Tournament of Witches

by Jack Massa

  This brought a round of laughter from his klarnmates.

  “Women make the best warriors,” Karrol declared. “Besides, you might feel different about it if you weren’t infatuated with your mystery lady.”

  “Hmm.” Eben shrugged. “That might be a fair point.”

  

  On the first day of the following month, the first month of Third Summer, Amlina entered the Academy of the Deepmind for her examination. The Academy, known as Col Sang, was a long white building adjacent to the compound of the House of the Deepmind. Identifying herself to a porter in the outer lobby, Amlina was conducted up a central stair and through a series of corridors, passing offices, classrooms, and scriptoriums. After waiting a quarter-hour in an anteroom, she was summoned to the examination chamber.

  The room looked exactly as she remembered from thirteen years ago: circular, with a high dome and a floor of gray flagstones flecked with silver. In the center of the floor was a round fountain filled with bubbling water, the basin of mosaic tiles. In the center of the basin stood a broad pillar, obsidian black. Water gushed from the mouths of carved faces on the pillar. In the center, between the faces, hung a simple cloak, the gray mantle Amlina sought to claim.

  Enthroned on the pillar, above the level of Amlina’s head, sat three witches, Faculty of the Academy. Two of these examiners she did not recognize but upon scrutinizing the woman in the center, Amlina clenched her teeth.

  She looked older than Amlina remembered, and even more stern and sour, if such a thing were possible. But there was no doubt that it was Arulanna Li Tow, one of Amlina’s former teachers. In her days as a student, Arulanna had taken a dislike to her, deemed her careless and rebellious. Her treatment of Amlina bordered on persecution, and Amlina believed it had undermined her studies, leading to her failing this very examination.

  “Let the candidate step forward.” Arulanna said.

  Steeling herself, Amlina walked to the edge of the fountain. She stared up at the three examiners and took a deep breath. Over the past small-month she had studied with earnest dedication. She was well-prepared for the examination and had walked in to the Academy this morning confident she would pass. Now, suddenly, she had doubts.

  “You are Amlina Len Tai, from Shen Tong province?” Arulanna asked.

  “Yes.” Amlina seldom thought of her family name or the place of her birth.

  “And you are here to be examined for advance to the grade of adept.”

  “I am.”

  On her high seat, Arulanna leaned forward. “This committee is also well aware that you are the famous Amlina, who spent years overseas and has lately returned bringing treasures from foreign places. But those accomplishments have no bearing here. Any deepshaping tricks or foreign sorceries you may have learned will not help you. This committee will examine you purely on the Five Revered Arts and their Thirty-Five Respected Applications.”

  Calmly, Amlina returned the belligerent stare. “I expect nothing else.”

  “Very well then.” Her former teacher sat back. “Let the examination begin.”

  The witches took turns asking questions in rapid succession. They began with the most basic. Amlina answered just as readily.

  “What are the Five Revered Arts of the Deepmind?”

  “Wei-shen, the deepseeing; quon-xing, pure shaping; jai-dah, that is formulation or weaving; barang-xing, trinketing; and weng-lei, magical combat.”

  “How does formulation differ from pure shaping?”

  “Formulation is the creation of mental constructs that are then released through incantation and casting. Pure shaping is the instant use of mental power to manifest effects.”

  “Name the seven respected applications of deepseeing.”

  “The first is summoning dreams; the second, evoking visions; the third, peering into a moment; fourth, peering into a soul; fifth, seeing outside of time; sixth, seeing through another’s eyes; and the seventh, bowing to the sky.”

  The questions rolled on, gradually growing more difficult. Amlina answered nearly by rote. She had studied thoroughly.

  There followed demonstrations. Amlina was asked to read one of the witch’s minds and describe a certain color held in the woman’s thoughts. Next, all three examiners focused on deepseeing in the moment a specific place—the harbor in faraway Haji-Chan of the Moonstone Gates, and Amlina was required to look there also and describe the scene. For magical combat, Amlina demonstrated fighting poses, then drew her dagger and cast it looping and flying in the air by mental control. She had prepared a formulation and when asked, summoned it by gesture and chant. Remembering the fountain in this chamber, she had chosen to create a design that stopped the water in first one spigot, then the next. Her success in this seemed to impress the committee favorably.

