by J. L. Doty
“Grandmother wants more.”
“Indeed! Sometimes she does expect too much, especially from a young boy who’d rather be out getting in trouble with his brother JohnEngine, eh?” AnnaRail winked. “Your grandmother is excited for you, Morgin, and proud that you should receive such a name. So be patient with her, and I’ll speak to her about her demands.”
Morgin resolved then never to mention the extra slashes that ElkenSkul had added at the last moment, the extra slashes that no one but he had seen.
AnnaRail was good to her word. Morgin noticed the difference immediately the next time he saw Olivia, and the next, and the next, and each time he saw her. He always noticed the difference because the difference was always there. The effort to no longer scold him with such vigor when she found him lacking clearly grated on the old woman’s nerves. But she still quizzed him thoroughly. Occasionally, something else was on her mind, and the session would be short, but most often she’d ask him endless questions, withholding permission to leave until AnnaRail came to rescue him.
At first Morgin felt persecuted by such treatment. Being a member of the family should mean less trouble, not more. Then one day, after a particularly short session, he was leaving and met JohnEngine waiting outside the old witch’s audience chamber.
“How was she?” JohnEngine whispered quickly.
“Short,” Morgin said.
“Oh no!” JohnEngine moaned. “All the worse for me.”
“What do you mean?” Morgin asked.
“I’ve been on the plains with father so she hasn’t seen me for a month. She was short with you so she’d have all the more time with me.” The look on JohnEngine’s face combined both fear and disgust. “She has to make up for lost time, you know.”
“JohnEngine,” Olivia called sharply from the other room. “You’d better not keep me waiting.”
JohnEngine spun on his heel and disappeared instantly through the door. Morgin shrugged and walked casually away. Somehow, though he’d wish her on no one, it felt just a little better to know that he wasn’t the only one required to endure grandmother’s interviews.
~~~
“Damn women!” Malka cursed as he stepped off the stairs at the top of the parapets. It was well past sunset, and Morgin, who’d been seated in the lee of the battlements, jumped to his feet, startled out of his thoughts by the warrior’s unheralded arrival.
“Sorry, boy. Didn’t mean to scare ya. But that grandmother of yours can be damnable at times.”
Morgin wanted to step into a convenient shadow, but to do so now would be an open insult no matter how much he feared Malka. The warrior was a big man, powerful in every way. Few men would face him squarely, especially when, as now, anger clouded his features.
“Give me a battle to fight, an enemy to kill, but the gods save me from the sharp tongues of those damn women. Blast and be damned! By the name of the Unnamed King I wish they’d give me peace. I’d rather face the Queen of Thieves herself.”
Malka spit and cursed as he stormed the length of the dark parapet. He could be heard more than seen, for the night was moonless and gray. He reached the end of the walkway, turned and came thundering back. Morgin stood directly in his path, trembling, wondering if the great warrior might choose to vent his anger on a helpless boy. But before reaching Morgin the big man stopped, threw his arms up in disgust, then sat down on the walk with his back to the wall. He pulled his knees to his chest and sat almost exactly where Morgin had been a moment before. “Damn!” he whispered softly. “Damn!”
For some odd reason Morgin felt pity for the big man. “What’s wrong, uncle?” he asked.
“Ahhh!” Malka growled. “Women! They’re what’s wrong. Your grandmother wants a king to unite the Lesser Clans, and all I can give her is a warrior. Granted, few men can best me in a fair fight, but she wants more. I’d give it to her if I could, but I don’t even know what it is she wants. And when I ask, she gives me that superior look of hers and tells me I should know without being told. And Marjinell, that mindless cow, stands beside her nodding as if she knows what in netherhell the old witch is talking about. It’s enough to make a grown man cry.”
“But you’re the most powerful wizard in the Lesser Clans,” Morgin said.
