The cobbler did as told, his eyes glazed over even as he stood quietly waiting. How strange. He seemed not to fear what was about to happen to him. He was calm. Fear did not show in the man’s eyes, but something did. A touch of madness? Sulrad wondered. There would be time to find out. He would be careful in his interrogation of the man. At least until Sulrad was confident that Amedon had not corrupted him. He showed no signs of the training Sulrad himself had received. Yet there was something about the cobbler that made Sulrad uneasy.
“Come,” Sulrad said, reinforcing the compulsion spell. “We have a busy afternoon ahead of us.”
It had been a long afternoon and a grueling couple of days with the cobbler, and Sulrad was growing frustrated. The man resisted every attempt to pry even the simplest bit of information out of him. Sulrad was on the verge of taking the man’s magic and letting it go at that, but something nagged at him. This was no ordinary wizard. He possessed a willpower Sulrad had never seen before, and his resistance to pain was truly impressive.
“Who taught you shields?” Sulrad leaned over Veran. The man had been tied on the altar for three days without food. He was allowed only a few sips of water when Sulrad determined that he was about to pass out. He should have weakened by now. The shields he bore were nothing like any Sulrad himself had learned. Not the kind taught by the wizards of Amedon. Veran’s shields were wild, untamed. Instead of the smooth image of a wall or a fence, this wizard carried shields that were more akin to brambles that had grown up around him, their twisty thick branches studded with thorns that tore at Sulrad’s mind whenever he drew close.
He leaned in. “More pain? Is that what you want? All you need do is tell me who taught you shields and this will all be over.” Sulrad tried to keep his voice calm and reassuring.
Veran remained silent.
“So be it, then.” Sulrad lifted the staff he had specially prepared for this ritual. He’d carved it from the branch of a tree that had been struck by lightning, much as his father had carved the statue of Ran from a similar piece of wood. Merten said that a tree struck by lightning was special, the wood being harvested by the hand of Ran himself. Sulrad was uncertain if his father had been truly devout or simply crazy, but his own experience with Ran had made a true believer out of him. Not to the extent that Ignal was, but he was growing confident that Ran actually cared about him, something his family never had. A twinge of guilt stabbed at him. How could he have forgotten Ran at a time like this? Ran was what he needed. Ran could penetrate the wizard’s shields. Sulrad lacked faith. That was why he had been allowed to fail thus far.
“Ran. Provide me the key to opening these shields,” he muttered, steeling himself for another bout of torture and questioning, but before he could begin, someone knocked on the door.
It could only be Ignal. No one else dared interrupt him when he was in the altar room.
“Yes?” Sulrad opened the door enough to confirm that it was her.
“A mini-dragon has just been donated to the temple.” She nodded to the altar. “I thought you might make use of it in your endeavors.”
Sulrad placed a hand on Veran’s chest and spoke softly. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
He closed the door behind him, gaze fixed on Ignal. She almost glowed with devotion. It made him slightly uncomfortable. She expected so much from him. From Ran. Why wasn’t he as confident in Ran’s presence as she was? She had no magic of her own. Perhaps that was it. She could not discern the difference between simple sorcery and the true workings of Ran. The thought gave him pause. Was there a difference? Perhaps his magic was no more than channeling the power of Ran. Surely the wizards of Amedon had recognized this. Perhaps that was what was behind their campaign to wipe him from the face of the earth. They were jealous of his status as a chosen disciple of Ran.
Ignal’s voice pulled him from his reverie. “Father?”
Sulrad shook his head to clear it. “You did right interrupting me for this.”
He followed Ignal down the passageway to the room where the offerings were kept before they had been cataloged and distributed. A small cage stood in the center of the room. The bars were of gold, bearing intricately carved figures of mythical creatures. The mini-dragon inside, in contrast to its cage, looked ill-used. Its fur was matted and damp in the torchlight, horns lacking the luster and sharpness he had come to expect. The creature was near death. Yet it still had the energy to hiss at him as Sulrad approached.
He poked a finger at the cage. “It’s a bit worn but still lively, isn’t it?”
“It was very costly, according to the man who brought it.”
“What did he ask for in return?”
“Wants his first-born to be a boy to carry on the family fortune,” she said.
“The boy would do better without the family fortune.”
Ignal inclined her head to the animal crouching against the back of the cage. “If I told him that, he might not have gifted us so richly.”
“You’re right,” Sulrad said. “I will sacrifice it today. I can use its power to break through the wizard’s shields and discover who taught him. It doesn’t look like Amedon has had a hand in his education. No one there ever mentioned such shields as he carries. I need to know who else I am fighting.”
“As you wish.” Ignal grasped a thick silk cloth and covered the cage. The beast within quieted.
“Come with me.” Sulrad turned and strode back to the altar room. When he stepped into the room, Veran’s eyes flickered toward the cage. Did he know what it contained? Curious. The man certainly was out of the ordinary.
“You know what this is?” Sulrad asked.
“Magic,” Veran groaned.
“Magic. Magic that will help me break through your resistance. Magic that will help me harvest yours if you do not open yourself to me.”
