A Young Man Without Magic

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He saw a light ahead, barely visible in the fading daylight, that was not the sunset, and headed toward it, guessing it to be a farmhouse—perhaps daylight reflecting from a glass window, or a lantern hung by a door.

  Fairly quickly, though, as the sky dimmed and he drew nearer, he realized that he was seeing the light of a fire, and one that was nearer than he had initially believed. That, he thought, was worth a closer look, at any rate. He approached cautiously, trying not to step on anything that would rustle, or that might cling and make noise when he pulled his foot free. He had just gotten to a point where he could see the fire, at least two or three figures seated around it, and what appeared to be a wagon of some sort, when he felt the ward.

  Anrel was not a sorcerer, but he had grown up among sorcerers, and despite years of denial he had some innate magical talent himself; he knew a warding spell when he sensed one, and he had very definitely encountered a ward—a weak one, badly done, sufficient only to alert its creator to an intruder’s presence, not a real defense at all, but nonetheless, a ward.

  He stopped dead in his tracks, holding his breath, not daring to move, as he tried to think what it could mean. What would a sorcerer be doing out here, in a marshy riverside grove at sunset?

  Or had the wards been set some time ago, perhaps? Was this merely a boundary marker, an indication of the edge of some nobleman’s property?

  But if so, why were those people camping inside it?

  And why were they sitting so very still? From the instant he first felt the touch of magic, they had frozen in place, motionless as statues—much as he was himself.

  Then one of them rose, and turned to look directly at him—a woman, though he could not make out her features in the shadows, with the firelight behind her. “Who’s there?” she called quietly.

  There was no point in pretending further; he raised his hands to show himself unarmed, and began walking again, no longer concerned with disturbing fallen leaves. “Just a traveler,” he answered.

  “Come where we can see you,” she said, peering in his direction.

  Annoyed with himself, Anrel realized that he was still deep in the shadows of the grove, and in all likelihood she could not actually see him at all; he could probably have slipped away safely if he had tried.

  It was too late now, though. “I’m coming,” he said.

  Now the other figures around the fire were getting to their feet as well, and turning to watch him. There were more of them than he had thought. One was a big man—tall, broad in the shoulders, and obviously not a man who missed many meals, though Anrel judged him to have as much muscle as fat on his generous frame. He wore a battered hat not unlike Anrel’s own in design, but showing every sign of long, hard use.

  The others all seemed to be women—four in all, counting the one who had first addressed him, all of them wearing simple country dresses.

  None of the five appeared to be especially well attired, which was puzzling; which of them was the sorcerer who had placed the wards? Perhaps the man was some eccentric noble who had decided to try roughing it for a few days, and had brought along a few of his maids to help him.

  The wagon, though, was not by any stretch of the imagination a nobleman’s coach; it was little more than a rather battered box on wheels, with a canvas cover stretched across an arched frame over the top. A lone horse stood a few yards away, almost invisible in the twilight and apparently asleep. Surely, even the most eccentric sorcerer would not have trusted himself and four others to a single draft horse?

  “Who are you?” the big man demanded.

  “My name is . . . is Dyssan,” Anrel said, remembering at the last instant to give a name that he could be reasonably sure was not that of a known fugitive. “Dyssan Adirane.” He emerged into the light of the fire, hands still raised.

  There was a pot on the fire, he saw, and he could smell something cooking. His mouth watered.

  The big man glanced at one of the women, then back at Anrel. “What do you want here?” he asked.

  “To dry my boots by your fire, if I may,” Anrel said.

  “You’re wearing a sword.”

  “Indeed I am. Despite the landgrave’s best efforts, brigands are not unknown in Aulix,” Anrel replied dryly.

  Something brushed against him then, something intangible, something he could not name and could not explain. He started, but kept his hands up.

  Two of the women exchanged startled glances.

  The big man turned and asked, “Well, ladies? What do you think?”

  “Let him come,” one of them said.

  “I don’t think we could stop him,” another added.

  “Oh?” The man gave Anrel a wary glance.

  “He’s a sorcerer,” she explained.

  The big man turned and studied Anrel, taking in the torn fabric on his shoulders and lapels and the mud on his boots, but also the quality of the leather beneath the mud. “A sorcerer? Then by all means, my lord, feel free to join us.”

  “Thank you,” Anrel said, lowering his hands and advancing further into the firelight. He was unsure what to say about being called a sorcerer and addressed as “my lord.” Instead, he asked, “Whose company do I have the pleasure of joining?”

  “Just a family of travelers, like yourself,” the man replied. He gestured at the nearest woman, then at the others. “This is my wife, and these are my daughters.”

  Anrel took note of the lack of names. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said with a bow, doffing his hat. “Pray, do not stand on my account.”

  “You heard him, girls,” the man said. “Sit down.”

  Slowly, the four women resumed their places around the fire; the man stepped aside and gestured for Anrel to take his own spot, while he moved farther around to one side.

  “Would you care to share our supper, my lord?” one of the women asked. Anrel was now able to see their faces, and he judged her to be the oldest of the daughters—a young woman perhaps his own age. She was, he was fairly certain, the one who had called him a sorcerer.

