Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  “What if the training makes my power stronger?” Rigan asked. “What if I can’t hide it?”

  “Then we will deal with that when it happens. It’s morning. You’d best be on your way. Go, and may the Old Ones guard you.”

  Rigan thanked Damian, then retraced his path to the surface. Cool morning air greeted him when he stepped out of the warehouse and back into the street. The city bells began tolling eight just as he reached the back door of the workshop. He let himself in, bracing for a dressing down. To his relief, the workshop was empty.

  Worry followed the first flush of relief. Corran would have noticed I was missing if he went upstairs to bed. He’s usually up by now— unless he didn’t come back until very late. Odd for a Guild meeting to run so long. Something’s up.

  With luck, I can get the water drawn and prepared for washing the corpses and the pigments ready before Corran comes down. Explanations can wait.

  But not for long. Rigan felt that certainty in his bones. Not for long.

  Chapter Thirteen

  RIGAN PULLED THE hood of his cloak over his head and slipped out the back door of the undertaker’s shop. A week had passed since his last journey Below, and he was filled with questions and worries. Another late Guild meeting had taken Corran from the workshop, and Kell had gone to bed. Rigan had told Kell that he was taking a room at The Lame Dragon for the night, that he’d ‘found a girl in town he wanted to court.’ Kell had given him a look somewhere between encouragement and doubt, and told him to make sure he was back early, before Corran was up. I wish what I told him were true. I wish I were going to see Elinor.

  Rigan had gotten up the nerve to ask her to go walking. She had agreed, and more importantly, Parah had consented. That boded well. Until she finds out I’m a witch. They had talked about everything and nothing, and at one point he had taken Elinor’s hand. He could have sworn he felt a tingle, like touching wool on a dry day. Elinor’s eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away. For an instant, Rigan saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, and then the smile was back.

  I’d give anything to be courting Elinor tonight, instead of this. Rigan flattened himself against a wall and held his breath as two guards passed only an arm’s length from where he hid. He let out a ragged sigh after they were out of earshot, and kept moving.

  He passed through the darkened alleyways like a ghost. When he was almost halfway to the entrance to Below, a man stepped out of a doorway, blocking his path. Another man turned into the alley behind Rigan, trapping him between them.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” the man in the front said. “Just give us your money.”

  Rigan could not make out their faces. As the second man closed in, he slipped his knife into his hand. “I don’t have any money. You’re wasting your time.”

  The man in front gave a cold chuckle. “Give us what you have, and you can go on your way.”

  Rigan strongly doubted that was true.

  “Take it.” He emptied his pockets of a few coins, letting them clatter to the ground.

  The thieves moved in unison. Rigan was quick, and he had grown up wrestling with two brothers. He still hoped to find a way to outrun the bandits, but when steel glinted in the taller man’s hand, Rigan knew he would have to stand and fight.

  He dodged the blade, grabbing the tall thief’s arm and bending it backward as he dodged out of the way, throwing the man off balance. The short thief had a knife, also, and he came at Rigan fast, slicing his forearm.

  The short thief swung his knife for Rigan’s throat, and he ducked and wove, before burying his blade in the thief’s thigh. The brigand howled, slashing again and lancing open Rigan’s side; he left his knife—still stuck in the thief’s thigh—and dove out of the way.

  The tall thief went for the kill now that Rigan was unarmed. “You could have done this the easy way. It would have been quick. Now, it’s gonna hurt. A lot.” He lunged, grabbing a handful of Rigan’s cloak, and shoved him up against the alley wall, blade pressed against his throat.

  Pain, anger, and fear welled up in Rigan, and his half-finished training came to the fore—more instinct than experience. Fire blasted from his palms, catching quickly in the brigand’s clothing. The tall thief screamed as he burned and staggered backward, tripping over his wounded companion, setting him ablaze too. The smell of burning flesh and cloth filled the air. Their screams echoed. Fire spread to the old rags and broken crates littering the alley.

