When the apprentices reached the altar, they threw their clothes on it until the pile flowed over the sides and created a wall of cloth around the table. Naked in freezing air, the graduates diffused slowly, walking toward the statues of the gods they were choosing as patrons. Sven let his peers reach the altar ahead of him and tarried at the center of the clearing, waiting to see which statue each would choose.
Most migrated to the more commonly declared patrons — Her, the goddess of the sun; Heliotosis and Swind, the gods of the north and south winds; Sendala, the goddess of fertility and the blue moon, and her twin brother and consort, Niminth, who ruled the green moon and the loins of men; Fraemauna, the goddess of wisdom and the yellow moon; Cedar, the god of plants; Seruvus, the god of water and the Oathbinder; and Marrish, the father of the gods, the Lord of Wind and Fire, the god of magic and storms. Marrish and Fraemauna were especially favored by those who intended to continue their educations.
One, however, picked Domin, the god of death and the dark moon. Arn’s father is in charge of cremating those who die in Domus Palus. He always spoke of learning the trade. He does not fear Domin as much as most Mar do.
None of the apprentices picked Dinah, but that was not unusual. Rumor had it that only three new greens had sworn themselves to the Bald Goddess since Sven’s arrival at the Academy more than eight years ago. Sven had his suspicions, but it would have been impolite to ask.
Two merely prostrated themselves near the center of the clearing, signaling that they were not worthy to boast the patronage of a god. They would instead swear to follow the path of one or more of the heroes that lit up the night sky — whether it was a single star, a constellation, or all the bright dead in the sky. Those who swore fealty to the stars would never be allowed to join the priesthood, but they were often favored as military officers.
When almost all his peers had chosen patrons for themselves, Sven climbed onto the altar and lay on his back on the mundane trappings they had left behind. It was a measure of the severity with which the audience treated the ceremony that no one speculated aloud about what he intended it to mean. At last, the rest of the apprentices must have finalized their choices, for Nightfire spoke. There was no hesitation in his voice.
“Do you swear to live your lives in the service of your patrons?”
Every apprentice swore to the Oathbinder and to his patron that he would. In the cacophony, no one could hear Sven’s oath clearly.
“Seruvus and your patrons have heard your oaths. Woe to the wizard who breaks his oath or betrays his patron. Rise, apprentices, and go forth as wizards.”
Sven stood up even as Nightfire and the other instructors made the rounds with green cloaks and new boots. Then Nightfire came to Sven, wrapping him in a bright green cloak.
Sven welcomed the garment. For its warmth. For its dryness. For its protective weight. For the power it represented. For the rank it bestowed. He welcomed it, summoned his magic to return heat to his numb limbs, and joined the procession of new wizards as it returned to the Academy.
* * *
Sven interrupted his master. “You never asked why I lay down on the altar, instead of picking one patron.”
“Seruvus knows why you did it,” Nightfire began, but the Mardux kept speaking.
“I had a dream, master. I chose the altar because it was the center of the clearing. I swore my oath to nine patrons.”
“And you thought nothing of the hubris of claiming nine gods as your own?”
“I did not claim them, master. They claimed me. Remember how I began my apprenticeship, recall the events leading up to Tortz. All of my patrons accepted my oath and took pains to show me they had accepted it.”
Warning clouded Nightfire’s response. “Omens are wishes wanting fulfillment. Much wrong has been done by great men in response to an omen.”
Sven paid no heed. His passion, his belief rose again. “If any of my patrons had failed to give me a sign, I might have believed as you do, master. I have Seruvus’s memory, as you well know, but my patrons withheld my other gifts until I passed their tests.”
He stared at Nightfire’s blank expression, and then continued.
“For volunteering myself as payment of Rustiford’s debt, Marrish granted me great magical power.”
Nightfire gestured dismissively. “Above average, I would say. You make much of what you have, but you have those gloves of yours to thank for most of your victories.”
“As a reward for returning to Rustiford as a teacher, Her granted me the gift of moving speech.”
