Spellscribed: Conviction (39 page)

“I was originally just spellscribed.” Endrance stated. “But since I am half Mercanian, it seemed to be some kind of primer to teach my body how to carve channels out of my meridians.” He didn’t say how his wrist was starting to itch where the tattoo lines were continuing their crumbling advance up his arm.

“I didn’t know it was possible.” Pullar said. “From what our elders say, Mercanians could only reproduce with each other. To think one of them and a mundane human could have child...”

“Yeah.” Endrance said, not yet willing to tell him how his mother was an Archmagus and no normal human. “So think of me as really young for your species, but just as long lived.”

“Yes, I’ve heard your mages live lives nearly as long as ours.” Pullar stated. “I will start explaining things to you as I would a child.”

“Thank you,” Endrance said, smiling.

* * *

Endrance finished his first session with Pullar with many of his initial questions about elven politics answered, but each answer opened up more questions that Pullar set aside for another day. Valzoa arrived, wearing a different, but equally expensive looking outfit, and led him across a beautiful stone circle nestled in the base of the two great trees. The stone was smooth and polished, and looked gray until Endrance leaned down to look closely. The stone was composed of millions of tiny white and black specks dispersed throughout the material of the stone. It was almost hypnotic how many patterns his eyes could pick out of the sea of polished specks.

The Dusktree was equally magnificent, but the color of the wood was several shades darker and redder than the Dawntree. Valzoa led him up the over two dozen flights of stairs, until he came to a set of doors that were embossed with the familiar dagger insignia of the Poisonblades.

“This is the only room where a Poisonblade is allowed to be armed within the tree.” Valzoa explained. “Each of the accomplished guilds of civil servants have a similar room.”

“They have rooms in the same building as their king?” Endrance asked. His legs were already burning from the stairs, but Valzoa seemed unaffected.

Valzoa nodded. “Yes. The more prestigious the guild, the higher up the tree, and therefore, the closer to the king they are allowed to be.”

“So only the most trusted guilds can be close to the rulership.” Endrance realized.

Valzoa nodded. “Not only that, but any potential assassin would have to get past all the trusted guilds to get to one of the monarchs. Both trees are like this.”

“That’s pretty clever, I’ll admit.” Endrance said.

“Civil servants take their jobs very seriously.” Valzoa answered. “Now, you get in there and try to survive.”

“Just one question.” Endrance asked as he pushed the door open. “How far up are the Poisonblades, compared to the other assassin’s guild?”

Valzoa shrugged. “They’re near the highest you can get.” He said. “Only the Nightsever guild and Twilight guild are on the same floor as this one.”

Endrance walked into the room and hesitated. A figure stood in the center of a round room. The room was plain wood, smoothly grown but unpolished. It was a circle thirty feet across, with a sloping dome ceiling fifteen feet up that hosted a light crystal at the apex.

The figure in the center was dressed in a deep black hooded robe, detailed with varying shades of green along the hem and cuffs. Tanned leather gloves were clasped together in the front, and a bone mask adorned the wearer’s face, the smooth featureless visage bearing only holes for the eyes.  Despite the eyeholes he could only see darkness within.

“Greetings, Endrance of Wayrest, Ambassador of Ironsoul and Spengur of Balator.” The subject spoke, the voice muffled by the mask in a way that made it impossible to determine who it was. He tentatively extended his senses, and could feel that while the elf before him did not have an aura in the same way that humans did, the robes and mask were indeed enchanted. Additionally, he detected another source of magic on their person. He retracted his senses quickly, bowing his head.

“That is becoming a lengthy title.” He said humbly. “Perhaps I can just be addressed as Endrance?”

“I would have resorted to your surname, but we have no record of you having one.” The elf replied. “So, it seemed that you intended on going by your title.”

Endrance looked back up to the figure. “I… don’t have one.” He admitted. “A surname, I mean. I… the village I grew up in was the greatest family that I have. I never really thought that my family name was that important, but as of late it seems to be becoming prominent in my life.”

“You seem quite accepting of things as they are.” The figure responded. “Perhaps there will be hope for you after all.”

“Thank you.” Endrance said. “I was under the impression that Jalyin would be teaching me?”

The masked figure shook its head. “No.” it responded sharply. “Jalyin is a trained assassin of the Poisonblades, and her talents lie… elsewhere from teaching others.”

The figure drew an iron rod from its belt the length of its forearm. There were clear gems set in the ends, and the rod was carved with arcane sigils. Endrance felt a buzz of power come from the object as it came to life.

“You will put your gear and staff by the door.” The figure instructed.

Endrance turned and walked back towards the wall next to the door.

“You will also strip down to your underclothes.” The instructor added.

Endrance stumbled, but caught himself. “Strip?” Endrance asked.

“Yes.”

He sighed, unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t like he hadn’t already been seen naked by way too many people anyway. He stripped down to his underclothes, and turned to look back at the trainer.

“All right.” He said.

The elf gestured with the rod to his bracers. “Those too.” It said. Endrance unclasped them with a sigh, and tossed them on top of his clothes.

“All right. Now what?” Endrance asked. He was self-conscious, not of his near nakedness, but rather the slowly advancing crumble of his meridians. The grooves in his skin were spreading down his wrist onto his forearm, clearing out the black stuff of the tattoos, and instead, leaving behind gaps where his surface meridians had once been. It didn’t hurt, and wasn’t an illusion. Both Endrance and all of the Draugnoa confirmed they could feel the carvings in his skin. They were about the thickness of a fingernail, and they didn’t stretch or pull apart when he played with his skin. Despite their open nature, they weren’t very susceptible to their dimensions being changed.

Regardless of the seemingly painless nature of the change, he hadn’t yet had the courage to actually use the channels. He didn’t know if the spells would even work.

