Lesson of the Fire

  “I have heard of it,” Sven answered, coolness enveloping his voice. “We do not play it here in Marrishland.”

  “I see.” The Traveller smiled slightly. “Call me Pondr.”

  “Very well, Pondr. You told a remarkable fabrication of untruths when last you were here. Enough of it was close enough, barely stretched, for me to wonder as to your whereabouts at the time. How much do you really know about me?”

  The Traveller leaned back and clasped his hands across his chest and looked back at Sven. “You are a very different person now than who you were when Nightfire came for you. How much have you blocked out?”

  The Mardux’s face hardened. “I have Seruvus’s memory. I could not forget even if I wanted to.”

  Pondr held up a finger. “I know of this quirk of memory. Some remember all that they see. Others, all that they hear. But none remember all they thought or felt.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “Can I tell you more about yourself? You might enjoy it.”

  Sven raised an eyebrow and hunched his shoulders. “More fabrications?”

  “How much do you remember about your first days at Nightfire’s Academy?”

  Sven glared at the man. “How would you know any of that? How could you know anything about me?”

  The Traveller spread his hands, sitting straighter. “Stories of you, Mardux, have spread, in one fashion or the other, throughout Marrishland. I consider it a trifle if I hear these stories and pass them along. There are huge chunks of your life unopened to me. Maybe I can hear these words from your own lips, or you will let me talk to those nearest you.

  “This tale, however, I can trace to the slave who heard from the mundane who heard from the mapmaker who heard from the wizard who heard from the apprentice who heard from another slave who came to Nightfire’s Academy soon before you did. Their names are unimportant. Surely you are versed in the strong Mar oral tradition? I find it fascinating, myself.”

  Einar did, too. He watched Sven to see if the Mardux would prefer this conversation to be private, and he rubbed his thumb over his belt absently. Sven appeared nervous about something, but the only threat was of a story. Einar waited.

  Sven seemed to digest this. “Why would I want to hear any more about a life I have already lived? Despite your words, I do not forget as easily as others do.”

  Now the Traveller sat forward, his hands gripping the chair. “Even great men cannot see themselves through another’s eyes.”

  Sven’s green eyes searched the Traveller’s blue ones. The Traveller began to speak, and Sven was drawn back into his memories.

  * * *

  Sven pulled the black cloak around his naked body to deter as many insects as he could as Nightfire led him barefoot to a narrow gate in the palisade. He could almost feel the konig worms burrowing into the soles of his feet as he walked lightly across the soft, goddess-cursed ground.

  Nightfire’s a wizard. If he can heal me after all that he just put me through, maybe he can protect me from Dinah’s Curse, too.

  He touched his bald scalp gingerly but felt no pain. The blisters on his hands and arms had vanished, too, leaving him hairless but uninjured. Nightfire followed Sven’s eyes.

  “You can bring nothing of your past life into the place you are about to enter,” Nightfire said, voice heavy with the repetition of a ritual. “The Sven Gematsud who left Rustiford is dead. He is ashes as surely as your clothes and boots are.”

  Sven looked at him with uncomprehending eyes, trying to make sense of what Nightfire hoped to achieve. His temper flared. “If slavery’s death, I’ll only stay dead for eight years,” he snapped.

  The wizard smiled as if at a secret joke. “Come, Sven. I will show you where you will be staying.”

  Nightfire, red cloak swirling around his ankles, led Sven to a huge four-story building and opened one great double door. They stepped into a room that could easily have housed everyone Sven knew. A bonfire burned brightly in an immense hearth, casting light and shadows in equal measure. A handful of Mar without boots looked up at them in surprise from where they were scrubbing the clean floors. Nightfire acknowledged them with a nod, and they returned to their tasks.

  Perhaps Rustiford isn’t the only town in Nightfire’s debt.

  Nightfire took a lantern from a table and led Sven upstairs to a dark room. The room seemed a closet compared to downstairs, but it was still as large as his home in Rustiford. Not mine anymore. But I will go back, someday. The room had one small window covered with sheer cloth to keep out insects, a sturdy bed and a dresser. Sven stepped inside and looked around.

  Such luxury for slaves’ quarters.

  “Dress, and then I will show you what to do,” Nightfire said, leaving the lantern and closing the door behind him.

  “But the konig worms!” Sven protested. The wizard did not respond.

  Sven frowned deeply and wiped his feet off as thoroughly as he could with the cloak Nightfire had given him. He knew cloth couldn’t wipe away Dinah’s Curse, but it felt a little better not to have mud on his feet.

  He tossed the cloak into a corner and wriggled his toes, feeling the firm wood beneath his feet. He rummaged through the dresser, which had clothes in many sizes. He dressed hastily in a rough shirt and baggy breeches, which he cinched tight with a length of rope. He searched the room for a pair of boots and found none at all. He glanced at his bare feet, bare feet that might already be filled with nests of konig worm eggs, and gritted his teeth.

