Child of the Sword

by J. L. Doty

  Then she looked again at Morgin and he cringed. “You are forgiven this time, peasant, because of your ignorance. But never, ever, strike me again.”

  Morgin, staring at the floor and thinking that he’d touched no one, decided it was best to keep his mouth shut.

  Olivia’s mood suddenly changed, and she smiled openly. She turned back to AnnaRail. “You were also right about his power. It is extensive. Certainly more than anyone else his age has exhibited.”

  Her eyes narrowed with concentration, and for a long silent moment she thought carefully. Morgin had no doubt that whatever she might be considering bode ill for him. “I have come to a decision,” she announced suddenly. “Such power should reside within House Elhiyne. And so the child’s twelfth birthday will be officially recorded as the eighth day of the next month of this year. And on that day he will be adopted into House Elhiyne as your son, and we will have a Naming. Between now and that time you will give him as much training in the arcane as he can absorb, and if need be, he will be excused from his other lessons. You will teach him control, for he will never again be allowed to do what he has done this day. And someday, he will prove useful to us.”

  She looked at each of them separately for a moment, and especially at Morgin. “I have spoken. It shall be so. Now leave me. I wish to be alone.”

  Without a word Roland and AnnaRail bowed and backed out of the room. Morgin did not need to be told to do the same.

  Chapter 5: A Wizard’s Name

  Morgin sat on the floor in the center of the Hall of Wills, a vast, cavernous room, the place the villagers called The Wizard’s Hall. With the exception of a simple loin cloth he was naked, and by that fact ill at ease, for clanfolk high and low filled the Hall, almost everyone who lived in the near vicinity of Elhiyne. He sat stiffly upright, his legs tucked beneath him, his hands at his sides. Before him a circle of fine black sand had been sprinkled in a thin layer on the gray stone of the bare floor, and all about him the ceremony of the Naming was in progress, witches chanting words of power, casting spells of incomprehensible nature to mere Morgin.

  Twelve days before they had executed the formal adoption ceremony and he had become a member of House Elhiyne: the family that ruled the clan that ruled the eighth tribe of the Shahot. He still hoped to someday understand what all that meant, though for now he was content with his ignorance.

  After the adoption they’d begun preparations for the Naming: twelve days of fasting and intense ritual. Morgin had had little to do, for he was the “new born infant,” and as such was the passive object of the preparations, and not actively involved in any way.

  On the day of the Naming he’d been allowed no food. The women of the house had bathed him carefully, then with charcoal from a fire twelve days cold, they had written runes on his naked body. He was then directed to sit on the cold stone floor before the circle of fine black sand, and the Naming was begun.

  He’d been sitting there for hours now, his joints stiff and sore, his stomach growling for food. He longed for the ceremony to end, even while he knew it was only just beginning.

  A sudden gasp ran through the assembled throng as something began to materialize in the air before him, a demon from the netherhells of his own nightmares. Fangs and claws appeared first, then a tail with a barbed point dripping venom. There came the body of an ogre and the head of a goat, and it looked at him hungrily with eyes of fiery hate. Then it advanced, saliva spilling from its muzzle in anticipation of a meal.

  Malka intervened, stepping in its way. It struck him with its claws. He staggered, but withstood the blow. Then, wielding his own power like a sword, he cried out in the godtongue and struck back. The demon whimpered sorrowfully. Malka struck again, lashing his power like a whip until the demon screamed in agony, a balefully inhuman whine. Malka raised his power to strike again, but the demon vanished before he could do so, gone, dematerialized. A distant cry of anger and pain echoed back from the netherworld, then all was silent.

  Morgin shivered. He wondered how many more demons, curious about all the sorcery here, would come to investigate.

  A witch, young and pretty, stepped forward to stand on the other side of the circle of black sand. She cast spells, tracing runes in the air with her fingertip as she chanted more of the words that always eluded him. He’d asked AnnaRail about that, and she’d explained that when he was older and had learned his lessons well, the words would begin to take on meaning.

