A King's Bargain

by J. D. L. Rosell

  He felt the weight lift from his back. "Got it," Bran said above him.

  Slowly, wracked with sneezes, Garin turned onto his back and sat up. He thought he'd be angry for the rough treatment, but all he felt was tired. "I found that. It's mine," he protested feebly.

  Bran held up the necklace in the werelight, the chain clutched in his bunched up sleeve. Aelyn stooped before it, squinting at the black gems.

  "One of theirs," the mage said, then smiled. "Hold it a moment longer. A silver-spun sack ought to contain it."

  The elf fished in his cloak for a moment, then drew out a small, shining sack. Garin stared at it dully. Before he'd laid eyes on the pendant, he might have thought it a marvelous thing, shimmering like a silver fish darting in a stream. Now, it seemed as dun as sackcloth.

  Aelyn held it under the necklace, and Bran dropped it in. The mage quickly tied it off and secured it back within his cloak.

  Then both of them turned toward him, mouths parting to speak.

  "I know," Garin said before they could chastise him. "I wasn't supposed to wander off. And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, honest. One moment, I was behind you, and the next—"

  Bran knelt before him. "It's alright, lad. You were ensorcelled."

  "A touch of Night fell upon your mind," the mage said with a good deal less sympathy. "You hadn't the strength to resist it. I knew it was foolishness to allow him here."

  "He hasn't been trained against it," Bran shot over his shoulder. "Give him time."

  "Nevertheless," the mage continued, ignoring him, "we have what we came for, and the boy is free of the artifact's influence. We should leave and be down the hill before nightfall."

  "Give him a moment." Bran extended a hand. "You alright, Garin?"

  His arm felt leaden, but he managed to lift it and grip his hand, letting the man pull him to his feet. "Sorry," he muttered as he swayed.

  Bran gripped his shoulder. "It's alright. Don't mind the mage. He has thorns, but he's all rose beneath. Even if he doesn't smell like it."

  "Careful," Aelyn said as he passed. "You might prick your tongue on one of those thorns."

  A grin split the man's face. "Look at that! Coming around already, isn't he? Evil artifacts always did put him in high spirits." Bran gave his shoulder a squeeze. "But he's right — best be on our way. And if you don't mind, I'll take up the rear this time."

  Garin gave him a weak smile. "Can't say I blame you."

  Though his legs felt wobbly beneath him, they held as he took one step forward, then another.

  Never tell.

  He stumbled, his dragging foot catching on a piece of rubble.

  Bran was there in a moment, a hand on his arm steadying him. "You alright? That necklace took a lot out of you."

  "Fine," Garin muttered. His heart hammered in his chest. His stomach swirled like he'd be sick. But he managed to straighten and walk quickly after the retreating sorcerous light, eager to leave the bewitched chamber far, far behind.

  The Wolf in Sheepskin

  In the days that followed, Bran strove to ensure Garin would get no rest from dawn to dusk. While they walked, he spoke of all he had learned in nearly three decades of travel. He told stories of the World, tales of ancient times where every man, woman, and child had magic on their fingertips, and demons ran rampant like mice in a barn. He told of the founding of the Reach Realms, of the kings and queens responsible for the rise and fall of the states. He spoke of the recent politics, or as recent as he was privy to; but, after one too many smirks from their elven companion, he moved quickly on to other subjects.

  But Bran didn't stop there. He spoke of essential facts on the beasts that came down from the East that one must known to hunt them. He pointed to plants they passed by, indicating which could be eaten and which should be avoided. He talked of how to care for a horse for travel rather than farm work, and, for good measure, how best to saddle one for war.

  It was astounding, Bran mused, how much ground could be covered while walking — metaphorically and otherwise.

  In the face of his indefatigable instruction, Garin proved to be a far more diligent student than Bran ever had in his youth. Though he occasionally caught him staring glassy-eyed down the road, as if his mind had traveled far away, he would always bring his attention back as soon as Bran prompted him with a teasing remark. And when Bran broke off in the middle of a lecture on the different weights and balances of swords to ask what the Second King of Avendor said to the Queen of the Gladelysh elves when they broke ties, Garin answered before he'd finished asking the question, with the proper intonation and all — "Then fare thee well, you pig-nosed bitch!"