  “Is there a problem?” Nightfire called from the other side of the door.

  Sven yanked the door open. “When’re you replacin’ the boots you burned?”

  Nightfire regarded him mildly. “You will have boots when you need them.”

  “An’ I’m to risk Dinah’s Curse until then? Or am I cleanin’ floors with th’others?”

  “You will stay in this building until I have a use for you elsewhere. As long as you obey me, I will protect you from Dinah’s Curse.”

  Sven’s irritation rose. The wizard, for the moment, had him trapped. He pressed the emotion away with difficulty, reminding himself of Nightfire’s last demonstration of power.

  “Come.”

  Sven followed grudgingly. Nightfire led him up another flight of stairs and opened a door.

  “I will give you instructions,” the wizard said as Sven peered into the room, which was lit just enough for Sven to tell it was full of shelves covered in bottles. “You must perform all the tasks I give you. You will move the fifth green bottle in the fourth row on the third shelf on the west wall to the second row of the first shelf on the north wall.”

  Sven nodded.

  “Do you want me to repeat it?”

  The young Mar shook his head, irritated. He stepped into the room. Nightfire did not move, but something held Sven back.

  Magic, he thought.

  “You will begin these tasks tomorrow. Come.”

  Nightfire led Sven from one cluttered room after another, pausing at each one to point out a single object that needed to be repositioned — stools, tables, painted blocks of wood, cloaks hanging on pegs, clay pots, metal pans. Each object was different from every other, but Nightfire always pointed out a specific one.

  “Move the copper cauldron to the fireplace.” Sven repeated each of the more than one hundred instructions quietly to himself, simplifying Nightfire’s instructions, still amazed at the size of this building. “The green cloak over there goes on the blue peg here.”

  The wizard didn’t comment on this. “Now,” Nightfire said in a hard voice when they returned to the entrance of Sven’s room. “I want you to do everything I told you to do before I return. Is that clear?”

  Sven nodded, and Nightfire departed. When he was gone, Sven set his mind to work.

  He’s testing my memory. For what purpose, Sven was not yet sure. Better treatment, perhaps, or maybe greater responsibility. If I’m to get my boots, I need to prove myself.

  Sven gave silent thanks to Seruv
us for the memory he had been born with: a mind that remembered everything it heard. The next morning, he set to work, quickly completing each tedious task. The other slaves made no mention of his confident appearance late in the day.

  How could they know what I’ve been doing?

  Nightfire didn’t return that night, so Sven set out to meet the other slaves. He recognized only one slave from Rustiford. Finn Ochregut, who had volunteered a year earlier, scrubbed floors with the rest of them, his grumbles long and loud. He gave a grudging tour to Sven, introducing people and explaining the uselessness of their duties at great length. He hadn’t seen anyone from Rustiford, but they might be in one of the other buildings.

  The building housed twenty young tribute slaves from towns like Rustiford who had taken Nightfire’s deal. None of them had been there for less than a season, and none wore boots, not even the woman who had been there for nearly eight years.

  “Does he ever let us leave?” Sven asked her.

  “Oh yes,” she said with a toothy grin. “Some get boots in just a few days. Some in a month or two. An’ he keeps the Law, too. The ones who came before me went free, an’ soon I’ll be free, too.”

  Sven grew more thoughtful as the days passed. Through the windows, he could watch the regular hustle and bustle of the compound. It was like the cities in some of Sveld’s stories — hundreds of buildings, most of them larger than any in Rustiford. As Sven began to place voices with names, people would leave. New ones would replace them. Many of them wore bright green, though an equal number wore black. There were dozens wearing auburn, and several in blue. Occasionally, a cyan- or lavender-garbed Mar passed by, carrying heavy books and talking ferociously to the air. Sven puzzled over the strange flow of people for days before he came to a clear conclusion about his enslavement. It took another day for him to make his decision.

  On the eighth day, Nightfire returned, entering Sven’s room without so much as a knock.

  “Have you completed your tasks? I understand you spent quite a bit of time helping the others.”

  Sven nodded confidently.

  “Show me,” Nightfire said, motioning for Sven to lead the way.

  Sven retraced his steps precisely, pausing outside each room to recite its assigned task. The wizard offered no comment, but he looked suitably impressed when Sven finished.

  “How did you remember?”

  “I can remember anything said to me.”

  If Sven had not been watching the man’s green eyes, he would not have seen the surprise that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He nodded. “Seruvus’ memory. That is quite a gift.”

  Sven took a deep breath and blurted, “I passed your test, didn’t I?”

  “What test?” Nightfire asked, feigning confusion badly.

  “The test to see if I’m worthy to be taught your secrets.”

  Nightfire closed the door. “Explain your reasoning.”

  Sven took a deep breath, composed his thoughts.

