by Ron Root
The spokesman started to speak again, but the Inquisitor raised a hand. “Master Kagen, is it true you used to govern this school?”
“Govern? No, but until recently I was its headmaster.”
“You shall suffice then. Escort me to your training rooms that I may observe the manner in which you teach the use of His Gift.”
Master Kagen smiled. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Your Grace. It would be a direct violation of the standards we assure our student’s patrons when they place them in our charge. And even if I could allow you inside, what we do here at the university is our concern, not the One Church’s. We don’t ask how your Clerics utilize the Gift. We expect the same courtesy from you.”
The Inquisitor tensed. “Beware Sir, I take umbrage at your belligerence. Violation of Church Law is heresy.”
Master Kagen spread his arms, palms up. “Such is not my intent. You speak of Church Law, Sir. Tell me, which one do I break by rightfully refusing you entry to our grounds?”
The Inquisitor straightened. “Do you mock me Sir?”
“Mock? All I ask is what law we defy.”
The Inquisitor scowled. “You’ve broken no laws—yet! Word of your insolence shall spread. We will meet again, ‘former’ headmaster,” he said, reining his horse to face one of his soldiers. “Corpsman, keep your squadron here. Watch these people’s activities. The rest, with me.”
Just as he appeared ready to leave, the Inquisitor turned to Vardon’s messenger. “You, boy! What’s your headmaster’s name?”
“That would be Headmaster Lavan, Sir.”
Oddly, the Inquisitor smiled. “Describe him.”
“He appears as any other man, but his gold collar identifies him as headmaster.”
“Thank you. Your manners exceed those of your masters.” He looked over his shoulder. “All right corpsman, you know what to look for.” Without as much as another glance at Vardon or Kagen, the Inquisitor urged his horse to a canter and rode off, followed by his men, save for the four who’d been ordered to remain.
Vardon’s chagrined messenger turned to Master Kagen. “I’m sorry Sir; I should never have spoken. Now I bring the Church’s wrath on the headmaster.”
Kagen put an arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself, we have it on good authority that this man is an old acquaintance of the headmaster’s. He’s simply a zealot. Not all churchmen are so, but these Chevalier fellows seem to have more than their fair share of them.”
Once everyone vacated the gate area, Hagley drove inside. As he rode through the gate, the portcullis dropped behind him, and the gates were bolted, something he’d not seen before. He shuddered, wondering which was worse, having Portsmouth’s ruffians track him here, or dealing with trouble stirred up by this man they called the Grand Inquisitor. He peeked back through the bars at the remaining church troopers. Their presence did not bode well.
The next morning he dressed, ate, and headed to Master Kagen’s quarters. The old man seemed pleased to see him. “How went the trip? Did the Goodricke and Magus Verity sail?”
“The last I saw they were lugging their gear up the gangplank.” He plopped his pouch atop one of the tables. “Where would you like your guild purchases?”
“There on the table is fine.” As usual, Kagen had his nose in a scroll. “Ah, Church Law, here it is.” He looked up at Hagley. “With these churchmen stirring up trouble, I’ll likely be tied up all day. The morning is yours. Do with it as you please.” He ran his finger down the parchment. “I just wish this had happened while Lavan was here, so he could contend with it.”
Hagley knew better, the old goat loved to feel needed. He was likely in blessed heaven over the whole affair. A morning free of duties! Now he had both the time and the components to work on new spells.
Making sure no one was looking, he walked down his special corridor, opened its hidden door, and made his way to his secret exit. Winding the crank, he lifted the tiny gate that led outside. Other than getting here via his secret tunnel, the only way to get to his practice place was to hike down a boulder-strewn ravine. During heavy rains the small canyon flooded, perhaps explaining why no one ever ventured here, allowing him to practice free of prying eyes.
Sunlight warmed his skin as he thumbed through the latest tome he’d borrowed from Kagen’s study. It dealt with summoning spells. They appeared to cause objects to materialize out of nothing; which was impossible. They’d puzzled him at first, until Master Kagen explained that, whereas most spells required only the proper words or the ritual to be cast, summoning spells required the added use of a physical component.