  The boy was as sharp as a scythe before harvest, that much was certain. But, even so, there were gaping deficiencies in the boy's education, especially for where they were headed.

  "Lad," Bran said as they stopped the tenth evening, "there's no way around it. You'll have to learn your letters sooner or later."

  He'd seen less fear in Garin's eyes when they'd been surrounded by bandits. "Do I? Gotten by this long, haven't I?"

  "But you're not in Hunt's Hollow anymore — you're going to the Coral Castle. Even the servants know their letters."

  The youth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What for? Servants don't need to read."

  "In a king's service, anyone might need to read. And more importantly, in your pursuits, you most certainly will have need."

  Instead of weakening Garin's reluctance, his arguments seemed to strengthen it. "What do I need books for when tending a horse? Or hunting a chimera?" He got a sly look. "Didn't seem to help you much when herding your chickens."

  Bran laughed. "Some things just have to come naturally, I suppose. Unfortunately for you, literacy isn't one of them."

  But, lacking the materials to make an honest attempt at teaching the lad, and the one book he carried being wholly inadequate for the job, he let the argument lie.

  On occasion, the lad would introduce the subject. But even knowing Garin's prodigious curiosity, Bran couldn't anticipate every question.

  "How does it work, anyway? Magic, that is."

  Bran tried to hide his dismay behind a sly smile. "You think I would explain a thing as mysterious, as powerful, as dangerous as sorcery to you?"

  "You took me into the Ruins of Erlodan," the youth pointed out.

  "Fair enough. What do you want to know? You've already seen it done."

  "So you speak a strange word and... that's it?"

  "A word of the Worldtongue, yes. But there are several other factors, what the elves call 'the Four Roots.' The First Root is you must possess an affinity for magic. That is, you must either be of the Eldritch Bloodline — in other words, an elf — or, if you're human, you must have sworn an oath to a patron god, like the Warlocks' Circle worship Jalduean."

  "Who's your patron god?"

  Bran grinned. "I don't think any would want me."

  "Then…"

  He quickly moved on. "The Second Root is speaking the word of the Worldtongue. Each word corresponds with a resulting effect. For example, 'kald,' which I used on that big bandit back there, means 'fire.'"

  Garin stared at his hands. "But saying kald didn't summon fire now."

  "No, because I didn't implement the final two Roots." He held up a third finger. "Sorcery also requires an energy transfer. For small cantrips like kald, your body is sufficient for the transfer. Kald, fire, draws a scant amount of your body's heat, then multiplies the effect tenfold. But even though each casting only takes a little energy, a sorcerer must be careful when using their body as a conduit. Expel or draw too much energy, and you'll find yourself a corpse.

  "But, if there's a need to cast a cantrip many times in a row — say, you have a particularly wet pile of sticks—"

  "Or a monster to kill," Garin added with a grin.

  "—there's a way around this, a technique mages call 'balanced casting.' Instead of just casting kald and draining themselves of heat, the sorcerer would also
cast lisk, 'ice,' which draws heat into the caster's body to create cold. The sorcerer then alternates between the two cantrips, and the amount of heat added and subtracted more or less evens out."

  Garin's brow furrowed. "So if you use balanced casting, you could do magic for… forever?"

  Bran shook his head. "The Fourth Root would eventually stop you — proper concentration and imagination."

  "Imagination?"

  "Imagination." Bran grinned. "Think about it. Your imagination can create wondrous and terrible things, dreams and nightmares. It has the power to chain a man to his past and yoke a woman to her future. Every time you picture something you cannot know with your senses, it is with imagination that you see, smell, hear, touch."

  As if summoned, a familiar scent drifted by his nose, and Bran breathed it in hungrily. He knew it must be his imagination; the white mangrove flower bloomed far and away from the road they walked. But all the same, the honey-sweet scent filled him, bringing with it memories worn with being remembered so often. A touch of skin, impossibly soft. Chestnut eyes laced with tendrils of cerulean fire, deep as forest pools. The essence of the white mangrove flower she washed through her golden hair.