  The young witch finished her incantation. But as she turned and melted into the shadows of the darkened hall, the runes she’d traced in the air before him remained, softly visible by some magic of their own. They faded slowly, and when they were gone Morgin was tense with the new power he could sense in the room.

  He cast a spell AnnaRail had taught him for protection, then another to banish fear. He wished now that he could have mastered more of her teachings, for the young and pretty witch was obviously the first of the truly powerful. He tried the spell of confidence, but as usual he failed there.

  AnnaRail had explained that there was another hierarchy within the clan, a ranking that had nothing to do with one’s relationship to Elhiyne. It was the hierarchy of power. At its bottom were those like Roland; Morgin was embarrassed for him since he ranked below some of the children. And at its top were Malka and Olivia, masters of the arcane and the powers of magic and sorcery. They would all stand before the circle of black sand this night, one by one, in ascending order of power, with Olivia the last and greatest of them all.

  AnnaRail had warned him that a gap existed between those of little power and those of great. She had cautioned him not to be frightened when the first of the truly powerful stood before him, but the warning of another day held little weight in the here and now, with power dancing up and down his spine. He tried to think of other things, of other times, but his thoughts would not leave the present and the magic that surrounded him.

  There followed a train of wizards and witches, including Annaline and many of his newly adopted brothers and sisters and cousins, with MichaelOff the last and most powerful. And then the next to stand before him was Tulellcoe, a strange man with eyes like a caged animal, darting about as if to see all at once. Morgin didn’t like Tulellcoe. He was a quietly angry man, with a kind of seething hatred hidden just beneath the surface of his emotions.

  JohnEngine said that Tulellcoe’s mother, Hellis, who was Olivia’s sister, had been raped by Clan Decouix during the last of the clan wars; that Hellis hated the child that had been conceived within her, and shortly after Tulellcoe’s birth, had taken her own life. She’d tried to take the child Tulellcoe with her into death, but had been prevented from doing so by Olivia who raised him as one of her own sons. JohnEngine said that the man Tulellcoe had inherited his mother’s madness, and most feared him for that.

  Tulellcoe finished his magic and AnnaRail stepped forth to begin hers. But where Tulellcoe’s magic was an angry thing, and Olivia’s was fearful, AnnaRail’s was warm and soft and loving. Morgin felt it wash over him, calming him, even as it added to the power that was building. He thought back to an earlier time when he’d asked her about the Naming.

  “The Naming,” she had said, “is a ceremony by which a proper name will be chosen for you.”

  “But I already have a name.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “And it is a good name. But I chose it for its sound, not for its power or for its relation to you. It is an arbitrary name, no more than a label, a peasant’s name. Many live their entire lives with such a name, and there is no shame in doing so. But you have been chosen for a Naming, and that is a high honor.”

  “But Morgin is good enough for me.”

  She had smiled then, and laid a hand gently on his shoulder. “Then you may use it always, if that is your desire. Come. Don’t be so fearful. The Naming won’t be difficult, and from it you will receive a name that is yours; a name that, without our magic, would be hidden to us; a name that will give you power and tell us much ab
out you; a name that is yours through all worlds and times. With such a name you may know and understand yourself as you could never do without it. And knowing yourself, others may not hold nor bind you without the use of much power. Your strengths will be the greater, and your weaknesses the lesser, for a name, a true name, is a very important thing, a very powerful thing.”

  “The Naming will do all that?”

  She shook her head. “No. The name will. The Naming is merely a ceremony to help us find that name so it may be known to you, and to us. It is not an easy ceremony, for much magic and power is required, and so it is reserved only for those of high caste. And you, my son, have much to learn in preparation.” And with that, she had returned to his lessons.

  Now, though, she stood opposite him, the circle of black sand between them undisturbed, and like the rest, she spoke words that Morgin could not understand. But unlike the rest, her power was a warm, soft blanket in which he found comfort.