  Wounded, bleeding, and terrified, Rigan ran. The cut in his side gave him a hitch in his gait. A warm trickle ran down his hip, and blood from his slashed forearm made his left palm slick. He gritted his teeth and kept moving, focused on putting enough distance between himself and the burning thieves to evade capture or retribution.

  Rigan stumbled on a cobblestone and crashed through a pile of crates, scrambling back to his feet and careening down the alley, then dodging into a side street. He ran until he could run no more, putting several blocks between himself and his assailants, before staggering to a halt, leaning heavily against the alley wall. Washing hung on a line above him and Rigan snatched down a dark shirt. He ripped off the sleeves and made a rough bandage for the wound on his side, then tore another strip to staunch the bleeding on his forearm. Only then did he realize how badly his hands were shaking.

  I’m halfway across town, no one knows where I am, and I’m hurt. And that son of a bitch got my knife. But I killed them, I burned them alive.

  Rigan turned to one side and retched. He wiped the vomit from his mouth with the edge of his cloak and took a deep breath, trying to pull himself together. I can’t stay here. I’ve got to keep moving, got to get Below. Those men won’t have been the only ones looking for an easy mark. I drew too much on myself again, I’ve got to get off the street before I collapse. I hope Damian and the others know I’m coming. He’ll know what to do. I’m too far gone to turn back now.

  No one knew how many entrances existed to Below. Their location—and safety—changed almost daily. An entrance might be passable one day, bricked shut by the guards the next, and busy as ever by the end of the week. Below was Ravenwood’s shame and obsession. Some went there to disappear. Others sought the protection of the subterranean world, fleeing their lives Above.

  In his haste to lose the guards, Rigan realized he had also lost his way.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  The voice startled Rigan, and he drew back, ready to fight or run, knowing he was too weak to do much of either.

  “Looks like you got the worst of it, didn’t you?” An old woman stepped from a doorway, regarding him with curiosity. She was dressed like a Wanderer, but she was not the woman he had met in the plaza.

  “Leave me alone. I don’t have any money,” Rigan stammered, weak with blood loss.

  “You’ve got Wanderer blood. I can see it in your eyes. Feel it in your magic.”

  “I’m hurt. I need to get out of the street.”

  “Follow me. I know a way Below from here.” She gestured to him and stepped back into the doorway. “I mean you no harm. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  “Who is your enemy?” Rigan asked warily, seeing no option but to follow her.

  “Maybe you’d best be asking, who are your real enemies?” the crone replied, leading the way into a dark, stinking cellar. She lit a candle and slipped through a gap in the wall.

  Rigan followed. Hope it’s not too far. I don’t think I’ve got it in me for a long hike, he thought. “I don’t understand.”

  The old Wanderer woman chuckled. Her hoarse, rough echoed in the darkness. “It’s not the monsters who are your enemy, boy. It’s the monsters’ masters.”

  “What do you know of the monsters?”

  “I know enough of magic to know that their presence in Ravenwood is no accident, and that what you’ve been told about the Balance is rubbish.”

  Gradually, the tunnel grew lighter. Torches in sconces and hanging lanterns lit the rest of the way. In the dis
tance, music played. The smell of lamp oil mingled with cooking odors. The narrow pathway opened up into one of the large chambers of the underground city.

  As far as Rigan knew, no one had ever fully mapped the miles of natural and man-made passageways that ran beneath Ravenwood and past it, to the mountains beyond. In many places, the stone walls of the corridors were worn smooth from the touch of hands over centuries. Some sections that were now Below had once been street level. Time, floods, and fires meant that sections of Ravenwood had been built over, adding to the underground warrens.

  “Can you tell me about the Balance? About what those sigils mean?” Rigan asked, following the woman to an archway. The rooms were better lit beyond the arch, and he could hear the bustle of people.

