Sorceress of Faith

by Robin D. Owens

  Marian gulped.

  Nodding to the table holding the wooden wands, he said, “Choose a walking stick.”

  His words made her uneasy, but she walked to the table and picked up each in turn. The dark red one felt the best, as if it were an extension of her arm. She repressed the urge to wave it and say “abracadabra” or “kalamazam.” Instead she handed it to Bossgond.

  He grinned in satisfaction and said, “Staff!”

  The wand grew into a walking stick as high as her head—looking like a rod or wand from a tarot deck.

  Bossgond handed it to her, and when she grasped it this time, a low note sounded and the thing vibrated. Small twigs appeared, then sprouted greenery, then ivy twined up the staff, spreading silver and gold leaves. She stared at it open-mouthed, and again her memory was prodded—by the vision Bossgond had shown her in his crystal ball when they’d first met. She’d had a staff just like this. No wonder he smiled—either he’d foreseen this, or he had deduced her Power correctly. What else wasn’t he telling her?

  Many things, she thought. The old sorcerer wasn’t revealing anything he didn’t want her to know, and he probably thought she knew more than she did. Her ignorance would impede them both.

  He took her hand and led her to the stairs, and they wound their way down the tower to arched, double wooden doors. Marian watched intently as he slid the bar on the door to the side and into iron brackets attached to the stone wall. She’d be getting more than magic lessons, more than the sociology of a new culture—she’d learn more about architecture, too. So much to learn! It excited her.

  Bossgond shoved open the door and they walked out into a small area paved with large gray flagstones, then into springy green grass. The wind whisked their garments around them, tugged at Marian’s hair. He set a hand on her head and said, “Alam,” and her hair settled around her head. Neat trick, but she rather missed the fingers of the breeze caressing her scalp.

  The sunlight was yellow, clouds wispy white against a sky not quite as blue as a Colorado spring sky. Marian shifted her shoulders as she saw forested hills rolling to the horizon. She was used to a view of the Flatirons and Rocky Mountains. She was accustomed to a campus full of buildings, professors and students, not a lonely island tower with one brilliant Sorcerer.

  Bossgond pulled on her hand and they circled the great tower, over bony rock, slippery moss and sweetly scented grass, until they were almost halfway around. He stilled, closed his eyes, cocked his head, then opened his lids and nodded once. “No one watches.”

  That was good to know—another trick Marian would like to learn. A person couldn’t depend on atavistic itching between the shoulder blades. Bossgond squatted, gestured to her to do the same, then indicated the top of a stone at the bottom of the tower wall that looked well buried. He licked his finger and wiped off some dirt, and Marian saw a tiny outline of a bird. Bossgond’s heraldic bird—she’d figured that much out. He whispered a word that was taken from her ears by the wind and a cube of moss and earth around the stone lifted as if cut. Another sighing two-note whistle and the stone removed itself. Bossgond waved for her to look into the darkness.

  She had to wait a moment for her eyes to adjust before she could see a rough pyramid point inside the hollow.

  “The keystone of the tower,” Bossgond said. “The proof that a person has become a Circlet Sorcerer or Sorceress is when they raise their own tower with their Power.”

  Marian swallowed.

  He reached in and caressed the keystone, smiling as if he petted a beloved animal.

  Marian thought of her lost hamster Tuck and sniffled. What on Earth—on Amee—did these people do for handkerchiefs? And where would they put them? She hadn’t noticed any pockets—but as she thought of them, four flapped against her skin. Interesting.

  “If this stone is found and destroyed, my tower will fall. I may or may not be hurt, depending on whether I am in the tower and how much of my Power I have invested in my tower at the time. At the moment you are not Powerful enough to do me harm, and when we Bond by Blood as Master and Apprentice, we will be incapable of harming each other. Any secrets will never be able to pass our lips.”

  Blood-bond. Right. The idea should have deterred her, but it didn’t. Blood played a large part in various cultures’ rituals to symbolize a connection between people. She considered it a small price to pay for knowledge.