  Malka stood next before him, Malka in his glory and his strength. He shouted words of power that echoed off the walls of the Hall. The air of the room answered back with a rumble that could be felt in the bones of Morgin’s spine. Malka the powerful warrior, whom all knew would inherit the clan at Olivia’s death. Malka the strong, whom none dare anger.

  Malka finished and the room fell silent, with Morgin alone at its center. The air was charged with power, all directed at him, waves of it crawling up his skin. The small, blond hairs on his arms and legs stood on end. Here and there a strand of his hair, freshly washed, clean and dry, could be seen standing up and waving in whatever motion the air possessed.

  Olivia stepped forth slowly to stand before him, motionless and unspeaking. She uttered no spells; she cast no incantations; she just stood there, arms folded within her billowing sleeves. But Morgin knew that however motionless she might seem, her power was building, and his power could do nothing but follow, pulled along by a command stronger than his will. Terrified, he tried to retreat, to cease the rise of a strange force that threatened to consume him. Quickly he concentrated on the spell of confidence, for Olivia’s power would allow no faltering, no withdrawal. For a single moment he felt as if he stood on the brink of an abyss of fear, then he calmed, feeling AnnaRail nearby, casting a spell to aid him. Again he concentrated on the spell of confidence, felt it wash over him, comfortably warm and refreshingly cool all at once. He opened his eyes and looked up to meet Olivia’s gaze. She nodded reluctant approval, then continued exercising her power.

  Suddenly Morgin felt a presence at hand, a being both foreign and unknown, having no place in this world of mortals. It hovered at eye level over the black sand, neither visible nor touchable, but there nonetheless, and angry at being summoned so.

  “Demon ElkenSkul,” Olivia cried. “You have come at my bidding, soul taker. Giver of names, yield unto the newborn his power.”

  There came no answer. Morgin stared at Olivia, holding his breath. If ElkenSkul gave him no name, he would live his life in disgrace, bearing no more than his earthly name and always relegated to the most menial and servile of tasks. His newfound status would be gone, erased by an instant of silence. It would have been better had he never been given the honor of a Naming.

  The silence was broken by the sound of scratching, as if a single claw were drawn across the floor. The demon’s claw slowly scratched a small circle in the sand. Then it hesitated for several seconds before scratching a small line; just that, a simple line pointing outward from the circle, then another and another and another, a grouping of lines around the circle all radiating outward, like a child’s drawing of the sun in the sky. It finished with one, long line slanting through the middle of the circle.

  Morgin had no idea what it meant, but Olivia leaned forward and hissed, sucking air between her teeth as if the symbol held some special meaning. “The sunset king? Aethon? Aethon what?” she demanded. “Complete the name, demon. Complete it now. I command you.”

  There came a pause, then the invisible claw began to scratch again, slowly adding two more lines beneath the symbol, two lines crossed.

  “Aethon’s Law!” the old witch cried to the heavens. She looked down at Morgin with purest greed in her eyes. “You are the Law of Aethon, my grandson. Rise AethonLaw.” Olivia crowed to the crowd about them, “He is AethonLaw.”

  Morgin started to climb to his feet, his eyes still on the symbol scratched in the sand. Olivia didn’t see it, but suddenly the claw scratched two more small lines, bisecting each of the two crossed lines beneath the sun symbol. The two new lines were like cross-guards on swords, making the lines beneath the sunset symbol appear like two crossed swords. “But . . .” Morgin said, pointing at the sand.

  Without warning Olivia sliced her hand through the air where the demon had been. “Be gone, demon. Leave us, ElkenSkul,” and a magical wind scattered the sand across the floor. Morgin was certain she hadn’t seen the last two lines scratched in the sand.

  The demon paused before obeying Olivia’s command, as if reluctant to do so. But finally, resigned to Olivia’s power, it winked out of existence, and with it went the power that had accumulated within the Hall.

  Olivia took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She looked down at Morgin, proud and willful, her eyes alight with godmagic. Morgin felt like a mouse that was prey to Olivia the cat.