  “I would,” he said. “I regret that I have no food nor drink of my own to offer in return, but perhaps I can make recompense in some other fashion.”

  “No need, my lord,” the big man assured him.

  Anrel hesitated, then asked, “Forgive me, but why do you call me a sorcerer?”

  The man turned to look at his wife; she and the eldest daughter exchanged looks of surprise.

  “Because you are a sorcerer,” the daughter said.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “You felt the wards! And the binding I tried to use!” As the girl spoke her mother was desperately gesturing for silence, but her attention was fixed on Anrel, and she did not see this attempt at parental guidance.

  Anrel looked at her without speaking for a long moment as he considered what this meant.

  This woman had used magic, but she did not appear to be a sorceress. She was traveling with her parents and sisters, but no attendants, and her attire was plain and of no more than middling quality. This was hardly the behavior of a noblewoman, nor would a noblewoman’s family have declined to give names.

  Although he had never before met any, Anrel had of course heard of people who used magic illicitly—people who, for one reason or another, had not faced the trials, and had not had their true names inscribed in the Great List. They had not been acknowledged as magicians, had not been trained in sorcery, and had not been given the rank of lord or lady.

  They were called witches, and in the Walasian Empire the penalty for witchcraft was death by hanging.

  From what he had been told in the court schools, witches were tolerated in Quand and Ermetia, and in the Cousins their fate might depend on the whim of the local lord, but in Walasia they were condemned to the noose. The empire did not allow its people any magic outside the established aristocracy. Historically, Anrel had read during his studies in Lume, magic had been rare and precious, and vital to the nation’s
survival. Withholding it from the public had therefore become a crime.

  Anrel had wondered why anyone else would refuse an opportunity to become a noble, and as a child he had sometimes even doubted that witches really existed, yet here was at least one—and of course, he realized, he himself might be considered a witch. He had taken the trials when he was twelve, but had failed them deliberately, and his true name had not been sent to the scribes in Lume. It had never occurred to him that anyone else might have done that, but perhaps it was more common than he had suspected.

  He turned to the girl’s mother, who was sitting motionless, holding her breath, waiting to see what the sorcerer who now held her daughter’s life in his hands would say.

  “You need have no fear, mistress,” Anrel said. “Yes, I see that your daughter is a witch, but she is wrong in calling me a sorcerer. I am no sorcerer.” He paused, and took a deep breath, then said, “It seems I am a witch, as well.”

  19

  In Which the Travelers Come to Certain Understandings

  For a long moment no one spoke; then at last the father said, “Well, this is an interesting situation. Then you are not Lord Dyssan, but Master Adirane?”

  “Master Murau, actually,” Anrel said. “I borrowed my uncle’s name a moment ago, but I think I have no further need of it.”

  “And why would you do that? Why give a false name?”

  “Have I not just said that I am a witch? Does that not make me an outlaw by definition? Would you really expect an outlaw to give his correct name when asked?”

  “Then why do you claim to give it now?”

  “Because now, sir, I know that you dare not deliver me to the authorities, since I would then denounce your daughter as a witch—and I suspect, from the looks they exchanged, that your wife is not unacquainted with the arcane arts, as well. Better that we should trust one another, as we are now in a position to give the hangman a few necks upon which to practice his art if that trust is betrayed.”

  “There is some logic to your words,” the big man reluctantly admitted. He frowned. “What would you have of us, then, Master Witch?”

  “For the moment, I would be content with some of that stew I smell,” Anrel replied, gesturing toward the pot on the fire. “There will be time to discuss our situation further once we have all eaten; I find negotiations always seem to go better on a full belly.”

  The big man’s frown faded. “Hungry, are you? Well, even if I did sire a witch, I am not so lost to common decency to refuse a hungry man some common hospitality. Tazia, serve us out a bowl apiece, won’t you?”

  One of the other daughters fetched wooden bowls and a ladle from a box nearby, and began scooping stew from the pot into the bowls, glancing occasionally at their guest. The youngest daughter then distributed the bowls. Anrel watched with interest, and eagerly accepted the bowl she proffered him. He was aware that there were still several important questions that should be asked and answered, but the yawning emptiness in his belly took priority.

  “Thank you,” he said, as he set the bowl of stew on his lap. He then realized he had not been provided with a spoon; he hesitated only briefly before drawing the dagger from his boot and spearing a chunk of pinkish meat with it. He tore off a bite and chewed enthusiastically.

  The meat was rabbit, and it might have been better had it stewed a little longer, but in his famished state Anrel found it quite satisfactory just as it was.

  When everyone had a bowl in hand, and had taken at least a few bites, the father of the family set his bowl down for a moment and said, “Now, Reva, suppose you explain to your father why you thought our guest was a sorcerer, and why you were so open about your own unfortunate situation.”

  Anrel was startled by the man’s tone, which seemed to carry an undercurrent of menace.

  The eldest daughter looked uneasy; she glanced from her father to her mother, then at Anrel, then back to her father. “He could feel the binding we tried,” she said. “That meant he was a magician, and I never thought we would meet another witch in a place like this, so I called him a sorcerer.”

