by Bell, Hilari
Table of Contents
Dedication
Copyright Information
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
About the Author
An Excerpt from Songs of Power
Ded
ication
For Kara Anne Schreiber — fellow writer and good friend.
Cop
yright Information
Copyright © 2005 by Hilari Bell
Previously published by HarperCollins in 2005
Published by Wild Writers Books in 2015
Chapter 1
“Wizard born!”
Dayven reached for his sword hilt as he spun in search of the speaker. Early in the morning the courtyard was crowded — not only with Watcherlads like Dayven, who’d come for a little extra sword practice, but also with adult Guardians, who were there to increase their skills with sword and lance. Someone had put a lot of effort into that hissing whisper, to make it audible over the clang of metal on metal … but who?
Was it Marret, who was so busily examining his practice blade for nicks? Or perhaps Benen, who was gathering up discarded shields for the Sword Master. Or maybe it was Thell, or Ryn, or… Dayven’s shoulders sagged. It could have been any of them.
“Ignore it,” his cousin Soren advised coolly, laying a hand on Dayven’s shoulder. But his eyes also searched the crowd for the source of the whispers. Whispers that had been dogging Dayven for months, ever since the other Watcherlads realized that his fourteenth birthday was approaching.
“No,” said Dayven. He raised his voice. “I want the stinking coward to show himself! Whatever my grandmother may have been, at least I have the courage to face my opponents, not whisper behind their backs like … like a wizard.”
The whisper, though it had reached both Dayven and Soren, hadn’t been loud enough to attract adult attention. Dayven’s challenge rang through the yard, leaving silence in its wake, and several of the Guardians turned to stare. “He turns fourteen today,” one of them murmured.
There was nothing but sympathy in the Guardian’s voice, but Dayven’s heart was too raw for him to be reasonable. His hand clenched on his sword hilt and he stepped forward, as Soren’s grip on his shoulder tightened. But before he committed the insanity of challenging a full Guardian, another voice intervened. “What goes on here?”
Dayven froze under Lore Master Senna’s stern gaze. “Nothing, sir.”
The old Lore Master limped forward. He had been a Guardian himself, before a Cenzar blade had cut his leg so badly that even wizard healing hadn’t been able to mend it completely. It was rumored that he hated the wizards for that, though he had never showed that hatred to the Watcher lads, when he taught them the history of the Tharn and the Guardians’ creed.
The Lore Master turned to the waiting crowd. “If nothing is happening, then I suggest you go about your business. Surely you have better ways to serve the Lordowner than by gawking at … nothing.”
The irony in his well-trained voice scattered the Watcherlads like chaff in a brisk breeze. He turned back to Dayven.
“Go. It will soon be resolved, and this trouble will end.” The words were kind, but the Lore Master’s eyes were cool and assessing — as they had always been when they looked at Dayven.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Soren, pulling on Dayven’s arm.
Dayven managed a respectful nod before his cousin dragged him away.
“Well, that should keep them quiet for the rest of the day,” said Soren, as they turned their swords in to the armorer. “And by dinnertime it will never be a problem again.”
“He said ‘resolved,’” said Dayven bitterly as they headed up the spiraling stone stair to the room they shared. “He didn’t say how.”
“Resolved in your favor,” said Soren confidently. “That’s what he meant, of course.”
Dayven thought that bards were more careful with words than that — especially the bard who was the official keeper of the history of the Tharn — but he said nothing.
Unfortunately, his cousin had always been able to read his silences. “Why don’t you like him?” Soren asked.
“He watches me,” said Dayven.
“He keeps an eye on all of us,” said his cousin. “He’s one of our instructors. It’s part of his job.”
“I know,” said Dayven. It was true, too. But perceptive as Soren was, he didn’t see that while Lore Master Senna observed all the boys he taught, noting the strengths and flaws in their characters, it was only Dayven that he watched for signs of magic. And never more so than he had in these last few months, as Dayven approached his fourteenth birthday. This afternoon, while Soren and the others were working at the tasks the Lordowner’s steward would set them, Dayven would be going to take the wizard test.
Dayven stared at the rusty gate separating the wizards’ compound from the rest of the Town-within-the-Walls.
His stomach twisted and he took a deep breath. Despite the rumors that abounded among the common folk, even Lore Master Senna admitted that magic wasn’t hereditary. And besides, Soren had taken the test last year, when he’d turned fourteen. If Soren hadn’t inherited their grandmother’s power, surely Dayven hadn’t either. He was certain he couldn’t work magic. Almost certain. The ability was rare. Every Tharn had to take this test, some time in their fourteenth year, and in Dayven’s whole memory only one other Watcherlad had shown the gift — a clumsy, awkward boy who could never have been a Guardian. Dayven heard that there were some people who actually wanted to be wizards, but not boys who had a chance to become Guardians. Not Dayven.
He pushed the gate open and approached the great stone tower where the wizards worked. Green scents from the neat herb garden filled the air. Wizards needed herbs for the medicines they made. So did the respectable surgeons, but they practiced no magic and were part of a man’s destiny, not an intrusion, a thwarting of fate.
