Awakener

by J. C. Staudt

  When one of the sailors dropped his end of the crate he was carrying, Briston snapped his head round to glare at the man. “Stikes, you get your bloody drunken arse in line or I’ll do it for you.”

  “Shall we come aboard?” Sullimas asked.

  Briston turned back to give them a pleasant grin. He stepped aside and spread a hand in display of the shifting gangplank. “As you will, milords. Do mind your step.”

  Norne hoisted his pack and led the way, with Sullimas following close behind. When Maaltred stepped to the dock’s edge and looked out over the roiling seas, saw the gangplank swinging to and fro with the ship’s movement, he nearly fainted.

  “Come now,” said Captain Briston, “don’t be timid. You’ll be wanting to get your sea legs beneath you, and here’s your chance to do it before we raise sail.”

  “I don’t believe he’s got any sea legs,” Norne shouted. “Looks like he only brought the two.”

  Briston roared with laughter. “They’ll suffice, milord. They’ll suffice.”

  Far from likely, Maaltred thought as he took his first step onto the plank. If he’d felt faint before, it was nothing compared to what he felt when he set foot on the ship’s deck. There was nothing quite so unsettling, he decided, as expecting the ground to hold still and finding that it refuses to do so.

  Maaltred hit his head four times going belowdecks due to the ship’s quaking, and when the captain led them to the cramped chamber in which the three of them would be occupying sackcloth hammocks suspended from the low curved ceiling, Maaltred envisioned the many more bumps and bruises to come. It’s only twelve days, he told himself, wondering why that sounded just shy of a lifetime.

  Chapter 4

  “I don’t remember these trails being so overgrown last time,” Triolyn complained, hacking again at the stand of brambles in his way. “I thought we cut this same path in mid-summer.”

  “I thought so too,” said Darion.

  “I’ll take a turn when you’ve tired,” Draithon offered.

  “The path widens ahead,” said Triolyn. “You’re both welcome to join me side by side when it does.”

  The forest had grown so dense around them that the three hunters had been forced to dismount and lead their horses by the reins. Five days had come and gone since they left home, and now on the morning of the sixth the going was rougher than ever. Darion had expected to surmount the high passes and cross into the plateau hunting grounds in half the time it had taken them. Less time to hunt meant less game to be taken and a harsher winter ahead. He sensed something foul and unusual afoot, but he’d never witnessed anything like this before.

  When Triolyn finished clearing an opening in the brambles sufficient for the horses to pass through, they tethered the animals to a stand of trees alongside the path and pushed on ahead. Their swords were meant for combat, not for hacking through tangles of vines and branches. Triolyn tried the small woodsman’s axe he’d brought for splitting firelogs, but that proved no better for the task at hand.

  “What we need is a good sickle,” Triolyn said after a time, “keen enough to shave a man’s face. I don’t reckon you’ve got any spells that would make this easier.”

  Darion had taught his family that while magic could be used to solve everyday problems, it was best left for those not so easily solved in other ways. Use it too often, and they’d be in danger of coming to rely on it overmuch. “I can think of only one solution for this. We go home and wait a month. All the leaves will be changed and fallen by then.”

  “Aye, and we’ll be buried in snow and trapped on the far side of the pass before we can return home,” said Triolyn. “Waiting won’t help us now. Magic will.”

  “I can’t rightly burn it all down. I’m like to set the whole forest ablaze. What would you suggest, Draithon?”

  Draithon thought for a moment. His face brightened with an idea. “A blade spell would cut truer than our steel.”

  “And take nearly the same amount of time,” said Darion. “What else? How can we use magic to spare ourselves the next two days of clearing?”

  Another pause. “Suppose we forget about cutting altogether, and get down to the root of the matter.”

  “I see your meaning,” Triolyn said. “Break open the ground and tear them out.”

  Draithon shook his head. He knelt to look across the forest floor. “A blight. A spell to kill the roots where they lie and drain the stems of their vigor.”

  Darion was astonished. “You know such a spell?”

