“We need to stop the reconnaissance stones.”
“What? Why?” Asfrid asked.
“Dux Feiglin’s pet farl is leading an army of wizards that has penetrated the Protectorates. The reconnaissance spells tell him exactly which villages to strike and where to find them. Worse, it is not difficult to follow the trail of recon from village to village all the way back to Leiben, and from here to every hub and village in the entire network. If they take this town before the network is broken, it will be a small matter to find and capture every community in the Protectorates.”
There were several sharp intakes of breath.
“Moreover, the defenses in every village within ten miles of Zerst must be shut down completely. The farl can certainly trace signs of large standing spells at a shorter range.”
“But that includes Leiben.”
“The citizens will evacuate north with the contents of the academy library. The wizards will fan out along the lines of recon and break up the village defenses.”
“But what if there are Drake raids?”
“Repel them. You are all weards. You can fight alone, too, and you know the secrets of the Blosin wand — including those applications of it the Mardux never dared publish.” Einar touched the gloves at his belt. “Hold the perimeter as best you can and wait for Sven or me to contact you. Stockpile wands so that if Flasten presses on after Leiben, you will have the means to protect the people of the Protectorates. A lazy wizard is a useless magocrat.”
“We are to be as magocrats, then?”
“As Sven was a magocrat, yes.”
“And what will you do, Weard Schwert?”
Einar smiled grimly. “Hopefully, I will be able to convince Flasten that it must capture this bastion before it can conquer the rest of the Protectorates.”
“You mean to fight.”
“I mean to turn Leiben into a fortress that will serve as both trap and bait, and I intend for them to know who defends this place. By the time they capture it, the network will be broken and the army will be forced to wander aimlessly across the moors in search of the other villages. With luck, they will give up before long.”
“Attrition. Flasten has greater worries than the Protectorates.”
“Yes.”
“Will Sven send us reinforcements?”
Einar wanted to lie. He wanted to comfort these accidental magocrats somehow.
“There will be no reinforcements until after the war is over. Your greatest consolation is this: Once Dux Feiglin realizes the Mardux will make no effort to defend the Protectorates, he will withdraw his force.”
“What of those Flasten takes as slaves?” Asfrid asked softly.
Einar could almost smell the anger wafting from all of them. Many of those in the room were deeply opposed to slavery.
Reformers flock to Sven. They long to change Marrishland the way he did. He never speaks of Tortz. Would they embrace his ideals if they knew?
“By the Oathbinder, those who have been taken will not be enslaved for long by Flasten. Weard Takraf will win this war, and he will not leave his people to serve as slaves.”
They nodded, accepting this.
“Give the word to the people. We have little time.”
He watched them leave in silence, recalling a time long ago when he had given similar orders.
I warned them of the dangers. I taught them everything I knew. How could I have prepared them for the raids they faced that year? None of us knew the insero and ravits had formed such a powerful alliance.
He had lost his wife and all her children but the youngest that year. Einar had been forced to organize and lead an army of magocrats against the invaders mere hours after losing his family. Ari had never forgiven him for behaving like a magocrat when the boy thought Einar should have acted like a father, for once.
He was fourteen already, and his siblings were grown men and women when I married Freydisa. They were old enough not to need a new father. How could I have known he wanted me to be what he had lost as a young boy?
Einar wondered idly how his stepson was doing, but he soon turned his full attention to dismantling the recon stone and planning Leiben’s defenses.
* * *
“You are still here?”
Sven and Erika walked the halls of the citadel daily so he could regain his strength. It had taken some time, but after half a year, he felt stronger. He felt ready to do something again.
At the same time, he had to keep himself from touching his scarred face, and when he looked into Erika’s eyes, he often sought disgust for his white, blinded eye. He never saw any.
I must wait until the wizards of Domus and its allies are fully engaged in their war against the Flasten invaders. Otherwise, the magocrats may still have enough military might to wipe out the adepts once they discover my ruse.
