by John March
Ebryn sat back in his seat. He couldn't recall reading anything about Kurbezh in any of his books.
Inside the loop road the character of the buildings changed abruptly. Cramped streets, lanes and alleyways criss-crossing each other along elevated platforms and bridges, or running through tunnels and between tall layered buildings that seemed to have been built arbitrarily like vast tangled organic accretions, gave way to neatly laid out broad tree-lined avenues, each straddling a central canal, and open to the sky.
Many of the structures they passed were set back from the thoroughfares, unreachable through walls or high wrought iron railings, encapsulated within elegant defences or gardens, and separated by small public parks. The architecture reminded Ebryn of Lord Conant's manor house, solidly constructed from dressed stone, but here designed with an eye for grandeur as much as practicality.
“Much quicker this way,” their driver said. “Could have followed the loop round, but it'll be busier today and I don't expect you sirs want to be later than you have to be.”
“Driver, do you know who it is living within such great dwellings as these?” Addae asked.
“A fine question, and to be honest, sir, I couldn't say who lives in this one or that, but I reckon it'll be the old families, guild masters and the like.”
They turned left at every other crossroad and soon entered an area of narrower lanes between older ruddy brown buildings festooned with gargoyles and statues of impossibly strange animals peering through gaps in the thickly matted creeper which embraced the façades like a parasitic skin.
The driver reigned in his trikawi, slowing the symor to the pace of a fast walk. “Young sirs — we are nearing your destination, as you can see by the red brick. It is said this is the oldest part of the city.”
Ebryn's mouth felt suddenly dry, and his stomach twisted around his sparse breakfast. Until this moment the rambling conversation with the driver had kept his mind away from the test, and worse, the implications of failure. The thought of returning to the Conant estate now, after just a few days, was unbearable. He looked at Addae, wondering how he could be so calm before something so important.
“This'll be where sirs are wanting to alight,” the driver said as they turned through an open archway into a large gravel surfaced courtyard surrounded on three sides by a single colonnaded building.
Two symor were already there, setting down passengers, and Ebryn spotted the end of Elouphe's tail disappearing through a large arched doorway in the central section of the building.
Aara climbed from the symor before them, walking slowly up the steps, to where Sash stood waiting for them.
Sash had been cool towards Addae since their disagreement outside the healers' chapter, but now she smiled at them both. Any nervousness she'd had that morning seemed to have gone. Perhaps she'd felt worse waiting.
Through the great double door they found themselves in a large entrance hall with a high vaulted ceiling. Huge arched windows of clear crystal glass filled the upper third of each side of the room, allowing plenty of light into what might otherwise have been a sombre space.
The floors were tiled, the walls panelled with the same heavily polished dark brown wood. Contorted faces, carved into every patch of exposed stone, glared down at them from above, and on all sides busts made of stained and pitted metal stared at them with blank eyes from shallow recesses. Broad archways opened through the centre of each of the other three sides of the room.
As many as two dozen who had arrived ahead of them stood in small groups talking in subdued tones. At the far side of the hall Ebryn recognised the sinuous neck of the Muruon from Captain Lim's banquet peering through the archway.
Just inside they were accosted by a jowly man in ink-stained cream coloured robes carrying a length of parchment and a stylus.
“I'm recorder Morne,” he said. “I need your names. When it is your turn, recorder Ligen will take you through.”
He took each of their names in turn and marked his list, tracking painstakingly from the beginning each time with his forehead crunched up in concentration. It didn't help Ebryn's nerves to discover his name was last on the list.
“Does it matter where your name is written?” Ebryn asked.
“It's your order for being called,” Morne said.
When he reached Elouphe, Morne traced his stylus to the bottom of the list. “Whatcha say your name is again, I can't see it on here?”
Elouphe retreated a pace blinking rapidly, and swallowing.
“No, there he is,” Sash said, reading the list over the man shoulder. “Aluf. That must be it.”
