The Blackguard (Book 2) Page 3

  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.

  Alador 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.

  Two female middlins came hurrying over as Henrick hopped down, hugging him warmly and offering cheerful greetings. Henrick was half-dragged into the alehouse, leaving Alador by the wagon with his mouth hanging open. He became irritated that his father would leave him so, then belatedly remembered that he was nothing more than an apprentice. It would be his duty to see the wagon safely parked and the korpen stabled. He asked a nearby villager where Henrick’s wagon could be placed for the night, and, once he received his curt instructions, set about his tasks.

  Only when he’d parked the wagon, stabled and fed the korpen, and seen to laying out their bedrolls beneath the wagon bed did Alador go into the alehouse. Night was falling by the time he ducked into the smoky, bustling building. Just like in Smallbrook, Henrick was surrounded by adults and elders. Their laughter and genuine joy at Henrick’s arrival drew Alador’s attention, and he went about finding a seat in the corner so he could closely watch his father. He could see no sign of spell-casting, nor did he see any use of items, yet the villagers seemed very comfortable in Henrick’s company.

  Alador knew that not all enchanters were this well-received; they often set up their wagon on the edge of town and anyone who needed an enchantment would come to them. And now that Alador thought about it, Henrick had not always been so well received, that change had only come about four or five years ago, when people had begun to treat him as more of an honored guest. It was a puzzle Alador couldn’t solve. The only solution he could think of was how liberally Henrick let the liquor flow about him,

  Normally, a Daezun apprentice would see his master’s cup filled or a plate of food delivered, but that was not necessary tonight as Henrick’s cup was kept full and his plate of food had arrived just as Alador had entered. He made his way to the bar and met the large scowling keeper at the side. “I would like some ale and a plate of simple fare, sir,” Alador ordered casually, not really looking to the alehouse keeper. His eyes were still on Henrick. It came as a shock, then, when Alador was grabbed by the shirt front and jerked across the counter.

  “We don’t serve no dirty half-breeds in Oldmeadow.” The large man’s face was inches from Alador’s own surprised eyes for a few moments before he tossed Alador back like he was no larger than a small one.

  Alador hit the ground hard, knocking over a chair. He sat there stunned with shock. He’d been seen as different in Smallbrook, but he’d never been treated with such bold rudeness. He started to get up, but Henrick’s hand pressed down on his shoulder and his boot pinned Alador’s thigh in place.

  “Now, Now Derent! Surely you are not denying my apprentice some food to take back to our wagon?” Henrick’s manner was jovial as he smiled at the keeper. “I mean, I am sure my slips are good enough to cover his meager needs. Why, the lad cannot drink but a pint before he snores the night away. Perhaps if you gave him a true measure of your mead, I could get some sleep tonight, for it would put him soundly under.” Henrick stepped across Alador, leaving him on the floor. “Have a heart for me at the very least?” he slipped a full medure across the bar, his other hand was held to his chest.

  There was a bit of nervous laughter about them, and Alador still sat stunned on the floor. The keeper slowly relaxed, glancing at Henrick and then the medure. “So he’s yours, Henrick? Surely you could pick a more striking lad or a homely woman for your needs?” His eyes roved over Alador like he was some stray woman.

  Alador shifted uncomfortably at the outright laughter of those about him as he realized that the keeper was implying that the two of them were mating. He felt his anger bubble up as his own father played into their laughter.

  Henrick leaned across the bar to this Derent and murmured, “Not many take to traveling with an enchanter; beggars can’t be choosers, now can they? Besides, the boy has a sweet way about him.” Henrick winked at Derent, and when the keeper turned laughing outright to fetch a mug of apple mead, Henrick looked back with a glance so threatening that Alador said nothing as he made his way to his feet.

  When a plate of food was laid on the bar along with a mug of mead, Henrick picked them up and handed them to Alador. “Go keep my robes warm, boy. When I am ready, I will seek you out.”

  Alador took the food and mug, his jaw clenched with anger he could barely contain. He stood glaring for a long moment at Henrick then glanced over to where Derent was pouring out another measure of mead from the large keg. Alador stared at it, imagining the keg overflowing. Henrick followed his gaze, then looked back at his son in warning, but Alador was already channeling his anger. The bung popped out with the pressure he created soaking the keeper with spewing apple mead. In the pleasing melody of Derent’s curses and nearby patrons’ shouts for the keeper to plug the keg up, Alador turned and left with his meal. He smiled slightly with satisfaction as he slipped out of the alehouse.

  It was a good hour later before Henrick joined him at the wagon. Alador was working on fletching an arrow when his father appeared out of the darkness and sat down beside him, his face unreadable in the flickering lantern light. “I am not sure whether I should congratulate you or beat you senseless,” Henrick growled.

  “You could have exposed yourself in a manner that I was not prepared to explain, especially since casual use of magic is not well received in Daezun villages and you well and truly know this.” He had apparently decided on the middle ground and taken a tone of scolding.

  Alador looked at him. “I would apologize, but the dung heap had it coming.” He looked back down at his feathers and decided that he’d done enough for the nig
ht. He carefully wrapped them back up to slide into his fletching supplies.

  “Be that as it may, Alador, you cannot go casting magic at everything that makes you angry.” Henrick sighed with exasperation.

  “You let him think that I was…that we were...how could you do that?” The reason for Alador’s anger came spilling out. He glared at Henrick with indignation.

  “I do not care what some low-minded, village alehouse keeper thinks. I do care about keeping my skin in one piece and the reputation I have intact. Besides, what do you care what he thinks?” Henrick glanced over in mild amusement. He plucked a blade of grass from beside him and began to chew on it absently.

  “I don’t know! I just...” Alador growled in frustration. It had a feral edge to it, and he did not miss Henrick’s quick glance of interest. “I don’t like the idea of people thinking I’m not normal.” He stilled his hands to look at his father.

  Henrick chuckled. “You are a half-breed and a mage. You are not normal by most Daezun standards, Alador.”

  “But you scold me for using it. What’s the point of having magic if I can’t use it?” Alador asked, still packing up. “Besides, it’s not like it was obvious. I didn’t do anything that couldn’t have happened naturally.”

  Henrick half chortled before he forced a more serious manner. “I will admit it was a bit amusing; I will also admit that I had a moment of pride as clearly you can improvise with how to use your power, which is good. However, Alador, magic is a tool that requires energy, and you only have so much to use. Careless use of magic may leave you personally drained when you have a need of it, and it pulls from the environment around you, remember. Magic ages you if you are forced to pull it when you are not rested and fed. Most importantly, it is disrespectful to the gods that grant it to you.”

  Alador looked at his father in surprise. “I didn’t think you believed in the gods.” He could never remember his father talking about them.