The figure stepped forward and tapped the rod on his left shoulder. The instant it touched his skin, pain bloomed through his body from that point; like a tidal wave he had no way of being prepared for. Endrance cried out in pain, and the next thing he knew, he was laying on his side on the wooden floor.

“Get up.” The elf demanded. “Now you know what this rod does. Yes?”

Endrance was shaking as he climbed to his feet. “Yes. Ouch.”

“This is a training instrument of the Poisonblades.” The instructor stated plainly. “It’s an oft-used one at that. It is a goad to ensure obedience.”

“Got it.” Endrance said. The instructor reached out and tapped the rod to his right shoulder before he could react. Pain slammed him into the ground again.

“What?” Endrance exclaimed. “What did I do?”

“The instrument is also used to teach you how to handle pain, not just avoid it.” The instructed answered. “Sometimes success means being able to fight through the pain.”

Endrance got onto his hands and knees, starting to stand. The instructor tapped the rod to him, flooring him again.

“You seem to have a very low tolerance to pain.” The instructor said. “That is distressing.”

“I thought I had an excellent pain tolerance.” Endrance snapped when he could draw breath again. “But apparently not.”

The instructor looked over the rod. “Hmm.” it said. Endrance felt the buzz of the rod’s power reducing considerably. “Someone seems to have left that on full power.” The trainer observed. “I would guess that means Jalyin intended for you to take the crash course in survival training.”

Endrance shook his head, preparing to move at the trainer’s slightest motion. “Yeah?” he asked warily.

The trainer nodded its head, features obscured by cowl and mask. “But don’t worry.” The trainer said almost cheerfully. “I’ll only work you half to death tonight.”

The trainer raised the rod. “Now, start running laps.”

Endrance took off running. This was going to be the part of each day that he was going to hate.

* * *

Four hours later, Valzoa arrived to find Endrance unconscious on the floor outside of the training room, his property and clothing dumped in a pile on top of him. He was alive and breathing, so the mage had at least not insulted the trainer in any capacity. The elf sighed, crouching down next to the unconscious mage and shaking his head.

The door cracked open, and the trainer that Jalyin had hired stepped out. The robes and mask were to be worn at any time their presence could be traced back to the training room, so Valzoa understood that the trainer would have no identity until they returned to the changing room. It was specifically intended to foil attempts to discern the trainer’s identity until they could leave unadorned. Trainers never worked without other trainers of the same guild working at the same time, in order to prevent identification by elimination.

Assassins were the sort to hold grudges, and the position of trainer was an important, but unenviable one.

“That badly, huh?” Valzoa asked. Not looking at the trainer directly. Instead, he focused on the posture of the person and the position of their feet.

“He did remarkably well, considering I had the training rod at maximum pain and he remained conscious the whole time.”

“He’s most definitely not conscious now.” Valzoa observed.

The trainer shrugged ambivalently. “He teetered out the door when we finished, carrying his things. He must be tired.”

“Hmm…” Valzoa considered the mage. “Very well. He has duties after training, so I would appreciate it if you left him conscious at the end of these sessions.”

The trainer stiffened, as if offense had been taken to his request. “The Poisonblades do not take orders from you.” The voice said, sounding menacing. “This is done as a favor for Jalyin, and nothing more.”

Valzoa didn’t shift much, but subtly brought one hand to touch the pommel of his rapier as he turned to look up at the trainer. “Do not threaten me, Wisteria.” He said, taking a guess. “I made such a request because he is, at the end of the day, the Ambassador of Ironsoul.”

The trainer stiffened, but was too shocked to interrupt his response. “He cannot be addlebrained when he returns to his kingdom, lest you want to explain to your superiors that you felt that it was a good idea to scramble the brain of a human ambassador.”

“How did…” The trainer started to ask.

“You have a very distinctive gait, and your stance tells me you are ready, in case I were to move, which tells me you know who I am and what I’m capable of.” Valzoa replied. “In that case, there were only three people who saw my exchange with the matron, one being the matron herself, the other being a male, and the last, the trainer Wisteria. You’re too light to be the male, and if you should somehow be the matron, I feel that it would be more polite to assume you are not.”

The figure hesitated, and then reached up and took off the mask. Valzoa blinked twice and changed from his crouch to kneel on one knee. He bowed his head respectfully.

The female was Sha’hdi, but bore the signs of the latter half of middle age, bearing many creases to her otherwise symmetrical face, that marked her as being several hundred years old at the least. A lock of black hair slipped from under the hood to curl across her forehead, and golden catlike eyes glimmered all too familiarly at him from underneath perfect dark lashes.

“Your reasoning is a strong as ever, though you did err on the side of caution, which I am most approving of.”

“Matron.” He said. “It is an honor for you to grace me with your presence.”

The matron of the Poisonblades smirked at him. “An honor? Says the one who bested one of the greatest assassins in four hundred years in a fight.”

“It was a fair fight.” Valzoa offered.

The matron scoffed. “Hardly.”  She snapped. “I had every advantage in my own hall, and you still managed to best me.”

Valzoa shrugged. “I would think that, if we were to do it again, it would turn out very differently.”

“Indeed.” She replied.

“I am, however, both gladdened that the most accomplished assassin of the guild is personally training my friend, yet also perplexed.” Valzoa said, standing.

The matron looked down at the young mage. “My reasons are my own, Valzoa.” She said sharply.

Valzoa turned to look down at the man. As they watched his breathing, Valzoa noticed a very subtle change that he hadn’t seen before. The lines of the man’s tattoos were rippling nearly imperceptibly.

“Jalyin has saved my daughter’s life several times in the last thirty years.” The matron offered after several seconds of silence. “It was going to be her training him.”