The Best of Deep Magic- Anthology One

by Jeff Wheeler

  “Not at all,” Gervase said in annoyance. “Ah, here we are.”

  They reached another arched corridor, although this one was barred with silver. Gervase tapped one of the gems on his bracer and the gate began to life on its own or through some magic. Smoky torchlight wafted out from down the corridor.

  “In we go,” Gervase said eagerly.

  Brandis turned to Roshaun who was visibly trembling with fear. Brandis gestured toward the gate, inviting him to remain behind, but his valet would never abandon him and quickly shook his head no.

  Past the gate, they descended another series of stairs. They were in the catacombs now, the walls more rugged and containing rings with torches. The smell of pitch was thick in the air and it mixed with an earthy smell. Somewhere in the distance, Brandis could hear water running, like a brook.

  “How deep do the caverns go?” Brandis asked.

  “Farther than we will ever go,” Gervase said. “We are nearly to the howling place.”

  Estenna sidled up closer to her brother, her mood even more somber now. The corridor narrowed.

  A strange smell was in the air, the cloying smell of rancid meat. Brandis wanted to tug loose his collar. He was soaked with sweat beneath his jacket, and he gripped the handle of his sword nervously.

  Gervase caught the gesture. “Little good that piece of steel would do you down here,” he said with a smirk.

  “Don’t tease him, Gervase,” Estenna scolded.

  Some scuttling noises could be heard ahead. Then the echo of a mad laugh.

  “What is this place?” Brandis asked, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

  “This is the lair, the howling place,” Gervase said. “This is where they are confined after they’ve gone mad. It takes some time for that to happen. We’ve learned to feed their minds as long as we can. Inside, you’ll see they revolt against any form of civilization. They rip apart any book that we send. They will no longer eat cooked meat. They’d drink blood if we let them.”

  Estenna looked back at Brandis encouragingly. “Don’t be too frightened. They are behind silver bars.”

  “Silver bars,” ghosted a voice from ahead. Estenna went quiet, her look darkening with sadness.

  Brandis screwed up his courage and hastily wiped the sweat from his lip. As they turned the corner into another corridor, the way ended abruptly with another gate made of silver bars. There was a man posing there, leaning against the bars, gripping them hard. Little gusts of steam came from his hands.

  “Good afternoon, Dracchus,” Gervase said, stopping well away from the bars.

  The man had feral eyes, unkempt hair. His tunic was slashed and ripped apart, nearly dangling from him. He twisted his head sideways, gazing at them hungrily, greedily, with all the ferocity of something savage.

  “Is it afternoon, Sorcerer?” Dracchus asked, rattling the bars. “How should I know? There is no moonlight down in the howling place.” He grunted and shook the bars.

  There were more in chambers. Brandis saw smashed furniture, broken pieces of glass strewn everywhere. Books had been shredded and mangled, with bits and papers covering the floor.

  “You don’t need the moonlight anymore to transform, Dracchus,” Gervase said simply. “This is a prince from the Black Forest. He’d like to see your form.”

  “From where?”

  “The Black Forest. Do you know it still?”

  The man shook his head, leering at them all. Roshaun was trembling, stepping back cautiously. Brandis’s attention was riveted on the mad one. He reminded Brandis of the miller who had been bitten from the village. His insides twisted with disgust and intrigue.

  “You wish to see my true form?” Dracchus asked him, grinning menacingly.

  Brandis’s voice was lost, but he nodded, swallowing, trying to keep his courage.

  There was no convulsion, no gradual twisting, only an explosion of fur and fang and slavering jaws. Brandis’s mind closed in terror as he heard it raving and snapping, trying to squeeze its massive bulk beyond the bars to rip his throat out. His mind went black, he was gibbering on the floor, and all reason and intelligence abandoned him in the urgent desire to flee. He whimpered and cowered in place.

  He couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his pulse, the mind-blasting terror. And then Estenna was kneeling before him, soothing him, bringing him back to himself with tenderness and sympathy.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. “They cannot hurt you. They cannot escape this place. It’s all right. Gervase, drive him away.”