  “Yes,” said Draithon. “I mean… I’ve seen you cast it. You removed a tree whose roots were growing into our home.”

  “Ah, yes. That was a nuisance. A menko tree, I believe it was. Those roots were thick and stubborn. Raveled from down deep. The blight was the only thing I could find to weaken them so they would suffer to be taken out.”

  “I remember it,” said Triolyn. “Bloody tree gave us putrid firewood for months.”

  “Burning that wood was the only way to keep the blight from spreading. That was years ago, Draithon. You remember the whole spell?”

  “I think so. Couldn’t we use it here, only on a larger scale?”

  Darion hesitated. “Within a small area, a blight can be contained. Across a distance, it becomes harder. The effects may remain in the soil long after these plants die.”

  “I’d sooner nothing ever grew along this path again,” said Triolyn. “It would save us clearing it every year.”

  “Now I’m wondering if I can remember the spell,” said Darion.

  “I’ll teach it to you,” Draithon offered.

  Darion looked at his son strangely. “Have I ever taught it to you?”

  “No.” Draithon frowned as if realizing it for the first time. “Yet somehow I know it. As though I’ve just heard the tones being sung.”

  “Never mind. It’s too dangerous. We’ll think of another way.”

  “No, let me try. I can do it.”

  Darion was conflicted. He knew the destructive power of the blight, yet he was curious about Draithon’s claim. His son was a skilled young mage, no doubt. Yet he had never heard of anyone casting a spell from memory without first practicing it many times, and he doubted Draithon could do so. “Very well. Be careful.”

  Draithon began to cast. His voice was unsteady at first, wavering on the edge of uncertainty. The further he went, the more self-assured he sounded, until the sigils were flowing from him like the words to some long-forgotten nursery rhyme. Along the way he spoke many sigils Darion hadn’t thought about in years, making him wonder how his son had learned them. The mage-song awoke in a glowing bundle which seemed to shine with the very color of darkness.

  Draithon took it in hand.

  A black stain came forth from the boy’s feet and spread through the soil where he was standing. Draithon shifted his hands to direct its movement. The stain slithered down the path ahead. Vines and brambles withered, twitching and snapping. Leaves crinkled and burst to dust, vivid greens fading to dull lifeless brown, and then to black. When he was done, an open swath of dead soil was all that remained where flora had overrun the forest path only a moment before.

  “My, that’s a handy thing,” said Triolyn, admiration plain on his face.

  “It was… more than I was expecting,” said Draithon.

  “How many other spells do you know?” asked Darion. “Spells I haven’t taught you?”

  “I’m not sure, really. It’s like I’ve been telling you—to me, magic isn’t about which sigil goes where. It’s about the meaning behind each one. Learn the language, and—”

  “—and you can make it do whatever you want. Yes, I remember you saying that.”

  “Somehow it’s always made sense to me how the sigils fit together. Yet I’d never considered until recently how one might arrange them in his own way.”

  “Arrange the sigils? To craft new spells, you mean?”

  Draithon was silent for a moment so long Darion wondered whether he’d heard t
he question. “What I mean,” he finally said, “is to understand the mage-song in such a profound way as to know its voice. To feel its soul breathing around us, and through us. Magic has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember, thanks to you and Mother. Do you remember how you began teaching me in secret? I must’ve been no older than five.”

  “We agreed never to mention that.”

  Draithon laughed. “So I recall. I was six when Mother finally permitted me to begin learning. Little did she know about the head start you’d given me.”

  “I gave you an early introduction in hopes you might give magic the respect it deserves, not treat it like a painter’s canvas. I won’t have you playing around with new spells unsupervised, Draithon.”

  The boy looked stricken. “Why not?”

  “Suffice it to say you’re dabbling with dangers you don’t understand.”

  “Dangers? Someone must’ve created the spells we use. Someone must’ve devised the proper ways to summon the mage-song.”

  “They’re called conjurers. Linguists of the arcane arts. Few ever come to such an understanding of the worldsongs, even after a lifetime of study. And for good reason. A spell is an exact process. To experiment with the ingredients of magic is to gamble with fate. One is as likely to destroy himself as to force the mage-song toward a new purpose.”