The first spell to catch his eye was one to conjure up bellytimber—the perfect remedy for hungry times. He planned to summon bread. Its required component was a kernel of wheat. He placed a kernel on each of four rocks he’d laid out before him. He reviewed all laws that might apply. Every law you brought into play increased your likelihood of success.
Two laws came to mind. Since bread comes from wheat which comes from kernel, the Law of Association would logically apply. The Law of Similarity purported a spell’s effect had a connection with its component. He ran through the Twenty Laws of magic one last time but found no others that applied. He was ready.
He reread the spell one last time and eyed the first wheat kernel. I’m alone; no one will laugh if I fail. I—will—succeed. He closed his eyes and chanted. He heard a loud popping noise. He looked. Sitting on the rock where the kernel had been was a small stalk of wheat. Damn the Law of Perversity anyway.
He moved to the second kernel and tried it again. Another wheat stalk. Of course, the Law of Cause and Effect—he’d hadn’t varied a thing; no wonder he had the same result. What could he do differently? Perhaps it would help if he first envisioned his goal. He’d seen the cooks prepare bread in the kitchen many a time. He replayed the process in his mind. Closing his eyes, he stood over the third kernel and recast his spell.
He opened his eyes and screeched. The third kernel had become a rapidly growing ball of dough. He’d violated the Law of Balance. Control a spell too little and a magus loses control altogether. Had what he summoned been dangerous, he could have killed himself. The dough ball continued to grow. His heart started pounding. Was he about to die anyway, smothered by a giant glob?
Frantic, he reviewed the remaining laws. Polarity! Any spell could be split into opposing patterns, each the essence of the other. He invoked the counter spell and the white glob exploded, painting the vicinity in white dough, much of it on him.
As he was wiping off his clothing, he heard a noise. Someone was coming down the canyon! He froze. Visions of the dockside ruffians flooded his mind. Had they traced him here? He scoured the ravine but spotted no one. Who could it be? Perhaps whoever was coming was ungifted and could be easily frightened. He stretched to his full height. “Hold! Come no closer. Be warned that I am versed in the arts and will not hesitate to use them against you.” He nearly lost his bladder when a head appeared beside a large boulder.
“Hagley, it be Sully! Please don’t be using your arts on me.” Sully crawled over the rock, dusted off his pants, and looked around. “This place be a mess.”
His heart pounding, Hagley exhaled. “Don’t sneak up on me like that. You frightened me something awful.”
Sully ignored him, staring at the goop. “What be all that white stuff?”
“Another failed spell. I tried to make bread.”
Sully gathered a bit of the dough on with a finger and sniffed. “You almost did it. This be bread dough like what Cook uses.”
Hagley spread his arms, shaking his head. “Masters make bread, not dough. I’ll fear I’ll never earn my robes.”
Sully gave a pleading look. “You got to. You said when you become Master we’ll go adventuring. You know, killing monsters and saving princesses,” he said, licking batter off his finger.
Hagley sighed. “I know I promised, but I’m afrai
d you’re counting on the wrong magus.”
“No!” Sully shook his head. “That ain’t so, you be a great magus. I seen it lotsa times.” He patted Hagley’s arm. “You just need your lucky person with you. I’m here now.”
Sometimes it seemed that way. Virtually every time his little friend was with him, his spells worked. “I wonder why?”
Sully gave him a toothy grin. “I know.”
Hagley laughed at the little braggart. “Really? Pray tell, what’s so special about you?” Sully looked hurt. “I mean, aside from you being my lucky person.”
Sully gave him a fatherly pat. “Because I be your friend, and you don’t be nervous around me like with other people. That be as plain as your nose to see.”
That was the same thing Kagen and Jarek had told him. He draped his arm around his little friend. “Maybe you have the right of it.”
Sully grinned. “I can prove it. Try your spell again.”
“All right.” Hagley looked at the last wheat kernel, shut his eyes, and ran through the laws. My lucky person’s nearby. He cast.
“I told you.” Sully bragged, pointing. “There’s your bread.”
