The Best of Deep Magic- Anthology One

by Jeff Wheeler

  It was the roar that woke him.

  Griven had picked up one of the crates with those oddly strong skeletal hands, and led him along a passage more like a cave than a hallway. It curved gently back and forth, the walls pitted and uneven. They passed several small openings before reaching the other end. There, the passage opened into a small room. A bed pressed against the far wall under the only window Cyril had seen. At the foot of the bed was a trunk made of some rich, burled wood. Along the left wall there was a table with several books stacked on top, and in the opposite wall there was a fireplace, fire already burning. It felt strangely soothing in the chill rock structure that was cold in spite of the heat outside.

  Cyril was surprised. It was much nicer than his room at home. Of course, Griven was a maester, strange or not. It made sense that he had more comforts, but when Cyril had seen the strange rock building, he had assumed the worst: he would be living in a dungeon. This room was no dungeon.

  Griven placed the crate beside the trunk. The back of the man’s neck, Cyril noticed, had the same strange markings as his head. They traveled down his skin and disappeared into the dark cloth of his shirt. Cyril wondered how far down they went.

  “You may store your belongings here,” the maester said, indicating the trunk. “Since you’ve had a long journey, I will let you rest. I will come and get you when it’s time to eat. We will begin work tomorrow.”

  Cyril found his tongue rather stuck in his mouth, so he just nodded. The maester turned to go, and Cyril found himself thinking that perhaps his strange appearance was not so frightening after all. It was Cyril’s imaginings that had him fretting, not the man himself. Yet as the man passed by and those skeletal hands came into view, a shiver pressed through him. Griven may not be frightening, but he was certainly powerful. Perhaps the most powerful maester Cyril had ever met.

  Once the boy was alone, he set to exploring the room more thoroughly. He put the crates into the trunk unpacked. It was large enough to fit a third alongside if he’d had one. Then he turned to the table and the books. There were several written in a language he didn’t recognize. These he piled to one side. The others contained histories of plants, beasts, even legends and prophecies. One in particular drew his eye. On the cover was a serpentine form, with a large spiked head sporting a mouth lined with flame and filled with teeth. The coiling body circled behind, firelight dancing from the skin and glowing between the scales like lava as it circled and looped around to a pointed tail that curved into its mouth.

  A dragon!

  Cyril had dreamed of dragons since he had been old enough to know what they were. His mother had taught him a song once about a dragon.

  “Don’t let your father hear you sing it,” she’d cautioned. “Keep it in your head and heart.”

  He had committed it to memory and only hummed the tune when he was alone, or when the lashes of storms thundered around their house, drowning out most other sounds. It was a song of power, and it soothed him.

  The drawing on the book’s cover was better than anything he’d ever seen before. The dragon looked real, its scales smooth and glossy. Even its eye seemed to be looking outward, filled with wildness. He ran his fingers over it, feeling the ridges and dips. There was an odd tingling sensation and he gasped. It felt as if the lines were moving. He jerked his hand away, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. The picture looked just as it had.

  Illusion.

  Hesitantly, he put one finger back, just grazing the lines.

  There! The tail moved! That was no illusion. Cyril backed away from the table, his heart pounding. He licked his lips. Was it a trick? Some kind of magic? How could a drawing move?

  The backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sat down with a puff of breath. This place was so odd, yet so strangely exciting. Perhaps his father had been right. The maester was obviously powerful. He must have extraordinary magic here. All Cyril had to do was watch and listen and absorb all that he could.

  Sighing, he lay back on the bed. The light from the window drew his eyes. Outside, the sky was a flawless, sparkling blue. The blue of summer. Lazy bits of cloud floated across it. As was his habit, he let himself see images in them. He drifted to sleep, soothed by the familiar game.

  When he jerked awake, it was later in the day. The shadows were long, and the afternoon light hit his eyes, making him squint.

  A loud roar shook the bed.

  It was like nothing he’d ever heard. It was like screaming thunder. His first thought was that he was still dreaming, but then two of the books that had been too close to the edge fell off the table, thumping to the floor.