  “Arise,” she said to him. “Stand, AethonLaw et Elhiyne. Embrace the clan, for you are named.”

  ~~~

  In the days that followed the Naming Morgin was unsettled by his change in status. No longer was he boy, or child, or merely Morgin, he was now Lord Morgin, or Lord AethonLaw, however he chose to be called. In the small village near the castle people nodded their heads as he passed. Even other clansmen took note of him, greeting him warmly in passing or inviting him to join them.

  It had all begun with the celebration following the Naming. There was food aplenty, and wine, much wine. Morgin had become quite giddy with drink, though AnnaRail was careful to see that his consumption was limited. But even with a light head he became aware of an enormous change in his status.

  Marjinell was, as usual, openly hostile. Malka seemed indifferent. Roland and AnnaRail were boldly proud, and Olivia boasted endlessly of how the AethonLaw would someday be a great wizard. Needless to say, to a twelve year old boy who had begun as the lowliest of the low, the attention was quite unnerving.

  But what bothered him most, and yet was the least noticeable, was the attitude of the other boys. He was now treated differently. It was a difference so subtle that at times he wasn’t sure it even existed, then at other times it stood out like the blunt edge on a poorly kept sword. The only one who didn’t treat him differently was JohnEngine, for as always, when not fighting and beating each other up, they were inseparable comrades. One day Morgin asked him about it.

  “You’re crazy,” JohnEngine said. “Nobody treats you any different than me.”

  That gave Morgin something to think about, for while JohnEngine didn’t realize it, he had answered Morgin’s question in a very direct way. It was true. He was now treated like JohnEngine. But DaNoel and JohnEngine and MichaelOff and Brandon were always treated differently by the other boys. They were of House Elhiyne, and while you might pick a fight and bloody one of their noses, they were still paid a certain deference because of their status. And now, Morgin realized, he too was of House Elhiyne, and that fact made him uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable indeed!

  But while that explained the boys his age, it didn’t explain the adults, especially the old witch Olivia. She now demanded that he see her regularly, during which time she would quiz him on his lessons, paying particular attention to the magic he had learned, or, as was most often the case, failed to learn. Some of those sessions were quite grueling.

  One day, after a particularly difficult audience with the old woman, who, as usual, found him wanting, he sought out AnnaRail to ask her why the Naming had changed so many things.

  “Things?” she
asked patiently. “But it’s not things in which you’re interested. It’s your grandmother, is it not, and her increased attention?”

  Morgin nodded silently.

  AnnaRail smiled as if she found something amusing. “Clan law recognizes no difference between adoption and birth, and so by that law you are now a son of the House of Elhiyne. Your grandmother, therefore, is concerned that you represent us well. Overly concerned, perhaps. But nevertheless concerned.”

  Morgin couldn’t conceal a frown. “There’s more to it than that.”

  “That’s very perceptive of you. Yes, there is more to it. Do you remember when we spoke of names, you and I, and I told you that the clansman reflects the name and the name reflects the clansman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, AethonLaw,” she said, placing emphasis on his new name. “You bear a name of power, a king’s name, which tells us that you may someday control much of the arcane.”

  “A king’s name?” Morgin asked wonderingly.

  AnnaRail nodded. “Aethon was the last of the Shahotma kings to rule the Sword. There were kings who followed, and were called Shahotma, but they were false kings who bowed to the Sword, and they brought much sorrow to the land. You bear the name of Aethon. To bear such a name is a great honor—for you, for our clan, and for House Elhiyne—for Aethon was also of the eighth tribe. To my knowledge ElkenSkul has not granted such a name in millennia. The only question that remains is: Will you reflect the name, or will the name reflect you?”

  “But I can’t be all that,” Morgin said.

  “Ah, but you can,” she said. She took his hands gently in hers. “Someday you may be a great wizard, perhaps even greater than Malka or Olivia. Then again, you may not. You may never be more than you are now, and there is no shame in that. Grow strong and healthy, and be just and kind to others, and serve Elhiyne faithfully, and you will bring us honor. We can ask for no more than that.”