The Blackguard (Book 2) (3 page)

He couldn’t find that pit of magic again, though. He wiggled his fingers over the cup, but the only thing he felt was embarrassment as Henrick looked over and grinned. He cursed inwardly at the dry cup of dirt. Frustrated, he looked up at the call of a ferath and thought he saw something in its nest. His focused in on the nest as he did targets in the field, then realized that he had felt that pull within him. The nest appeared closer and glimmered with some piece of metal the ferath had stolen. Alador looked back down at the cup. He’d felt that magic. He closed his eyes, seeking that feeling again. As he did so, he absently ran his finger around the lip of the cup. Slowly, he found a small glimmer of the strange pull. He felt… something… like a string inside of him that stretched from his core to his fingers. He focused on it and imagined the dirt becoming wet. He jumped when his father spoke.

“Very good.” Henrick lounged with the reins in one hand and his pipe in the other. The wagon still lumbered along the road.

Alador looked down at the cup just as a strange fog dissipated from it; the dirt on top was damp. He grinned triumphantly, he’d done it. He’d pulled magic without having to be angry.

Henrick took the cup from him and scooped out the top layer of dampened dirt.  “Do it again,” he stated softly.

Alador took the cup and frowned at his father. “Why?” he asked. He’d done what he was told; he wanted to learn something more useful than just making dirt wet.

Henrick puffed smoke into a ring before he answered, “Took you too long.”

Alador sighed softly and worked to do it again…and again, and again, continuing this exercise throughout the day. He would dampen the dirt, and his father would scoop out the wet layer.

Whenever Alador complained, his father would state that he was taking too long. Finally, when Alador was at his wits end, he thrust the cup at Henrick. “You do it then!” The dirt had dampened within seconds this last time.  His head was pounding and he truly just wanted to close his eyes.

Henrick took the cup and then just handed it back to Alador. He did not say any words or make any motion, but when Alador looked down at the dirt in the cup, it was bone dry.

Alador looked up at his father in amazement. “How did you do that?”

“Practice, Alador. Could you shoot a bow with any accuracy when you first learned?” Henrick pulled the korpen over to a small widening of the road where the cliff ledge high above cast some shade against the sun, near a patch of grass for the korpen.

Alador was grateful for the stop to stretch his legs, but he realized that he was tired and starving. “Well, no.” He understood what his father was saying, though: he had to practice just lining up the arrow before he could even begin to worry about being able to shoot.

“It is a matter of honing your ability to just feel that center of magic whenever you wish. More complicated spells will require more energy. In a battle, you cannot worry about the time it takes you to find that center. You have to be able to touch it without thought. It needs to be as habitual as breathing.” Henrick also hopped down. “Get something to eat. You have been at it for some time, and I need to send a message to my brother.”

Alador started to say something about that, but then realized that with the automatic ease his father had when drying the cup, he probably had whatever magic he needed to send a simple message. Alador moved around to the back of the wagon and grabbed some cheese and fruit, then walked to the water and sat on a rock to eat. The mist cast off by the river felt welcome against the summer heat. He looked around, appreciating his surroundings and realizing that he really loved this land. A lump formed in his throat as he realized he was going to leave it.

Silverport was on the coast, where there would be nothing but fog and rain, where everything would be green and damp. Alador gazed across the sheer cliffs that were streaked with the red of iron, or spattered with white. The white powder that formed at the edges of the river gave more evidence of the minerals here. He watched as a ferath dove into deeper water and came up with a wiggling fish.  Alador smiled, remembering when he and Gregor had tried to shoot the fishing birds right above the shore, so they could get two meals from one arrow. Gregor had won that day. Alador’s smile faded, and he sunk back into his misery.

Henrick joined him after a few moments, and for a while they sat and watched in silence.  Finally, his father spoke, looking off into the distance. “Take water to the korpen, and then I want to show you something.”