Malka laughed bitterly. “Powerful? Aye, that I am.” As if to demonstrate he reached out, and without a word the red fire of Elhiyne magic danced among the five fingers and thumb of his hand. It was done so casually that anyone would be impressed. “Aye, lad, I have power more than most, and I have control, and I can lead men to war, and they will follow me, but I can’t lead them in peace. That’s not in me. I’ll never be able to play their games, their politics, their intrigues. Oh, what I would give if I could. But I cannot. I recognize that, even if your grandmother won’t. Bah! Women!”
Malka stopped his growling and looked about suddenly, as if realizing for the first time where his feet had taken him in his blind anger. “What are you doing up here at this time of night, boy?”
“I uh . . .” Morgin shrugged noncommittally and shuffled his feet. “Just thinking.”
“Come up here for a little peace, did you boy?”
Morgin nodded.
“I came up here for the same reason. Looks like instead of finding my own peace I disturbed yours. Sorry about that.”
Morgin shuffled his feet again. “That’s all right.”
“Spend much time up here, do ya?”
Morgin shrugged unhappily. “Sometimes, after seeing grandmother.”
Malka laughed quietly, knowingly. “Well, Morgin, she’s my mother, and I’ve been coming up here for a little peace for more’n thirty years. It’s a good place for thinking, isn’t it?”
“Yes, uncle, it is.”
“Well you watch out, boy. She’s got her eyes on you. You’ve got power, lad, more’n yer share. She’s got a nose for power, that one. I expect you’ll be spending many a night up here. And when you do come, and you’re all alone, peaceful as you be, think a thought for your old uncle Malka, eh? Because I’ll likely be with your grandmother wishing I was up here enjoying the quiet.”
Chapter 6: The Man
“Why has he not progressed?” Olivia demanded.
“Because he fears his own magic,” Roland said patiently.
“Or is it because . . .” Marjinell inserted smugly, “. . . that other than a few simple spells, he has no magic?” Marjinell smiled sweetly, glad that Olivia chose to direct her scorn elsewhere for a change.
“No,” Malka said, shaking his head thoughtfully. “The boy has magic aplenty. I can sense it within him.”
“Exactly,” Olivia fumed. “His power is as plain as the six fingers on my hand.” She looked at AnnaRail. “So why has he not begun to live up to his name?”
AnnaRail paused as if to think, but actually she paused to allow Olivia’s temper to subside. It was difficult enough to handle the old woman without her temper getting in the way. “Roland said it a moment ago. Morgin fears his own magic. And we unknowingly reinforced that fear by punishing him when he used it to hide in shadow. We have made him aware of his power, and he is progressing steadily toward purposeful control, though for a sixteen-year-old he is a bit backward. But that progress is gained at the cost of his natural defense mechanisms, and he may lose his early ability at spontaneous magic. It may appear that he is digressing, but you’ll realize that is not the case when you understand he is progressing in control.”
“That’s not good enough,” Olivia said. Her eyes narrowed as if she considered the situation carefully, but AnnaRail knew that look well. The old woman was up to something. “Perhaps the boy should be pushed.”
“No,” AnnaRail snapped. “That would only worsen the situation.” AnnaRail shut her mouth quickly, realizing that her reaction had been anticipated, that she’d been maneuvered into yielding a bargaining point.
“Very well,” Olivia said happily. “His training will remain in your hands. But I demand progress, regular progress
, or that situation will change.”
AnnaRail nodded, knowing better than to speak further.
“Good,” Olivia continued. “Now what’s this I hear about the other boys? I’m told Morgin associates only with JohnEngine, that the others consider him moody and aloof.”
AnnaRail shrugged. “He’s a loner. He always has been. What else can we expect after the kind of childhood he had? And too, all of the boys, including Morgin, have recently discovered girls. But while the rest are in hot pursuit, Morgin is in retreat, I think because he is overly self-conscious of the scars on his face. If we could do something about that, it would be one less thing that separates him from the rest.”
“But even then,” Marjinell said, “the others think him stupid and slow witted. Is he?”