“Aluf?” the recorder said looking at Elouphe doubtfully. “Sounds Haeldran to me. You don't look Haeldran.”
He marked Elouphe's name and turned to Aara. “What's yours then?”
Her response disappeared in the noise of another group arriving behind them.
“What’s that? Speak up, or take off the mask,” the functionary said.
Aara cleared her throat. “Aara—”
“Cur,” said a voice behind them. “That's Aara Cur.”
They turned to find Romain Marus smirking at them. His sister walked past red faced, her eyes cast down.
Romain swaggered into the hall. “But what's in a name. Well, not much for some of us, eh A-lire?”
“Excellent,” Morne said, jowls wobbling as he ticked off their names and examined his list. “That's everybody who should be here accounted for, and on time.”
They followed his eyes to the far archway where another figure in cream robes had appeared.
“First to go in are Romain, and then Paz,” he said consulting his list. “You can go in directly.”
Slowly the hall emptied until Ebryn found himself alone, pacing impatiently around the perimeter. Eventually, after what seemed like an endless wait, the old man returned, wheezing as he shuffled along. He nodded at Ebryn, lurched around without pausing, and shambled away down the passage, slowly intoning a list of instructions in a monotonous tone, as if reading from some invisible script.
Ebryn fell in next to him, and struggled to listen over the feeling of clenching sickness gripping his stomach.
“You're to complete three simple trials. Each to demonstrate a casting of you own choosing,” he said. “You may substitute up to two bindings. Do not lie if questioned. After that your castings will be tested against sevyric iron.”
They arrived at a second passage running across theirs, and turned left. At the far end there was a single door.
“There are rules you must obey,” the old man said. “Firstly, you may not perform any true summoning. Secondly, indwelling binding is absolutely forbidden. Thirdly, no harmful castings are allowed.”
Each injunction seemed to take longer as he struggled for breath. They reached the end of the passage just as he had finished. The door swung silently inwards as they approached.
The old man looked at him through red rimmed eyes. “Failure to obey these rules will result in punishment and expulsion. Do you understand the rules?”
Ebryn nodded. His tongue seemed to stick in his mouth, and his hands were damp with sweat as he stepped through the doorway.
The Test
EBRYN FOUND HIMSELF in another large room similar to the reception hall he'd just left, but much wider. In the centre of the opposite wall, facing him, was a single doorway like the one behind him.
In front of the door a tangled knot of silvery wires sat on the floor, like some otherworldly creature frozen halfway through crawling into the room. It looked like a larger and more complex version of the device Master Quentyn had used to test him in Fyrenar.
On his right steeply banked rows of benches filled the entire side of the room, bridging a narrow arched entrance. Two dozen or so people, dressed in midnight blue robes, sat in scattered groups watching him or quietly conversing.
To his left, a motley gathering of people were seated haphazardly on a series of daises which climbed in gentle broad steps,
sloping up to meet the wall. Most were volene, but scattered amongst them many others. Some were entirely furry, possessed six limbs or exhibited scaly skin. Others had shorter, squat bodies, fawn-like ears, and muzzles.
Some wore robes recognisably similar to those opposite them, but in a variety of other colours – cream, russet, dark maroon, grey, and sea green. Others seemed to be dressed in styles of their own choosing, and a few with furry covered bodies had no visible clothing at all.
Ebryn recognised the odd tryth and selerian, and a few other types of anvolene from picture books he couldn't put names to. His eyes were drawn to the centre of the group where three figures sat on carved stone seats, positioned in the front row.
In the middle seat sat the most striking anvolene Ebryn had ever seen. It perched on the edge of the seat, partly supported and partly crouching on the floor, with its lower limbs folded up in an impossibly complex arrangement to accommodate the disjointed posture.
When it spoke, the voice came from the lower abdomen, each word perfectly clear, but with a breathy whistling quality, as if produced by a small troupe of players each striking out a handful of notes on a reedy pipe. “Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn greets Ebryn Alire, of Fyrenar.”
