Seeds of Rebellion (60 page)

“Tell me how you discovered your aptitude for Edomic,” Maldor invited.

She paused. This was a dangerous subject. He didn’t want anyone using Edomic. She could get people in trouble. What did he want to hear?

“I know you have skill with Edomic,” Maldor said. “Be forthright. If we can come to an understanding, you may save your friends a great deal of suffering.”

Rachel explained how she first learned to ignite fires. Instead of naming Drake, she claimed she had learned from a stranger in the woods. She told how Chandra had taught her to move objects, because Chandra was dead and Maldor couldn’t harm her. Rachel admitted that the more she practiced, the more will she could force into her commands.

“How do you feel when you execute an Edomic command?” Maldor asked, the eyes of his puppet watching her intently.

“Good,” she said. He watched in silence. “Really good. More alive. It’s hard to describe.”

“No description necessary,” Maldor said. “I know precisely what you mean.” He regarded her quietly. “I have wavered of late in my opinion of Edomic adepts. Someday, perhaps far in the future, I may regret not having an heir. Do I really wish to see my knowledge perish with me? Show me what you can do. Move something in the room.”

Rachel hesitated, trying to strategize. Should she downplay her abilities? She could try to make a tiny Edomic command seem challenging. Or would it be more advantageous if Maldor thought she had real potential? If he was looking for a possible heir, the latter might be the case. Then again, he might only have mentioned an heir to fool her.

“Just use your talent,” Maldor encouraged. “Show me. You’ve been captured. Your friends have been captured. Your only leverage is my interest in you. If you have a gift for speaking Edomic, I assure you that my interest will increase.”

She looked around the room. A wooden cask roughly the size of a watermelon caught her eye. She issued a terse command that sent it crashing up into the ceiling. The cask fell heavily back to the floor, cracking without fully rupturing.

Conrad burst into the room, sword in hand. Torvic held up a
palm to stop him. “I asked for a demonstration of her Edomic abilities,” Maldor explained. Conrad nodded and withdrew.

The displacer puppet turned his attention back to Rachel. “Impressive. The cask did not appear light, and you handled it with ease. You have come a long way in a short while. Tell me, how large of a fire can you ignite spontaneously?”

“At least the size of a person,” Rachel answered.

“Interesting. What else can you do? I know you spent time with the charm woman.”

“I can influence animals.”

“Many accomplished wizards never master that ability. I would like you to try an exercise.” He shared with her the Edomic command to summon water out of the air, and the command to hold it in the form of the sphere. “Then you can call heat to make the water boil. Try it, please.”

Rachel asked him to repeat the commands, which he did. Mustering her willpower, she spoke the first command, trying to envision the water particles all around her, an invisible mist. As she felt the water responding, she spoke the second command, visualizing where she wanted the water to gather. Soon a sphere of water just smaller than a racquetball hovered between her and Torvic. While using her will to hold the sphere in place, she summoned heat until the water steamed and boiled. Once the water reached a boil, it became indefinably slippery, fell, and splattered against the floor.

When the water hit the floor, Rachel let out an exhausted breath. It had taken all of her focus to hold the water together. She felt like she had set down a heavy weight.

“I am very impressed,” Maldor said. “You have never gathered water from the air before?”

Rachel shook her head. “Never.”

“You have real promise,” Maldor mused. “Beguiling potential. Of course, it would require centuries of extensive tutelage and hard work if you were to approach that potential. But over time you could develop into a sorceress of formidable abilities. How would you like to live for a thousand years and uncover secrets mortal man has never known to wonder about?”

“That sounds interesting,” she said, partly intrigued, mostly trying not to offend.

“The secrets of Edomic are lost to Lyrian,” Maldor said. “I am the last custodian of that knowledge. I am the only one left who can teach you. And you may be the most worthy student I will ever encounter. You could be a terrible threat to me. My survival instincts warn me to crush you in your infancy. To help you develop would be to repeat the tragic folly of wizards past. Yet how awful to lose all of that promise! Adepts have become so rare. You are young and innocent. If we could strike the proper arrangement, complete with certain safeguards, this could evolve into a mutually beneficial relationship. How determined are you to return home?”

“I really want to,” Rachel said frankly. “I worry about my parents. They probably think I’m dead.”

“Would you walk away from the potential to become a wizard of universal renown, profound knowledge, and unfathomable power simply to see your parents? Would you walk away from centuries of meaningful life for decades of mediocrity? I know firsthand that Edomic does not function in the Beyond. Here you could be extraordinary. There you won’t be nearly so exceptional.”

Rachel considered the question. Maldor was evil, so to learn from him might mean forsaking everything she was. But what if the alternative was death? And what if she could strike a bargain to save her friends? Did part of her want to use the excuse of saving her friends as an excuse to gain knowledge and power?

“You’ve been to the Beyond?” Rachel asked, hoping to stall.

“I have. Among other things, it is where I hid after Zokar fell.”

“Really? How long were you there?”

“Lyrian and the Beyond are growing apart,” Maldor said. “They have been for millennia. Eventually there will be no way left to cross from one to the other. It is impossible to ascertain when that day will come. The passage of time does not always correspond between our realities. A year here might be ten there. A year there might be a hundred here. The ratio is inconstant. You may go home and find yourself wandering your world decades before you were born, or a thousand years in the future. I once spent a few days in the Beyond, and hundreds of years passed here in the interim.”

“But Jason went home and came back pretty close in time,” Rachel said.

“As I mentioned, the passage of time between our realities is inconstant,” Maldor said. “On my first excursion to the Beyond, the passage of time matched up precisely.”

