by John March
An acrid stench caught his throat, and brought tears to his eyes. Ebryn looked across a field of devastation with growing dismay, as if a clear line had been marked across their path, behind them green grass, and in front a burnt wasteland.
Sash scooped up a handful, and let it run between her fingers. “What's this stuff, what happened here?”
“A very bad thing,” Addae said. He touched Sash’s arm and pointed to a lighter shape half-buried a few paces away. “See there.”
For a few moments Ebryn didn’t recognise what he was looking at. Part of a charred skull protruded from the debris. A little further away he could make out fragments of what looked like bone, which might have belonged to an arm or leg.
Sash made a disgusted sound, and hurriedly brushed the dark remnants from her hand. She looked like she might be sick. “All this has dead people in it? That’s terrible.”
“We must not walk in this place,” Addae said. “If we offend the spirits of the dead they will trouble the ancestors and bring misfortune.”
Ebryn had no intention of trying to go further. “I agree we should turn back. This must be where the battle with the Culvarites reached, before the end of Volane, everything burnt to ash like Teblin told us.”
“It's different when you see it for yourself,” Sash said.
Ebryn nodded. “It's not just a story.”
Sash said nothing on the way back to the postern. Even when Ebryn used a casting to fold away the last black fragments from her hands and clothes she remained silent.
When they arrived back at the gate they found a man repairing it. The door itself had cracked through the centre, and the part still attached to the frame hung at a drunken angle from a bent hinge. It looked like the cheg guard had tried to force it all the way open while they explored.
The workman wore the simple russet robe of the Emesues, fastened with a bronze caster's clasp.
He gave them a sour look. “Seen enough?”
A clamour of yells and stamping feet greeted Brack as he stalked into the training room, glaring impressively at the gathered students. They were in a horseshoe-shaped underground training room, similar to the one where their first lesson had been held, but smaller.
Ebryn perched uncomfortably on the edge of a stone bench, between Addae and Elouphe. He'd regretted his decision to try the Aremetuet training the moment he'd entered through the double doors to find Romain in the front row, leaning back amongst a group of friends, sneering at him.
Brack acted like a showman, whipping his audience into a frenzy ahead of his performance. Waves of sound echoed back from the walls, amplified painfully in the confined space.
He waited in the centre of the floor, circling slowly with his arms held wide until the noise abated. “For those who don't know me, I am Garand Brack, Master of the Aremetuet order. I teach power.”
Brack wheeled to face the far end of the room where three crude wooden constructs stood, each looking suspiciously like a small scale model of a cheg, complete with ragged pieces of armour.
His arms came together as if to push aside something heavy. Even without far-sensing, Ebryn felt a sensation of gathering, as if an invisible tide flowed inwards to where Brack stood, lips moving silently. Within moments, the air around Brack seethed, and crackled.
A boiling wall surged across the floor, smashed past the assemblies, blasted them into ragged chunks, and filled the air where they'd stood with flying splinters. The debris rebounded from the far wall and scattered back across half the room, showering those nearest with wooden fragments and dust.
“This is what we can do,” Brack said, speaking loudly to the silent room. “In the time it takes for a man to breath twice you can shatter a gate, break a wall, breach an enemy's line. Our time is coming. Make yourself powerful. Rise above and become the true heirs of Volane.”
Brack continued to swagger across the middle of the chamber, boasting loudly, emphasising his statements with renewed attacks on the few remaining pieces of construct — crushing one, setting another alight, and blowing the final chunk to pieces with a well aimed blast.
Addae leant forward, watching intently, his expression unreadable. He'd appeared distracted all day, almost nervous. Far more, Ebryn thought, than on the morning before the entrance test.
Elouphe crouched on the other side of Ebryn, with his legs folded awkwardly, shifting constantly to remain on the shallow seat. Other than Elouphe, not a single anvolene sat amongst the hundreds of red robes in front of them. Those nearest had scowls fixed on their faces, and glared at Elouphe each time he moved.
Part of Ebryn wanted to tell Elouphe to sit still and stop attracting unwanted attention. The hostility seemed to hang in the space around them like a gathering storm. The greater part wished he'd trusted his instincts about Brack and not attended this teaching session at all.
“Time to welcome some of our newcomers,” Brack said, giving the group around Marus a conspiratorial wink, an unpleasant grin on his face.
The room filled with the sound of stamping feet and hoots again, as everyone turned to look in Ebryn's direction.
“How about you,” Brack said, pointing at Elouphe. “Yes you. Down here now, let's see what you've got.”
Elouphe gulped repeatedly as he padded down the stairs, the whites of his eyes showing as they moved from one unfriendly face to another.
Ebryn wanted to do something to intervene, guessing what came next, but he found himself rooted to his seat, like a waking nightmare where his body refused to obey him.
“Ready your defence,” Brack barked at Elouphe.
“Careful Master Brack,” Romain shouted. “He's got two extra arms.”
Loud laughter erupted on all sides. Ebryn watched in alarm as Elouphe struggled to prepare, head bobbing wildly, blinking rapidly. Brack paced in a small circle at the other end of the room, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
There was no build-up, or warning this time. Brack flung out his hand as he turned to face Elouphe, and a visible wave rippled through the space between them, striking Elouphe with a solid thump, sending him flying backwards, sliding splay-legged across the floor towards the entrance.