But as a kind of penance for the harm he had done his wife, he felt he should spend more time with her and his daughter. That was what he told himself when he smiled at them, seeing in their eyes the fear that he would leave again soon.
The Traveller turned from the window and grinned at them. “There’sa ter’ble storm brewin’, an’ I feel it’ll be ba’ fra sev’al day.”
“Your effected accent grows worse by the day, Pondr,” Erika laughed.
“Some Mar in the most rural areas have unusual dialects.” He bowed outrageously.
Sven leaned against the wall next to him. Erika’s mirth faded to a mix of concern and relief, which a quick smile did not allay. He worried that she would stop him when he had to go, but then dismissed it — how could she stop him? He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, making her smile at last.
The Traveller went on. “You said there would be bloodshed, and right enough, there is. Are you ready to lead these people?”
“Are you playing my conscience?” Sven said wryly. “You tell me stories that remind me of who I am. You torment me with my past. Is there nothing else you can do?”
“Tell me why Flasten hates you so.”
“That should be a story everyone knows. Tortz.” And where will this story take us? The point of Tortz is not that Flasten hates me. The point is the lesson of the fuel. He thought about Eda, Horsa, Erbark and Einar — perhaps his first true students — and the test they were going through. Have they learned?
“Volund Feiglin is fairly closed-mouthed about his defeats, Mardux. And the town was destroyed.”
“Except for me, Erika and Erbark.”
“Erbark Lasik? He was there?”
“Let us get something to eat,” Sven said, taking his wife’s hand. “Brand lied to me about Erbark, among other things.”
* * *
The two hundred remaining citizens of Tortz continued their studies. Despite Sven’s urging them all to return to their homes, Erika and three other Protectorate teachers had refused to leave. They made great progress, under the circumstances, but they had a lot of ground to cover, and not all were as good students as Erbark and Erika. They could hope, at least.
Just as winter came to a close — when it seemed the magocrats had decided to leave Tortz alone until the mundanes reached the proper level of education — Nightfire, Katla and two reds arrived with Erbark. Sven didn’t recognize his friend, at first, because he was clean-shaven for the first time since before Sven had left Rustiford with Nightfire.
Unlike the dux’s wizards, Nightfire’s entourage had no difficulty entering Tortz. They simply appeared on the village green. Shackles of Power arrested the movement of several surprised warriors who had charged forward to attack the invaders. The eighth-degree wizards seemed unperturbed, looking around casually at the town without fear and utterly in control. Not one drop of blood fell in the brief struggle.
Sven marveled at this even as he emerged from his home. One red could have pacified us with ease. What could possibly stand against three of them?
“Askr, Geir, that will not be necessary. I surrender.” He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessne
ss. “Peace in the swamp, good weards. Come to my house. I have some soup.”
He recognized Nightfire and Katla immediately. She wears amber already? The sour-faced man following was probably Dux Volund Feiglin of Flasten Palus. But the last face was unfamiliar entirely. This fourth was ancient, leaning on a cane. He wore a ring of braided silver and gold on the first finger of his right hand.
“Weard Takraf, you stand accused of a serious breach of Bera’s Unwritten Laws,” Nightfire said, looking very serious.
“I want to apply the fire to this wizard personally,” growled the sour-faced red.
Definitely Volund.
Sven tried to match his teacher’s gravitas. “Explanations are certainly in order, and I’m all too glad to provide them.”
“All in the proper time, Weard Takraf,” Nightfire said. “This is now an inquisition. Every person in Tortz is to return to his or her home immediately. Once there, you will surrender your boots and submit to a regimen of morutsen until the inquisition is complete. Any attempt to resist or escape will be tantamount to an admission of guilt, and that guilt will fall also on your teacher. Erbark, you will stay in a separate home. I see there are plenty that are empty.”
* * *
“The fourth man was?” the Traveller prompted.