  Cyril jumped out of bed, trying to orient himself. Beneath him, the floor vibrated. Then the roaring ceased, and all was still. He waited for a moment before walking to the doorway and sticking his head out.

  “Maester Griven?”

  There was no answer. He stepped into the hallway. It was much darker than it had been earlier. He put a hand on the wall to keep from bumping it, and slowly traced the curves back to the front room. It was empty. The fire had burned low. It was apparent that wherever the maester was, he had not been here recently. Perhaps he was sleeping too.

  Could he have slept through that noise? It didn’t seem likely, but perhaps it was familiar to him. It could be a machine of some kind that just seemed like a roar. The idea that it was nothing, that he was jumping at shadows like a boy half his age gave him pause. What would the maester say if he found him here, trembling and wide-eyed?

  Be a man about it. His father’s voice echoed in his head.

  Taking a deep breath, he started back toward his room. He was halfway down the winding hall when another roar shook the stone. Dust and grit settled on his shoulders, dispelling any thought that it was just part of a dream. He placed his hands on the wall, feeling the rumble like an earthquake beneath his palms. The sound echoed and rang for nearly a full minute before subsiding. A blast of hot air surged over him.

  Ahead, he could see the dim light from his room and the window. Around him, the hall was darker, but not completely black. Light was coming from somewhere else, he realized. He looked back over his shoulder.

  There. One of the openings he’d passed seemed to glow. A reddish light flickered, making shadows dance just inside. Mustering his courage, he walked to the opening and peered inside. The stone floor curved to the left, then sloped downward. Heat poured out as if there were ovens down below.

  Perhaps there were. Maybe in this odd house, the kitchens were in the basement.

  “Hello? Maester Griven?”

  His voice echoed back as if mocking him. Coddled boy, it whispered in his brain. Afraid of the dark like a babe.

  His hands curled into fists. He was no babe. He pressed his lips together and stepped into the corridor. It wound slowly but steadily down, yet the temperature continued to rise. Sweat rolled down his face and sides. His shirt stuck to his back. He had gone far enough that any light from the hall would not reach, yet he could see. The light was coming from below. So was the heat.

  Doubt worked at him. What if the strange stone had been pulled from the earth, and the corridor led to the fire-filled bowels where rock turned to liquid? Perhaps he should go back. His feet had already slowed when the loudest roar yet blasted. It hit him full in the chest like a lightning bolt, knocking him onto the floor. The air that washed over him was hot enough to singe his hair. His clothes began to smoke. Sweet Divide, he was going to burn to death.

  The sound and the heat abated simultaneously.

  From his seat on the rock floor, he looked up behind him. He could still go back. He probably should go back. Ahead of him, the shadows took on a new life as they danced. He stood up, dusting himself off and patting his clothes to make sure there was no flame. He was singed, but unharmed. At least the blast of air had dried his sweat. He licked his lips. There was little moisture left in him. Rubbing his face with his hands, he came to a decision. He couldn’t turn back.

 
; Around the next bend, a dark opening rewarded his persistence. The shadowed cavity looked as cool as a deep pool of water, but instead was hot as a furnace. Slowly, his heart pounding against his ribs, he approached it and peered inside.

  Inside, the gloom and firelight revealed a cavern larger than the front room. It looked larger than even the whole house. It seemed impossible, yet there it was. Blackness danced along the edges in a rough circular shape. The walls were uneven, shaped by stalactites and stalagmites, but all of that was not what drew his eye. It was the beast at the center of the room.

  It was as tall as a tree. Its sleek, silver scales glowed red around the edges, as if molten lava flowed through its veins. Chest heaving, Cyril followed the graceful lines with his eyes: up its studded back, around legs the size of boulders that ended in razor-tipped claws, and along the curved neck to its massive head. Its mouth was only slightly ajar, but flames licked from the sides. Its glowing eyes were locked on him. Even from across the room, he could feel its gaze. It penetrated him, laying him bare. There could be no secret, he knew, from the beast.