Alador nodded. He handed the last of the cheese over to his father and went to fetch the trough and bucket. The shape of their heads kept korpen from being able to drink out of round containers, so they used a light, flat trough to water them. It had taken three buckets before the two korpen returned to feeding on the grass. Alador put the trough and bucket away and went to join his father, who was still watching the river. Henrick had two mugs and handed Alador one filled with the cold river water. He drank it gratefully, realizing that he was as thirsty as the korpen. He finished off his mug and went back for two more.

When Alador had finished and his mug lay empty, Henrick looked at him. “Fill it with water using magic,” he instructed softly. “It will take more effort than dampening the dirt, so you will need to pull harder on that center.”

Alador closed his eyes, running his finger around the lip. He pulled hard, imagining the cup filling with water. When he could pull no longer, he looked down. There was water there in the cup, but it wasn’t full. He looked at his father, disappointed in himself.

“It takes practice, do not fret. It is good enough for our lesson. Come.” Henrick got up off the rock he’d perched on and headed over to the cliff, where he
pointed at a tuft of green grass that was clinging for survival among the red rocks. “Stand here.”

Alador looked at his father, puzzled, but he did as he was instructed. Henrick replaced Alador’s cup with his own empty one. “Do it again.” He moved a good distance back from Alador.

Alador looked at his father puzzled but obediently closed his eyes. He pulled hard at the center of magic, imagining the cup full of water, his fingering running around the lip. When he could pull no longer, he looked down in the cup. There was water, but a lot less of it. He looked at his father with a frustrated sigh.

“
Look down, Alador,” Henrick said, pointing to the ground.

Alador looked down. The tuft of grass he stood on was partly dried and brown. He looked at it in confusion, then up to Henrick with alarm. Had he just killed the grass
?

”
You cannot make something from nothing. Magic pulls from the world around you. Just as it takes the energy from you, it also takes from the world around it. You were able to pull more water by the river because water was before you. Here, the water in the grass was the closest source, outside yourself.” Henrick watched his son closely as he explained this vital lesson.  Alador looked up at his father in alarm. “I can hurt people just by pulling for my magic?”

“
If you do not focus correctly, if you just pull impulsively or in anger or ignorance, yes.  You must learn to focus where the magic pulls from as you gain in your skills. The reason you were so thirsty is because you have been dampening the cup of dirt from yourself, me, the korpen, and the air around you.” Henrick continued to watch his son with sharp scrutiny.

A
lador knelt down with sorrow as he touched the blades of dried grass. He had not known he would kill it. He looked up at his father with a glimmer of understanding. “I had no idea,” he whispered. He’d always thought magic was some glamorous power of mystery that some people could just reach out and create. He had no idea that to do so, they had to harvest from the world around them. “I could kill someone creating water?”

“Not likely, but with the powers of water granted by a blue dragon, you can kill by pulling water from them,” Henrick said bluntly. “It would be a frightfully horrid death.” He smiled slightly at that thought. “I have only met two mages strong enough to do it, but the cost to them would be great, as well. Killing another with slow, deliberate intent is a warping of the gifts that magic offers. It warps the mage in a manner he cannot repair. You cannot kill another slowly and not twist something within yourself, Alador. Remember this: magic is not without cost regardless of its wonder and magnificence.” Henrick looked at his son with a seriousness he did not usually exhibit. He walked off, leaving Alador kneeling by that tuft of dead grass.

Alador sat thinking beside that tuft of grass for a long while until he noticed his father waiting for him on the wagon seat. Henrick had a pipe out and looked like he’d been waiting for some time, so Alador struggled up and put the mug behind the seat. Neither of them said anything. He had been excited at the beginning of the day after he’d pulled the water to dampen the dirt for the first time, magic had been exciting and wondrous. As his father had made him do the same cantrip over and over again, Alador began to feel it as work, no easier than mining or woodcutting. The realization that magic was wondrous and required effort had only just occurred to him. The few enchanters and healers he had seen use magic seemed to do so with such ease that he had thought it an innate skill, as Tentret’s ability to draw or Dorien’s ability to mold metal into his desired object from only a description.