And yet, the sorcerer’s medicines worked better — that was why they were tolerated. It was a rare man who, injured, ill, in pain, would put his true destiny above his life … as Dayven’s mother had.
She had died when he was only nine years old, refusing the wizard’s healing that might have saved her, in her shame for what her own mother had done. Dayven had begged her…
His jaw clenched, and he thrust the memory away.
The tower loomed over him. It was actually part of the great wall that surrounded the town. The wizards had been given the largest tower by Lord Gant, over a hundred years ago. Officially, it was because they needed a large space for their libraries and alchemical workshops. But most people believed they had been granted that tower because it was as far from the palace as you could get and still remain within the wall.
Dayven stood before the heavy door, trying to gather courage. Sly faces peered from between the leafy vines carved on its panels; the knocker was in the form of a serpent, biting its own tail. Dayven sympathized — the last few months had left him with a profound desire to bite something. But that would soon be over. He griped the snake’s head and thumped the planks twice.
The door swung open. “Dayven, son of Bran?” The doorkeeper squinted, gazing from the dimness of the entry into the bright yard.
Dayven relaxed slightly. He had been afraid the doorkeeper would address him as the grandson of Adina. But that was foolish. He had always used his father’s name, and no taint of wizardry or dishonor had ever touched his father’s family. The wizards probably had no idea who his maternal grandmother w
as. He studied the doorkeeper’s drab gray robe with faint contempt. Wizards were almost always shabby.
The doorkeeper led him up a flight of spiral stairs, their footsteps echoing on the worn stone. Dayven guessed they were several floors up when the man stopped.
“Wait here.” The doorkeeper passed through a thick-planked door, leaving Dayven alone on the landing.
Gazing at the dark wood, Dayven felt a stab of fear. It was not hereditary, he told himself fiercely. He wouldn’t be so nervous if he knew more about the test, but the wizards’ secrets were closely guarded. He had never been injured badly enough to need wizard’s healing, and he’d promised his mother he would never have anything to do with magic, so he’d never tried to watch what the wizards did. Now he wished he had.
The temptation to ask Soren about the test had been almost overwhelming, but Soren would never break a vow of silence and Dayven couldn’t risk losing his cousin’s respect. It sometimes seemed to Dayven that Soren was the person he’d always wanted to be. There were rumors that Soren might win the sword and whistle of a Guardian this year, young as he was. Soren could have chosen anyone to be his best friend, for all the Watcherlads liked him, and it still seemed odd to Dayven that his cousin had befriended him. He might have suspected that Soren had done so out of pity, except that Soren was always honest, even about friendship. Besides, Dayven had his own friends among the boys who served the Lordowner — or at least, he’d had friends until his birthday approached and the whispers started. He jumped as the door swung open.
“We’re ready for you.” The shabby wizard held the door for him. Dayven started into the room and froze, staring.
It was a sorcerer’s lair, right out of every scary story he’d ever heard. The table and benches were cluttered with strange tools, bottles of colored liquids and powders, and a basket of what looked like dried snake skins. Dayven wasn’t familiar with many of the objects, but the human skull, sitting casually on a pile of books, was all too recognizable. It was said that keeping a dead man’s bones would attract his ghost; evidently wizards didn’t worry about that.
Potted plants sat on the table, and hanging bundles of herbs swayed in the draft from the open door. A small brown owl perched among the rafters. Dayven was wondering why anyone would put a stuffed owl up there when it blinked at him.
The only light came from a fat candle on the table and a dimly glowing brazier on the floor. The corners of the room were lost in darkness; the sorcerer seemed to appear from nowhere when he stepped forward.
Hiding in the shadows to make a mysterious entrance, Dayven thought scornfully. A wizard’s trick. He wiped his damp palms on his tunic.
The sorcerer, unlike the doorkeeper, was everything a wizard should be. Strange symbols, embroidered in silver, shimmered over his gray robe, and his long beard floated around him. He stared at Dayven a moment and then blinked, just as the owl had.
“Sit there, boy,” he commanded, pointing to a stool at the end of the table by the skull. His voice was deep and sonorous. “Before we begin, you must swear never to reveal what passes in this room to anyone who has not taken the test themselves.”
“I do so swear.” Dayven had expected that, but he was surprised the oath was so straightforward. No threats of hideous vengeance if he broke his word? No spells to compel his silence?
“Very well. The test for sorcerous ability is a simple one, at least on your part. For us it is somewhat more complex. As you watch, we will work several acts of magic — some greater, some lesser. When we have finished, you must try to tell us which act of magic was the greatest. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly.” For the first time, Dayven felt a flicker of confidence. Even if he should see a great act of magic, he didn’t have to tell them what it was. Lying was against the Guardian’s creed, but wizards had no honor, so Dayven felt few qualms about lying to them. His oath to his mother was far more important than lying to a few wizards.
“Then we shall begin. You must remain seated. Do not interrupt us, no matter what happens. The test may be simple, but it is not without danger. Our concentration, and yours, must be complete.”
Dayven nodded. He had no wish to interrupt anything. As soon as this was over he could go back to the palace and get on with his chores. He was missing jousting practice this morning, and—
“We begin,” said the sorcerer abruptly. The doorkeeper lifted the brazier to the end of the table opposite Dayven. The coals’ soft glow set red eyes winking in the shining bottles that lined the shelves.