  A shape moved near its feet, startling him. A man dressed only in pants, his torso bare, stood before the great dragon. His back was covered in symbols that glowed in the firelight. No, not symbols, spell forms.

  Maester Griven!

  As if drawn by Cyril’s thoughts, the maester turned, his eyes quickly finding the boy standing in the doorway. What would he do to him? Should he run?

  “Come, boy.” Maester Griven’s voice echoed across the giant chamber. “Come and meet our guest.”

  Still fearful of having been caught, Cyril obeyed. His desire to see the beast close-up overshadowed his fear.

  As he approached, he noticed something he had not seen before. Great golden chains crossed the floor, attached to golden manacles that encircled the dragon’s legs. This was no guest. This was a captive.

  The dragon’s glowing eyes burned, as if agreeing.

  Griven looked between them, and then nodded as if approving of something unspoken.

  “His name is Mnementh.”

  - 4 -

  “What do you know of dragons?”

  Cyril could barely gather his wits to answer. He knew what the song said, that the mighty dragons could see the unseen and steal away magic, but those words were vague, and came from legends and myths. Rather than say something wrong, he shook his head.

  “It’s difficult to put into words what dragon magic can do,” the maester said, looking up at the great beast beside him. “Would you like to experience it? See with your own eyes what he sees?”

  At those words, Cyril tore his gaze away from the dragon Mnementh and looked to Maester Griven’s face. The heat in the air and the sweat on his bald head made the designs seem to writhe like red snakes. Was he serious? Could Cyril really see such a thing for himself? Or was the maester taunting him?

  “Learn,” his father had said.

  Had this been what he’d meant? Had he known about the dragon? The idea of seeing such magic with his own eyes filled Cyril with excitement.

  “Truly?” Cyril whispered.

  His excitement was mirrored in Maester Griven’s burning eyes. “Truly. I have perfected it.” His smile was dark and triumphant.

  He pointed to the gold manacles. “The gold contains the dragon’s magic,” he explained. “It’s malleable. It holds it captive.” He rubbed one hand across his head. “The taetaus allow me to pull it in. To focus it.”

  To control it.

  The unspoken words echoed in Cyril’s head. He blinked. Had Maester Griven said that?

  “Come. I must make the connection.”

  One of the maester’s skeletal hands clutched a gold manacle. The other beckoned the boy closer. Fear bloomed in Cyril’s chest, filling him with a cold iciness that weighed him down like rock. Would it feel like the last time the maester had touched him? The agony of those probing fingers in his brain had nearly done him in.

  Griven’s face darkened. “Choose, boy.”

  Cyril licked his lips nervously. He wanted to know. Truly he did.

  Are you strong enough?

  This time, Cyril looked up. That was not the maester’s voice. It was deeper. Richer. It was . . . liquid. He met the dragon’s gaze, and a shiver worked through him. Before he could reconsider, before the fear could overcome him, he stepped forward and grasped the outstretched hand.

  There was a sizzle and a snap. For a moment, he was sure he saw the lick of flames travel across those strange designs, the taetaus, and then the room disappeared. Everything was gone.

  No, he realized. Not gone, just . . . different. Darker. He was higher up, looking down. Seeing . . . seeing an echo of light, blue against black. Two shimmering forms, connected. He realized he was looking at himself through the eyes of the dragon. Below, the glowing forms were he and Maester Griven. They pulsed. He could smell their breath, their . . .

  Edah . . .

  Ah, yes. The breath of life. The scent was familiar and wild. The magic in both of them was strong. One was Creative and Destructive. That was the captor. The usurper. The thief. That one thought he knew, but he was like a sightless bird, blundering through the air, flying without seeing.

  The boy . . . the boy was different. The boy had Destructive, but he also had the balance. The void. Neutral. The boy could see.

  Look, boy. Look through my eyes, and see your essence. Sniff through my nostrils, and smell the breath of life. Open your inner self, and see the magic.

  The words thrummed through Cyril’s soul.