  As Brandis trembled like a frightened child, feeling humiliated at his reaction, Gervase grunted and snatched a torch from the nearby wall.

  “Shallic,” he said, and the tip burst into smoky flame. He pressed the brand toward the silver bars, and the wolf fiend backed away, snarling and ravening, at the force of the flame.

  “Come back to the surface,” Estenna said, gripping Brandis’s arm and helping him stand. “Now do you believe?”

  Brandis trembled. The sound of Roshaun’s steps faded into the distance. He nodded, still unable to speak. So it was real. It was very real.

  * * *

  That moment in the underground cave changed Brandis. Some might have run away in terror and fled to another city, never to return. For him, it opened vistas of possibility he had never considered. The Keltin siblings brought him to their mansion in Vaud, although Gervase and Brandis ended up spending most of their time at the coliseum where Brandis began to be tutored by the rich young man who had mastered the arts of Metamorphistry at a young age. Now it was Gervase’s obsession to not only master them but to heal them.

  Estenna was pleased by Brandis’s ardent interest in the study and would participate in the discussions long after midnight. A fire had been lit inside of the young prince from the Black Forest. His valet, Roshaun, grew more and more worried.

  Gervase and Brandis walked swiftly down the dark subterranean corridor, side by side. “So is the curse transmitted by the bite or not?” Brandis queried.

  Gervase waved his hand. “Is that even the right question to be asking? A werewolf, as you still insist on calling them, eats prey of beast and man. Yet what stops them from slaying the victim that will transform? What about them is chosen to seed the curse into another generation?”

  “Surely you’ve asked the gladiators and gleaned from their experiences?”

  Gervase gave him another one of his condescending looks. Brandis had realized the man thought so quickly he became easily frustrated by others who could not keep up with the pace of his mind, let alone the pace of his walk. “Of course. Each story varies. I have found no commonality between them to link a cause. The cycle repeats itself over and over, as I’ve told you already.”

  Brandis turned to follow him into a cell where some guards were posted in front of an iron door.

  The chief sentry, in his crisp tunic and armor, snapped to attention. “This one was brought in this morning. Turned in by his wife. She was a sobbing mess, horribly frightened, and hiding behind the guards as they took him away.”

  “Let me see him,” Gervase said.

  One of the guards opened the eyehole. “He’s whimpering in the corner.”

  Gervase nodded curtly. The guard opened the heavy door and it groaned on the hinges. Brandis’s pulse was quickening with excitement yet again, the thrill of facing danger. Beyond the iron door was a series of silver bars, as Brandis had seen before. The victim of the lycanthrope attack was sniveling. He was short, wiry.

  Gervase touched a stone on his bracer, activating a magical ward. He stood at the bars imperiously. “What is your name, friend?”

  “Moughton,” said the man between sniffs. “Are you the sorcerer?”

  “I am. Your wife turned you in?”

  The man wiped his tears away. “She did. I tried to keep it secret.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I didn’t kill anyone, I swear it!”

  “Not yet, anyway,” Gervase snorted. “When were you bit
ten?”

  “A month ago. I think. My memory is hazy now.”

  “That’s usual. You thought you were sleepwalking at first.” Gervase tilted his head to one side. “Then you woke up out of doors, without your clothes. You should have turned yourself in. The madness only grows worse without disciplined training.”

  Gervase had told Brandis earlier about the military regimen in the area underground.

  “Am I going to go mad?” the victim hiccupped.

  “Eventually,” said Gervase without compassion. “Being here in the catacombs will help prolong your sanity. You’ll be fighting in the arena, of course.”

  “I don’t want to fight!” Moughton wailed.

  “You don’t really have a choice, now, do you? You’re thin and quick. You’ll do better than you think, especially as you get more used to the transformations. Some of the bigger ones will have a hard time catching you. That gives you an advantage.”

  Moughton sniffed. “Can you get me out of here, Sorcerer? I’d pay you. I’d pay you anything you ask.”

