by K S Augustin
They rushed toward the outer wall and Gamsin tried to stop their progress, but failed. She shut her eyes, waiting for impact, but nothing happened. When she opened one eye, she found they were through the wall and into an antechamber, its door open to a much larger hall. The light from torches illuminated part of the larger chamber. Indistinct words echoed in the space. She could not see what, or who, they were praying to, but she saw neat rows of people kneeling and chanting.
She turned back to the antechamber and noticed a cage of filigree. Within that filigree was an open book. Ankoll floated closer, trying to get a better look, but they were suddenly swept from it, tumbling away from the chamber, the building, the village…and into blackness.
Chapter Eight
Gamsin’s breath condensed white in the early morning air. They were at their camp, everything cast with the bluish haze of a cold dawn. She blinked a few times, but the vision of them flying through the air persisted. It had felt so real…
“What happened?” she asked, unaware she had spoken aloud, and realised that she could have been referring to two momentous events: the flight to the village…and sex with Ankoll.
Behind them, their horses stomped in the cold. While Ankoll fed them, she scrambled into her clothes, still keeping the cloak around her, then set about reviving their almost-dead fire. Her first consensual sexual encounter. She should have been happy—nay, ecstatic—with a smile from ear to ear. Instead, she was confronted with more questions than answers. It appeared that life with Ankoll always threw up more than what one bargained for. While their lovemaking had been wondrous, beautiful, pleasurable, what happened afterward terrified her, and she was desperate for some kind of explanation.
Ankoll came back and reached into his backpack for some cured ham, peeling thin slices off with his knife and handing them to Gamsin. His expression was reflective. “You mean last night? After we…”
She nodded impatiently.
“I think we experienced a different form of magic,” he finally said, picking his words slowly. “Until you met me, you thought sorcerers were a myth. Well, I believe the magic we experienced last night was a kind sorcerers consider a myth.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ankoll sighed. It was obvious he was searching for an explanation himself. “Sorcery—my kind of sorcery—is learned. Although it helps to be born with a degree of observation and sensitivity, some of the art can be picked up through nothing more than constant study and practice. How powerful we are as sorcerers depends on our innate sensitivity combined with how much learning we are prepared to endure, over and over again until it becomes second nature to us. But…” He paused. “But there are rumors of another, older, magic. Elemental magic that supersedes all taught magic. In fact, it cannot be taught, only experienced, which is why sorcerers have disputed its existence for centuries.” He shrugged. “How can you experience magic before being taught about it? And, if you can only experience it, how can you control it or use it?”
Gamsin tried to follow his quick patter of words. “So, you believe what happened to us last night was elemental magic?”
Ankoll looked at her speculatively. “It would seem so. I always knew there was a depth to you, my young thief, a depth you were unaware of. Our psychic joining that night at Tendraf Village showed me that you possess a rare gift. You pulled me back from the edge of permanent change with only the power of your mind. I didn’t know what would eventually happen when we joined in the flesh, but I was ready for an event equally spectacular.” He smiled at her. “I see I wasn’t disappointed.”
Gamsin blushed. “Does that mean I’m now a sorcerer?”
He shook his head. “I don’t have a true answer for you but, at the moment, I don’t think so. Sorcerers have a trace, an aura, about them that I don’t detect from you. But you contain something powerful and wondrous and,” he sketched a bow, “I am honoured you chose to share it with me.”
“What happens now?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation back to safer ground. All this talk of intimacy and wonder was beginning to embarrass her. She needed time to crawl into a hole and think on what had happened to her—to them—the previous night. “We were in the village, weren’t we? But what was that book?”
“I don’t know. It looked like a magician’s book but it is unusual to have one displayed in such a manner. What I do know is that it holds the key to the mystery of this place but, without knowing who owns the book or what it contains, there is little I can do.”
This was a situation Gamsin was more familiar with and she almost sighed with relief. Finally, here was something she didn’t have to think about and, in all honesty, her poor brain needed a rest.
“You can’t use your magic to get the book, can you?”
“No. The thing will detect me. If it finds out what I am before I can find out what it is, I fear we are lost.”
“But we need the book.”
“Yes.”
“Then the answer is simple. I’ll steal it.”
Oh, he argued, he cajoled, he threatened but, in the end, even Ankoll had to admit that her plan made the most sense. Constrained to not using any of his magic, they were forced to rely on Gamsin’s skills. And, as she told him several times while she prepared herself, she was a very good thief.
Her first plan was to climb the cliffs around the village then break into the building from above or perhaps through a conveniently high window, but Ankoll vetoed that idea.
“It will be looking for intent,” he told her, “I can sense that much, so there should be none. Anything that requires intense focus will be like a beacon to it, drawing it to you.”
“Then I must pretend to be like one of those in the chamber.” She looked at her canvas bag with regret. If Ankoll was right, she was best off travelling light, in case she had to make a quick dash to safety.
