The Magicians' Guild: The Black Magician Trilogy

by Trudi Canavan

  Cery gave her a direct look. “Come see me if you can’t.”

  She nodded. “Thanks.”

  The crowd slowly spilled out of the street into a large paved area. This was the North Square, where small local markets were held each week. She and her aunt visited it regularly—had visited it regularly.

  Several hundred people had gathered in the square. While many continued on through the Northern Gates, others lingered inside in the hope of meeting their loved ones before entering the confusion of the slums, and some always refused to move until they were forced to.

  Cery and Harrin stopped at the base of the pool in the center of the square. A statue of King Kalpol rose from the water. The long-dead monarch had been almost forty when he routed the mountain bandits, yet here he was portrayed as a young man, his right hand brandishing a likeness of his famous, jewel-encrusted sword, and his left gripping an equally ornate goblet.

  A different statue had once stood in its place, but it had been torn down thirty years before. Though several statues had been erected of King Terrel over the years, all but one had been destroyed, and it was rumored that even the surviving statue, protected within the Palace walls, had been defaced. Despite all else he had done, the citizens of Imardin would always remember King Terrel as the man who had started the yearly Purges.

  Her uncle had told her the story many times. Thirty years before, after influential members of the Houses had complained that the streets were not safe, the King had ordered the guard to drive all beggars, homeless vagrants and suspected criminals out of the city. Angered by this, the strongest of the expelled gathered together and, with weapons provided by the wealthier smugglers and thieves, fought back. Faced with street battles and riots, the King turned to the Magicians’ Guild for assistance.

  The rebels had no weapon to use against magic. They were captured or driven out into the slums. The King was so pleased by the festivities the Houses had held to celebrate that he declared the city would be purged of vagrants every winter.

  When the old King had died five years past, many had hoped that the Purges would stop, but Terrel’s son, King Merin, had continued the tradition. Looking around, it was hard to imagine that the frail, sick-looking people about her could ever be a threat. Then she noticed that several youths had gathered around Harrin, all watching their leader expectantly. She felt her stomach clench with sudden apprehension.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  “No, don’t go,” Cery protested. “We’ve only just found each other again.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been too long. Jonna and Ranel might be in the slums already.”

  “Then you’re already in trouble.” Cery shrugged. “You still ’fraid of a scolding, eh?”

  She gave him a reproachful look. Undeterred, he smiled back.

  “Here.” He pressed something into her hand. Looking down, she examined the little packet of paper.

  “This is the stuff you guys were throwing at the guards?”

  Cery nodded. “Papea dust,” he said. “Makes their eyes sting and gives ’em a rash.”

  “No good against magicians, though.”

  He grinned. “I got one once. He didn’t see me coming.”

  Sonea started to hand back the packet, but Cery waved his hand.

  “Keep it,” he said. “It’s no use here. The magicians always make a wall.”

  She shook her head. “So you throw stones instead? Why do you bother?”

  “It feels good.” Cery looked back toward the road, his eyes a steely gray. “If we didn’t, it would be like we don’t mind the Purge. We can’t let them drive us out of the city without some kind of show, can we?”

  Shrugging, she looked at the youths. Their eyes were bright with anticipation. She had always felt that throwing anything at the magicians was pointless and foolish.

  “But you and Harrin hardly ever come into the city,” she said.

  “No, but we ought to be able to if we want.” Cery grinned. “And this is the only time we get to make trouble without the Thieves sticking their noses in.”

  Sonea rolled her eyes. “So that’s it.”

  “Hai! Let’s go!” Harrin bellowed over the noise of the crowd.

  As the youths cheered and began to move away, Cery looked at her expectantly.

  “Come on,” he urged. “It’ll be fun.”

  Sonea shook her head.

  “You don’t have to join in. Just watch,” he said. “After, I’ll come with you and see you get a place to stay.”

  “But—”

  “Here.” He reached out and undid her scarf. Folding it into a triangle, he draped it over her head and tied it at her throat. “You look more like a girl now. Even if the guards decide to chase us—which they never do—they won’t think you’re a troublemaker. There,” he patted her cheek, “much better. Now come on. I’m not letting you disappear again.”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  The crowd had grown, and the gang began to push forward through the crush of people. To Sonea’s surprise, they received no protest or retaliation in return for their elbowing. Instead, the men and women she passed reached out to press rocks and over-ripe fruit into her hands, and to whisper encouragement. As she followed Cery past the eager faces, she felt a stirring of excitement. Sensible people like her aunt and uncle had already left the North Square. Those who remained wanted to see a show of defiance—and it didn’t matter how pointless it was.

  The crowd thinned as the gang reached its edge. At one side Sonea could see people still entering the square from a side street. On the other, the distant gates rose above the crowd. In front…

  Sonea stopped and felt all her confidence drain away. As Cery moved on, she took a few steps back and stopped behind an elderly woman. Less than twenty paces away stood a row of magicians.

  Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly. She knew they would not move from their places. They would ignore the crowd until they were ready to drive it out of the square. There was no reason to be frightened.

  Swallowing, she forced herself to look away and seek out the youths. Harrin, Cery and the others were moving farther forward, strolling amongst the dwindling stream of latecomers joining the edge of the crowd.