“That’s enough, Marjinell,” AnnaRail said. “You always seek to malign him. I’ll not stand for—”
“Be still.” Olivia commanded. “You’re bickering like maidens. AnnaRail is right, Marjinell. You’re much too harsh with Morgin. We know he’s not stupid, so I’ll hear no more of that. And you—” she said, turning upon AnnaRail, “—are much too quick to defend him. As for his scars, I see no reason why we shouldn’t treat them.”
“It will take much magic,” Marjinell said.
“For a member of this family, we have much magic to give. But he must recognize that he is part of this clan, this family. He will not be allowed to remain separate and aloof. He will participate in all activities of this family, and that is final.”
AnnaRail nodded. “We are in total agreement there.” That took them all by surprise, even Roland. “But your actions must match you words.”
Olivia frowned. “What do you mean?”
AnnaRail had gained a point, but the old woman did not yet realize it. “Correct me if I am wrong, but had you not planned that the entire family, with the one exception of Morgin, would accompany us next month to Anistigh for Annaline’s wedding?”
Olivia nodded warily; her eyes narrowed.
“Then we cannot blame the boy . . .” AnnaRail continued, “. . . if he interprets that to mean that he is separate, and not equal.”
Her words had the desired effect. Olivia’s brow remained wrinkled, but with indecision, not anger. “But the boy cannot be trusted in the city.”
“I think he can. And in any case he’ll have to be trusted, unless you wish him to withdraw even further into himself.”
Olivia had trapped herself by her own demands, which gave AnnaRail a certain satisfaction. But the old witch recovered quickly. “Very well. He’ll go to Anistigh. But he’ll attend each and every function before, during, and after the wedding. With no time to himself, there’ll be no time for temptation.”
She looked at each of them in turn. “It shall be so. I command it. Malka. Please remain. I wish to speak with you privately.”
~~~
Anistigh was a leisurely three day journey from Elhiyne. Morgin and his brothers and cousins could have ridden it easily in two, but no one felt the need to hurry. Besides, there were women along, and carriages were slow, and even those like Annaline—who had chosen to ride horseback, and proven often enough that she was as capable in the saddle as any man—were hindered by the petticoats and skirts that Olivia demanded they wear. “My granddaughter . . .” she had proclaimed, “. . . will not ride to her own wedding dressed in the breeches of a man.”
Annaline didn’t seem to mind, though. They were on holiday, and the trip was made in comfort, if not elegance, though little eight-year-old NickoLot was not at all happy about the situation. She wanted to ride with her brothers, but AnnaRail would have none of that.
They followed the river Bohl, for it passed close to Elhiyne and through the middle of Anistigh. It was also a convenient source of water, and late in the evenings Morgin and his brothers fished its banks, hoping to catch something tasty for breakfast.
They came to Anistigh late on a warm sunny day. It was not at all what Morgin had expected. What few memories he could still recall were of muddy streets, cold, stone walls, gray alleys, and dark hovels. But his first sight of the city was a stretch of outlying farms, with Anistigh itself a jagged edge on the horizon. The farms were neat and well kept, and the people that greeted them as they passed were strong and healthy.
The city grew slowly out of the landscape, a maze of buildings without a clear-cut boundary. Morgin had expected something more sharply defined; a line perhaps, with city on one side and country on the other, and he chided himself for being so naive.
The heart of the city was formed of a grouping of large estates where the rich and powerful lived. Many were not clan, for just as a clansman could be poor, so too could a commoner be rich. It was just easier for clansmen to acquire wealth.
At the center of everything lay the Elhiyne compound. It was not the largest of the estates, but it was walled, and the most heavily fortified and guarded, for the clan was Elhiyne, and Elhiyne was the clan.
They arrived in a flurry of servants and retainers, and spent some time moving in. Once settled Morgin was anxious to do a little sightseeing. There were a few hours left before dinner so he hunted down JohnEngine and the two prepared to leave, but Olivia refused to allow them to go without supervision. “Two teenage boys,” she said, “alone, in the city? Never. You’d find trouble where none existed.”