  “My people survive by keeping our knowledge to ourselves,” she snapped. “We help keep the Balance—the real Balance—in our own way. The sigils help us do that. You don’t need to know more.” She paused. “Now, you need a healer. But this one thing I will tell you before I go: call upon Eshtamon and the power in your blood. If it is His will, your eyes will be opened.” The old woman pushed him toward the arch. “Go.”

  Rigan pushed through the crowds, all too aware of the strength draining from him. He navigated through open rooms where vendors had set up booths and musicians played tunes that echoed from the cavern walls. Most of the people here wore either masks or cowls, hiding their faces. The business and pleasures to be found Below were not the sort one wanted to admit to. Criers called out to passersby, extolling their wares or services. Street vendors fanned the aromas from their food carts to lure hungry customers, while the taverns drew a thirsty, appreciative crowd.

  Nearly everything for sale Below was forbidden above. The whores in Below would agree to practices even the most sullied trollop Above refused; the liquor here was laced with potent substances banned by the Guild; the foods violated the dietary laws of all of the city’s major religions; the business agreements settled here were almost certainly illegal elsewhere. Most people found what they wanted here and returned Above. Some never left.

  Rigan clutched his cloak around him and looked straight ahead, fixed on his goal.

  “Beautiful women—sure to best your wildest dream!”

  “Banned liquor—get it here!”

  “Anything you want—guaranteed.”

  The voices were too loud, the odors pungent, the music overwhelming. He headed down a side passage and stopped to catch his breath. Not much farther. His world spun, and Rigan gasped for breath as he staggered. He managed to reach the door before his knees buckled.

  “Baker had a premonition that you would come, but we expected you sooner. We were afraid something happened to delay you.” Damian caught Rigan as he fell, supporting his weight.

  “I was attacked.”

  “Here, Below?”

  Rigan shook his head. “On the edge of Wrighton.”

  “We’ll see to you. Come with me.”

  Rigan’s legs felt like jelly. The blood pulsed in his ears, and his vision was tinged red. “I’ve done something terrible.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Damian replied. “So has everyone else. You’ll fit right in.”

  Rigan wanted to make a reply, but no words came. Safe at last, he lost consciousness.

  * * *

  RIGAN WOKE TO the dim light of a single candle, reflected from a polished tin sconce. Memories returned, and with them, shame.

  “How are you feeling? You lost a lot of blood,” Damian said.

  Rigan’s hand felt for the wound in his side, only to find the skin smooth. The slash in his forearm had been healed as well. “I feel… tired. How long was I out?”

  “A couple of candlemarks.”

  Rigan winced. “Less time than before.” I would have thought killing two men would take longer to recover from. His body might have healed but the loathing he felt for himself was unabated.

  “Aiden was able to speed your recovery from the blood loss. The magic also drained your life force, and that took longer to heal. But you’re stronger than before, and you recovered faster.” Damian paused. “You said you needed to confess something.”

  “I used magic to defend myself. Again.” Shame colored his cheeks. “In the alley, when I was attacked. There were two thieves with knives. I had a knife as well, and I tried to avoid the fight, then I tried to fend them off, fight them the normal way.”

  “What happened?”

  “I stabbed one of them, but the other pinned me,” Rigan recounted. “He was going to kill me. My knife was gone. He meant to cut my throat. And then I...”

  Damian waited. The silence stretched on, unbearable.

  “I was scared,” Rigan said in a voice just above a whisper. “I reacted. The power just came from within—it was like a wave. I couldn’t stop it. It poured out of me and burned them.”

  Damian’s head cocked to one side. “You forced the bandits back with fire?”

  “I set them ablaze like kindling.” Rigan steeled himself for a rebuke, and glanced up when one was not forthcoming.

  “How interesting,” Damian said finally.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’m afraid that next time, I’ll rely on the magic instead of trying to avoid using it.”

  “All weapons have their role. There’s no shame in using a sword when a sword is called for.”