“Brack — the red who serves Dinah and Domin among the Drakes of the Mass.”
“I’ve heard of the Mass. It’s a giant monster that will come down on the Mar if there are too many wizards, right?”
Sven smiled slightly, eyes turned to the fire, the milky bulb of the left one flickering as though the flame was within it. “You could put it that way. Some say it is more magic-wielders, while others claim it is the amount of magic the Mar use that brings the Mass.”
The Traveller gaped at him. “More use of magic means more Drakes? And what are you setting up here? What will happen when your army and Flasten’s army meet on the field? Then you arrange for every Mar to learn magic. The adepts. Can you see the army that will attack you?”
“The Mass is probably no more than a story told to frighten young apprentices.” Sven smiled grimly over his steepled fingers. “And if the Mass is real, it is too late for anyone to stop it from invading.”
Chapter 25
“Middling Gien was invented during the Gien occupation of Marrishland by a Mar scholar. When spoken, it is nearly identical to Imperial Gien. The Mar, however, transliterated the Giens’ pictographic written language into a phonetic alphabet based on magical concepts. For this reason, the Giens disparagingly regarded the Mar scholars’ transliterations of their language as Middling Gien, since it shared only a few qualities of written Imperial Gien.”
— Weard Eira Helderza,
The History of Linguistics
Sven spent the days drugged with morutsen and imprisoned in his own home with Erika, while Nightfire posed question after question to each person in Tortz. For the first several days, he heard nothing. Katla delivered their doses of morutsen, staying only until they drank it and never saying anything, though Sven thought she looked more worried with each visit. Once a day, she also brought them food, water and peat for cooking.
Sven only had a passing familiarity with the inquisition, but he suspected his sister’s silence reflected the rules of the process. I never intended to break the Law, so why would I care how Nightfire enforces violations of it? He wished a hundred times over that he had taken an interest in it when he was an apprentice. It was nearly impossible to prove his innocence if he didn’t even know how Nightfire would determine his guilt. And I am not entirely innocent, am I? Brand made certain of that.
For the first span, they heard nothing at all, and Sven allowed himself to hope. He and Erika made the best of a bad situation. They discussed the future they would have after the inquisition of Tortz. Sven continued her education — advanced Middling Gien and myst theory. They talked about starting a family. They told stories about their childhoods. They laughed and tried to be happy. They carefully avoided talking about the inquisition.
I’ll beat it. My students know what to expect, what knowledge not to admit and how to behave. When I catch up with Brand, he’ll wish he had lost the duel with Tosti.
Four days into the second span, the first villager failed the inquisition. Sven watched helplessly from his home as Brack and Volund led Askr to the prison that had held Sven on his first night in Tortz. They lifted Askr with Power and lowered him inside. Then Brack summoned fire, and Askr began to scream in pain.
Sven wanted to run out to them. To make them stop. Any law that punished Askr for Brand’s crime was an unjust one.
It would be useless. I have no magic, and even if I did, I can’t fight them. Not even the gloves would make me the equal of one red, much less three.
Behind him, Erika wept. Askr was her student, even if Sven had known him longer. He wrapped his arms around her and made noises he hoped were soothing.
If they found even one of my students guilty, they will find me guilty, too.
But he said nothing. Gradually, Askr’s screams faded away into silence, but Sven knew his perfect memory would preserve that voice forever.
Or at least until they execute me, too.
But when Katla came that evening, she came alone with the usual dose of morutsen. She said nothing, and Sven could see from her bloodshot eyes that she had been sleeping badly, weeping or both. As soon as he met her gaze, though, she looked away, and she all but ran once her duty was done.
After Askr’s execution, Sven and Erika spent every moment as if it would be the last they would have together. The future was lost. The past was mere myth. Only now mattered. Neither of them said it, but even if Erika survived the inquisition, they both knew Sven would not. The execution might happen today or tomorrow or in a month, but it would happen.