Howls and whistles of derision filled the room.
“Go home, swampy,” someone near Marus called out.
Brack walked forward and prodded Elouphe with his boot. “When it wakes up, tell this — student, the Emesues should keep their snouts in the business of unblocking drains and stop wasting our blasted time.”
“You next,” Brack said, looking up at Ebryn. “Let's see what you're about.”
As he made his way down to the floor, Ebryn prepared a defensive casting, holding it back in readiness. Facing Brack he felt calmer than he'd expected. In this at, least it, seemed Master Yale had taught him well.
Brack released something without warning. It looked like a hissing globe of blue flame, bursting across his shield, flowing around, boiling away, and leaving lingering patches of fire in the air around him.
“Good,” Brack said, his face reddening with effort. “This is more like it—”
It sounded as if every student in the room sucked in a breath at the same time. Ebryn watched Brack carefully, preparing for the next move, wondering if every new student must end up on the floor before the real training started. He'd already decided not to return, whichever way this lesson worked out.
He felt something snap, and his shield ripped apart. The blow hit him like a kick to his head, and he staggered sideways, almost falling into the front row of students. When his head cleared he found Brack standing next to him, holding his arms out wide again. On all sides there were shouts and cheers.
“That's how it's done,” Brack said, clapping Ebryn on the back. “Made me build up a sweat. A few of you need to learn a thing or two from this one.”
Ebryn stumbled back towards his seat, his head still ringing, but Addae intercepted him at the foot of the steps.
Brack wheeled and glared at them. “This l
esson isn't finished yet.”
“No, I have finished. This one is hurt, I will take him now,” Addae said, inclining his head towards where Elouphe lay on the floor, his expression hardening.
Addae spoke with such authority the entire room fell silent, watching to see Brack's response. Ebryn thought he saw a shift in Brack's face, a momentary uncertainty, quickly replaced by a scowl.
“Very well,” Brack said, spitting the words out, and turning his back. “Go on then, take it away. The sooner it's out of here the better.”
Addae stalked across the room, stooped down to heave Elouphe into his arms, and walked out without a word. Ebryn hesitated, looking at Brack, then quickly followed.
Brack's voice followed them along the corridor. “Now we have that out the way, I will teach my real apprentices—”
Ebryn returned to the library the following day. He'd spent the evening trying to understand how his shields had been destroyed so quickly by Brack. His feelings of humiliation had ebbed away. Even the memory of the smirk on Marus Romain's face stung less, but his sense of injustice still burned. Elouphe had limped away with his head down when he'd recovered enough, leaving Ebryn filled with shame.
Plyntoure had suggested that the lesson was too advanced for Ebryn, and perhaps he might try something simpler first. Addae merely shrugged, saying it was the nature of the strong to stand on the weak. But Elouphe hid for the rest of the afternoon, not even venturing out when Sash returned.
None of this did anything to diminish Ebryn's guilt. He knew he should have stepped in to help Elouphe sooner, and he knew Brack hadn't managed to overpower his shield, however it may have appeared to onlookers.
He'd slept badly and woken early, wishing he had somebody to ask about the lesson. Somebody like Tenlier, more knowledgeable than Plyntoure, and able to explain what had happened.
Sitting on the edge of his bed he thought of Ben-gan. Who would have a better understanding?
Ebryn arrived before the first flush of daylight appeared in the sky, walking the half league from The Claws to the centre of Vergence through quiet streets strung with captive watery blue were-lights. He was surprised to find the main doors already open.
A yawning white robe seated behind the reception desk recognised his grey cloak, and nodded affably as he passed. Working his way quickly through the first two sections of the building, he vaulted up the final flight of stairs two at a time, and arrived breathing hard.
Inside, a light globe illuminated a single table. Ebryn was relieved to see Ben-gan standing over Hoi Helha, watching as the old man arranged pieces on a games board.
Ben-gan looked up as he entered the room. “Good morning, Ebryn, you are here very early this morning.”
“Good morning,” Ebryn said.
“The young man with the little dragon,” Hoi said, grinning at him.
He glanced at Hoi, suddenly uncertain how to begin.
“I was about to check the shelves,” Ben-gan said. “Would you like to join me?”
Ebryn nodded, noting a look of disappointment on Hoi's face as he passed by. Ben-gan retrieved a second light globe from his pocket, and led the way between the darkened shelves. He followed Ben-gan until they were some distance from the entrance.
Ben-gan stopped and turned to him. “I think you came here to ask something of me. What is it I can do for you?”
He'd wanted to ask Ben-gan only about why his shield failed, but he found the whole story pouring out, including how he felt responsible for not protecting Elouphe. Ben-gan listened carefully without interrupting, making no comment until he'd finished talking.
