Lesson of the Fire (23 page)

When in Leiben, Sven and Erika spent as much
time as he could allow together, which included many private
lessons. She studied in earnest, soaking up everything like a
starving Mar eating soup. She also had a knack for teaching and
possessed a great deal of patience with students who learned so
slowly that Sven wanted to give up on them.

In an effort to protect the towns more, Sven
called upon his knowledge of reconnaissance, a word most Mar had
never heard. They called it scouting, when they did it, though the
word called mapmaker jokes to their minds because of the danger
involved. But Sven wanted to take it a step further, and in Leiben,
clearly as an excuse to stay by Erika longer, he built a hut and
inside it made the first reconnaissance stone.

It was a simple flat, rough-edged disc,
raised off the ground and made of clay. A spell that stretched the
limits of Sven’s skill sent rays of Knowledge in eight directions
for a distance of three miles once per hour, identifying Mar and
Drakes as specks of red and yellow light on the disc.

Sven knew its limits. Rays left too many
gaps, especially at the edges of the reconnaissance. A field of
Knowledge would be more effective. Also, an hour was too long an
interval, especially with a range of only three miles. Many Drakes
could march from beyond the spell’s range to the walls of the town
without being detected simply through lucky timing. It was the best
he could manage with the knowledge at his disposal, but he never
stopped looking for solutions to the problems.

Erbark studied with all the best warriors in
the Protectorates, and he worked with them to develop a training
program for all the members of the various militias. Officially, no
town’s militia answered to anyone outside the community, but in
practice all of them acted on Erbark’s suggestions and
recommendations as though they were orders from a commanding
general.

But warriors were easier to train than
wizards and took far less time. Sven didn’t even have time to
instruct Erbark anymore, much less the masses of rural Mar in his
protection. He was busy renewing magic, maintaining health and
expanding the Protectorates. Occasionally, Sven would consider
inviting a few younger wizards into the Protectorates to renew
spells and cure disease so he could concentrate on these issues.
But he was afraid they would try to take control. He remembered
what Erbark had told him of how Tosti and Brand had fought over
Rustiford. He couldn’t afford that conflict. There had to be
another way, another source of help.

A year later, less than a month before his
wedding, Sven had a breakthrough. He turned a spell he had learned
at the Academy as a sort of curiosity into the foundation for a
system of defenses any duxy would envy. Not only did the fifteen
towns already under his protection receive considerable
infrastructure improvements, but the new spell allowed Sven to
expand the reach of his Protectorates to thirty-nine towns.

Even so, he knew he couldn’t expand
indefinitely. Five more towns, maybe ten, and he would need another
wizard — whether that was one of his apprentices or some outsider
he could trust. But he kept adding new communities to the
Protectorates in his ever-widening spiral.

Summer was in full flower when Sven at last
stumbled upon Tortz, far south of Zerst. Even before he reached its
walls, he knew it had a magocrat. The force of militiamen who met
him before he was within sight of their village provided the first
hint, but others followed closely thereafter.

Chapter 18

“
It is easy to tell whether a Mar is
using magic by merely viewing the myst by drinking torutsen or
using Knowledge, since a wizard must move and use up the motes to
shape his effects. It is possible to conceal magic by exercising
the strictest control over the handling of the myst, drawing motes
only from the ground in such a way that it is nearly undetectable.
This was first perfected in Flecterra, but the number of Mar with
the strength and desire to regularly employ it can be counted on
the fingers of one hand.”

— Nightfire Tradition,

Nightfire’s Magical Primer

Horsa Verifien, another man from Rustiford
who had endured Nightfire’s tests, came into the room where Erika
was reading. His yellow cloak was emblazoned with a flame
proclaiming him a priest of Marrish.

“The Mardux wishes to speak to his wife,” he
said, smiling gently at Erika. “If you’ll excuse us, Pondr?”

But she was already through the door and
into Sven’s chambers. When she reached him, she took his hand and
looked deep into those green eyes she had fallen in love with so
long ago.