  But when they tested her on trinketing, Amlina’s luck turned. She handed over her moonstone fillet, her favorite piece. It floated through the air to Arulanna who examined it, frowning, and then passed it to the others. The three witches muttered back and forth. Arulanna then turned on Amlina with a wry expression.

  “We suggest that this piece was constructed using techniques outside the approved Canon of Assemblage.”

  Amlina’s heart sank. She had fashioned the fillet while studying in the city of Kadavel, where she had learned some Tathian alchemy. “There may have been some small influence from foreign sources,” she allowed in a guarded voice.

  “Obviously this must count against you.” With a dismissive wave, Arulanna sent the trinket drifting back over the water.

  After more than two hours, the committee had exhausted all of their questions and requested performances. Amlina waited with a gnawing pain in her stomach while the three faculty members discussed her application using hand-signs. She noted what appeared to be some disagreement between Arulanna and the others. Finally, the three sat back in their chairs. As they did so, the gushing from the spigots ceased, and the water in the basin changed to ice.

  Arulanna cleared her throat. “Amlina Len Tai, this committee has reached a decision. We find your knowledge of the arts of witchery adequate, in some cases commendable. Your demonstrations, though less exemplary, are nonetheless deemed adequate. Also, I must say that, due to your notoriety, the Academy has been placed under political pressure to pass your application. But, be that as it may, you may proceed to claim your gray mantle.”

  She pointed her chin down at the ice. Amlina nodded and put her hands on the rim of the basin, forcing herself not to shake. This was the final test. Based on the pure shaping of the committee members, the ice had appeared in the fountain. How thick and strong would depend on their degree of approval for the candidate.

  Now she must walk across and reach the mantle without falling through. The ice must either be solid enough to bear her weight or—should it begin to break—she must summon the power to lighten her body and step softly enough to reach the prize. At her first attempt, thirteen years ago, Amlina had made it less than halfway before falling through, soaking herself to the waist with freezing water. Utterly humiliated, she had left the Academy soon after.

  Now, under the stern eyes of the examiners, she stepped into the basin. The ice appeared firm, though streams of tiny bubbles moved beneath the surface. Cautiously watching her feet, Amlina took a step, then another.

  She had reached the midway point when she heard the first crunch. Tiny cracks spread out from her foot and suddenly the ice grew slippery. Fear surged into her heart, and with it the devastating memory of her first failure.

  “No,” she whispered. “I will not fail this time.”

  With the courage of that thought, something else rose within her. The power she had felt in the labyrinth, when she had brought her body out of the pit and risen high into the air. Immediately, she directed the power. Almost without realizing it, she was lifting off the ice, levitating her body.

  Reaching out her hand, she touched the gray mantle. Grasping it, she turned in the air and flowed back across the
fountain.

  Her feet came to rest softly on the flagstone floor. Amlina wrapped the mantle over her shoulders. She caressed the heavy silk for just a moment, then turned to the committee. After a curt bow, she left the chamber without speaking a word.

  Twenty-Four

  Admiral Shay-Ni Pheng was surprised by the invitation to join his uncle for an early evening conference. More surprising was the location: not the Pheng mansion in the center of Minhang, where Shay-Ni had been living these past two months and where the Duke held the main apartments; and not Precious Stone Fortress, where Shay-Ni had been confined when first returning to the city and where the Duke resided most of the time. No, this meeting would take place at the house of a certain Colonel Nenn, one of the Duke’s lesser retainers.

  Nenn’s residence stood in a peripheral warren near the mouth of the north canal. Across the canal stood the outermost walls of the Tuan’s celestial palace and the shores of Perfect Light Lake. The remote location hinted at a clandestine gathering to discuss secret matters. Shay-Ni hoped the affair might at last lead to some new assignment for him—although Colonel Nenn had no connection with the navy, only a career commanding border outposts. Still, there was no telling what plans the crafty Duke might be hatching and, of course, Shay-Ni would not have refused the invitation in any case. Anything that promised relief from the tedium of his present existence was welcome.

