Angel of Storms

by Trudi Canavan

  What would they do, if the school closed? They were not sorcerers, so he guessed they were safe from the Raen. But they depended on the school for their income. Was somebody going to transport them to their home worlds, or to a new home? And what of the town outside the walls, that had grown so large only because of the school?

  More sorcerers and students trickled into the room. When the three Heads arrived, it was to an audience Tyen estimated was a quarter of the size it ought to have been. He watched the Heads closely as they waited, noting how they fidgeted and whispered to each other. Head Lerh spoke to those gathered to say they’d wait a little longer to see if more people arrived. When a couple of teachers rose and hurried away soon after, he returned to the podium to say they could wait no longer. He looked down at a piece of paper, then shook his head, folded it and put it away in his clothing.

  “We are here to confirm that reports of the Raen’s return are accurate,” he began. “Assuming the old laws are to be reinstated, we see no alternative but to close Liftre. Any students requiring assistance to return to their families should remain here so arrangements can be made. My colleagues will also be taking servants to their home worlds. Also, volunteers are required to remove…” The rest of his words were inaudible. The audience, not waiting to hear him finish, had begun to hurry out of the room. Head Lerh stopped and looked back at the other two Heads, who shrugged. “Travel only as much as you must,” he called out above the noise. “May you reach your homes safely.”

  Tyen watched the exodus in disbelief. When the last of the sorcerers had left he wandered out. The corridors seemed colder, somehow. He made his way up to the teacher’s level, but the route to his room was still crowded. He took a different, circuitous path to the far corner of the school instead.

  Tarren, having been one of the Liftre’s founding sorcerers, had claimed one of the towers of the abandoned old castle long ago. Tyen’s knock brought Cim, the old man’s servant, to the door. The woman’s calm demeanour was a welcome contrast to the rest of the school’s occupants’ and he could almost believe he had dreamed the announcement in the hall. She led him up the stairs to the study.

  Tarren was bent over a desk, a large brush in hand, painting elegant glyphs on a length of fine white fabric, apparently oblivious to the chaos below.

  “So the school is closing,” Tarren said.

  Not so oblivious after all, Tyen mused. “Yes.”

  The old man nodded to a second desk. On it lay a sheet of paper, bowl of ink, water cup, cloth and brush, ready for use.

  “Sit.”

  Tyen obeyed, knowing that the more he objected he had no time for this, the more stubborn the old man would be about it. Yet he was also drawn to this act of normality. He drew in a deep breath, savouring the smells of the paper and ink.

  According to Tarren, calligraphy focused and refined the mind. The walls of his rooms were decorated with banners, each containing a favourite quote. Some were wise, some funny, and others didn’t appear to make any sense. Though Tyen had been able to speak the Traveller tongue by the time he reached Liftre, he had not been able to write it well. Tarren had insisted Tyen spend every evening here, practising until he formed the characters to a standard the old man judged worthy of a scholar.

  Tyen doubted Tarren would be indulging in his hobby if he thought the Raen was about to attack the school. He picked up the brush.

  “What’s it like down there?” Tarren asked, not lifting his gaze from his work.

  “Lots of rushing about, parents arriving, people leaving. I think a few are stealing things.”

  Tarren’s hand was steady as he curled his brush in a perfect circle, paler at first then darkening to full black at the end of the stroke. “The meeting attendance?”

  “A quarter of the students and teachers turned up. And quite a few servants.” He moistened the bristles of his brush with water, then dried the excess on the cloth.

  “What do you make of all this?”

  “I admit, I can’t grasp it. How can one man ruin all that has been built here? Who is he to decide what others can learn and where they may go?”

  “One very powerful man who you should not cross, Tyen,” Tarren warned. “No matter what you feel about his right to rule, or methods of enforcing it.”

  Tyen dipped the tip of the bristles in the ink, then scraped it across the bowl’s edge to reduce the quantity it held. “But… no matter how strong he is, or how old, how can one person, who can only be in one place at any time, keep all the worlds under his control?”