“You have a certain charisma, especially among the idealists of your generation, but you did not lack it before you graduated. Have you forgotten the slaves in the house you befriended so easily?”
“My courage and generosity at Zerst earned Niminth’s blessing. They named me war leader the day after I arrived.”
“You saved the entire town with your magic,” Nightfire said, his voice more quiet. Sven was not really listening. “Magocrats have led in war for centuries for the same reason.”
“Because I sought to aid villages beyond Zerst, Sendala sent me Erika. Because I defended Bera’s Unwritten Laws when Brand took me prisoner, Swind granted me miraculous skills as a teacher. For defending Tortz even though it might mean my death, Heliotosis granted me the gift of weather that always favored my cause.”
Nightfire seethed, not even bothering to refute his arguments, clearly thinking them ridiculous.
“Because I did not use the people of Tortz as weapons but, rather, championed them, Fraemauna granted me her gift. She whispers no words of wisdom into the ears of my enemies. And because I did not abandon Tortz when Brand did, Cedar granted that my allies should multiply like wild rice.”
“Are you finished?” Nightfire asked irritably.
“The night before my inquisition at Tortz, my patrons sent me a new vision. This time, they told me I am the Guardian. They promised I would unite Marrishland, subdue Dinah and prove to the world that the Mar are the greatest of all peoples.”
Sven inhaled deeply.
“This is why I am here, master, and this is why I need you to swear to serve me and acknowledge that I am the hand of the gods.”
Nightfire stood and walked around his desk, stopping not a head’s width from the Mardux. His voice was as quiet as Swind’s whisper, and he sounded like an old man for the first time since Sven had known him. “I will not take that oath, Sven Takraf. It is not the place of the arbiter to swear fealty to anyone.”
Sven’s face registered his surprise, but it vanished as quickly as it showed. His posture changed, becoming less regal and more sinister. The light slid across his face, darkening his good eye.
“Then the arbiter must be removed.”
Nightfire pushed down Sven’s shaking arms.
“Whether you swore an oath to the mundanes or to nine divine patrons, killing me now serves no purpose. I am no threat to you so long as you can command the power of the Council to change the Law whenever and however you wish.”
Sven opened his mouth, but Nightfire’s stern gaze forced it closed again. He went on.
“The Mass approaches Domus Palus, and Weard Wost marches against the Protectorates. If you are the Guardian, then your patrons will see you and your people through these dark times. If you are deluded, the knowledge I live to protect will be preserved, and there may yet be hope that the Mar will escape a dark age. If you kill me, and it turns out that you misread your omens, Mar civilization will be at an end. All Marrishland will burn because of you. Are you so certain of your vision that you would rather kill every Mar in Marrishland than consider a contingency plan to save your people in case you are terribly wrong?”
There was a very long pause as Sven considered this, weighing Nightfire with his one good eye. Nightfire stepped back, blocking the light entirely from his student’s face.
At last, Sven stripped off the gloves and stuffed them in his utility vest. “I spare you, Nightfire, because
even now, I can still learn from you.”
“I have some soup.”
The Mardux shook his head. “Not today, master. I must ready the Mar to repel the Mass.” He gathered the myst and vanished into the Tempest.
Nightfire sat down, hands shaking. Within the hour, he rose to give orders to transport the library to Wasfal Palus, where the Academy would wait in exile until this war was over.
Chapter 35
“It is very difficult to avoid master-servant relationships even in the most egalitarian organization. Leaders rely upon their apparent superiority to maintain authority over their followers. Without leadership, civilization dies. However, a leader who forgets he is not superior to his followers becomes a threat to civilization, instead. These are the tyrants.”
— Weard Hakan Ebutor,
Power Structures
Erika watched her daughter read the magical primer her husband had written during his early years as a teacher at Nightfire’s Academy. The green-eyed girl spoke each word as she read just as her father did.
Does she have Seruvus’ memory, as well?
