blood.
Raiding parties seeking good vantage. Clashing swords, whining arrows, grunting fighters, and the wild yelling of a charge; roaring magefire and screams of terror, layer upon layer of wounding and death . . .
I snatched my hands away. I had released no magic; my bent for history was long excised, naught but a charred stub between my eyes. The eerie night had but fired my imagination.
Patting lightly, I resumed the search. No fleshless bone, but a cold curve of iron had tripped me up—a closed half-circle, its diameter wider than my spread fingers. A part of my day’s learning: Such cheap artifacts, graven with the deceased one’s name, were used to mark poor men’s graves. The iron rod would be hammered into a family blazon for those who had such, or the fish-shaped eye of the Mother for a follower of the Elder Gods, or a sunburst symbol for one of the Karish believers. But this, an arché, an empty half circle lacking so much as a name, served for one whose identity and allegiance were unknown, like the girl child whose image burned behind my breastbone.
“Hope you don’t mind my borrowing this,” I said softly to the mystery who slept here. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
Using the arché, I gouged a great circle in the mound and left my eating knife in the center of it. The spells on my knife should lead me back to this grave. Now for the light.
To shape the mental pattern of my desire took less time than sketching a tree. Drawing magic to fill it, however, was wretchedly difficult. I was grasping at the dregs of my energies, a sensation much like yanking on the inside of my empty belly.
But eventually, I poured the waiting spell into the chilled iron of the arché and triggered it with my will.
A narrow white beam parted the night, as if a voiding spell had removed a shard of the darkness. Satisfaction warmed my spirit, well beyond the needs of the moment. Touching my forehead to the earth, I vowed a libation to the gods who had graced me with their gift, and renewed my coming-of-age pledge to return them service a thousandfold.
I set out again, amused to imagine what someone at the necropolis might think of the mysterious flaring light in the middle of the burial ground. Only then did I recall my obligation to forgo magic, save atBastien’s command. If the contract lacked a personal-defense clause, this would be certain violation. But then, Bastien would likely disapprove of my breaking a leg on the descent into the hirudo.
Moving more confidently, I soon reached the wall and the slot gate. The steep descent was slower, as the muddy ruts and rocks were glazed with ice. But cautious steps took me to the pigsty with head and limbs intact.
Coal smoke thick as fog in fen country hung in the ravine. The night itself . . . the frigid air . . . all was heavy, damp, and silent, as if I were the only soul left living in the world.
I rounded the piggery with quiet steps. Perhaps I could slip through unnoticed. Or perhaps the Guard Royale had chosen this day to scour the hirudo as they did from time to time, chasing the cursed Cicerons into the wilderness.
A few quercae forward into the ramshackle warren, and the faint drone of a hurdy-gurdy and the muted rapping of a tabor testified that not all its residents slept. I imagined I heard a trill of piping as well . . . and laughter. . . .
As a fiery lance out of the blackness, grief pierced my breast. Remeni-Masson family gatherings had ever been noisy, joyful celebrations. Games and music and a generous table. Contests of strength, speed, and magic, a rare balance to the strict discipline of our daily life. I had sorely regretted the extra work that kept me away from the last one. Until the Registry messenger had come from Pontia . . .
Keep focused, fool.
I muted my light to a deep red and reduced its span to the small circle of a lantern’s gleam, just enough to keep me on the muddy path and away from obstacles. The hirudo night
Raiding parties seeking good vantage. Clashing swords, whining arrows, grunting fighters, and the wild yelling of a charge; roaring magefire and screams of terror, layer upon layer of wounding and death . . .
I snatched my hands away. I had released no magic; my bent for history was long excised, naught but a charred stub between my eyes. The eerie night had but fired my imagination.
Patting lightly, I resumed the search. No fleshless bone, but a cold curve of iron had tripped me up—a closed half-circle, its diameter wider than my spread fingers. A part of my day’s learning: Such cheap artifacts, graven with the deceased one’s name, were used to mark poor men’s graves. The iron rod would be hammered into a family blazon for those who had such, or the fish-shaped eye of the Mother for a follower of the Elder Gods, or a sunburst symbol for one of the Karish believers. But this, an arché, an empty half circle lacking so much as a name, served for one whose identity and allegiance were unknown, like the girl child whose image burned behind my breastbone.
“Hope you don’t mind my borrowing this,” I said softly to the mystery who slept here. “I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”
Using the arché, I gouged a great circle in the mound and left my eating knife in the center of it. The spells on my knife should lead me back to this grave. Now for the light.
To shape the mental pattern of my desire took less time than sketching a tree. Drawing magic to fill it, however, was wretchedly difficult. I was grasping at the dregs of my energies, a sensation much like yanking on the inside of my empty belly.
But eventually, I poured the waiting spell into the chilled iron of the arché and triggered it with my will.
A narrow white beam parted the night, as if a voiding spell had removed a shard of the darkness. Satisfaction warmed my spirit, well beyond the needs of the moment. Touching my forehead to the earth, I vowed a libation to the gods who had graced me with their gift, and renewed my coming-of-age pledge to return them service a thousandfold.
I set out again, amused to imagine what someone at the necropolis might think of the mysterious flaring light in the middle of the burial ground. Only then did I recall my obligation to forgo magic, save atBastien’s command. If the contract lacked a personal-defense clause, this would be certain violation. But then, Bastien would likely disapprove of my breaking a leg on the descent into the hirudo.
Moving more confidently, I soon reached the wall and the slot gate. The steep descent was slower, as the muddy ruts and rocks were glazed with ice. But cautious steps took me to the pigsty with head and limbs intact.
Coal smoke thick as fog in fen country hung in the ravine. The night itself . . . the frigid air . . . all was heavy, damp, and silent, as if I were the only soul left living in the world.
I rounded the piggery with quiet steps. Perhaps I could slip through unnoticed. Or perhaps the Guard Royale had chosen this day to scour the hirudo as they did from time to time, chasing the cursed Cicerons into the wilderness.
A few quercae forward into the ramshackle warren, and the faint drone of a hurdy-gurdy and the muted rapping of a tabor testified that not all its residents slept. I imagined I heard a trill of piping as well . . . and laughter. . . .
As a fiery lance out of the blackness, grief pierced my breast. Remeni-Masson family gatherings had ever been noisy, joyful celebrations. Games and music and a generous table. Contests of strength, speed, and magic, a rare balance to the strict discipline of our daily life. I had sorely regretted the extra work that kept me away from the last one. Until the Registry messenger had come from Pontia . . .
Keep focused, fool.
I muted my light to a deep red and reduced its span to the small circle of a lantern’s gleam, just enough to keep me on the muddy path and away from obstacles. The hirudo night
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