  “You understand?” asked Bossgond.

  Marian nodded, tucking the information and ramifications away to consider later. She reached in and touched the keystone. A little current ran through her—not soothing like her connection to Mother Earth had been—and she twitched. She couldn’t imagine grounding herself with this rock; there was too much energy.

  Bossgond sighed, shrugged. “Not a good stone for you to link to.” With a wave of his hand the tower stone and the cube of sod settled back into place, looking as if they’d been undisturbed for centuries. “This is my Tower on Alf Island. But it is not the first Tower. We will walk to old Mortig’s Tower. Perhaps that will be better for you.”

  They set off briskly and a minute later Marian bumped into a sizzling invisible barrier. She yelped and jumped back.

  On the other side of the…forcefield, Bossgond smirked at her. Then he stepped up before her, touched his index finger to the barrier and “cut” a door for her. She lifted her chin and swept through past him.

  “When we bond you will be able to enter or leave at will. I will also show you the courtesy portal for well-intentioned visitors.”

  After a quick walk away from the sun—west, then—of about a half hour, they reached the remnants of tower walls about five feet high. Bossgond showed her the hidden keystone to this, too. She started to touch the thing and electricity zipped between her fingers and the stone, shocking her. She fell back on her bottom with an outraged cry.

  Bossgond creaked a laugh, helped her up, dusted off her seat and strode off in another direction. As they walked, Bossgond told her about his island.

  He had demonstrated the strongest Power in several generations when he was a youngster and had piqued the interest of the Powerful Mortig. The choice of islands was always given to the most Powerful first. Bossgond had held Alf Island for many years.

  Alf was about a hundred miles across and had everything a person would want—fresh streams full of fish, hills, forests, glades. His tower was near enough to the coast and a small harbor to appreciate the waves without being threatened by any flooding or crumbling ground. A paradise to Bossgond.

  It sounded pretty good to Marian, too, though she was sure she’d miss mountains.

  She thought back to when she’d hovered over the island. The shape was a little like Australia.

  After an hour-and-a-half walk they came to a depression in the ground, too close to the rocky edge of the island to be altogether stable. The circle of flat stones was barely visible, but Power still radiated, drawing her.

  Bossgond stood back and watched, but she strode to the hidden keystone with confidence. This one didn’t vibrate quite right, either, but it felt better than either of the others.

  Bossgond shook his head. “You are not of Amee, so no previous keystone will tune to you easily. Perhaps you will find a better place than this as you range the islands. For now, let us do the grounding here.”

  To Marian’s embarrassment, she found herself lying on her stomach, arms angled down a few feet to the keystone. When she curled her hands around the pyramid-shaped rock, Power shot through her, erasing any exhaustion, starting a tingle racing in her veins.

  Bossgond sat cross-legged beside her and placed a hand on her back, rubbed it. It felt nice, gentle, avuncular. She closed her eyes and let her mind sink into a quiet pool, only feeling—the warmth of the ground beneath her, the small breeze around her. And with three hummed notes, Bossgond sent her into a deep trance.

  Distantly she heard his voice instructing her. Under his spell, she sang to the stone and it reverberated one note, two,
three back to her, and she felt a small tether to Amee.

  With a soothing chant, Bossgond lifted her from her trance, brought her into clear-headed wakefulness. Again she felt energized. She laughed in delight at the connection with a world-song again, though this particular planet-melody was heart-wrenchingly sad.

  She stood and stretched, limbering up after her time lying so still on the ground.

  Bossgond looked at her, then at the circle of grass and stones. Then he gazed out to the sea, his face impassive. “If we do well together and you do not want another island or a manor on the mainland, I will grant you the right to raise another tower on the island.” The corners of his lips curved slightly upward. He gestured. “You may choose where you please, as long as it is outside my protective ring around my tower.”

  The forcefield they’d crossed. She nodded.

  His expression turned grim and he raised a finger. “If we do well together.”

  His tone was that of a man who’d been crotchety for decades.