Sulrad expected Veran to shy away, but his eyes keep turning toward the mini-dragon. It was as if the man were hungry for it. Did he think Sulrad was going to allow him to absorb the magic? How arrogant. What drove him to that thought?
Sulrad would know soon enough what secrets he harbored, one way or another. Either Veran would tell him or Sulrad would sacrifice him, and in taking his magic, gain access to his memories.
Sulrad pulled the silk cloth from the gilded cage, reached inside, withdrew the beast, and trussed it on the altar beside his captive.
He stroked its mottled fur, his gaze fixed on Veran. “This is a mini-dragon. It is a creature of magic that is going to give its life to me. I will take its power and use it to break your shields.”
Veran’s eyes fixed on the mini-dragon, his pupils growing narrow as if the animal gave off an eerie light.
That was unexpected.
Sulrad examined Veran. He glowed with a faint white aura as if he were reaching out to something.
He touched that aura.
It was hunger.
A deep and compelling hunger.
For magic.
Sulrad had imagined the man struggling in fear as he realized the danger.
He did not expect him to show a fascination with the mini-dragon.
He probed Veran more carefully. This time, he looked for signs of foreign magic in the thorny shields.
Something was amiss.
His magic was not pure.
But what was it?
There — a slight discoloration in the cobbler’s shields. As if a branch had been grafted onto the thorns from another type of plant. It was just as thorny, but subtly different, as if it had been placed there and not sprung naturally from the main body of the shield.
Veran had stolen magic.
Sulrad paused.
Amedon had a strict prohibition against taking magic from another. Surely this man had never been to Amedon? Or if he had, had he been expelled just as Sulrad had? Either way, it was becoming clear that the cobbler lusted after the power of the mini-dragon.
Sulrad gestured to the mini-dragon. “I see that you’ve taken magic. It that true?
Do you want this?”
Sweat beaded on the cobbler’s head.
He nodded ever so slightly.
He did desire power. Perhaps that was the key. Hold out the offer of power, then take it from his grasping hands.
Sulrad lifted his staff and passed it over the man, intoning the words to bring the pain of a searing fire.
Veran arched his back in agony but suddenly relaxed, as if he was feeling no pain at all.
Had the spell failed?
Sulrad reached for his magic.
No, the spell was working.
The man’s heartbeat was wild, his breath barely under control.
Why then was he so relaxed?
He should have been in agony.
Sulrad probed Veran’s shields once more.
Were they failing?
No. But something had changed.
It was as if someone had carefully pruned away a hole in the thorns to admit him.
Sulrad plunged his magic inside.
“I submit.” The words came from behind clenched teeth.
Veran’s shield collapsed in a flash.
Was that it? Had he broken the cobbler? “How do I know I can trust you?” Sulrad asked.
“Take my magic. I give it to you freely.”
For an instant, Sulrad thought of simply taking the man’s magic, but the voices of those he had killed for their magic still haunted him. This wizard was strong, maybe more powerful than Sulrad himself. Offering his magic might be a trap for an unwary opponent.
What to do?
Sulrad stepped back and pondered.
Sulrad unsheathed his knife.
He was uncertain why, but it felt right.
He sliced the throat of the mini-dragon and turned to his captive.
“Take its magic into yourself,” he said. “Make it your own. Harvest it.”
The magic emanated from the mini-dragon. Vermillion sparks swirled about the dying beast forming a nondescript cloud of light. When Sulrad had taken magic, he had directed the cloud of magic toward the stones in the altar. This time, he directed them at Veran.
The cobbler’s face lit up. The pain lines vanished. The gaunt, sunken visage turned to one of health and vigor as Veran absorbed the magic.
But there was more. It was as if the magic had passed through Sulrad and entered Veran. It was not quite the same as when Sulrad took another’s magic, but it gave him a window into the cobbler’s soul. His thoughts and memories lay open to Sulrad’s probing, and probing was what he did. He examined the cobbler’s life.
His past had been hard, but not so hard as Sulrad’s. The cobbler had been mocked and teased when the signs of magic first arose in him. He had been visited by Amedon but refused their help. His family had a long tradition of magic, and they had preserved a few spells handed down from father to son. The shields were one such spell.
Sulrad searched Veran’s memories for more clues.
The cobbler had been taught that an ancient center of learning had once stood on this very site. A sacred site to the wizards of old who had built made their home on this land long before the dragons departed.
Veran was descended from those wizards.
The ones who had never joined Amedon.
Never allied themselves with the dragons, never fell for their lies.
Lies?
Veran believed the dragons and wizards of Amedon were in league. Had conspired together. The wizards of Amedon lied to him. Lied to Veran. That was why he’d refused their help.
Sulrad let Veran’s memories wash over him. For the most part, they were straightforward. The man had been raised by a strict but loving father. He had learned the trade from a young age. Yet there were memories that Sulrad could not totally access. He would have to be careful.
Could Veran truly be trusted? Perhaps. But for now, Sulrad would keep him close. Like a dog on a short leash.
Sulrad straightened up and nodded to Veran. “Welcome to the priesthood.”