  “‘Magic is but one tool available to a king’,” Tarren quoted.

  This was written on one of the banners downstairs, where visitors would see it as they entered. Tyen pondered the possible meanings. “So he is clever, too.”

  “Yes. While all know he will not hesitate to punish those who defy or disobey him, or kill those who might become a threat to him, fear is not his prime method of maintaining control. Instead, he makes deals and trades favours. Sometimes he does this in order to achieve his aims, but as often it is to achieve the aims of others. He helps those who request it, whether their purpose is gain or survival. He has made people rich and worlds powerful. Yet he has also rescued countless people from disaster, natural or human. He has led wars, but more often he has prevented or ended them.”

  “So whatever he does… there is always a favour required in return?”

  “Yes. If not immediately, then held in reserve.”

  Tyen dipped the brush in the water again so the ink shrank to the root of the bristles. “Is the price high?”

  “Only the other party can judge that. It is said that he never asks for anything you are unwilling to do or give. I say: better to offer something he wants that you are willing to give than be in debt to him.”

  “Better to never need anything in the first place.” Tyen frowned down at the paper. He could think of nothing to write. He looked up at his friend. “Where can I go that’s safe, Tarren? There must be a limit to his influence. If I travel far enough, surely I’ll find places he doesn’t get to often enough to maintain control, or at all.”

  The old man’s arm moved in another practised arc. “The worlds are like stepping stones in a river to him. He can walk across them as quickly as breathing. Places that would take you half a cycle to reach he can travel to in moments.”

  Tyen stared at the old man. “Nobody is that powerful.”

  Tarren looked up. “Plenty would be, if they weren’t in the habit of getting themselves killed at a young age. You might have the strength for it. I’ve met few sorcerers with your reach and ability, and I don’t think you’ve ever truly stretched as far as you could.”

  A stab of fear went through Tyen. “So he would want to kill me, if he found me?”

  The old sorcerer’s expression was serious. “If you gave him reason to. The trouble is, unless you have bonds to a place, an ability like travelling between worlds is a hard one to resist using. It is like being able to walk safely as far as you’d like, but being ordered to stay inside your home. It feels like a restriction of your freedom.”

  “And you’re warning me that I have to,” Tyen guessed.

  “Not necessarily.” Tarren straightened. “Kik was right that his meagre powers would be of no use to the Raen. You, on the other hand, have much to offer. You also have no personal reason to hate him.”

  Tyen stared at the old man. “You’re suggesting I work for him?”

  “I’m suggesting you serve him. He’s a ruler, not an employer.” Tarren’s smile was grim.

  “But… isn’t that a betrayal?”

  “Of what? Liftre will soon be gone. The people here have many different alliances and causes, none of which are yours. As many would approve of your decision as not.” Tarren nodded to the banner he had just painted. Looking down, Tyen read the words: “Choose your enemies with care”.

  “You have not truly been listening to what I’ve said,” Tarren continued. “You’re still s
truggling with the idea that someone so powerful exists.”

  Tyen nodded. He thought back over Tarren’s words. “You believe he is not as bad as people say.”

  “Or as good. Look deeper, and you will find that their complaints are most often over the consequences of deals made with the Raen, theirs or others’. Much of what he is blamed for is the fault of his allies. His actions are those of a man with a purpose, not the senseless evil of someone who delights in harming others.”

  “And that purpose is?”

  “Maintaining control and order, such as it is. Control he must re-establish now. The worlds have grown used to him not being around. He may need help.”

  Tyen felt his stomach sink. “To conquer worlds? I wouldn’t want to be a part of that.”

  “Oh, the worlds never became unconquered, just a little neglected.” Tarren chuckled. “You are inexperienced in warfare. He will read your mind and see that. But you have other talents. Remember: he does not ask for what you aren’t willing to give.”

  “If he did, he would take Vella from me as soon as he read my mind.”