“If something happens,” he told her, “call for me. I will hear you.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
She checked herself for the only two things she was taking with her—her dagger and a lockpick set—and mounted her horse, not looking back as she rode away.
The village approached too soon and Gamsin pulled off the track before she became visible, guiding the horse toward one of many rocky outcrops that littered the ground. She secured the gelding then took off her cloak. It was finer than any she’d seen during her glimpses of the village and—she was sure—would draw unwanted attention to herself. She left it, neatly folded, with the horse then, shivering, headed stealthily for the village.
It was simpler than she’d imagined. She darted from outcrop to outcrop and no alarm sang out. She edged closer and closer to the buildings until she approached the leftmost edge of the outpost. And, there, just where she was expecting it, was a sagging clothesline.
Having appropriated one thin cape, Gamsin moved past the line of laundry and stealthily climbed the slope to the back of the building, rubbing her hands and blowing on them. The cold would only stiffen her fingers and make them less sensitive, and if she ever had to rely on instinct, now was the time. Her initial plan was to find some shelter while she waited to join the throng of worshippers—she couldn’t think of a better word—in the large hall.
She stumbled only once, sending a shower of gravel ricocheting down the slope. She immediately froze and crouched into the rock, hiding herself with the cloak and imagining herself to be a slab of dark basalt, but minutes passed and nothing happened. Slowly she unfurled herself and continued her traverse.
There was an opening near the back of the large building and Gamsin aimed for it, moving at a measured pace. When she finally reached it, the ledge was just out of reach so she jumped, grasping the stonework with her fingers and levering herself in, slipping down to sit next to the wall while she steadied her breathing. This was where they kept ceremonial items. Gamsin scanned the shelves along the opposite wall where large shallow goblets, ornately decorated, rested
next to wide trays, scrolls and finely textured, folded clothing. She felt only a twinge of her old self as she turned her back on the artifacts and edged nearer to the door.
The hall opened out in front of her, a large rectangular space bare except for a raised platform at the front. A white rock, like an immense block of quartz, rested on the platform, its top covered by a square of rich dark velvet. There was a closed door across the hall from her but she didn’t want to expose her presence by crossing the expanse of polished wood. What if somebody entered the chamber while she was sneaking across it? She needed to be a mouse, not a warrior.
Suddenly, she felt something in the room with her. A sense of a watcher or hunter, probing, seeking. It was nothing physical—she was still the only person in the small chamber—but, contrarily, she knew she was no longer alone.
The thing!
No focus, Ankoll told her, and Gamsin desperately tried to think of not thinking. The pressure on her mind increased. She remembered Mishlow City and the drudges who collected rubbish from the taverns and stores and carried them to the refuse tip. Blank and trudging humans, they seemed impervious to the stench and weight of their job.
“I am a drudge,” she muttered, easing out of the room. She sidestepped against the wall, walking away from the platform, trying to ignore the strangest sensation that it was the rock that was trying to find her. “I carry garbage. I feel nothing. I think nothing.”
Her hand met empty air and she darted into the next empty chamber. Yes, this was it! She recognised the room from the vision. Along one side were tall bookshelves, half filled with thick leather-bound tomes. And there, on the solid timber table, was the finely wrought filigree cage enclosing the magic book.
No! I am a drudge. I do not think. I just walk. One foot in front of the other.
Gamsin traced a route of the city in her head and pretended she was following it, stopping occasionally to pick up the rubbish barrels and empty them into the cart behind her.
It slowed her actions down considerably, but she didn’t want to think about that. The lockpick appeared in her hands and she tried not to be surprised.
I am outside the Guzzled Goose, walking down the alley to pick up the barrels.
The lock clicked and the metal door swung open. As if in slow motion, Gamsin pulled a rag from her pocket and placed it on the open book, shutting the book around it and pulling it out of its gold-and-silver cage. She put it to one side then picked another book from the shelf behind her, inserting it into the cage and opening it to a random page.
It’s so heavy. It’s time to head for the garbage dump. The wooden wheels of my cart are clicking on the cobblestones.
No! She wanted to think, she wanted her mind to race, she wanted to find out what that white rock really was and where the closed door on the other side of the hall led.
Gamsin half closed her eyes and stood in the centre of the small chamber, concentrating on the garbage route through the city. She felt a sharp jab in her mind.
Just keep walking. I can hear the click-clack of the wooden wheels. The street is slippery right here, I must be careful.
Then it was gone, but Gamsin still kept the commentary running in her head. It seemed to take another hour before she re-locked the cage, picked up the book and edged back to the vestments chamber. She breathed in, untied the laces and tucked the book into the waistband of her pants. Was that the sound of someone approaching?
I will need to go back. The butcher on Skin Lane has been complaining that I am too slow.