  Looking up at the magicians again, she shivered. She had never been this close to them before, or had an opportunity to take a good look at them.

  They wore a uniform: wide-sleeved robes bound by a sash at the waist. According to her uncle Ranel, clothes like these had been fashionable many hundreds of years ago but now it was a crime for ordinary people to dress like magicians.

  They were all men. From her position she could see nine of them, standing alone or in pairs, forming part of a line that she knew would encompass the square. Some were no older than twenty, while others looked ancient. One of the closest, a fair-haired man of about thirty, was handsome in a sleek, well-groomed way. The rest were surprisingly ordinary-looking.

  In the corner of her eye she saw an abrupt movement, and turned in time to see Harrin swing his arm forward. A rock flew though the air toward the magicians. Despite knowing what would happen, she held her breath.

  The stone smacked against something hard and invisible and dropped to the ground. Sonea let out her breath as more of the youths began hurling stones. A few of the robed figures looked up to watch the missiles pattering against the air in front of them. Others regarded the youths briefly, then turned back to their conversations.

  Sonea stared at the place where the magicians’ barrier hung. She could see nothing. Moving forward, she took out one of the lumps in her pockets, drew her arm back and hurled it with all her strength. It disintegrated as it hit the invisible wall, and for a moment, a cloud of dust hung in the air, flat on one side.

  She heard a low chuckle nearby and turned to see the old woman grinning at her.

  “That’s a good ’un,” the woman cackled. “You show ’em. Go on.”

  Sonea slipped a hand into a pocket
and felt her fingers close on a larger rock. She took a few steps closer to the magicians and smiled. She had seen annoyance in some of their faces. Obviously they did not like to be defied, but something prevented them from confronting the youths.

  Beyond the haze of dust came the sound of voices. The well-groomed magician glanced up, then turned back to his companion, an older man with gray in his hair.

  “Pathetic vermin,” he sneered. “How long until we can get rid of them?”

  Something flipped over in Sonea’s belly, and she tightened her grip on the rock. She pulled it free and gauged its weight. A heavy one. Turning to face the magicians, she gathered the anger she felt at being thrown out of her home, all her inbred hate of the magicians, and hurled the stone at the speaker. She traced its path through the air, and as it neared the magicians’ barrier, she willed it to pass through and reach its mark.

  A ripple of blue light flashed outward, then the rock slammed into the magician’s temple with a dull thud. He stood motionless, staring at nothing, then his knees buckled and his companion stepped forward to catch him.

  Sonea stared, her mouth agape, as the older magician lowered his companion to the ground. The jeers of the youths died away. Stillness spread outward like smoke through the crowd.

  Then exclamations rang out as two more magicians sprang forward to crouch beside their fallen companion. Harrin’s friends, and others in the crowd, began to cheer. Noise returned to the square as people murmured and shouted out what had happened.

  Sonea looked down at her hands. It worked. I broke the barrier, but that’s not possible, unless…

  Unless I used magic.

  Cold rushed through her as she remembered how she had focused all her anger and hate on the stone, how she had followed its path with her mind and willed it to break through the barrier. Something in her stirred, as if it were eager for her to repeat those actions.

  Looking up, she saw that several magicians had gathered around their fallen companion. Some crouched beside him, but most had turned to stare out at the people in the square, their eyes searching. Looking for me, she thought suddenly. As if hearing her thought, one turned to stare at her. She froze in terror, but his eyes slid away and roved on through the crowd.

  They don’t know who it was. She gasped with relief. Glancing around, she saw that the crowd was several paces behind her. The youths were backing away. Heart pounding, she followed suit.

  Then the older magician rose. Unlike the others, his eyes snapped to hers without hesitation. He pointed at her and the rest of the magicians turned to stare again. As their hands rose, she felt a surge of terror. Spinning around, she bolted toward the crowd. In the corner of her eye, she saw the rest of the youths fleeing. Her vision wavered as several quick flashes of light lit the faces before her, then screams tore through the air. Heat rushed over her and she fell to her knees, gasping.

  “STOP!”

  She felt no pain. Looking down, she gasped in relief to find her body whole. She looked up; people were still running away, ignoring the strangely amplified command that still echoed through the square.

  A smell of burning drifted to her nose. Sonea turned to see a figure sprawled face-down on the pavement a few steps away. Though flames ate at the clothing hungrily, the figure lay still. Then she saw the blackened mess that had once been an arm, and her stomach twisted with nausea.

  “DO NOT HARM HER!”

  Staggering to her feet, she reeled away from the corpse. Figures passed her on either side as the youths fled. With an effort, she forced herself into a staggering run.

  She caught up with the crowd at the Northern Gate and pushed her way into it. Fighting her way forward, clawing past those in her way, she forced herself deep within the crowd of bodies. Feeling the stones still weighing down her pockets, she clawed them out. Something caught her legs, tripping her over, but she dragged herself to her feet and pushed on.

  Hands grabbed her roughly from behind. She struggled and drew a breath to scream, but the hands turned her around and she found herself staring up at the familiar blue eyes of Harrin.