  Yes, the magic! It was like a current, running wild. He could ride it! He could fly, like—

  His body jerked with a wrenching twist. He was being torn in half. A sickening pain flooded through him. He felt something hard knock the air from his lungs.

  “Yes, the return can be difficult until you get used to it.”

  Cyril looked up. What was he doing on the floor?

  “Could you see it?” Griven’s eyes searched him. “Did you see it?”

  Saw it. Felt it. Smelled it.

  He nodded. Griven’s feral grin filled him with loathing.

  “What did it look like?”

  He does not know, a voice whispered in Cyril’s head. He has looked, but he is blind to it. He does not have what you have. He does not have the balance.

  “I . . . I was looking down . . .” Cyril mumbled, not wanting to give away just how much he had felt. He didn’t want Griven to know the kind of connection that he shared with—

  Mnementh.

  . . . the dragon.

  “Such power,” Griven hissed. “More than most imagine. It can be ours. Ours to control. To use.”

  Thief!

  Mnementh’s anger was palpable. It rolled along the boy’s skin. Cyril knew then that Mnementh hated Griven. Hated the man who had trapped him and was using his power as if it were his own.

  “Would you like that, boy? Do you want to taste that power on your tongue every day?” His greedy eyes glowed. “Will you help me?”

  He tried to hide the suspicion that he felt. “Help you what?”

  “Release it, boy. Release the power.”

  He would kill us both, Mnementh whispered in his mind. Only you can give him the power to do what he wants. You are the key.

  He was the key.

  He knew what he must do.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “I’ll help you to release it.”

  Cyril’s smile was grim. His father would be proud.

  He was learning.

  - 5 -

  Dinner was one of the strangest things yet.

  Appearing gleeful about Cyril’s decision to help him, Griven had led the way upstairs and through one of the other mystery doors along the twisting hallway, revealing a heretofore unseen room dominated by an enormous table. The table’s rich wood glowed red in the light from lanterns that were hung between heavy drapes, and the legs ended in carved dragon feet, replete with claws.

 
“Sit, boy.” Griven said, sweeping his hand to indicate he didn’t care where. “I’ll check on our food.”

  He disappeared through another door in the far left corner. The smells that wafted in told Cyril that the food was indeed on its way. Who it might be making such delicious scents he couldn’t fathom. He had seen no one else since arriving, nor heard other footfalls. Perhaps there were more secrets to this odd structure. All he knew was that he was ravenous. As if in agreement, his stomach rumbled.

  He crossed to the other side of the table, the one nearest the wall. He was intrigued by the heavy drapes, and pulled one back to peek behind it. There were no windows. Instead, strange drawings marked the walls. Drawn in something dark, they looked as though someone had used charred sticks from a fire as an instrument. The designs were patterns, with spokes moving outward from a central point, surrounded by circles and webs at such an intricate level of detail he had to lean closer to make them out.

  For reasons he couldn’t articulate, the drawings made him nervous. He let the curtain fall and moved to another, feeling his insides clench as he drew it aside. Like the first, the fabric concealed no window, only more of the odd markings. If anything, these were even more intricate than the others, the tiny spaces between the spokes and the circling lines filled with images so small he couldn’t make them out even when he narrowed his eyes.

  Again, the crawling sensation of nervousness filled him at the sight. Were these spells? Had Griven drawn them? If he had, why here, on the rock walls of the dining hall? And why were they hidden?

  Cyril heard footsteps approaching, and quickly let the curtain fall back into place, rushing to sit in one of the heavy chairs. His heart pounded, and his palms were wet. Why? What was he afraid would happen?

  The door in the corner swung open, and a man carrying a heavy tray walked in, followed by a girl with a pitcher. Griven came in last, sitting at the head of the table even though it was two chairs away from where Cyril had seated himself. The man and girl laid their burdens on the large table, then left as quickly as they had come. Other than a faint impression of their age, Cyril could barely even say what they had looked like. A moment later Griven was lifting the lid away from the large tray, and all other thoughts and concerns were lost in the rich smell and dripping skin of the roasted meat in front of them.