  “But what if I reach for a sword because it’s easier than using my fist, when a fist would do?” Rigan asked, struggling to put his fears into words. “You’ve got to help me learn to control this. What if I stop feeling regret? What if I can do even worse? And what if I come to like it?”

  “If that is what frightens you, then I don’t believe you pose a threat,” Damian replied. “And the more you train, the more control you’ll have. That’s the real risk: once again, you have drained yourself badly.”

  “How can I keep hiding something like this? If the Mayor’s guards found out—”

  “Your training will help you to control your power, and repress it when it needs to be hidden. The amulet will help shield you. Rest a while longer, then we’ll train.”

  “I need to be home not long after dawn,” Rigan said.

  “There’s time. For now, rest.”

  WHEN HE WOKE again, Aiden was leaning over him, checking his pulse. Rigan startled and the healer laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Aiden was a little shorter than Rigan, perhaps a few years older than Corran, with brown eyes and dark blond hair.

  “Thanks,” Rigan replied. “Whatever you did worked. Will I be able to... heal myself, once I get better at magic?”

  Aiden shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. Some can and some can’t. Magic and healing don’t always go together, if that’s what you mean. It just happened to be what I’m good at.”

  Rigan heard footsteps, and glanced over to see Damian enter the room. “Come. If you’re well enough to walk, you’re well enough to train. Learning to deal with the effects of using your power is a lesson in itself.”

  Rigan rose from his bed, surprised to find his legs steady. He flexed his left hand; only a thin scar remained as proof that the wound had ever existed.

  Rigan followed Damian into the training room where a hunched old woman was waiting for them. “Call me Granmam,” she said to Rigan. “You have used magic to kill. This bothers you?”

  “Shouldn’t it? I burned both those men.”

  “And if you’d been a more experienced knife fighter and won through skill with your blade? Would that have bothered you?”

  “Probably not, or not as much. It would be a fair fight.”

  Granmam eyed him appraisingly. “Fair, yes, of course. But magic is a skill. One you practice, just like a swordsman practices parries and footwork, or a boxer fights his shadow. The only thing that is not fair is that some are kept from using the talent born to them, because of the Lord Mayor’s laws. It’s like coming bareknuckled to a swordfight. T
alent is not fair.”

  Rigan looked around the room, which looked like it might once have been part of a temple. Elaborately carved arches rose to the vaulted ceiling. Torches flickered in iron sconces along the walls.

  “Show us your elements,” Damian instructed. It was part of the lesson they had gone over the last time, something he had practiced.

  Rigan took a deep breath to center himself. Let’s start with water. He focused his will and held out his hands, palms down, eyes closed.

  Rigan’s palms grew moist. He focused on harnessing his power, bringing it up through his body and out into his hands. Sweat became droplets. In another few minutes, liquid began to drip from his hands.

  “Enough!” Damian’s voice had a strange edge to it. “What are you doing?”

  Rigan opened his eyes, feeling woozy as he released the power and it sank down through his body, into the ground. “You wanted water.”

  “Look at your hands,” Granmam said.

  Rigan turned his hands palm up. They were wet with warm blood. “How—” he stammered.

  “From where did you summon your power?”

  “I thought about water. I focused my concentration on water. And then I reached inside myself and pulled—”

  “And manifested your body’s own liquid,” Damian finished for him. “Your power took from your body because you tried to draw the power from inside yourself.”

  Granmam brought him a towel and Rigan wiped the blood from his hands. “It could have been worse,” she whispered.

  “Try again,” Damian instructed. “This time, summon wind.”

  Rigan closed his eyes, and concentrated on the scents he could make out in the air around him: incense, soap, sweat, candlesmoke, dust and damp rock. He focused on each breath, mindful of the air filling his lungs and rushing back out through his nose. He felt a cool draft of fresh air, and the heat of the torch flames. At last, he thrust deep inside his mind, and down through his body, and outside himself. Rigan felt the air, claimed it, and channeled it, holding his hands out in front of him, palms just a few inches apart.