  “So it’s the danger that turns people away from trying,” said Draithon.

  “It’s the danger that kills them. Though the fear of what’s unknown is enough to dissuade most people who’ve a speck of good sense. Many may stand above a high precipice and wonder what lies over the edge; fewer are likely to venture near enough for a look.”

  An image of the canyonside at Tenleague Deep flashed through Draithon’s mind. “Do you know any conjurers?”

  “There was one I knew by the name of Geddle the Wise. He was the king’s conjurer in Maergath for many a year; the man responsible for finding the spell that would’ve destroyed the mage-song. I’ve not heard of many like him; in fact, he was one of only three conjurers I’ve ever met.”

  “Who were the other two?”

  “That’s not for you to worry about. The creation of new magics is a fool’s game, they say.”

  “Is that why they called him Geddle the Wise?”

  “He called himself the Wise,” said Triolyn. “What everyone else called him was another matter. The ways of magic are a mystery to many, myself included. I imagine they’re a scarce pedigree who understand the mage-song well enough to fiddle with its very bones.”

  “Would you be keen to study the makings of the mage-song, Draithon? If given the means?”

  The question appeared to take Draithon aback. “I would wish for nothing more. Would you not forbid it, though?”

  “In the proper setting, with a capable teacher, I would allow it.”

  Draithon bit his lip. “What are the chances of that ever happening?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’ve time to figure it out, boy,” said Triolyn. “For the nonce, you’ve cleared us a path. I say let’s make use of it.”

  They retrieved the horses, mounted, and started down the bare black trail Draithon’s blight had made for them. Darion was loath to leave behind traces of such a virulent spell, but he supposed Triolyn was right; with less foliage to clear, they could make up for lost time on the way back.

  With the remainder of the forest track unobstructed, they made good travel and emerged at dusk onto a high ridge overlooking a tree-strewn meadow tinged with autumn color. Darion had named this place the Wayfarer’s Table, for these burgeoning uplands, sequestered on their rocky plateau, gave deer, elk, and smaller game a refuge in which to thrive, free from all but the cleverest of predators who might find their way in.

  After choosing a suitable campsite, they built a fire and stretched out under the stars for a well-earned night’s sleep. They spent the next day building simple lean-to shelters, digging a fire pit, erecting a covered smokehouse, and assembling frames for the furs and hides they intended to collect. Darion and Draithon set traps throughout the surrounding area while Triolyn oiled their bows and burned charcoal for smoking.

  Darion was pleased with the progress they’d made by day’s end. He went to bed exhausted but anticipating the hunt to come. Though the memory of the blight lingered in his mind, he chose not to dwell on it. They would need to take a great many game animals if they wished to survive the winter in comfort, and he was determined not to let his misgivings deter him on that score. The lasting effects of Draithon’s spell were not the worst of his worries, though. More than that, he thought of Draithon’s new revelation and wondered what it might mean for the rest of his son’s life.

  Chapter 5

  It came to pass that on the morning of the Howling Whore’s thirteenth day at sail, a lookout called down in sight of land, and the western coast of Tetheril appeared behind a shroud of early fog. Thereupon lay the town of Cliffside Harbor, nestled along the shoreline beneath a stand of bluffs overlooking the sea. By this time Maaltred was in every way prepared to resume dry land and never leave it again. The voyage had sapped his strength; all he wanted was a warm, dry bed that didn’t move beneath him.

  Neither the wind nor the waves had abated the whole voyage long, a phenomenon Captain Briston claimed he’d never witnessed in all his thirty years at sea. As for Maaltred, he didn’t doubt he’d spent more of the ocean passage in his hammock than on his feet. He and the vicars hadn’t told Briston about the sphere, of course. They hadn’t told anyone since they left Maergath, and wouldn’t before they returned. If Maaltred could help it, he would even keep the sphere secret from the people they hired to guide them through the wilds.