Nightfire did not come for Sven in the next span, which he at first considered a mercy. It meant he could spend more time with Erika before she lost him forever. Then Brack and Volund escorted six more villagers to the prison, and Brack brought forth a chorus of their screams.
It is not a kindness. This is the way Dinah punishes pride. She misses no opportunity to hurt me, for she means to crush me utterly. When they come for me, they will find me broken. I will have no pride left. I will be eager to confess quickly so I can die.
This time, not all the people of Tortz obeyed Nightfire’s instructions. Nirta, one of the teachers from the Protectorates, rushed out of Brand’s house barefoot, howling in rage. The blade of the knife in her upraised hand shone white in the sun, as if she wielded light itself as her weapon.
Volund smiled as he struck her with fire that engulfed her. The heat and pain should have laid Nirta low, but she kept running, her clothes trailing flames as if she was a burning star. She struck the wall of Power the dux erected and took a step backward. Volund didn’t give her time to recover. A pillar of fire descended on Nirta, and when it vanished a moment later, she was gone. Not even the knife remained intact. Volund gave the scorched circle of earth an alligator’s satisfied smile.
He loves death as only Domin should, Sven thought, hands shaking in rage at the spectacle. As only Domin can.
Erika touched his shoulder. “Pray with me, Sven,” she said softly, fighting back tears.
He knelt with her on a rug facing the fireplace, and they held hands. The fire had begun to go out. Sven fed it more peat, and it crackled and hissed.
“Watch over us, friends. Shelter us with your darkness and guide us with your light. By your sacrifice, we are warmed. By your sacrifice, we can see. By your sacrifice, we live on.”
Sven recited the words, but his heart was not in them. These deaths had not been sacrifices to the gods. Magocrats had murdered them to punish Brand’s crime, and Brand walked free. He would break the Law again, and maybe he would find another way to escape justice. The apprentices he wielded and expended like myst, however, would not. They would die by fire like Askr, like Nirta, like Sven.
&
nbsp; They came for Erika in the middle of the night, waking them both up from a dead sleep. She screamed Sven’s name as Brack lifted her out of the bed with magic, while Volund held Sven down on the bed. The dux sneered at him the entire time as he crushed the breath out of Sven with Power until his vision grew dark.
When Sven came to, Erika and her screams of terror were gone, but the memories of her voice echoed in his mind. Another familiar voice shouted in the darkness outside his house.
Erbark!
The shout faded soon after, leaving another terrible echo. Sven clutched his head and groaned.
Everything I have done in my entire life has been for nothing! It would have been better if I had died during the passage to Rustiford. It would have been better if I had not been born.
He looked at the fire again, held his hands between it and his face, blocking its light.
What need do I have for fire anymore? I will be dead soon and yet not soon enough. Its heat is wasted on me. I cast nothing but shadows. I should let it go out.
Sven looked at his hands suddenly, saw them again for the first time. He opened and closed them. They seemed larger, the light of the fire casting huge, distorted shadows of them on the walls. They could kill from miles away now, strike down Drakes and Mar alike with equal ease. Yet they had been too small to save Tortz, too small to aid Erbark and Erika, too small even to keep himself alive.
My dream was always impossible. If I had hands as large as Volund’s, I could not have achieved it. Nightfire’s hands are too small, too. A Mardux’s hands could not do it. How could I hope to do it as a mere green? How big would my hands have to be to create the Protectorates throughout Marrishland?
Sven looked at the trunk of Blosin gloves, all useless, now.
With those my tiny hands can slaughter hundreds. If I had, could I have done it? But imagine how many people I could destroy if my hands were big enough to change the Law. Thousands? Tens of thousands? Millions? And with hands so large, how could I help but slaughter a hundred here, a thousand there?
Sven knew he wasn’t thinking clearly. He hadn’t slept soundly in nearly a month. Every day brought a new grief, a new horror.