  He cleared his throat, suddenly coming back to himself. The only thing he smelled was the stench of the road clinging to him. A trick of memory, he mused. Nothing more. Glancing at his would-be apprentice, he saw Garin was just as lost in thought. Who do you remember? A Hunt's Hollow sweetheart? Or the father you lost long ago?

  Bran cleared his throat again and waited to speak until Garin glanced over at him. "But unlike becoming lost in your thoughts or an idle remembrance," he said with a sly smile, "imagination for magic requires knife-honed concentration. You must be able to imagine with all your senses the spell you wish to cast. When summoning fire, there is the smell of it, the heat washing over your skin, the mesmerizing sway, the gradients of color. If you imagine it vividly enough, speak its word in the Worldtongue, and draw upon a source, then fire will appear."

  "If you're an elf," Garin said. "Or a warlock."

  Bran inclined his head.

  "But not all magic is just summoning fire and such — cantrips, like you said," Garin continued. "The magic you hear about in stories, the terrors and wonders… how does that work?"

  "Similarly, but with much greater stakes. Spells of more than one word usually require an energy source beyond the caster's body, and mages often use catalysts like powders and oils, or prisms and other magnifying elements, to draw power from chemical reactions or sunlight. But even with such aids, with each added word, the consequences of failure magnify exponentially. A miscast spell of just two words could kill an inexperienced magician."

  They walked in silence for a few moments, the youth considering his words.

  "So that's how all magic is done? Like…" Garin hesitated, then spoke reluctantly, as if his curiosity compelled him. "Like the Extinguished in the stories. They're said to be all-powerful, to form illusions that people lose themselves in for the rest of their lives, and able to take on other people's faces." Garin grinned. "But that's all hogwash, isn't it?"

  Bran echoed his smile, though only slightly. "Not completely. But they are far from all-powerful."

  Garin's smile faded. "Again, you speak like they exist."

  Bran stared off ahead for a long moment. Birds chirped from the trees around them.

  "What have you heard of the Extinguished?" he asked finally.

  "Only what everyone has heard. There are four of them, just like the Devil's Stars show. They serve the Night and Yuldor, as the Night's Chosen, in attempting to conquer the Westreach and all the other lands of Mother World." Garin shrugged. "That they're all-powerful, but held at bay by the lingering power of the Whispering Gods."

  Bran shook his head. "They weave their illusions in more than just magic. Yes, there are four of them, and yes, they serve Yuldor. They have incredible powers, including near-immortality, the same as the Night has bestowed upon Yuldor. But they are not all-powerful. They can be killed, if only for a time. They can steal souls, and wear others' faces, and cast powerful illusions that can warp a person's reality.

  "But they work in illusions for a reason — their magic must abide by the same rules as any others, with the same costs and consequences. Remember the story of Erlodan? A talented magician can match the Extinguished in power, and though those are few in the Westreach, there are more than four. And though Yuldor sends down the Nightkin, they've never yet overwhelmed the defenses of the Reach Realms. Thus, to accomplish their goals, Yuldor and his servants work in subterfuge, weaving a web of lies and deceit, and threatening more often with secrets and incentives than magic."

  Another silence fell between them. Garin stared down the road, seeming lost in thought. Bran wondered how much he had accepted. Seeing fire summoned before him was one thing; it was another entirely to believe in fairy tales.

  The youth glanced over, eyes again alight with curiosity. "Where did you learn sorcery?"

  Bran pretended to study something in the distance. "That's enough on magic for now," he said without taking his eyes away. "We can't neglect your knowledge of castle cutlery, can we? Now, in the dining hall, there are three spoons, two forks, and two knives…"

  The youth patiently listened to the explanation of proper dinner etiquette that followed, though his raised eyebrow let Bran know that the deflection wasn't lost on him.