“Erika,” he said slowly. “They said I have
been sick for three spans now, delirious.”

She nodded. “You’re still alive, right?
That’s important.”

He coughed. “The army ... where is it?”

Nothing about me,
she thought, but said, “It’s just over the Flasten
border.”

“Where is Flasten?”

Her eyes were wet. “Don’t worry about it,
Sven. Just get better. The Council knows how to handle war.”

He shook his head, tried to sit up, but she
was able to push him back down.

“Council doesn’t know what war means,” he
said emphatically.

Suddenly his eyes blazed, at the ease she
could push him down maybe, and all the candles in the room caught
fire. The drapes blazed.

Erika screamed, threw herself away from the
bed instinctively, and then rushed it as the sheets caught fire.
The heat pushed her back. She scrabbled at the ground as heat began
to pulse through the very stones.

“The Council thinks of
battles!” Sven screamed, blood dribbling from the corner of his
mouth.
“The Council doesn’t know
war!”

Horsa fumbled with a spell, lost
concentration as heat licked out at him, turning the bed into a
pyre.

“Do something!” Erika screamed at him.

With a great inhalation, Horsa made a
pulling motion with both hands, and Erika felt the heat draw past
her, extinguishing the flames. A large section on the wall turned
black and cracked loudly as Horsa pushed the heat into it. Erika
fumbled through a medical kit, sought the morutsen. Finding the
flask, she uncorked it, gestured to Horsa.

“Hold him down,” she said, but Sven was
unconscious.

His body was a mass of burns, except for his
face. Only half of his face was blackened with soot, burned through
to the bone. It frightened her, his eyelid a soft patch of red,
seeming to glow from the white of the eyeball. The other side was a
rictus of pain and dismay, but this side was just a blasted smirk.
She dumped some morutsen down his throat anyway.

“Heal him.”

Horsa laid his hand on the good side of
Sven’s face, and Erika watched as Vitality rebuilt the tissue on
Sven’s body. There were few burns Energy could inflict that
Vitality could not heal, but she would never forget the blackened,
bloody, bone-showing side of his face. The damaged eye did not
heal, though, leaving a blank white orb that reflected the
flickering light of the fading tapestry fires.

“Oh, Sven,” she started to cry. “Oh, Sven,
what have you done?”

* * *

Erika!

Sven felt the pain, felt it on his body and
face as he felt it in his heart.

My love, did I hurt you?

And as he slipped out of consciousness,
battling whatever diseases ate him on the inside, he wished he had
told her about the army, and Bui, and the Protectorates, and
inside, he cried out to his patrons.

Why have you struck me down when the Mar
need me most?

* * *

“Stop where you are, wizard, or you face
death!” called the eldest warrior of the group.

Surprised by this reaction, Sven obeyed,
smiling and raising his hand in a gesture of peace that he had used
to win over more than forty villages and family homesteads.

“Peace in the swamp. I am Sven Takraf. I
come without malice.”

In response, the warriors advanced upon him.
Sven was certain he could protect himself from the four
militiamen.

“Who sent you?” demanded a clean-shaven,
middle-aged man whose hood hung low on his face.

Sven took a step backward, confused by this
question, perturbed by the man’s lack of facial hair. He scratched
his own bare chin nervously. “No one sent me. I am the guardian of
several villages north of here.”

“A magocrat!” the clean-shaven man spat.

“No!” He did not want these
people to hate him. “They make their own laws. I merely protect
them from Drakes and disease as best I can.”
Why did that voice seem familiar?

Sven reached for Mobility in case he had to
flee.

“Take him,” the clean-shaven man
shouted.

The warriors didn’t move, and, for a moment,
Sven thought they were afraid of him. Then an invisible force
struck him in the gut, doubling him over. His spell tumbled away
half-formed, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl. The
militiamen stood stock still, and more attacks landed. Cheek, shin,
knees, kidneys. Sven recognized Power attacks when he felt
them.