  “No one need be alerted to the sphere or its power,” Olyvard King had instructed. “Your task will be made easier should you conceal it from all you meet. You may find friend turned to foe—or the reverse—if your possession is made known.”

  Maaltred could hear the ocean surf pounding the tall gray bluffs as the Howling Whore dropped anchor in the bay and dispatched longboats toward the docks at Cliffside Harbor. He gulped back a mouthful of bile and stepped over the ship’s gunnel to climb down the rope ladder toward the small rowboat where Norne and Sullimas were waiting for him, together with half a dozen sailors anxious for shore leave. He hadn’t eaten a bite of food in days, such that the mere act of rising from his hammock and packing his bag had drained what stamina remained to him.

  Though the rowboat was lashed to the ship’s side, the small vessel bucked and quaked so hard he could scarce lower his foot to the bottom without it drifting away from him. He froze in panic and clung to the rope ladder, unable to move. The man above him on the ladder stomped on the top of his head before looking down to find him in the way.

  “Move your arse,” he shouted.

  Then the sailors in the boat were shouting at him too, hurling insults and curses as if drawing on a stubborn mule. The sailors on the deck above, awaiting their turns to come down the ladder, joined in. The voices of Norne and Sullimas rose over the din to offer him encouragement, but by then it was too late.

  Rough hands gripped his ankles and dragged him downward until his feet slipped off the wet wooden rung and he was hanging on by one hand. The man above him stepped on that hand, and Maaltred fell to the floor of the tiny rowboat and was shoved out of the way so the others could descend.

  Vicar Norne came forward from the stern to attend him, putting himself in the way as the next few sailors climbed in. Soon the boat was so full Maaltred couldn’t see how any more people would fit. Another dozen boarded before the helmsman waved up to the ship to stop them coming. When the rowboat shoved off from the Howling Whore and lurched into the current, Maaltred closed his eyes and tucked his legs to his chest, pressing his face to the bottom, where a thin sheet of bilge sloshed side to side.

  “Get up,” the helmsman commanded, delivering him a swift kick in the ribs. “We haven’t room aboard to be lying down
.”

  Norne lifted Maaltred to a seat. “There, now. Almost to shore. Almost to shore.”

  They weren’t, though. Maaltred risked a glance across the churning waters toward land. They might as well have been ten leagues off for how far the distance seemed. They were moving at a sluggish pace, running so low in the water they kept getting splashed by the cresting waves. Maaltred could only shut his eyes and lift a prayer to Yannui.

  Though he’d found the Howling Whore’s carriage on rough seas nigh-unbearable, he now realized the large ship was of considerable stability compared to a small boat like this one. Vicar Norne was silent as he stared out across the water, too anxious himself now to speak soothing words to Maaltred. Sullimas was nowhere to be seen, but Maaltred assumed the elder priest was faring better at the stern. The rowboat was taking on water such that it seemed they might sink before reaching shore, but Sullimas was of a will not easily broken.

  Maaltred was certain he’d hear the cry to abandon ship at any moment. He wondered what would happen if he sank to the bottom of the bay with the sphere in his pack. Perhaps the whole of the western Tetheri coast would be doomed to suffer stormy seas for the rest of eternity.

  Before they were halfway there, another rowboat full of sailors was already shoving off from the Whore. The bilge was knuckle-deep now, the waves lapping at the gunnel fit to overflow it. The sailors, grim and silent in the sea spray, kept their gaze affixed to shore.

  When the rowboat’s hull ground to a halt on the rocky beach, the sailors departed in a flock. Vicar Norne pulled Maaltred to his feet and hopped overboard to assist him getting out. Maaltred took the vicar’s hand and stepped out onto solid ground for the first time in what felt like an age. The sea got the last laugh; a wave broke across the shore, drenching the two priests and half the sailors as they staggered up the beach.

  Sullimas came to meet them once they were clear of the waves. All three were sopping wet, their linen traveling robes stiff and crusted with salt. Sullimas gave a shiver and pointed up the beach toward town, where smoke rose from stone chimneys into the wet gray sky.