  “You cannot possibly pay me as well as the coliseum does, I assure you. Show me the mark where you were bitten.”

  Brandis edged closer to the bars. Gervase touched his chest and pushed him back. “He may look docile, but don’t let it fool you. He can become savage in an instant. If you are within reach, he will try to attack you.”

  “Has that happened to you before?” Brandis asked softly.

  Gervase nodded. “They’ll try to trick and deceive a victim to get close. Sympathy is a powerful lure. Never succumb to it.”

  Moughton rolled up his sleeve and revealed a half-moon scar on his forearm. He twisted his arm around to show the other side.

  Gervase stroked his goatee. “Most bites are on the forearm or the calf muscle. The calf if running away. The forearm if facing the creature and cowering. As you learned for yourself, it is very difficult keeping your presence of mind when one transforms.”

  “How do you do it?” Brandis whispered.

  Gervase pursed his lips. “I’ve trained myself not to fear. The bars protect us. The distance protects us. The scent from the torches protect us. Fear is an irrational thing anyway.”

  “How did you master it?” Brandis asked, genuinely curious.

  Gervase turned and started away. Brandis watched Moughton gazing at them. Just as Brandis turned to go, the young wiry man launched at the bars, reaching through with his hands, trying to snatch at Brandis. Steam began to hiss from the bars, and Moughton recoiled, scalded. He gave Brandis a cunning look. “You’ll be one of us soon. Don’t you see what he’s doing to you? You’ll be the next one in this cage.”

  Brandis backed away swiftly and exited the doors just after Gervase. The young sorcerer lifted his eyebrow. “Did he threaten you?” he asked.

  Brandis nodded, feeling his skin crawl. He suppressed a shudder.

  “They always do that. Don’t mind it. They want to get into your head. You can hear a lie without believing it. You must have a will as strong as iron. Never let another think for you. Come to your own conclusions. Don’t rely on me or anyone else. It is possible to break this curse despite what everyone says. The simplest remedies were once thought outrageous. We must tolerate the discomfort of not knowing.”

  Brandis followed him down the hall, nodding as they walked. Gervase was impressive. His mind was rigorous and disciplined. He was a genius, and he had fixed everything within himself on solving this problem. He sometimes missed eating for days as he pondered a problem. Food just wasn’t important to him, which explained his gauntness.

  Several days later, over supper, Brandis stared across the table at Estenna. He loved listening to her talk, the passion of her arguments in defense of the imprisoned gladiators. Gervase tolerated her discourse, but Brandis could see that the brother’s thoughts were somewhere else. He sipped slowly from a goblet of wine, his eyes gazing into the hearth and its dancing flames.

  “Sometimes I think he’s not listening when he looks like that,” Estenna confided to Brandis with a wry smile, “but then I ask him what I just said and he always surprises me by knowing the answer. He just thinks differently than anyone else I know.”

  “I like listening to you,” Brandis said, feeling his cheeks flush with heat. “You’ve certainly inspired your brother’s work. I asked Gervase a question, but he didn’t answer it. How did he learn to conquer his fear?”

  Estenna nodded and traced the rim of her goblet. Her lashes were incredibly long. “He’s been bitten many times,” she answered.

  Brandis leaned forward, staring at her in surprise. “By werewolves?”

  “No, of course not,” she answered. “He’s not that rash. Most people instinctively fear serpents. There is something about them that make us wriggle with horror inside. Well, Gervase said that fear is simply pain of the anticipation of something evil. We fear a snake because we fear being bitten. So he purchased snakes. He learned to handle them, to control his fear. After he had done so, he began handling poisonous ones. He was bitten sometimes, but always had a curestone handy. He conquered his fear of pain by willingly enduring the pain.”

  Brandis was more than impressed. “That takes phenomenal courage.”

  “Although it is powerful, fear is just a feeling,” she said. She glanced away a moment and then met his stare. “There are other powerful feelings as well.” She blinked at him, smiling openly. Then she scratched the side of her neck and rose from the table.