He gathered Knowledge
hastily. If he knew which of these men was the wizard, he could
fight him. The colored fog of the myst materialized. Blue motes of
Power shimmered around
all four of
them!
They’re all wizards!

Sven realized his mistake too late. His body
was now a mass of welts and bruises. The barrage halted briefly
before a wave of force knocked him to his knees. Then one of the
militiamen was holding back his head while a second poured the
contents of a leather flask down his throat. Sven spat out the
sweet liquid violently. He tried to summon more myst, but none
would answer his call.

He remembered a lecture from his days as a
student.

Morutsen. I’ve already been pacified.

“I submit to your scrutiny,” he shouted
before the rough hands again pulled back his head, this time
holding his nose.

The clean-shaven man bowed over him, pouring
another vial into Sven’s mouth. “And scrutinized shall you be, Sven
Takraf.”

Brand Halfin!

A sharp pain on his temple sent him into
oblivion before he could greet the fellow student of Nightfire, the
first slave taken from Rustiford and taught magic.

* * *

Tortz?

Sven woke again as someone moved him. A
sickeningly sweet liquid was dripped in his mouth, and he tried to
spit it out.

“Hold still, Mardux. This is for your own
safety.”

“Horsa?”

“The very same, Sven. Don’t bother opening
your eyes. There’s no light in here anyway.”

The words hung in the air.

What happened to the light?

And as he was laid back down, he fell
asleep, the taste of morutsen in his throat.

Why Tortz?

It is where I learned the lesson of the
fuel.

Chapter 19

“
Bera’s Unwritten Laws is that body of
law dealing with the teaching of magic to apprentices. The original
laws predate the invention of writing in Marrishland and were
passed by word of mouth from master to student for generations
before being committed to paper. For this reason, they are still
called the Unwritten Laws.”

— Weard Oda Kalidus,

Introduction to Bera’s Unwritten Laws

When Sven woke, it was in near darkness.
Only a small hole in the ceiling let in a dim light. Sitting up to
look around, his head spun and pounded in fury. Sven squinted and
rubbed his throbbing temples. He was in an adobe hut with no
windows or doors. Even the floor had been covered in stone tiles
sealed with clay.

This is a prison, built long before my
arrival. What is Brand doing here?

They had left him only his clothes and
cloak. He considered summoning the myst to see if the morutsen had
worn off, yet, but decided against it. He didn’t doubt Brand’s
people were watching him. It would only arouse suspicion if he used
magic, and it would earn him another dose of morutsen, at best.

Torutsen helps us use magic and tastes
bitter. Morutsen prevents us from using it and is sickly sweet.
Both come from the kalysut tree. The gods love their mysteries.

The walls of the prison looked thick enough
to withstand the hammering of Power, and Sven certainly lacked the
skill to teleport to freedom. If Brand wished to keep him helpless,
his wizards would give Sven more morutsen. If Brand thought he
could trust Sven, his wizards might not. In any case, Sven would
not have any opportunity to escape unless they let him out of this
prison.

He found a chamber pot and made use of
it.

There seemed little point in resisting his
imprisonment. Brand had recognized him, at least. There was a good
chance he would eventually talk to the prisoner. Sven stretched out
on the grass-stuffed pallet and tried to get comfortable in spite
of his bruises and other injuries.

My safety is in your hands
now,
he prayed silently.

At last, he slept.

“Welcome to Tortz, Weard Takraf,” a gruff
voice called down from the hole above, and a small flask tumbled to
the floor. Sven recognized the voice as one of the militiamen from
outside the town.

He sat up. It was morning outside his
prison. “Peace in the swamp, sir.”

“Peace i’the swamp an’ good mornin’. The
mayor’ll talk to you. Drink that, an’ I’ll lower the ladder.”

Sven obeyed, eager to get away from this
prison cell. The flask contained morutsen, of course. Even if Brand
was willing to talk, he wouldn’t be careless with a wizard
prisoner. Sven considered what he would do if their roles were
reversed and discovered no clear answer.