The logical choice for a chaperone was MichaelOff, who was at first reluctant but allowed himself to be persuaded. Accompanied by an adult ten years their senior, Olivia had no choice but to give them leave. So the two boys set off with their older cousin in tow, talking incessantly of the discoveries they would make.
They headed straight for the market square, for with the clan in town there would be jugglers and acrobats, mimes, puppet shows, acting companies, and all forms of diversion. There were vendors with sweets and delicious foods, wine and ale. But as JohnEngine put it, the most important treats were the girls. Girls, girls, and more girls.
All of this had been described by JohnEngine, who had been to the city before. But as they approached the sector of the city from which Morgin’s memories had sprung, JohnEngine’s excitement grew while Morgin felt subdued, suppressed. It had been ten years since he’d seen these streets, and much had changed, yet he recognized them easily. And while his memories were not clear, they were sufficiently distinct to rekindle long forgotten emotions. They were memories best left unrecalled.
The market square itself remained almost totally unchanged. Ramshackle stalls filled it completely, each separated by narrow dirt pathways and operated by vendors loudly crying their wares. Those with the greatest seniority were near the outskirts where they could accost potential customers as soon as they arrived and still had money in their purses. And of course, the most valuable properties were the permanent shops that formed the outer perimeter of the square. The noise and excitement were overwhelming.
MichaelOff decided they should first tour the perimeter, strolling down the aisle between the permanent shops and the outermost stalls. And as they walked Morgin became progressively uncomfortable, for everyone bowed deeply to the three of them. The stall owners held samples high for easy viewing, but they were uncharacteristically passive, never shouting prices at the three young men as they passed. And by that Morgin slowly came to realize that it was he and his kinsmen who were the center of attention here. With that, and the familiarity of the market square, he found himself looking for a convenient shadow.
A hand touched his shoulder. He jumped with a start. It was MichaelOff.
“Morgin. Why so jumpy? What’s wrong?”
Morgin tried to look in all directions at once. “They’re all staring at us,” he hissed.
MichaelOff scanned the crowd casually. “Yes they are, aren’t they?” He smiled, looked back at Morgin and shook his head sadly, took a deep, considered breath. “You’re going to have to get used to that, you know. Anistigh is the capitol city of the Lesser Council, which is made up of the four Lesser Tribe
s. Of those four tribes, ours is the foremost, and our clan is held in high regard for that. You are an Elhiyne. You are of the ruling house of the foremost clan of this city, and wherever you go people will stare. So get used to it and learn to ignore it.” MichaelOff turned to a nearby stall. “Come. Let’s spoil our appetites a little. I’m buying.”
Morgin found he couldn’t ignore the staring eyes. No one was rude enough to stare directly into his face, but if he turned quickly, he always caught several of them watching him from behind. At one point a young boy of eight or nine ran across his path, stumbled, and fell into the dirt. And without giving it a thought Morgin reached down to help the lad to his feet. Once up the boy turned to see who had helped him and froze suddenly. His eyes grew wide and he hissed “Witchman!” then said no more.
An old woman, as filthy as the boy, stepped out of the crowd and grabbed him by an ear. She gave the ear a twist. “I’ve told ya not to bother the gentlemen,” she bellowed.
She gave the ear another twist and turned to Morgin. “Fergive me boy, yer worshipfulness. He’s a brute, he is. I’ll punish him rightly.”
“Oh no!” Morgin said. “No. Don’t. He did nothing wrong. He just stumbled in front of me.”
“Well,” she said. “If ya say so, yer wizardness. I’ll let him go this time.” She turned back to the boy and gave the ear one final twist. “And you be more careful.” Then she released him, and in an instant he disappeared into the crowd.
Most of that afternoon was a strange kaleidoscope of images and events that faded into a single overall impression of a lot of poor people, surviving through this day and into the next, though there was one incident that Morgin would remember well.