  “And why, daughter, did you say this out loud, and announce to the world that you’re a witch?”

  “Because he already knew, Father! He had felt the wards, and the binding—he knew there was magic here, and he saw Mother and me react, so he knew we were the magicians. There was no way to hide it.”

  The father shook his head sadly. “Haven’t I told you, girl, how easy it is to persuade people that they did not see or feel what they have just seen or felt? We might have talked our way out of it, if you hadn’t proclaimed the truth as you did.” He turned to Anrel. “Tell me, sir, did you realize she was a witch before she said she had set wards and attempted a binding?”

  “I certainly knew magic was in use,” Anrel said, as he speared half a carrot with his dagger. “I had not yet identified her beyond doubt as the source.” He took a bite. “But I think I would have in another moment.”

  “Well, perhaps you would have, and perhaps you wouldn’t. I see you’re enjoying your supper.”

  “Very much, sir.”

  “Tell us, then, as payment for your meal, how you come to be wandering about these woods, alone, on foot, and by the look of it, half starved.”

  Anrel swallowed, looked regretfully at the remaining chunk of carrot on the point of his knife, then set down his bowl.

  “My name is Anrel Murau,” he said. “I lived much of my life in the village of Alzur, a few miles up the Raish Valley, where Lord Allutar, the landgrave of Aulix, makes his home, away from the noise and stench of Naith. My dearest friend in Alzur was my uncle’s fosterling, Valin li-Tarbek, a young man with an unfortunate tendency to speak his mind; a few days ago he indulged this tendency in a manner that infuriated Lord Allutar, and the landgrave retaliated by killing Valin. Oh, he arranged a legal pretext, so that the magistrates accepted it as the proper exercise of Lord Allutar’s authority, but in truth it was at best little more than simple murder.” Anrel closed his fists and his eyes as he remembered Valin dying in his arms, and paused for a moment, unable to continue.

  “I see,” the father said. “And you did something foolish in response?”

  “I gave a speech,” Anrel said. “In Aulix Square, in Naith. I explained Valin’s beliefs to the crowd, and told them that Allutar had murdered him for espousing those beliefs. While I did not stay to hear the magistrates explain exactly what I was being charged with, it appears my little talk was deemed criminal. I fled, and stole a small boat, and put ashore in these trees so that I could hide that boat, and then I saw the light of your fire, and here I am.”

  “A speech? I’d have cut his throat!” the big man bellowed.

  Anrel shook his head. “Lord Allutar is a powerful sorcerer,” he said. “I could not have just walked through his wards as I did through yours. Besides, he killed Valin to silence him, so it was fitting that Valin’s words be spoken, even if not by himself.”

  “You said you’re a witch,” the youngest daughter said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you use magic against him? Yes, he’s more powerful, but couldn’t you have found some way around, and caught him off guard?”

  “I don’t know how,” Anrel admitted. “I have some talent for magic—not very much, I don’t think—but I don’t know how to use it.”

  The sisters exchanged glances.

  “How did that happen?” their father demanded.

  Anrel sighed. “I took the trials to become a sorcerer when I was twelve,” he said, “but at the time I did not want to be a sorcerer, so I deliberately failed them. Since then I have done my best to never admit having any magic at all, not even to myself, even though a young man without magic has few prospects in Alzur. Only when Valin lay dying, and I tried to heal him, did I finally want to use my talent again; before that I had not touched the power since I was a child. That attempt, useless and inept as it was, seems to have reawakened what little natural ability I
have; a season ago I doubt I would have noticed the ward you had set.”

  “So you aren’t really a witch,” Tazia, the middle daughter, said, looking at him with an expression Anrel found unreadable.

  “Perhaps not,” Anrel acknowledged. “I am a man with a completely untrained talent for magic, though—is that not enough to make me a witch?”

  “To the magistrates, maybe,” the father said.

  “I am, I believe, already condemned as a traitor,” Anrel said. “Calling myself a witch can scarcely make matters any worse.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the mother said. “There are other dangers besides the law.”

  “The law is quite enough for me,” Anrel replied. He looked around at the family. “Now, perhaps you would like to introduce yourselves, and tell me how you came to be camped in this place.”

  “Our tale is far more ordinary than your own,” the mother said. “When I was a girl I was frightened of sorcerers, even though my mother said my late father had been one, so I never dared apply for the trials. In truth, I did not even think of what I felt and did as magic; it was not until I was married that I realized that it was, that I should have put aside my fears and faced the trials, and by then it was too late. Even if I had somehow managed to claim I had not known the truth, I was married to a commoner, and therefore could not be a sorceress; instead I learned a few simple spells, little things that the nobles can’t be bothered with, and began selling them.”

  “As you can imagine, I was not pleased to learn this,” her husband said, and the mother flinched at that. “I had not realized I was marrying an outlaw. But we made the best of it.”

  “I thought we might keep it a secret,” his wife said. “But somehow everyone found out.”

  “Of course, we couldn’t stay in one place after that,” the man said. “Sooner or later someone would have been jealous, or sought to avoid paying us, and would have turned us in. Besides, one little village doesn’t need enough magic to keep a witch busy year-round. So we began traveling.”