  2

  The Magician’s Debate

  Though he had entered the Guildhall countless times since graduating over thirty years before, Lord Rothen had rarely heard it echo with so many voices.

  He regarded the sea of robed men and women before him. Circles of magicians had formed, and he noted the usual cliques and factions. Others roamed about, leaving one circle and joining another. Hands flashed in expressive gestures, and the occasional exclamation or denial rose above the din.

  Meets were usually dignified, orderly affairs, but until the Administrator arrived to organize them, the participants usually milled about in the center of the room, talking. As Rothen started toward the crowd, he caught fragments of conversations which seemed to be emanating from the roof. The Guildhall amplified sounds in odd and unexpected ways, particularly when voices were raised.

  The effect was not magical, as ungifted visitors often assumed, but an unintended result of the building’s conversion into a hall. The first and oldest Guild construction, it had originally contained rooms to house magicians and their apprentices as well as spaces for lessons and meetings. Four centuries later, faced with a rapidly growing membership, the Guild had constructed several new buildings. Not wanting to demolish their first home, they removed the internal walls and added seating, and since then, all Guild Meets, Acceptance and Graduation ceremonies and Hearings had been held there.

  A tall, purple-robed figure stepped out of the crowd and strode toward Rothen. Noting the younger magician’s eager expression, Rothen smiled; Dannyl had complained more than once that nothing particularly exciting happened in the Guild.

  “Well, my old friend. How did it go?” Dannyl asked.

  Rothen crossed his arms. “Old friend indeed!”

  “Old fiend, then.” Dannyl waved a hand dismissively. “What did the Administrator say?”

  “Nothing. He just wanted me to describe what happened. It appears I’m the only one who saw her.”

  “Lucky for her,” Dannyl replied. “Why did the others try to kill her?”

  Rothen shook his head. “I don’t think they meant to.”

  A gong rang out above the buzz of voices, and the Guild Administrator’s amplified voice filled the hall.

  “Would all magicians take their seats, please.”

  Glancing behind, Rothen saw the huge main doors at the back of the hall swing shut. The mass of robes parted as magicians began moving toward seats on either side of the room. Dannyl nodded toward the front.

  “We have some rare company today.”

  Rothen followed his friend’s gaze. The Higher Magicians were taking their places. To mark their position and authority within the Guild, their seats were arranged in five tiers at the front of the hall. The raised seats were reached by two narrow stairways. At the center of the highest row stood a large chair embellished with gold and embroidered with the King’s incal: a stylized night bird. The chair was empty, but the two seats flanking it were occupied by magicians wearing gold sashes tied about their waists.

  “The King’s Advisers,” Rothen murmured. “Interesting.”

  “Yes,” Dannyl replied. “I wondered if King Merin would regard this Meet important enough to attend.”

  “Not important enough to come himself.”

  “Of course not.” Dannyl smiled. “Then we’d behave ourselves.”

  Rothen shrugged. “It makes no difference, Dannyl. Even if the advisers weren’t here, none of us would say anything we wouldn’t say in the presence of the King. No, they’re here to make sure we do more than merely talk about the girl.”

  Reaching their usual seats, they sat down. Dannyl leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room. “All this for one grubby street urchin.”

  Rothen chuckled. “She has caused quite a stir, hasn’t she?”

  “Fergun hasn’t joined us,” Dannyl narrowed his eyes at the rows of seats
against the opposite wall, “but his followers are here.”

  Though Rothen did not approve of his friend expressing dislike of another magician in public, he couldn’t help smiling. Fergun’s officious manner did not endear him to others. “From what I remember of the Healer’s report, the blow caused considerable confusion and agitation. He felt it wise to prescribe Fergun a sedative.”

  Dannyl gave a quiet crow of delight. “Fergun’s asleep! When he realizes he has missed this meeting he’ll be furious!”

  A gong rang out and the room began to quieten.

  “And, as you can imagine, Administrator Lorlen was most disappointed that Lord Fergun could not give his version of the events,” Rothen added in a murmur.

  Dannyl choked back a laugh. Looking across at the Higher Magicians, Rothen saw that all had taken their places. Only Administrator Lorlen remained standing, a gong in one hand, a striker in the other.

  Lorlen’s expression was uncharacteristically grave. Rothen sobered as he realized that this crisis was the first the magician had faced since being elected. Lorlen had proven to be well suited to dealing with everyday issues within the Guild, but there must be more than a few magicians wondering how the Administrator would tackle a crisis like this.

  “I have called this Meet so that we may discuss the events which occurred in the North Square this morning,” Lorlen began. “We have two matters of the most serious nature to address: the killing of an innocent, and the existence of a magician outside of our control. To begin, we will tackle the first and most serious of these two matters. I call upon Lord Rothen as witness to the event.”

  Dannyl looked at Rothen with surprise, then smiled. “Of course. It must be years since you stood down there. Good luck.”

  Rising, Rothen gave his friend a withering look. “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll be fine.”

  Faces turned as the assembled magicians watched Rothen descend from his seat and cross the hall to stand before the Higher Magicians. He inclined his head to the Administrator. Lorlen nodded in reply.