She smiled as Asa struggled with the pronunciation of some of the more difficult words near the end of the book. Sven would not approve of this choice of reading material, but Erika did not see why it mattered anymore. Thanks to Sven’s new law, the most illiterate among the adepts were now allowed to learn to use magic. What did it matter if their daughter studied a little magical theory? Asa certainly seemed fascinated by the subject.
Asa stopped reading in the middle of a page. She looked up with a deeply serious expression.
“When is Dad coming to take us home?”
“Soon, Asa.”
The girl frowned. “I understand if you don’t know, Mommy.”
Erika jumped slightly.
So like her father.
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know. I hope he’ll come soon, though.”
Asa nodded, seeming to accept this, and returned to her reading.
Pondr entered quietly. Erika walked over to him, a questioning look in her eyes.
“It’s over, Erika.” He brushed past her and collapsed into her rocking chair.
“Was there … ?” Her gray eyes flickered toward Asa.
Pondr followed her gaze. “Some. Six of theirs, nearly forty of yours, ours. A trio of lavenders discovered the morutsen in their meal. It took time to suppress them.”
Forty-six Mar killed because of me.
“And the other three?”
“Reprisals. Those responsible are now in custody.”
She clasped her hands over her belly in fear. Sven overturns some of the old laws, and his people cast down others because I asked them to. She gently closed Asa’s book. The girl looked up at her, then hopped down and left without another word. Erika watched her go with sadness. She probably understands.
“What is to become of them?”
Pondr outlined the punishment tersely and gruesomely. Slavery, death if they resisted — a lifetime of morutsen. Whatever they did in their lives, that was done now. Erika clutched her belly harder.
“Mar don’t fight Mar, Pondr. Being even remotely responsible for the murder of magocrats does not come naturally to me. It makes me no better than they are.”
“You didn’t kill those wizards, Erika. Those adepts just took advantage of the situation you created. Maybe they even deserved what they got. Magocrats have taken advantage of mundanes for centuries, especially slaves.”
“I don’t care, Pondr. This isn’t about making mundanes get along with magocrats. You know why we needed to gain control of the city.”
“Yes, but not all of the adepts do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve already said more than a Traveller should. You told Sven you wanted to go back to the Protectorates, and the Mardux often spoke of them as a safe haven. I’ve decided to go there.”
“But the Mass.”
“Weard Salt’s calculations say I can get to the Protectorates before the Mass reaches Domus Palus. Companions make any journey safer, and this is an especially dangerous time and place for travel.”
“I don’t know what to say, Pondr. Such an abrupt departure might...”
“Think on it,” the Traveller insisted, and then he hurried away. Before the door closed, a heavy man with a strip of red cloth tied on each arm entered. She could just see a handful of similarly dressed people outside. Her eyes drifted to the studded Blosin glove hung on his belt. He raised his right hand.
“Fraemauna’s blessin’s be upon you, Weard Unschul.”
Erika’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I’m not a wizard, adept … ”
“Finn Ochregut, Weard. An’ I mean the title in its original sense — guardian.”
“Wait, aren’t you a … ?”
“Mapmaker? Yes, Weard Unschul. We’re not all as mad as the stories say. I joined th’adepts at the very beginnin’. I knew we’d overthrow the magocrats once a leader showed himself, or, as it turned out, herself. Thanks to your gifts of torutsen, morutsen and Blosin gloves, there are now a hundred thousand adepts in Domus Palus, all loyal to you. With such an army of magic-wielders at your command, you have the power to take the Chair.”
They want me to take the Chair? She fell into the seat abandoned by Pondr, thinking on his last words. No wonder he wanted to leave!
She met Finn’s eyes. They were perfectly relaxed. He had no fear of her. A little spark ignited in her. They want me to be Mardux as an apprentice weard and they have no fear for me? Fire tinged her voice.
“What would I want with the Chair, adept? If you mean open rebellion against the wizards now, as the Mass marches against Domus Palus, then the tales of mapmakers are all true.”