Stooping, Hagley picked up the bread, shaking his head. He tasted it. It really was bread. He split the loaf and gave Sully half. “I guess I’ll have to start calling you Lucky instead of Sully,” he said as they munched the conjured meal.
Hagley spent the rest of the morning experimenting with new spells. All worked on the first try. He’d accomplished a lot. He glanced skyward. The sun was straight overhead. “It’s time for afternoon wagon duty. Want a ride back to town?”
“Sure.”
Hagley retrieved the broken portcullis bar he’d hidden in the brush, inserted one end under the gate, and placed the other over a rock. He leaned his weight onto the bar, and the levered the gate rose. “All right, meet me at the main gate.”
Sully peered into the tunnel. “Can’t I go your magic way? I always be wanting to.”
“You can peek inside, but I can’t take you into the building with me. If I did, everyone would know about my secret passage.”
“Aw, just one time?”
“You heard me,” he said, slipping inside. He lowered the gate and headed down the tunnel leaving Sully to sulk. The boy was right, somehow Sully made Hagley’s magic work. But Sully wouldn’t always be at his side. Masters rely on skill, not luck. He’d been lucky at the wharf yesterday. Next time that might not be the case. The Law of Perversity meant the price for failure could very well be his life.
Foul Marsh
Goodricke stood at the ship’s bow watching a pair of squawking gulls squabble over a catch. Wind buffeted his hair, waggling the sails overhead, the ever-present smell of brine evoking fond memories of days past. He missed the seaman’s life. It had been exciting, every port a new experience, but it was also lonely. Had he a woman he could share that life with, things might have been different, but few women coveted the seas. Such wistful thoughts were pointless; he knew he was lucky to serve Master Lavan. He led a good life—he shouldn’t dream of more. But if that good life was to continue, they had to bring his patron home.
Magus Verity was below decks, battling seasickness. Their ship had crossed the bay from Portsmouth, and dropped anchor. The Captain stood beside him shouting orders as the crew lowered Goodricke’s skiff. It nearly clipped the ship’s rail. “Careful with that thing, damn ya!” After a bit more cursing and sweating it was safely in the water. “Bosun! Get the Magus topside.”
The Captain’s eyes scoured the inlet to their port side. “The two of ye be mad to be settin’ down here.” He pointed, “Just look at that shoal. Skerries be scattered all around it. Like as not their rocks is gonna bust ya up afore ye can even get halfway into that lagoon.”
Goodricke took measure of the cove’s entrance. What the Captain said was true. Long jetties jutted from both shorelines creating a dangerously narrow, rock-strewn opening. Maneuvering past it would be risky. “You’ll hear no argument from me, Captain, but the Magus is committed, so we’re heading in.”
“Daft them sorcerers is—the whole lot of ‘em. Hate to lose a good seaman as yerself over some madman’s folly.”
The bosun arrived with Jarek. Soon they were aboard their skiff watching the ship lift anchor. “Have you gained your sea legs, milord?”
Jarek tucked his cloak around his chest. “Somewhat. My stomach’s settled, but this wind is blowing right through these old bones.”
“It’ll die down once we’re inside the cove.” Goodricke grabbed the oars. “Let’s get out of this gale and check provisions.” He spun the boat around, their stern facing the bay. “I need to row backwards to fight this current, so you’ll need to scout our course.”
Jarek warmed his hands with his breath. “I can do that much.”
It took all of Goodricke’s strength and seaman’s skill to safely guide them past the shoals that rimmed the lagoon, but as predicted, once he’d maneuvered into the inlet, the winds tapered off. The shallow waters were placid, void of any current. Grass and reeds poked above the surface in all directions. Save for the few small specks that hinted of distant islands, the marsh was flat as far as the eye could see, and the once-invigorating aroma of the seas had been replaced by one far more putrid.
Jarek loosened his cloak. “Praise the heavens. That wind was unbearable.”
“But typical of coastal waters.” Goodricke shipped the oars and grabbed for the wooden mast laced to the side of the boat. “And don’t thank the gods prematurely. We want some of that wind, milord. Sailing will save us both time and effort.”
