. "If I was interested in speaking with you, which I'm not, I couldn't do it here in the middle of a village shop."
"Yes, your brother is not enamored of mages, is he? Word would surely get back to him." He tapped his whiskered chin in thought. "That's easily taken care of." The mage snapped his finger. In the blink of an eye, Wilor, his wife, and the apprentices all fell absolutely still, as if frozen in time. With a loud crash, the awnings dropped and slammed closed, cutting off the view to the street. A length of wood banged down, bolting both the door and the awnings from the inside.
"There," said the mage with satisfaction. "That ought to keep the gossips at bay for a while."
Guerrand was intrigued and annoyed at the same time. But he was more intrigued. "How did you do that?"
"Don't be coy with me, Guerrand. I'm quite certain you know the answer." He replaced the pommel in the empty space on the shelf. "You're capable of mastering such simple spells, if you haven't already."
Guerrand's eyes narrowed. "How do you know so much about me-and why?"
The mage's eyebrows raised in obvious amusement. "Those are two entirely different questions. Which would you have me answer first?"
Guerrand shrugged, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. "I guess you've used magic to learn about me. What I can't figure out is why."
"As you wish." He looked about the small, hot shop with undisguised disgust and wiped his brow on a long, red cuff. "Why do people work in such unpleasant conditions, when there is magic? But then, one might ask why, when there is magic, they work at all."
"Magic can't do everything!" spat Guerrand, feeling strangely defensive for the honest shopkeepers of Thonvil.
"Can't it?" The mage looked surprised, as if the possibility had never occurred to him. Brushing his hands together, he said, "Well, if we're to converse here, let's be comfortable."
With a mumbled word and a wave of his hand, the fire in the furnace dropped away to the tiniest of glows and a cool, refreshing breeze wafted through the shop. Reflexively Guerrand looked back over his shoulder. The door and shutters were still closed and barred, yet the breeze was unmistakably coming from that direction. At the same time, a bench slid out from beneath one of Wilor's apprentices and skittered across the floor to where the two men stood. The apprentice hung in the air in an impossible posture, suspended over nothing.
The magic only added to Guerrand's discomfort. He gave a glance to the mannequin-stiff silversmith and his wife, their expressions unchanged. He relaxed slightly and lowered himself onto the bench opposite the mage.
"I feel at a disadvantage in more ways than one. I don't even know your name."
"Belize."
Guerrand waited for him to continue, but the mage simply sat, staring over steepled fingernails. "All right, I'll ask again. Why have you sought me out? What do you want from me?" His eyes narrowed still further as a dark thought dawned on him. "Do you mean to blackmail me, to tell my brother I secretly practice magic?" Guerrand leaned forward angrily. "If so, I'll simply deny it! You'll get nothing from me!"
The mage threw back his head and laughed, a hideous, hiccupping sound, as if his throat were unused to the activity. "That's too absurd! I know the DiThons are penniless. As if I needed coin."
"Then why were you speaking to Cormac?"
Instantly, the mage's expression turned angry-black. "That was other business. Do not speak of it again."
"Let's stop boxing," said Guerrand. "Just tell me, what do you want from me?"
"What I want for you would be a more accurate question."
Gritting his teeth, Guerrand willed patience. After an interminable amount of time, it paid off.
"You must go to the Tower of Wayreth."
Guerrand could not have been more stunned by the pronouncement. He knew the place to which Belize referred. What hopeful mage did not? In order to learn any advanced magic, one had to go to Wayreth, enter his name on the roll of apprentices, and eventually take the Test. It was rumored to be dangerous. Yet, following any other path branded a mage as an outlaw who could be hunted and destroyed with the endorsement of a ruling council of mages. Once, years ago, Guerrand had considered making the trip. That was when he still thought there was a chance he might study in Gwynned. That hope had long since died.
"Now you're being absurd," said Guerrand. At that moment, he didn't care if Beli
ze struck him dead for his impudence.
But the mage was unmoved by the response. "My… observations tell me you have learned as much as you can without a proper master."
"Do you think so?" The long overdue praise dropped the last vestiges of Guerrand's guard, even made him overlook the intrusion of being the subject of Belize's scrutiny. He could scarcely keep the butterflies of excitement from fluttering in his chest. He leaned forward eagerly. "I haven't had a proper teacher, or any, even." He laughed giddily. "I've taught myself from several spellbooks I found in my father's library, before he died. Cormac scarcely reads-he never even knew they were there."
"It's not uncommon for hopeful mages to come to the tower with very little training. Few have learned as much as you, however. But if you go to Wayreth, you'll be apprenticed to a learned mage who would teach you more than you can even imagine now."
Belize was speaking as if the deed were as good as done! Guerrand had seen apprentices all his life, like those here in Wilor's shop. As a squire, he was an apprentice of sorts. But he knew little about magical apprenticeship, and even less about the Test.
"What's the Test like?" he asked, now that he had the chance to learn of it. "Is it as dangerous as I've heard? Long? Costly?"
Chuckling, Belize held up his hands as if to fend off the barrage of questions. "Slow down. First, the Test is different for everyone, tailored to the entrant. Second, it is always difficult. Third, it can last for days, or minutes, depending on the ability of the mage. Fourth, the cost is only that the mage must pledge his life to magic."
"Mages have passed the Test in minutes?"
"I did not say they passed."
Guerrand looked for Belize to continue, but the mage did not. "What happens to those who fail?"
"Failure means death."
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