  On arrival, he found the manor house as modest and unimposing as expected. But when a serving girl ushered him to a small dining room at the rear of the house, Shay-Ni was met by another surprise. Along with the Duke and the Colonel, two others occupied the low-set table: the Duke’s sons, Commander Ting Le and General Shan. Their greetings were subdued, and they regarded Shay-Ni’s with hooded expressions that made him uneasy. Colonel Nenn likewise appeared nervous, his eyes downcast. Only the Duke smiled with his usual aplomb as he waved Shay-Ni to the cushion next to his own.

  Shay-Ni moved the sword on his belt and sat down cross-legged. He preferred chairs and waist-high tables to this archaic manner of dining. But many considered the low table style more “military.”

  “I am grateful for the invitation, esteemed uncle,” Shay-Ni said.

  “I am appreciative of your promptness, dear nephew. We have important matters to discuss, which may result in new and important duties for you—assuming you are willing.”

  “My only wish is to serve the Land to the best of my ability,” he answered, excitement kindling.

  “Well said. We are waiting for one other to begin the conference. Meantime, take some refreshment.” Duke Pheng crooked a finger to summon the serving girl, who stepped forward with a goblet on a silver tray.

  Shay-Ni smiled at her as he took the cup. She was a small, pretty thing, and he wondered if he might have an opportunity to enjoy her later.

  “Who is the other officer we are waiting for?” he asked.

  “Someone you do not know.” The Duke raised his hand, encouraging Shay-Ni to drink up.

  The wine proved slightly acidic, and Shay-Ni wondered if this was the best Colonel Nenn could afford. Still, after the first sip he scarcely noticed the taste. Soon he had drained his cup and held it up for a refill.

  The talk was low and subdued, a review of troop placements in the northern border regions, mention of a certain Duke Khin of Tongvann Province who had failed this year to provide the called-for troop requisitions. Was Khin an incipient threat to raise a rebellion in the northwest? Shay-Ni wondered if this might be the purpose of the conference.

  As he sipped the wine a strange warmth crept through his veins. He began to feel light-headed. His cousins eyed him from time to time, and he wondered at the meaning of their glances. Perhaps he should contribute to the conversation, but even understanding their words was becoming difficult.

  What was happening to him? He glanced into the near empty cup with sudden panic. The cup shook violently in his hand as he tried to set it down. His arm twitched, and the wine spilled over the table.

  With a groan he thrust himself off the cushion. He tried to stand but his knees buckled. He fell over sideways, collapsing against the Duke. His uncle wrapped arms around his benumbed body and laid it gently on the floor.

  Paralyzed, mouth fallen open, Shay-Ni stared at the ceiling. Faces appeared, peering down at him. He heard his uncle’s voice.

  “Summon the witches.”

  

  Nerves thrumming with anticipation, Clorodice waited in the dark parlor of Colonel Nenn’s manor. On the couch beside her sat Arkasha, her most-trusted subaltern. It had been Arkasha who had accompanied Admiral Pheng on his ill-fated voyage to the South Polar Sea. Tonight, she would meet him again—under far different circumstances.

  The two witches had heard the Admiral’s arrival and listened in acute silence to the muted discussions coming from the dining room. When she heard a muffled crash and a flurry of movement, Clorodice knew the moment had come. She and Arkasha were already on their feet when the Colonel appeared in the doorway. They followed him to the dining room, where the Duke and his sons bent over the supine, inert body of Shay-Ni Pheng.

  Clorodice brushed past the men and knelt. She felt the pulse at the neck, then moved her hand in front of the unblinking eyes.

  “Yes. This will do nicely.”

  “Is he conscious?” Duke Pheng asked.

  “I believe so.” Clorodice turned to her assistant. “Bring the sheets,” she said, and then to the Colonel: “Get the cart ready, if you please.”