Tk'tk's entire body was tightly bound in layers of papery light brown fabric, with only the ends of its upper limbs and eye cones exposed. Here and there, the fabric had frayed or torn, loose threads and flaps of material hung down and conspired to give it an odd ragged appearance.
The lower part of Tk'tk's head was contained in a loose bulbous mask of the same material, while the eyes were at the ends of conical funnels, extending at the out-most point on each side of its head. The eyes moved independently of each other, and as the right one watched Ebryn, the other ranged disconcertingly over three quarters of the room.
To Tk'tk's left sat a lean-faced woman with silvery hair pulled back into tight knot. She wore a neatly tied rich carmine robe, and stared at Ebryn unblinkingly. On the other side, a portly middle aged man with large balding head and hugely tangled black beard leant towards a neighbour, talking in a low rumbling voice. He wore a dishevelled mid-grey robe that rode up over his substantial gut, to reveal hairy ankles and dirty feet in a pair of very old strap sandals.
“Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn identifies elector Nee Daelith. Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn identifies master Argo Pulder,” Tk'tk said, shifting a forelimb first towards the woman, and then the man.
Ebryn executed a short, uncertain bow, wondering if he should start immediately, or wait.
“Ebryn Alire is permitted to use all on this side,” Tk'tk said, extending a black chitinous forelimb to indicate the side of the room Ebryn stood in.
The sweep took in a low wooden trestle, placed directly in front of the arched entrance. In the surface of the trestle were four evenly spaced spherical indentations. A second trestle stood next to the door Ebryn had just arrived through, and held a collection of objects, including a couple of sticks, a small wooden ball about the size of his fist, and a half bucket of water.
“Ebryn Alire is not permitted to use this side,” Tk'tk said, waving his other forelimb towards the end of the room opposite Ebryn where the silvery contraption sat. “Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn bids Ebryn Alire begin.”
Ebryn took a deep breath, acutely aware he stood before the single greatest gathering of his kind anywhere. He looked around at the rows of expectant faces, all eyes watching him, feeling as never before the inadequacy of his knowledge and skill.
The temptation to produce something elaborate, something worthy of them, was almost irresistible, but the thought of Sash and Addae waiting for him cooled the desire. They were already the best friends he'd ever had and the idea of leaving them here, if he were forced to return to Fyrenar, stuck in his throat. Ebryn hesitated, undecided, but painfully aware of his own inactivity as the moments passed by.
Unbidden, a memory of Sarl came to mind. The blacksmith had once taken Ebryn to the strongroom where he stored his most valuable ores, and had shown him an old sword he kept there carefully wrapped in oilskin. The weapon was older than the first of the Collenard kingdoms, broad and long, but unmarked despite its antiquity. “Craft is at its finest when as simple as possible, but not simpler,” he'd said.
And Ebryn remembered how impressed the pilot Hurubal had been by the light he'd created. Aware of the watchful eyes all around, he decided quickly.
Ebryn stooped, and pressed his hand against the floor. He needed no invocations or gestures for this casting, feeling the stone warm to his touch, and when he removed his hand he left behind a glowing imprint of palm and fingers.
The imprint lost shape and flowed together, coalescing like some brilliant molten metal seeping through the heart of the floor tiles. It gathered into an indistinct shape and rolled outwards until it appeared as if Ebryn stood above a surface of glowing liquid gold.
“Hmm, a distinctly endogenous non-emulous casting,” Argo said.
His voice was indistinct through his beard and Ebryn didn't understand the meaning of his words so he scanned the rows of faces for a reaction. All around, a low hum of conversation had restarted.
Many on the tiers above him weren't watching at all. Some talked to neighbours, others leant backwards yawning or scratching and a few busied themselves packing bundles of parchment into bags.
“If you have completed your first piece, please show your second,” Nee Daelith said.