  When they returned to the Tower, Bossgond led her back upstairs for lunch. She sat at the table and he set a plate and silverware for them both. Then he put a few empty platters between them. He went to a cupboard and came back with a box.

  Taking a crumb of bread, he put it on one platter, then added a bit of dried fruit, a few strings of jerky. As Marian stared, Bossgond passed his hands over the dishes and sang a long Songspell. The breadcrumb turned into a large loaf of bread dusted with flour, the jerky became four thick slices of roast beef, the fruit plumped into apples.

  Under Marian’s fixed gaze, Bossgond cut a piece of each and put it back into the magical box, then returned the box to the cupboard.

  When he returned, he sang a little blessing, then made a sandwich and dug into his reconstituted meal.

  Hesitantly, Marian sliced a piece of bread—wishing there was some Dijon mustard—and put a slice of roast beef on it. She took a bite, chewed and swallowed.

  The food was plentiful but tasteless. The victuals had to be nutritious because Bossgond was still alive and he’d probably been eating this way for years. No wonder he was so scrawny.

  After finishing off an apple and half her sandwich, Marian said, “Don’t you cook?”

  Sandwich at his open mouth, Bossgond’s eyes widened. He put down the bread and meat.

  “Do you?” His voice was hoarse, his gaze gleamed with hope.

  “Of course.”

  He stood up so fast that his chair rocked. “Come with me!”

  Nearly running to keep up with him, Marian followed him out the door, down the stairs past her own suite and to the level below her room.

  Bossgond threw open the door. A gleaming kitchen took up most of the space, along with an empty pantry.

  “Cooks were too much bother,” he muttered. “I can fish,” Bossgond said eagerly. “I can draw a deer to us and butcher it.”

  Ick. Marian was a civilized supermarket predator; she couldn’t imagine such a thing. It was enough to make a person a vegetarian.

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t intend to be here very long. My priority, and what I want to spend my time doing, is learning from you, not cooking.”

  He looked torn, then tried a pitiful look, but he was too arrogant to do pitiful well.

  “I would, however, supervise a cook.” She liked her food, too—all too much.

  Bossgond’s lower lip stuck out.

  “How long has it been since you had a cook?”

  “Fifty years,” he muttered.

  “You need a little pampering. You’re too thin, you need good food. You deserve it. I’m sure you could afford a cook.”

  “They are impossible to work with, men or women. They pry. They talk too much. They don’t like living on the island.”

  So he wanted an unambitious introvert who liked solitude. Marian wondered how to advertise the position. “Let me think about this.” She wouldn’t be able to eat Bossgond’s rations for long.

  He nodded, but his expression eased. He climbed the stairs back to his chambers with a spring in his step.

  Bossgond banished the food and dishes with a wave of his hand, then they both returned to the center of the room.

  Scowling, he said, “You plan on leaving soon? We paid the Marshalls for your Summoning.”

  Marian lifted her chin. “My brother is ill, he needs me. My ritual was to find answers to strange things happening in my life and how to help him. I’m hoping that Amee will have information about his disease and how to mitigate it. I intend to take that knowledge back to him. I’ll try to repay you.”

  Bossgond snorted, then studied her with narrowed eyes. “We will speak of this later. First you must study.”

  Within a few minutes, Marian had mastered the art of grounding herself, and the small, invisible thread spinning between her and the ancient keystone had thickened to a braided strand.

  He taught her to light the fire with her mind, to levitate a book, to “call” her walking stick. Energy drained from her with each task, and a slight film of sweat dampened her skin. Her dress gave out the scent of herbs.

  Then Bossgond rose and offered both his hands, beaming. “You have mastered the first level of Apprenticeship.” He bowed.

  Already? She dropped a little curtsy and a bubble of triumph expanded in her chest.

  “To celebrate we will have another cup of hareco.”

  Oh boy, if coffee was so rare that she had to pass tests to get it, life was going to be tough.