  The Duke leaned over his fallen nephew. “I regret any discomfort you may be feeling, Shay-Ni. Rest assured, I did not select this course without due consideration. The oracle advised that this was the most auspicious way for you to serve the Land, and you will now have new duties as I promised—though not ones you would likely have chosen.”

  When the body was carefully wrapped in a burial sheet, the Duke’s sons lifted it on their shoulders and carried it out to the street where a dray cart was waiting. After thanking Nenn for his assistance, the Duke dismissed him. Duke Pheng and his sons climbed onto the cart along with the two witches. Ting Le, the elder son, took the reins. Arkasha sat beside him to give directions.

  The pink moon had already set and the red moon not yet risen. With a soft veil of clouds, the night was as dark as it ever appeared in Minhang—illumined only by the ghostly ambient witchlight that rose from the nearby canal and the more-distant lake. The cart rolled up a narrow lane and turned onto a back street. Traveling away from the canal, they crossed the western edge of the city. Clorodice spotted no one as the cart made its way through a suburb of rolling fields with widely spaced houses and barns. The trail led over an antique bridge that spanned a dry gulley. Beyond the bridge, they passed through a gate in a crumbling wall of stone blocks.

  Inside lay the City of Tombs, an immense necropolis of monoliths, obelisks, and domed pavilions spread over low, rounded hills. For more than five thousand years, the highest ranking nobles of Larthang had been buried here. Clorodice noted with wry satisfaction how the Duke and his sons attempted to mask their superstitious dread. The high witch herself felt no such scruples. Oh, the ghosts were real enough. Clorodice could summon any number of them if she so desired. But that was not why she had chosen this place for her sanctuary. The tombs offered several advantages. Fear and reverence for the dead would keep away the curious, while the immanent spiritual power of the place could be tapped to hide her activities from the deepsight of her fellow witches. As Keeper of the Keys, Clorodice could open the magical locks that sealed many of the underground vaults.

  The cart rolled to a stop between two shallow hills. Below a fallen obelisk lay a pit with stairs leading down. Figures in black, hooded robes stood waiting—nine witches of Clorodice’s circle, all of them loyal to the Thread of Virtue. They gathered at the back of the cart. The Duke and his son handed down the rigid body.

  “Thank you, Lord Duke,” Clorodice said. “My people will take over from here.”

/>   “You will keep me informed of your progress,” Duke Pheng said.

  “Naturally.”

  Her assistants were already carrying the wrapped body toward the stairs. Arms folded in their sleeves, Clorodice and Arkasha followed. The Duke and his sons climbed back onto the cart and drove away into the darkness.

  Clorodice descended the stairs and lowered her head to enter the tomb. The file of her subordinates preceded her, moving slowly down the passage. Removing a key ring from her pocket, she selected an old, tarnished key and pointed it at the entrance. As she turned the key in the air, a metal door rose up from below, sealing the portal.

  Lanterns carried by a few of the subalterns now gave the only light. Initially narrow, the tunnel soon broadened into a brick passageway twelve paces across with a vaulted ceiling and painted walls. Faded murals depicted the funeral procession of an emperor from the days before the Tuans. The air hung damp and smelled of mold.

  At the end of the tunnel, Clorodice and her followers emerged into a wide, circular chamber carved in the rock below the hill. The curving walls were lined with shelves holding dusty urns of brass and gold. Statues of ancient gods and sages stood in alcoves, and open doorways led off to smaller rooms. Lamps and dozens of candles burned in the close air. Furniture had recently been added: carpets and chairs, trunks containing ritual implements. In the middle of the floor sat a heavy table. The comatose body of Admiral Pheng was set down there and carefully unwrapped.

  Clorodice stepped into a side chamber, removed her robe. and washed her face and hands in a basin. Assisted by her apprentice, Elani Vo T’ang, she donned a ritual gown of white linen and a necklace of amber beads.

  By the time she joined the others, Pheng’s body had been stripped and sponged. Three of the witches were rubbing the skin with a spicy, numbing gel. Stepping near, Clorodice scrutinized the glistening, rigid form. The man was full-chested and broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and considerable tufts of hair on the chest and belly. He had strong legs and a large male member—a robust specimen. He should do very well.