  At the end of the long days, when the boy's head was soaked as thickly with knowledge as an oilcloth, only one thing could provoke him from his bedroll.

  "Are you a coward?" Bran would taunt, then toss him a long branch, or however long they could find that day.

  The youth would scramble up, grab the end of the branch, and brandish it like it were real steel. "Come and see!"

  Even the mage's molten eyes watching them couldn't dampen their fun.

  During their sparring sessions, Garin seemed to truly come alive. Curious as he was, tales of long-dead generals and heroes didn't have the same appeal as the blood-pumping work of slamming a stick against your opponent.

  Though he failed more than he succeeded in hitting Bran at all. Not one to go easy on an opponent, Bran would sidestep, roll, and block every attempt Garin made at getting through his defenses, then beat him back and tell him his mistakes, piecing out proper technique bit by bit. Only one in a hundred strikes found him, and most of those were when his back was turned.

  "What did you expect?" Bran said one time when Garin slumped to the ground, rubbing at fresh welts after another failed assault.

  "I expected these to be lessons in the sword, not dancing," the youth grumbled.

  Bran laughed. "Every fight is a dance, and the one who knows the choreography will sweep the performance." He extended a hand. "Let's make sure you're not the partner with two left feet, shall we?"

  Grumbling under his breath, Garin took his hand and let him pull him upright.

  On the twelfth night since they'd left Hunt's Hollow, after Garin had slumped into his bedroll and immediately fallen asleep, Bran joined Aelyn at the fire. The mage had magicked himself a rough stool from nearby deadwood and sat staring into the flames.

  "I'd ask what you see there," Bran said, "if I didn't know better."

  Aelyn turned his gaze on him, and the flames reflected in his eyes made them seem even more fiery than usual. "I'm to assume you disbelieve infernal divination?"

  "Have you met those channelers? Kooky, the lot of them." Bran shook his head. "No, any kind of forecasting into the future is a fool's errand. Each man and woman forges their path."

  He didn't like the look of the elf's smile as he shifted his eyes back to the flames, and his silence even less.

  "You're too fond of the boy," Aelyn said as if they'd been speaking of it the whole time.

  Bran hesitated. "I've an interest in his growth. But only a cold snake like you would see harm in that."

  "You let your guard down around him. Like in the ruins. You all
owed the darkness that possessed him to infect you as well. Or do you deny it?"

  Shame rose in him. "I don't know about that, Aelyn. I have demons enough of my own for a tantrum like that."

  "Perhaps so. But the catalyst was our Enemy's enchantment, not what the boy had done. Because you care for him, you allowed the Night to touch your mind as well."

  "Then what would you suggest? Walk silently the whole way to Halenhol? Teach him nothing of fighting and the World so that he can stumble his way through it? I suppose that's the way you were raised — playing with magic until you learned it?" Bran snorted. "A grown man's blindest spots are in his own past, and that's even truer of the long-lived elves."

  Aelyn set his gaze flatly on him. "You have accepted him as your apprentice, that much is clear. Though what he's apprenticing in is far from certain. But, student or not, you cannot protect him from the evils of the East. No matter how much you teach him, when he inevitably comes in contact with the Enemy, it will be his will pitted against the boy's, and he will be found wanting."

  Bran found his fists were clenched and loosened them. "I don't see why he needs to come against the Night again. Not if elven mages don't lead us into fell ruins."

  "With the company you keep, how could you doubt it?" Aelyn waved a lazy hand. "Do as you will. But heed my warning, Magebutcher. We need your legend, not the man behind it."

  Bran forced a smile onto his lips. "Whatever I've done and been, I've never claimed to be more than a man."

  Not waiting for an answer, he stood and walked away from the firelight.

  Only when the darkness surrounded him did he allow the tight smile to drop. Staring up at the yellow moon Cressalia, he let his mind slowly turn. He had thought himself safe for a time. Over the past five years, he had secretly protected Hunt's Hollow and the East Marsh from the encroaching East. Defender of the Westreach — hadn't he been given that title for a reason? If he could protect all of civilization, could he not protect a single boy?