“I might never see my parents again,” Rachel realized with despair that seemed to sink into her bones. “Even if I get home, it might not be home anymore.”

“Whereas here you could become an ageless sorceress of incomprehensible power. You could make Lyrian into your personal paradise. You could make it a paradise for all who live here. But to do so, you would need to stay. And you would need to learn.”

Rachel stared away from the gray-haired puppet speaking for Maldor. This new information changed everything. Could he be lying? What if he wasn’t? What if she went home to a future where pollution had wiped out all life? What if she went home to a past where she would be mistreated? What if home became even more foreign than Lyrian? How would it feel to give a simple Edomic
command and get no response? Here she had made friends. Here she was discovering powers.

Her eyes returned to Torvic, her mind to Maldor. “What about my friends?”

“Everything would depend on our arrangement,” Maldor replied. “I have never truly negotiated with the weak or the foolish. You are neither. I have given you much to consider. Take some time. If you do not join me, I will not torture you. I will not keep you imprisoned. You are too dangerous. I will kill you. Your friends I will torture, unless you, perhaps, intervene. Consider your fate. Ponder theirs. Be wise. This is no game. Lives and destinies are at stake. We will converse in person soon enough. Please tell Conrad that I would like to speak with Farfalee.”

And the conversation was over.

The gray-haired man stood and opened the storeroom door. Rachel overheard him relaying that Maldor wished to speak to Farfalee. He was no longer speaking as Maldor. He was Torvic again.

Conrad replaced her gag and led her with a hand on her elbow. Rachel felt dazed as she returned to the others in the common room. Jason looked concerned. She tried to smile. Something about the attempt only made him look more concerned.

Are you all right?
Corinne inquired tentatively.

Not really,
Rachel conveyed.
I think I will be. We’ll see.

When Jason had been captured, Maldor had offered him a job. There had been strings attached, of course. Jason had denied him, although it had meant imprisonment and torture.

But would Jason have made the same choice if he hadn’t been captured alone? What if by accepting the offer, he could have saved his friends?

Rachel did not want to die. She didn’t want her friends to suffer
and die. But she didn’t want to become evil either. She didn’t want to work for a monster.

What could Maldor teach her? How powerful could she become? What if she learned enough to betray Maldor and free her friends? What if she bided her time and eventually overthrew him? Was that wishful thinking?

She tried not to picture her parents. Since arriving in Lyrian, the hope of finding a way home had kept her going. Now she knew that even if she found a way home, it might not get her back to her family. She might end up trapped in the wrong time. She might wish she had never left Lyrian. She would probably have no way back.

Rachel tried to be pragmatic. Eventually she would have grown up and left the nest. She would have become busy with college and work. She probably would have started her own family at some point. Maybe coming to Lyrian was like leaving the nest a little early. With less visitation. What if Maldor didn’t exist? Could she build a life here?

But of course Maldor was part of the equation. How long would it take to reach Felrook? She would soon be faced with the toughest choice of her life. A choice that could end her life and the lives of her friends. A choice that could ruin her life, maybe even her soul. She wished none of this were happening. She wished she could stop thinking.

After a time, Farfalee returned to the common room, and Ferrin departed with Conrad for an interview. Rachel sat in silence, watching as the grim-faced soldiers tried to ignore their prisoners while also watching over them.

Words intruded on her thoughts without warning.
I need your eyes. Look around the room. Concentrate on sending the details to me.

Galloran?

We’ll get you out. It has to be now. Maldor will send more guards. He knows that to take you will end the war. Who is left?

Rachel tried to keep her expression casual as she glanced around the common room. The cavernous space comfortably accommodated dozens of guards. So many! She focused on sending everything she saw to Galloran’s mind.
They killed Kerick. And Raz, one of the three drinlings who joined us. And Nedwin disappeared.

I see what you’re sending. You’re all bound. Stay low. Keep your head. This will have to be messy.

She felt a small surge of hope.
How many are with you?

Three.
See you inside.

And Galloran was no longer in her mind. Rachel’s eyes roved the room. Three besides Galloran? How could such a small group take on fifty? She should warn the others. But she was gagged.

Corinne?

He’s coming,
Corinne answered.
He doesn’t want me to say anything until it starts. He says the attack needs to be a complete surprise.

The front door to the common room opened slowly. A stooped old man in a cloak toddled inside, tapping his way with a cane. A grimy rag bound his eyes.

“Inn’s closed,” said a soldier near the door. “Who let you in?”

“I always eat here midmorning,” replied a raspy voice belligerently. “They give me fish.”

The soldier who had spoken walked toward the hunched figure. “Not today, codger. Imperial business. Out you go.”

The old man tore the blindfold away, dropped the walking stick, and drew a sleek sword that gleamed like a mirror. The same motion that produced the blade delivered a lethal slash to the unprepared soldier.

Rachel started with a gasp, partly because of the sudden attack, partly because Galloran had eyes: one brown, the other blue. Three
soldiers died before anyone had weapons ready. Once the soldiers reacted, it made little difference.

Rachel had never seen anyone move like Galloran. He tended to dodge attacks rather than deflect them. He did not duck or twist an inch more than necessary to make his adversary miss. After each errant blow, Galloran ended the opponent with a quick stroke and moved on. His subtle feints were just enough to prompt lethal mistakes. His expression of quiet certainty was much more intimidating than ferocious scowls or shouted threats. When it was necessary to redirect a sword or spear, he expended just enough effort to frustrate the strike, and then hastily dispatched the attacker. Every thrust, every stride, every parry was measured and precise. No effort was wasted. Somehow he managed to avoid most of the fighting and skip straight to the killing blows.