Now, Henrick had taught him that magic was deadly. Alador had known it could be used to kill already; the tales of the Great War he’d grown up hearing made that clear enough. This was different though, just drawing the energy for magic could be deadly.

Alador wanted to run to Gregor or Mesi and share everything that had happened today, but the thought reminded him once more of his losses. He lapsed once more into sullen thought while he sat, staring at the spiny backs of the korpen as they plodded along. The silence continued until Alador smelled smoke faintly in the air and saw its source in the distance. He looked over at Henrick in surprise; Alador hadn’t considered that they would pass by any villages. He should have, roads were supposed to connect the villages, but no one had passed them on the road thus far. Not that Alador was complaining…with so few travelers, it was unlikely that a word of him or his crime had reached any other village yet.

“That is Oldmeadow. Nice place, for the most part,” Henrick mused. “They raise fowl and make a good apple mead. We will stop there for the night.” He kicked up the korpen a little; they’d slowed until they were barely moving. “Tonight, you are my apprentice. You will go by Al and nothing more. Understood?” Henrick looked over at him, the warning clear in his eyes. “I do not care to spoil my good name by toting about that I am prone to stealing fugitives from the noose.”

Alador opened his mouth to argue, but then snapped it shut, swallowing hard and nodding. It wasn’t really a lie – Henrick was instructing him – and Alador didn’t want to be the one to bring the news that he had killed a man. He thought for a moment. “Anything special I should be doing as an apprentice?”

“Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. A travelling enchanter is not always welcome and, as such, responds to the mood of the village. They should be in a fair mood, however, as last night was the circle.” Henrick looked over at Alador.

Alador breath caught at his father’s words. Last night should have been his night of passage, the final step to becoming an adult. Alador had devastated the entire ritual when he’d killed Trelmar. He doubted anyone was in a fair mood at home.

“Understood,” he answered quietly. He reminded himself that he hadn’t wanted the women in the village to choose him, anyway.  But the truth was the fact that he’d left before the circle was a weight he couldn’t shake. He felt like he’d left something incomplete.

The time spent traveling to the village passed in silence. Alador watched the landscape: the terrain was rugged, with large boulders bigger than the wagon lying on either side of the winding road that crawled along the river bank. Vegetation had been sparse for much of Alador’s journey so far, but now the rock cliff curved away from the river and opened up into a beautiful valley. Trees filled with green apples lined the road, extending outward in long rows. Chickens, ducks and panzets, large birds with long legs, prized for their long purple feathers, wandered freely in the orchids. Alador had seen panzet feathers used sometimes in special dress or ritual clothes, and he knew people ate the bird, but he’d never tasted it.

The birds stood out starkly against the trimmed grass that surrounded the fruit trees, and their clucking and calling filled the air with a discordant, yet magical song. Alador opened his mouth to ask how the villagers kept the grass so short, but closed it when he saw a flock of grey and tan rock sheep, whose tightly-curled fleece could mimic the rocky inclines around them. They often hid from their predators merely by curling up. They didn’t camouflage well in the orchard, but Alador doubted they had much to worry about in the way of predators.

Word of the red dragon that had attacked Smallbrook had apparently been sent out: it didn’t take Alador long to spot the archers on platforms built high in the trees. He imagined that it would be devastating if a fire-breathing dragon attacked Oldmeadow’s orchards. He nodded to one of the sentinels that caught his eye and was saluted back curtly. The archer’s eyes immediately returned to watch the sky.

As Henrick guided the wagon into the village, Alador looked about in amazement. Other than the fact that Oldmeadow was surrounded by orchards and flocks of birds, it could have easily been mistaken for Smallbrook. The village structure was defined by the same wagon-wheel pattern, with all paths and roads leading to the village center. Just before the center, Henrick turned the wagon to the right and traveled about the wheel till he came to a large building that could only be the alehouse.