  Tarren washed his brush. “I have considered that. He probably knows everything useful within her already. After all, she was made by a man near equal to him in strength. A man, it is said, he killed.”

  “Roporien?” Tyen caught his breath. “The sorcerer who made Vella? The Raen is Roporien’s successor?”

  Tarren nodded.

  “But… hasn’t it been more than a thousand cycles since Roporien died?”

  The old man chuckled. “You refer to Millennium’s Rule.”

  According to Vella, the rule stated that a sorcerer rose to power once every thousand cycles, killing their predecessor in the process. Tyen’s skin suddenly prickled. To have lived so long… He’d concluded that the Raen must be powerful enough to stop ageing, since the teachers had argued over incidents that happened hundreds of cycles ago, but it hadn’t occurred to him the man might have been alive this long. “So he’s due to be replaced soon.”

  “Overdue.”

  “So… it’s not certain? Not a true prophecy?”

  “Prophecy? No. Just a vague prediction of inevitable change.” Tarren waved a hand dismissively, picked up a smaller brush and dipped it in green ink. “Like predicting when a volcano will explode. You can calculate how often it does, but you can’t know exactly when it will happen. More than a thousand cycles have passed and here he is, still alive.”

  “But that does mean the longer he lives, the greater the chance someone will kill him.”

  “And become the new ruler of the worlds,” Tarren added, writing his signature with a flourish. “Which leaves us all in the same position, only this time with someone new, who will need to establish control, who will make mistakes, who might be truly evil and enjoy harming others for entertainment or to feel important. Roporien’s hunger for knowledge drove him, so he pushed worlds into conflict with each other. There is nothing like warfare to inspire progress and invention. We are better off with the Raen in charge than Roporien–or a newcomer.”

  Tyen shivered. “But the next ruler might be kinder. Better.”

  The old man shrugged. “They might. But for how long? ‘Maintaining control requires hard decisions; hard decisions forge hard leaders’,” he quoted. He smiled crookedly. “The matriarchy of Roihe have some of the best sayings on the subject of warfare.”

  “‘Some of the worst decisions have been made for the noblest reasons’,” Tyen quoted.

  “So true. Is that from Leratia?”

  “Yes. From a play.”

  “Write it down.”

  Tyen looked at his brush, still laden with ink, then at the paper, tracing in his mind where he would place the words to make a pleasing composition. He drew in a deep breath, forced himself to focus only on this task, and began to paint.

  When he had finished, Tarren’s voice spoke at his shoulder. “Good work. Now sign it.” As Tyen did, Tarren moved away, adding his own new banner to a pile of others. “The Raen is not only the strongest, but the oldest sorcerer. He has over a thousand cycles of knowledge to draw upon. If he doesn’t know how to turn Vella back into a woman, nobody does.”

  A thrill of excitement rushed through Tyen. Suddenly Tarren’s suggestion was not so ludicrous. It was still risky, but he could see more to gain from it. Something worthy. Something good.

  “Do you think he would?” he asked.

  “You have to ask yourself: what are you prepared to do in order to fulfil your promise to her?”

  Tyen cleaned his brush, wondering why he was bothering when it would soon be abandoned here. “I will… I will have to think about it.”

  “And you should.” Tarren moved to the other side of the table, his gaze steady and hard. “I know what I am urging you to do is risky. If you decide against it, my advice is: do what everyone else here is doing. Either go home–he’ll avoid magically poor worlds–or find a new one, as I plan to.” He sighed and looked away. “It is a great shame that Liftre must close. It could only exist in the absence of the Raen.” He shook his head. “At times like these people are forced to take sides, and it often goes badly for those who try to remain uninvolved, or worse, stay on good terms with both.”

  “What was that quote? ‘He who stands in the middle had better learn to duck’?”

  Tarren’s mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Yes, that’s the one. I am planning to get well out of the way. You, I think, would best be choosing a side. Either way, we probably won’t see each other again.” Tarren smiled. “I will miss you, young Tyen, and not just because it is so rare to meet a sorcerer from a magically poor world, with unique insights into magic and men.”