“First, we prepare the air,” said the sorcerer. He plucked a bundle of herbs from the ceiling and scattered them on the coals. Thick smoke filled the room; it smelled vile. Dayven suppressed a cough, but the smoke didn’t seem to bother the sorcerer. Instead of dissipating like normal smoke, it lingered around them in drifts and coils.
“We begin the elixir,” the sorcerer half-chanted. The doorkeeper held up a bowl and the sorcerer emptied a flask of thick, clear liquid into it.
“Now the blood,” he commanded.
The doorkeeper carried the bowl around the table and set it beside Dayven, pulling a small, sharp knife from his pocket. “Give me your hand. No, not the right, the left one.” He grasped Dayven’s little finger and pricked it. Then he squeezed it over the bowl until three drops of Dayven’s blood had fallen. They lay on top of the liquid, like oil on water.
Next the doorkeeper lifted the skull. Dayven flinched in spite of himself, but the doorkeeper only picked up a small vial of pale green fluid that had been concealed inside it.
“Pour it in,” he commanded, giving the vial to Dayven. The doorkeeper held the bowl in front of him, its contents sloshing gently. As the green liquid touched the clear, its color changed to a dark red. As soon as the vial was empty, the doorkeeper took the bowl back to the sorcerer.
A crystal ball lay on the table. The sorcerer must have put it there when I was watching the elixir change, Dayven thought, ignoring a twinge of uneasy doubt.
“Now the air must be transformed,” the sorcerer intoned. He reached for one of the potted plants and quickly snapped off half dozen big leaves. Sap wept from the wounds and the leaves crackled as the brazier consumed them.
A new stench filled the room, stinging Dayven’s eyes. His cut finger throbbed.
“Now,” cried the sorcerer deeply. “Now is the proper time.” He stepped forward and dashed the elixir over the crystal sphere. The liquid flowed sluggishly over the crystal, which glowed red in the dim light. Then, as the sorcerer and the doorkeeper stood back, the ball jiggled, lifted right out of its stand and floated, about four inches above the table.
Dayven gasped and the ruby sphere began to move, slowly at first, in an odd, swinging circle.
The tips of Dayven’s fingers began to tingle. His eyes were on the crystal as it rose slightly, moving faster. The skin of his face tingled too. But some instinct told him that it wasn’t the crystal that caused it.
The floating crystal faded from his consciousness as his eyes were drawn to the sorcerer’s hands. The wizard held the plant he had torn, his fingers moving gently up and down the stem. Dayven, watching intently now, saw a small flare of white light as the wizard’s finger rested for a moment against one of the wounds left by the torn-out leaves. When his hand moved on, the sap no longer flowed. It was healed.
Dayven looked up and met the sorcerer’s eyes.
“Enough,” said the old man quietly. “Open the windows. It stinks in here.”
The doorkeeper threw open the shutters and a fresh breeze dispersed the smoke. The spinning ball circled to a stop. Sunlight gleamed in the red-stained crystal … and revealed the black thread that supported it.
“It was a trick,” whispered Dayven. “It was all a filthy wizard’s trick.”
“Not all,” said the sorcerer. His voice was not as deep as it had been. “I worked one act of true magic in this room. And you noticed it.”
Dayven opened his mouth to deny it, he had to deny i
t, but the words wouldn’t come. He had seen what he had seen, and they both knew it.
“I’m not a wizard.” His voice shook and he struggled to steady it. “I can’t be. I won’t be.”
“You don’t have to be,” said the old man calmly, “if you truly don’t want to. But it has been my experience that magic finds its way to you, sooner or later. What you have is a gift, boy. Not a curse.”
“I’m leaving.” Dayven stood abruptly. “Now.” His knees quivered. He had to get out of there.
“You are free to come and go as you like,” the sorcerer told him. “But first come here. No tricks,” he added as Dayven eyed him warily. “But you shouldn’t decide to reject sorcery without knowing what you’re rejecting. Come here.”
It was a command. There was a tower full of wizards between Dayven and the street. He hesitated a moment, then moved to stand before the sorcerer.
“Give me your hand. No, the left one.” Like the doorkeeper, the sorcerer reached out and took Dayven’s little finger. The small cut throbbed.
“It hurts, doesn’t it? Still, the memory of wellness is there, in the flesh itself. Remember. Concentrate on what it felt like when the skin was whole.”
Dayven tried to pull his hand away. The sorcerer held him firmly.
“I only want to heal your finger, boy. Do as I ask and you can go.”
Dayven desperately wanted to leave, so he surrendered his hand to the other’s clasp.
“Think of your flesh whole, the way it should be.” The sorcerer’s dry finger ran gently over the cut. Once it was healed, Dayven could go. Wizards healed people all the time. He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate.
The strange tingling began again, not in his face and fingertips now, but in the center of his being. Dayven gasped and tried to pull free; the sorcerer’s grip tightened. The tingling grew, welling to a flash of white fire that ran through his arm to the tip of his little finger, lingered there, and vanished.