The deepening dusk hid her departure from the village, but Gamsin continued to concentrate on the drudge’s work until she reached her horse. Not even bothering to fasten her own cloak, she pulled herself into the saddle and galloped away, finally allowing her thoughts to run free.
She thought she must have spent days getting the book, but the position of the setting sun told her that less than two hours had passed. The effort of not thinking, not focusing on what she was doing, was exhausting and she was glad her horse knew the way back to the camp because she doubted she had enough strength left to guide him.
The tension in Ankoll’s face was evident as she approached their shelter, and it caught at her heart. He was worried for her. She grinned and slapped her stomach as she approached and saw his features lighten at the sound of her hand hitting something solid.
“You have it?”
She dismounted, pulling out the book and handing it to him. She had only enough energy left to tie her horse next to the other, leaving them to nicker at each other, before collapsing next to the fire and pulling her own cloak over her.
“That was the hardest thing I have ever done,” she told him with pride as she watched him pore over the book with barely held restraint.
“You kept track of the page the book was open to,” he exclaimed, waving the rag at her.
“I thought it might be important.”
“You are a wonder, Gamsin Thief.” He put down the book and walked over to her, kneeling next to her. “I was worried for you,” he told her. “Each moment passed like an hour. I’ve never felt so helpless.”
She tried smiling, but it was tremulous. She never thought she would have such feeling for another person and it scared her as much as it elated her. He held her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, as if drinking from a sweet spring, then slowly let her go.
“We don’t have much time,” he said with obvious reluctance as he pulled away. “It will find out soon enough that the book is gone.”
“Then you’d better find out what it is.”
Ankoll went back to the book, quickly scanning it, his face darkening as he read and re-read important passages.
“The fool,” he finally said. “This book belongs to Beltrin of the West, the sorcerer that cursed me. I knew he was arrogant but, this…”
“What did he do?”
“He has conjured up the Eidolon.”
“The…?”
“The Eidolon. They belong to another time. They were supposedly banished by the Great Council of Sorcerers more than one thousand years ago.”
“Are they people?”
“No, they’re spirits. They were proscribed for feeding on the souls of humans, gradually leaching the life from people, killing them before they could live out their proper lifetimes. According to our histories, entire villages were decimated by these monsters. Sorcerers would enter towns and see desiccated corpses littering the streets, as if the people were too weak to take one more step or even crawl away.”
“And Beltrin conjured one?”
Ankoll grimaced. “Yes. It could be that he did so out of ignorance. The spell he used,” he tapped the book, “could have enhanced insight into the future but, instead, opened a doorway to the Eidolon’s exiled kingdom.”
Gamsin thought of the men, women and children of the village, slowly being sucked dry by the creatures Ankoll described, and she shuddered.
“How many of these things did Beltrin let through?”
“I don’t know. Only he can answer that question.”
“Maybe he’s dead?”
“No. I’m still sensing him. He is alive, but maybe only barely so. We need to find him. Tonight. Before the Eidolon guesses our plan.”
“What do these Eidolon look like?”
“They rest in objects, anchoring themselves to something permanent so they don’t dissipate while they repose. Why? Did you see something in the village?”
The skin on Gamsin’s arms prickled.
“While…while I was searching for the book, in the hall there was a large,” she sketched a rounded pillar with her hands, “mound of white rock. It looked like quartz. I thought I was imagining things, but it felt like the rock was trying to look for me.”
“The White Eidolon,” Ankoll breathed. “We’re lucky, that is not the most powerful of the soul stealers. But we must still move quickly.” He looked at Gamsin with grave eyes. “Once more, I ask for your help, young Gamsin. I would not
fault you if, this time, you refused my request.”
Refuse this man? After what he’d taught her? After everything they’d done together?
“If we fail, you could lose your soul,” he told her, “and I would not be responsible for such a loss.”
“My soul is mine to lose, Ankoll Sorcerer.” And she meant it.
Chapter Nine
They decided that subterfuge was not going to work the second time, especially now that Beltrin’s sorcery book was gone. But they weren’t going to gallop straight into the village as though demons were on their trail either.
Late that night, with a large waxing moon guiding their way, they casually rode into the village. To their surprise, nobody stopped them. In fact, with the exception of a few apathetic glances, nobody even gave them a second look.
“The Eidolon has been here for a while,” Ankoll muttered as they dismounted. “Its prey is already growing weak. In another month, we may have ridden into a town of the dead.”
“And it would have moved on to another place.”
He nodded as they walked toward the stilted houses. “It pains me to say this, but this makes our task a little easier.”
Gamsin’s quick mind followed the track of his thoughts. “You mean we won’t have to worry about the villagers attacking us.”
His voice was heavy. “Yes.”
The chanting floated to them on the brisk mountain air and they followed it to its source, the ladder leading up to the hall creaking as it took their weight.
Where it was empty before, the hall was now half full of various figures, shuffling from side to side, all facing the platform—the Eidolon—at the front.