  Tyen looked up to see affection in the old man’s gaze. “And I you.” His chest suddenly felt hollow. He stood, wiping at an ink stain on his hands. No matter how careful he was, somehow he always wound up with at least one. “When will you leave?”

  “Tonight. Tomorrow. When I’m ready. If the Raen finds me, he’ll know I pose no threat. One look and he’ll see I’ve only ten cycles left at most, and no desire to train rebels.”

  Tyen’s throat was tight. He looked down at the paper, then up at the many banners on the wall. His own brushstrokes were awkward and heavy compared to the old man’s practised hand. He did not want to think about his friend leaving, let alone dying.

  “If only—” he began.

  The old man raised a hand to silence him. “Don’t taunt me with such thoughts. I am not strong enough, and that is that.”

  Tyen closed his mouth. When he’d told Tarren about Vella, the old man had been most excited to know she contained the secret of halting ageing. They had both been dismayed to find it was beyond Tarren’s abilities.

  “Promise me you will try it one day,” Tarren said.

  “I will,” Tyen replied, though the thought sent a chill through him. “When I’ve had my share of mortal cycles and the price and risk is worth it.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t run out of time before then,” the old man said, starting towards the stairs. “Believe me, time has a habit of speeding up when you’re not paying attention.”

  Tyen nodded. “If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have started trying to restore Vella’s body cycles ago.”

  “I doubt you would have succeeded, even if you’d dedicated the last five cycles to the task. If it was easy, she’d already have the knowledge within her. Now, go pack your bags and leave, Tyen Ironsmelter, and stop letting this old fool keep you here for his own selfish entertainment.” He moved to the door. “Go before he gets here.”

  Tyen looked from the door to his friend. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything.”

  The old man’s expression softened. He drew Tyen into a brief embrace. “Whatever you decide to do, I wish you the best of luck.”

  “If there’s any way you can let me know where you settle…?”

  Tarren chuckled. “If I think of one, you’ll find t
he first clue here. Now go.” He opened the door and shooed Tyen out.

  “Wait,” Tyen said when the door had almost closed. Tarren paused and opened it again.

  “Yes?”

  “And if I decide to… how do I find him?”

  The old man leaned out of the doorway, checking to see if anyone else was in the corridor. “Oh, if it were me I’d roam around the worlds for a bit,” he murmured. “See if it’s true he can sense people travelling in the place between.”

  “If he is coming here I could wait.”

  “If there’s resistance you don’t want to be caught up in it. And it would not be very tactful, don’t you think, to approach him afterwards?”

  Tyen shook his head. “I suppose not. Goodbye, Tarren.” With a last nod of farewell, he turned away. The door clicked shut behind him.

  He sighed and headed back towards his room. The corridors were quiet, now. The few teachers he saw were hurrying to their destinations with heads low, one teacher yelping in fright when Tyen rounded a corner to find her peeking out of her room. He occasionally heard voices, low and urgent, only for them to go silent as he drew closer to the source. It all made it easy to feel like an elaborate joke was being played, and someone was about to jump out and tell him there was no such man as the Raen, and what a fool he was for believing it.

  As he passed the top of the staircase to the lower floor he slowed, wondering if he should go down and see if any of the students remained. Did a few, like him, come from worlds they couldn’t return to, and had nowhere to go? What could he possibly advise them to do?

  “Tyen!”

  He jumped. Turning in the direction of the voice, his anxiety and sadness faded a little as he recognised the woman walking towards him.

  “Yira.”

  She looked good, he thought. Confident. Strong. Her long limbs were back to being toned from weapons training, as he’d remembered them being when they had first met. The way her brown skin darkened around the eyes and mouth emphasised them, and her glossy hair was gathered in a braid that fell to her waist. He caught a glint of metal and guessed that she’d taken to weaving in the spurs that Roihe women added to dissuade enemy combatants from grabbing their braids during contests.