6
Sulrad kept an eye on Veran, limiting where he allowed the man to go on his own and keeping tabs on him through his network of acolytes. So far, the cobbler was turning out to be precisely what he claimed to be, save for one troubling issue. He was far better educated than Sulrad would have imagined for one who had never studied in Amedon.
“How is it that you know so much of magic?” Sulrad asked of Veran as the two of them shared a midday meal. “You’ve never been to Amedon.”
“Amedon is not the only place where knowledge is kept. There are others.”
“Another city of wizards? I’ve never heard mention of such.”
Veran laughed. “No city. Not in a long time. My family is descended from the wizards who never bend the knee to Amedon. When the great wizards’ city rose, they scattered. Many of them sought out lives of quiet contemplation, but they never forgot the lore they possessed. Lore that Amedon tried to collect or destroy. From generation to generation, that lore has been passed down. That is how I came to know so much. My father taught me, along with leather-working.”
“He was a learned man, your father?”
“He was. He had a love for lore. He used to sit at the cobbler’s bench and tell tales while he worked. He told me of the way the land had been before the dragons first came, but alas, those days are gone. The world no longer works the way it once did.”
“Does your lore speak of Ran?” Sulrad asked.
“It does not speak of any god. Only of the dragons and how the wizards built Amedon.”
“And you. What do you believe?”
“Of Ran? I have little to go on. I have seen the temple rise from the city. It is impressive, but that says little about Ran. More about you. I’ve seen you performing healing. I see the magic emanating from you. You say it’s Ran, but I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Yet you accepted Ran as your master.”
“I accepted you as my master.”
Sulrad nodded. “And you took magic.”
“As have you.”
“Have you ever taken it from another wizard?” Sulrad needed to know if Veran had committed the unpardonable offense that would get him exiled from Amedon. If he had, then perhaps Sulrad could trust him.
“It’s wrong to take the magic of another.”
“Who says so?”
“It’s only logical. You have to kill a wizard to take his magic. It’s wrong to kill.”
“You eat meat.”
“I do.”
“Do you kill it yourself or do you have others do it for you?”
“I buy my meat from the market.“
“Is there a difference between a wizard and a cow, or a hog? Is one acceptable to kill and consume and the other not?”
“Of course.”
Veran was avoiding answering the question. Did that mean he was avoiding admitting taking the magic of another? Sulrad wanted to press him directly, but he felt that would only cause him to resist. Perhaps a roundabout path.
“Why is it wrong to kill a wizard but not a kine?”
“Wizards are people.”
“And what makes a person different from a kine?”
“People have souls.”
“So you accept that people have souls. How do you know this?”
Veran flushed. That was all Sulrad needed to know. Veran had taken the magic of another. He had experienced the soul of another just as Sulrad had. There was no need to push him any further. At the very least, Veran was not an agent of Amedon, but how could he come to trust the man?
As if Veran could read his mind, he asked, “How can you trust me?”
“Precisely what I was wondering.”
“Trust comes with experience. Permit me to serve Ran. See if I am a man of my word or not. I’ve already pledged myself to you. Test me. Give me a task and see for yourself.”
“I will make you an acolyte. You will serve alongside the young men and women who come to the temple to learn. If you learn well, there is a future for you
.”
Sulrad stood, dismissing Veran.
As the cobbler departed, Sulrad felt the man’s magic surge. Veran was a strange one, that much was certain. He would bear watching.
As Veran came to learn the lore of the temple, Sulrad challenged him with more and more. He had hoped that Veran would show a talent for healing, but the man had no ability to discern an infirmity unless Sulrad himself guided him. He did, however, have a knack for instruction and proved to be an inspirational teacher. It almost made Sulrad jealous. Sulrad had always been the inspiration for new wizards and sorceresses. He had to admit that it was not a task he relished, and allowing Veran to lead the training of new acolytes permitted Sulrad to concentrate on the things he did best.
All in all, Sulrad was pleased. He stood quietly outside of the room where Veran was training a new acolyte and listened.
“Ran is all-powerful,” Veran was explaining.
“Then why do bad things happen?” The acolyte who spoke was a young girl, only recently arrived from some small town almost at the edge of the baron’s land. The girl had a knack for healing and for asking difficult questions.
Sulrad was glad it was Veran explaining things to her and not him.
“Did your parents ever discipline you?” he asked.
“When I did something wrong or disobeyed them.”
“Why did you disobey them?” Veran asked.
“I thought I knew better.”
“Did you?”
“Not always,” the girl said.
“If Ran never allowed infirmities or calamities, who would seek him out? If everyone had everything they needed and were completely happy, what would they think of Ran? Would they have need of his beneficence if they were given everything they desired?”
Listening to Veran was like listening to Ignal.
Sulrad smiled to himself.
Ignal had encouraged him to write down his thoughts. Quite often, he felt as if they were her thoughts. She had such an influence on him. At times, he was certain that she was the true voice of Ran. If not to the masses, she certainly spoke Ran’s words to him, and now Veran was speaking those words to the acolytes. It appeared Sulrad had his first full priest.
Dragon Lord: An Epic Fantasy Saga (Origins Book 2) Page 4