“It’s just the two of us now. Feel free to address me as Jarek, not milord,” he said, helping him lash the mast. They kept its canvas furled while they inventoried gear. Goodricke picked up two packs. “We’ll wear these once we’re out of the marsh. He held one up. My tritant and gear are in this one. I’ll take our bearings tonight.” He handed Jarek the other one. “This holds your gear, and the scribe’s map and scroll.”
Dropping his pack, he grabbed a pair of bags. “While in the boat we’ll keep our gear dry in these. They’re cow bladders,” he said, picking up a third one, “this one holds our drinking water. If we use it sparingly, it should get us to A’ryth. If not, we’ll need to find fresh water along the way.” He reached for the sail. “And I’ll drink less if we use this.”
Jarek stopped him. “Wait!” He fished through his gear. “I’ve something for you. Kagen and I have grave concerns at exposing you to Zakarah.” He handed Goodricke a scabbard. “Here’s some protection.”
Goodricke unsheathed a sword, marveling at its finery. “It’s magnificent. But what good is iron against a wizard who’s not even of this world?”
He pointed at the designs embossed on its blade. “This is no ordinary sword. Forged by a magus of the Great Age named Turpin, it’s ensorcelled.”
Goodricke hoisted the sword, rotating it, the sun glistening off its metal. “Ensorcelled? How so?”
“Every creature capable of reason tends toward good or evil. Many gifted can sense the nature of these tendencies, and although we don’t know how Turpin accomplished it, this sword senses them too. In short, it warns its bearer when evil is present.”
Goodricke lowered the weapon. “Such things exceed my ken. What I do know is that it’s a craftsman’s marvel. I’m at a loss as to how to thank you.”
Jarek placed a hand on his shoulder. “You already have, by helping me find Lavan.”
Goodricke stowed the sword in his bag. “What of you? What protects you?”
“I have this,” he said, pulling out a short sword. “And a spell or two Zakarah won’t find to his liking. If one is to become a successful Court Sorcerer and watch over those he’s charged to protect, it’s imperative that he learn a trick or two.”
Goodricke unfurled the sailcloth, tied it off, and loosened the jib. He grabbed the rudder. “Let’s turn this wind to our
advantage.” The boat lurched as a gust filled the sail.
Jarek fished the parchments out of his pack and handed one to Goodricke. “You study Malg’s map while I review his journal.”
One glance at the map told him the marsh was too large to cross in a single day. It showed a large island marked as Devil’s Isle near its midpoint. Squinting, he spied an island, but it was far too close to be the one depicted. If the map didn’t show it, what else was missing?
Jarek tapped the journal. “Kagen read some of this to me earlier, but he left out its most important passage. Listen to this. It has to do with this very cove. ‘Much to our dismay, we found the freshwater inlet infested by beasts so vicious the crewman dubbed it Foul Marsh. Several sailors fell victim to its brutes. We named the most perilous of these monsters The Lurker because of how it concealed itself in the shallows, waiting for its prey. When someone drew too close, it rose out of nowhere to ensnare him in its tentacles, like those of an octopus. Some it dragged beneath the murk. Others it slaughtered where it caught them. We now steer clear of that heinous lagoon.’ He looked up. “If that’s true, we’d best avoid the shallows.”
“Aye, deeper waters it is.”
The morning passed uneventfully. Around midday the winds died off. Fog drifted in, dropping the temperature, forcing Goodricke to batten the sails and row. Although backbreaking work, it kept him warm. The same couldn’t be said for poor Jarek who couldn’t find enough wraps to fight the chill.
Come sunset, they’d failed to find their island. “Milord, I fear we’ll not find this Devil’s Isle. Should we drop anchor and sleep in the boat, or look for land?”
Jarek’s teeth chattered. “I fear I’ll catch some malaise without a fire to warm me. Let’s find an island.”
Goodricke looked around. “Easily spoken, but how do we find one in all this haze?”
“Where there’s land, there are living creatures. Large or small, I can probe for their presence. Once I find one, we can use it as a beacon.”