Finn’s face hardened, but she spoke over him, past him, to all the adepts straining to hear in the corridor. “Overthrowing a few hundred lazy magocrats when you have a hundred thousand magic-wielders and the element of surprise is hardly a victory worthy of a Mardux. You have no time to waste puffing yourselves up and playing at being heroes in an epic.”
The murmurs behind him made the mapmaker-turned-adept soften.
“Then what’ll we do, Weard Unschul?”
“Take the opportunity the magocrats refused. Ready the city for a prolonged siege against enemies beyond counting. Let all of Marrishland know what we face and pray the gods move them to send us reinforcements.” She met Finn’s eyes again. “What?”
“Will you organize the defen’ers of Domus Palus?”
Erika could no longer contain her frustration with the mapmaker. “I’m not Sven. You’re more qualified to lead the adepts than I am.”
“You’ll just sit and watch then, like the magocrats would’ve done?”
Erika gaped at him. Suddenly I’m a magocrat? These adepts are dangerous men! She searched for a solution, thinking as hard as she had ever done. After a moment, she spoke. “I will go to the Protectorates. The wizards there know more about Blosin gloves than I do. They might even be able to send reinforcements.” She stood up before he could interfere. “I will leave in the morning. Be sure to send messengers to the rest of Marrishland to warn them of this threat. Whatever you and the other adepts think of them, we need the wizards to win this war.”
* * *
A hundred feet back from the mud-crusted shore of the Lapis Amnis, Marrishland’s largest river and the southern border of the Fens of Reur, Bui Beglin instructed his army of adepts in preparation for a battle against the Mass even he felt they could not hope to win.
They had arrived a day earlier. The city-born adepts were exhausted after the march, but they had learned the hard lessons Bui had. Leaving Domus, they had no concept of how to look for suckmud willows or snakes, and each was terrified of every drop of water or glob of mud. To fend off those fears was the work of a half day of giving them something worse to fear: their commander, the mundane guerrilla Bui Beglin.
He had given them six hours to rest when the r
iver was in sight, and, leaving the ones he deemed most reliable in charge, had crossed the river to scout alone, intent on discovering if his worst fears would come true.
Bui had learned something of their numbers, and other knowledge that had borne some fruit he could use. He had not seen any insero, the oversized, mantis-like fliers that could carry a half-dozen of the smaller, rat-like ravits and their deadly rain of poison darts.
Weard Duxpite had spoken of the Mass as coming in waves. If we fend this one off, how many more will come? I won’t have time to recon every wave.
Returning, he ordered a mud wall built to raise them higher above the river; there was already a rise the Mass would have to run up after the river, but a few extra feet could make a difference. Trees were stripped to make a slatted roof for the army to hide beneath in case the insero did show up.
And, most importantly, the Mardux’s traps were laid, as many as the adepts could, for a mile-long stretch of the river. The adepts were hardly strong enough to make them, but neither was Sven at Tortz, Bui knew now. Almost half his army had spent the past day enchanting the gloves that could make the traps, which triggered when a Drake’s tor approached them, while the other half had bled the gloves dry planting the spells in the river and mud.
More than a hundred feet of death would greet the first wave of the Mass, and Bui could not think, watching his four thousand exhausted adepts, that they would be able to hold off another wave of this magnitude.
And if they hesitate, and move around us, we will be food for Dinah.
“Dinah’s shriveled teat, that’s too many!” someone cried.
On the other side of the river, a quarter-mile of mud, bedraggled scrub and weathered rocks ended at a pathetic row of trees, but those had been enough to block the first line of the Mass. Bui watched the first Drake run to the river’s edge, and a half-dozen followed sporadically behind that first scout, but now they poured out onto the mud flats like a flood.
Mostly guer of two types — jabbers with their sharp, bony forearms and powerful legs, who would leap for their first assault; and stingers, geared with weapons, shields, and whip-like tails covered in poisoned spikes — led the First Wave. Both could swim, and while the Lapis was sluggish here, it was also wide, and the Mass would stop to rest, exhausted from their march, before crossing.