“I think Master Brack is ambitious,” Ben-gan said, leading Ebryn further into the library. “A man whose ambitions are much frustrated. With the wide use of sevyric iron, the part of protecting the people and fighting their wars has moved from the Aremetuet to the nobility, city militias, and guilds of professional soldiers. For a man such as Master Brack this diminution is a heavy burden to bear. He will not have given up his desire to recruit you to his side. With you, he could become formidable.”
“Why was he so cruel, if he wanted me to join him?” Ebryn asked.
“I think he tried to impress you with what would persuade him — a display of strength, a spectacle. Master Brack is a man who holds hard to his own view of how things are. He is not given to wearing another's hat, as an old Volanian saying would have it.”
Ebryn followed Ben-gan through a series of ever narrower corridors between shelves until they emerged in a small open area, a few yards across in each and square in shape. Two plain wooden chairs sat on a threadbare rug in the centre.
Most of the books here appeared very old, with discoloured covers and faded inscriptions. They had a distinctive sweet smell with an undertone of burnt wood that reminded him of his last lessons with Master Yale.
When he'd finished with the limited range of books in the Conant library's locked cabinets, Master Yale had stopped teaching him for a dozen days. Then suddenly he had resumed, allowing Ebryn access to a selection of his own books, sitting tensely in the room with him while he studied a few pages at a time and watching intently to ensure he did not stray to other parts of the book.
The book Ebryn had found most fascinating, and frustrating, was an old text finished in heavy dark red leather covers without any lettering, the top half heavily scored in places as if it had been cut repeatedly with a heavy knife. The bottom quarter partially burnt — but somehow still intact. He'd read the book carefully at the places Yale set his marker, parchment and binding crackling in protest as he flattened them out to read.
Breathing in an unfamiliar sweet-sour smell of old glue and ink, mingled with faint undertones of wood smoke, he'd run his fingers down the first page, trying to make sense of the faded glyphs. Looking down the spine of the book, he'd been able to see that many pages had been cut out, and others fastened into their place, but the pages he read were original, and untouched since the book's first binding.
Scanning the first page, it was clear it had been transcribed from another source, as the copyist had made errors which would have been clear, had he understood what he worked on. In places, other hands had scratched out and replaced, or corrected, individual characters, and the margins were crammed with annotations in tiny writing, some barely legible. Most of these expanded the main text or clarified points.
With a thrill of discovery, he'd found that it described the method for folding away objects — removing them to a safe place beyond the reach of others, and later returning them unharmed. This was the last casting he'd learnt, and once Ebryn had mastered the skill of folding, Yale had departed without warning or explanation.
“This is one of the oldest parts of the library,” Ben-gan said. “All the books here were rescued from old Volane, each one a treasure. I knew good people who sacrificed themselves to save some of these works.”
“One of my tutors had books like these,” Ebryn said.
“There are many scattered to other places, taken there by Volanian travellers, and others lost and later found, which are not part of this library.”
Ben-gan had a distant expression, eyes seeming to look beyond the bookcases enclosing them. After a few moments, he roused himself, almost visibly shaking off the memories.
“Perhaps I am becoming old after all,” Ben-gan said. “I think you did not come here to relay your feelings about Master Brack, or hear me reminisce about days you haven't known.”
Ebryn nodded. “I don't understand how Master Brack broke my shield. I'm sure he didn't overpower it, but he did something — I don't know how to describe what he did — it felt like my shield just fell apart. Deme DeLare did something like that at our first lesson, but she didn't really explain how she'd done it.”
“I think I can explain. What he did is the mark of an adept. At the outset, all youngsters who are destined to become casters start with some raw ability, often confined to an affinity or set of closely related talents. As they grow, the
y are taught certain known patterns of mind, gesture, voice and the properties of some items and substances. With this learning they can be taught to perform reliably and with little risk, yes?”
Ebryn nodded again. “Yes.”
“And with these props the student can progress as far as an apprentice, and can learn to perform many valuable tasks. However, to progress to adept or beyond requires a deeper understanding. You see, much like a weaver who creates a piece of cloth from many threads, the power of the caster rests on blending together patterns of ephemera — but I suspect you know this much already. The important point is that these skeins of power are not from the caster. They are outside the caster. The caster fetches them, and what is outside one caster another caster can change.”
“Like playing the strings on another person's lute?”
“Exactly so, or stealing away the lute altogether.”
“I see. So what did Brack do to my shield?”
“Nearly all castings have points of focus, where the skeins are bound together, like knots. Cut one of these, and the form of the casting falls apart—”
“Or weakens enough to break.”
Ben-gan watched Ebryn closely. “If you are willing I think I can teach you this, even encumbered as I am.”
Ebryn looked at him, surprised. “Yes, I wanted to ask you, but I didn't know you'd be able to — yes, that would be good.”
“Excellent,” Ben-gan said, smiling. “I think it may be best if we do not speak of this little arrangement with others. Elector Tenlier always seeks to do what is best. He does what he thinks is for the greatest benefit, or most likely to promote justice. But all choices, however intended, can produce unfortunate consequences. Master Brack's rage being one outcome of his selecting you. You may choose to tell him I am teaching you, but I think if you do, he will seek to prevent it. I will not say anything to him or anyone else. I will simply teach you what you would otherwise learn in time, but more swiftly.”