Determined to claim his audience’s attention, Ebryn chose the most difficult of the personal wards he knew for his second casting. Since arriving in Vergence he had come to realise Master Yale's training had been very narrow, focusing on various types of far-sensing and discrimination, alongside wards, shields and counters. Yet what the training lacked in breadth Master Yale made up in depth and rigour, drilling Ebryn relentlessly until his craft became flawless.
He chose the most powerful resistance ward he knew, crafted to protect against physical missiles, and to slow movement. It flicked effortlessly into place, with a gesture and murmured invocation, and he anchored it against a point on the floor as he'd been trained to do.
In spite of the distractions he maintained a connection to the ward. Master Yale had described it as akin to a spider lightly touching its own web — awareness of a ward allowing the caster to sense intrusions, and counters.
The chatter in the room dropped off, and Ebryn could see a few of the observers leaning forward. After a few moments a large red-haired man at the far end of the front row stood up, and approached the perimeter of the ward.
He'd been sitting alone with a clear space around him. It seemed nobody wished to sit near him and Ebryn could see why. He was nearly as tall as Addae but thicker set, yet despite his size he moved with an ease that suggested tremendous strength.
Complete silence held the room as he ran his hand along the surface of the ward, examining it minutely. All eyes in the room were on him, and few of the faces looked friendly. From their expressions it looked to Ebryn like nearly everybody in the room either feared or loathed the man.
“Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn queries Ronyon Orim's purpose?”
“Powerful this ward, who taught you this?” Orim asked, ignoring Tk'tk's question.
“My teacher was Master Yale,” Ebryn said.
Orim looked up at the gallery, scanning the faces. “This name is not known to me.”
He stepped back a pace, drew a hefty looking single-edged short sword, and lobbed it towards Ebryn. The blade struck and skipped off the surface of the ward, clattering away across the floor.
“Have you quite finished?” Nee Daelith asked. “We're already running late. If you want to discuss wards with the candidate, can you do so afterwards, or you can bid for him along with the rest of us, if you want an apprentice Ronyon.”
There was scattered laughter around the room. Orim grunted and held out a hand, catching his weapon as it leapt from the floor, sheathing it in a single fluid motion as he returned to his seat.
Tk'tk waited unti
l the room quietened before leaning forward. “Elector Tk'tk Ma'tn bids Ebryn Alire to continue please.”
Ebryn already had an idea about his third demonstration. It was perhaps fortunate that Yale had trained him in so few aspects of the craft, as it made choosing what to show so much easier.
He walked back towards the door he'd entered through, and picked up one of the wooden batons lying on the low bench. As he returned to the centre of the room he held it out, resting on the palm of his upturned hand, visible to the entire room.
The baton seemed to collapse in on itself as he spoke the focus words for folding, disappearing into that empty space, out of reach, which he always seemed to bring with him. As the baton vanished into a dwindling point of light, he looked up. He had the attention of most of them now, feeling the prickling of multiple far-senses sweeping over him.
“A concealing illusion?” a voice behind him whispered loudly.
“Nonsense,” Nee Daelith said in a sharp tone, shooting someone behind Ebryn a cold look. “It's clearly a folding.”
“Yes,” Ebryn said, uncertain if she wanted confirmation.
“Good, that concludes the demonstration part of this examination. Now you will face the sevyric test,” Nee Daelith said.
Footsteps approached from behind as the baton dropped back into his hand. Ebryn turned to see a man in the uniform of the city guard had appeared from the tunnel beyond the archway. He placed something small on the trestle on the floor. In one of the four circular indentations in its surface he could see a small pea-sized piece of dark grey metal.
“Do you know what sevyric iron is?” she asked. “You will feel you cannot finish. You must persevere to pass this test.”
Ebryn looked at the small piece of metal, wondering what it did. “Which casting can I use?”
“It does not matter. Proceed with whichever you choose,” she said.
With twist of his wrist the wooden baton vanished again. Ebryn waited a few moments before returning it to his hand. He scanned the faces in front him for a sign that there might be some hidden trick in the test. He'd felt nothing at all.