  His mouth went dry. Her look was a little flirtatious, an invitation to follow her. Was he reading it right? Was she returning his interest at long last? His palms became sweaty.

  Brandis leaned back in his chair, wondering how he could dismiss himself without rousing suspicion. Gervase was watching him, his brows needling in subtle vexation. That was the only mark, and it was very obscure. A flush of guilt crept into Brandis’s chest.

  “Is something wrong, Gervase?” Brandis asked him.

  The young sorcerer’s eyes did not meet his. No, he was looking across the room, not at an object, but at something within his mind. Then a brightening came, then a quivering smile. “It cannot be this easy. But perhaps . . . perhaps . . . but that does make sense. The moon. The stone gaze. All of them, it starts in the ocular recess. The eyes. Yes, the eyes. Is that it?” His fingers fidgeted on his lips. He was mumbling to himself, gazing down at the table, growing more and more agitated.

  “I don’t understand you,” Brandis said, shaking his head.

  “No, of course you don’t. Of course you don’t see it. See it.” He rose suddenly from his chair and started to pace. “It’s one of the philosopher sayings.” He snapped his fingers in repeated fashion. “Yes! That might be it.”

  Brandis stared at him. He’d never seen Gervase so animated, so enthralled with himself. And while he was muttering under his breath, he strode out of the room in a hurry, heading toward his private study, the enormous library. That left the young man alone in the dining hall. It was Roshaun’s evening off, and he was likely at a tavern enjoying his freedom. Brandis glanced at the door to the study and then to the door that Estenna had departed from.

  He pushed his chair away from the table and followed the girl.

  There was no one in the corridor beyond. The lamps were flickering and no servants were present. The house was quiet. Disappointment stabbed through him and he shook his head and started toward the stairwell to the row of guest rooms. Noises from carriages could be heard outside—the city of Vaud was always in high dudgeon regardless of the hour. He trod up the stairs, holding on to the wooden bannister, and climbed up in the dark toward the next level. As he reached the turn of the first landing, he heard a small noise behind him and turned back to look while his hand groped for the sculpted banister knob. When he set his hand on it, he touched skin instead, a hand already there.

  Estenna was waiting for him on the midlevel plateau around the corner. Her sudden arrival had surprised him, but the jolt of fear qu
ickly turned to more pleasant sensations.

  “Is he distracted?” she whispered. Her breath tickled his cheek.

  He was startled, pleased, and enthusiastic. “He just went into the study.”

  She took her hand away from the knob and then wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up on her toes, kissing him. It was not the kiss of long experience. It was one from a girl who had been imagining what it might be like. Despite the brazen ardor, she was still shy and pulled away, giving him a hopeful look.

  “Did you . . . did you like that?” she asked breathlessly.

  Brandis pulled her close and leaned down, kissing her instead. He felt her lips pull into a smile as he withdrew. “Very much,” he mumbled, his throat tightening as his feelings tugged loose and began running rampant in his chest. He watched her, mesmerized. The emotions were overwhelming and so exquisite. He didn’t want to ruin the moment. He wanted to savor it.

  After that small smile, she gave him another shy look. “I wanted that,” she said. “Gervase is going to send you away. I just wanted to know what it felt like.” She traced her finger down his chest.

  “Why?” Brandis asked, shaking his head. The thought of leaving was painful. “I want to help with his work. With your work.”

  She smiled but glanced down. “Gervase doesn’t want to share the credit of his discoveries with anyone. It must always be him. You’re very clever, Brandis. I would like to visit the Black Forest someday. But that would not be possible. I will dream about you when you are gone.” She pressed her cheek against him, pulling him into a possessive hug.

  He was torn, the warm feelings dissipating like smoke. Conflict raged inside. “He cannot make me go,” Brandis said, smoothing her wildfire hair, his voice rising in anger. She held her fingers to his lips to quiet him. He composed himself and lowered his tone. “If I cannot stay here, I will stay elsewhere. I want to be near you.”

  She looked up at him, pleased by his words. “It would be difficult to see each other,” she said, biting her lip. “We couldn’t keep it a secret long.”