  He poured them each another cup of coffee and settled into the middle of the room with his mug. He gestured around them. “Survey the room, touch what you like to discover your particular vocation of study.”

  Marian blinked at him. “How?”

  One corner of the man’s mouth crinkled upward. “You will know. It will hum in your mind.”

  Marian had always loved music as much as books, but this aural culture made her feel alien. Still, she smiled, drained the last, delicious sip of coffee and set her mug aside. She looked around.

  Bossgond leaned back against the pillows and sipped, staring out the window. Without his penetrating gaze, Marian felt able to act more naturally and to concentrate on exploring the room full of fascinating objects. She looked at the huge binoculars, but didn’t cross over to them. When she moved away from the instrument, Bossgond grunted in approval, and she decided to save the binoculars for last if she didn’t find anything else that struck a chord.

  She scanned the shelves. The books intimidated her a little

  since she couldn’t read the fancy cursive lettering. She leafed through one and jolted when a couple of the pictures became three-dimensional. Then she put it back with a sigh. She wouldn’t be in Lladrana long enough to learn how to read the language. A pity.

  For an hour she indulged herself with the treasures crammed on the shelves—boxes and bottles, rugs, goblets and instruments, and art objects of all kinds. She found an elegant, gold-etched bottle that held all the scents of summer, a flying carpet for short trips around the island, models of castles and people and animals. Bossgond only stiffened twice during her explorations: once when she picked up something like a wand, but longer, heavier, and feeling like blood and death; again when she reached a big, open book that looked like new pages had been added.

  She moved on to another table with a series of glass jars that looked a little like terrariums, increasing in size from a large mug to a great globe of about two feet. She touched the top of one in the middle and a sharp ping sounded in her mind. Static electricity—from glass?—shot up her arm.

  In an instant Bossgond was beside her. Grinning.

  “Very good,” he said, rubbing his hands.

  Marian wet her lips, stared at the jars. Now that she’d touched one, they all sang to her, like a series of glass windchimes. “What does it mean?”

  7

  Bossgond smiled. “You are a Weather Mage.”

  Her pulse quickened. “Weather? Are you sure?”
She’d always had that odd sense….

  He chuckled. “Very sure.” Taking the largest globe with both hands, he walked to the conversation pit and set it in the middle. “You must start with this one. When you reach Scholar status, you will be competent in modifying the weather in the midsize jar. Your Circlet Test will be of fire, wind, wave and earth in the smallest jar.”

  The one with plants and trees and tiny bugs. Marian gulped, knowing instinctively that she could kill them all.

  She sat cross-legged in front of the large sphere.

  “Look into the glass,” he said.

  She did and caught her breath. There was a world down there! With continents and oceans, mountains, streams, vegetation.

  Bossgond sat behind her, his skinny chest to her back, his legs framing hers. Marian tensed.

  He clucked his tongue and placed his knobby hands on hers. His chest expanded behind her as he inhaled deeply. “I was no better than average at this task,” he murmured. “But I can show you how to direct your Power. Concentrate on the world below. Do you see the clouds?”

  Marian frowned and narrowed her vision, and a portion of one continent seemed to enlarge. “I see…buildings! There aren’t really people down there, are there?” Her voice trembled in horror. She couldn’t do this, wouldn’t do this if she might harm anyone! Mistakes would be terrible.

  “Look closer,” Bossgond said.

  Marian did. Concentrating, she focused her gaze until she saw a city of stone and wood, with winding roads to manor houses and two castles on a hill. They were all perfect little models, but they were models—as were the trees and animals. There were no fake people. Her breath rushed out.

  “Now, back to where you see clouds,” Bossgond said.

  She “zoomed out,” noted fat cumulus clouds and some wispy ones. She hadn’t taken any science courses in years, wished she recalled more about weather. She smiled. Weather, with a capital W, was now her focus of study. She was a potential Weather Magician. How cool!

  “We will try to move the clouds.” Bossgond’s hands tightened over hers. “Feel the essence of the clouds, their density and shape.”