  “Well, the house of slaves doin’ nothin’ useful helped a lot. Why keep slaves if you don’t use them for anythin’? Then there’s the people outside wearin’ colors too bright to be anythin’ but wizards. Plus ev’ryone here is youn’ except you an’ a few others who’re dressed in lavender or yellow. You make me remember a really long list of jobs just to see if I can. Put it all together, an’ I know I’m in a magic school, an’ you make the slaves who pass the test your apprentices. Am I right?”

  Nightfire leaned against the door and took a deep breath before responding. “You have not mentioned that most of my apprentices come to my Academy willingly in search of an education. But you could not have drawn that conclusion based on the information you have been given. You have quite a talent for drawing reasonable conclusions from incongruous information.”

  “What?” Sven asked. It had sounded like a compliment, but most of the words were new to him.

  Nightfire smiled patronizingly. “Sorry. I forgot myself.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.” I think you haven’t. “At least not directly.”

  “You are right. This is the most prestigious academy teaching the art of magic in Marrishland. Every magocrat would gladly pay the considerable tuition to send his children to study here, but we only accept the most promising students.”

  “Tuition?” Sven asked, repeating the unfamiliar word precisely.

  “Something of value they give us in exchange for receiving our knowledge.”

  “Like metal an’ food? Or coins?”

  “Something like that,” Nightfire said with a slight shrug. “It is our tradition, though, to enroll a small number of gifted youth from rural villages.”

  “Your slaves,” Sven said, surprised by the anger in his voice.

  Nightfire’s eyes glittered with fire for a moment and then cooled. “Magic is a secret knowledge. The rules for picking apprentices are very complicated. Those slaves who do not pass the tests never learn magic.”

  “Why didn’t th’other slaves tell me about the test?”

  “They do not know about it. One test is keeping the existence of the tests a secret from the others. If you can pass that test, you will receive a chance at education.”

  The wizard stood up, his red cloak making him appear taller and more imposing. His voice took on the qualities of a seasoned orator. “I warn you the path will not be an easy one. The rigors of obtaining an education are more than many can bear, and you must compete with those who have spent the early years of their lives in learning. No concessions will be made for your rural upbringing, making your task all the more challenging. Think long upon the implications of your choice, Sven.” Nightfire moved to the door. “I will give you three days to decide if you wish to accept this apprenticeship.”

  “I accept it,” Sven said levelly.

  Nightfire turned to face him. He waved his hand in Sven’s face. “This is not a decision to make lightly! There are responsibilities and implications you cannot even begin to comprehend unless you are a wizard. And by then, it is too late to hide in ignorance.”

  Sven did not flinch. “I’ve thought about this long enough, an’ I tell you, I’ll accept your offer. Then I can return to my home as a wizard who can protect his family from the trials of the swamp an’ keep magocrats like the ones that took my mother from makin’ them slaves.”

  Nightfire opened his mouth, and then closed it. At last, he spoke.

  “One day, you will think differently, Sven. Your love for your friends and family and the grudge you bear magocrats might provide you with the sense of purpose you will need to succeed in your studies. I will not deprive you of your desire. But you must still wait a few days before a pair of boots can be provided for you. If you change your mind, do not hesitate to refuse my offer.”

  * * *

  “An’ so Sven Gematsud became Nightfire’s apprentice. His intelligence an’ enthusiasm served him well i’the classrooms of the Academy. His warmth an’ energy earned him the respect an’ love of his fellow students, earnin’ him the nickname ‘Takraf,’ which means ‘energy.’ For eight years, Sven studied at Nightfire’s side, learnin’ the craft an’ theory of magic. So absorbed by his studies was Sven, he didn’t notice that no more slaves had come from Rustiford.”

  The Traveller’s story ended, and Einar realized Sven was gripping the edge of the writing desk with white knuckles. The chancellor himself wanted to hear more, but was grateful Pondr had stopped, for Sven’s sake.

  “No one tells of your apprenticeship at Nightfire’s Academy. Or they do, but it is entirely unbelievable.” The Traveller’s earnest blue eyes watched Sven closely. “I do seek that margin of truth you discerned in my other story.”

  “So I see.” Sven’s eyes hardened. “You should not try to leave, Traveller. Before you could get far in any direction, there will be blood spilt.” Sven rose and opened the door for the man.

  As Pondr turned to leave the room, Sven clapped him on the shoulder. “If only for the
satisfaction of seeing the story unfold before your eyes,” he said with a hard smile, “you should stay.”

  As the man left, Einar stepped forward. “What is wrong, Mardux?”

  Sven’s hands shook as he gripped the back of a chair. “The Traveller’s story reminded me that I need to leave Domus Palus for a few days.”

  Einar weighed the Mardux with a glance. He recognized that worried expression, recalled how it had felt on his own face not so many years ago. “You have a family. You think Dux Feiglin will try to use them against you.”

  Sven nodded mutely and swallowed hard.

  “It may be too late,” Einar said, wincing at the Mardux’s stricken look. “You need to be prepared for that.”

  “I will only be gone a few days. As the only other red in Domus Palus, you will be seneschal in my absence.”

  Einar spoke slowly, in awed tones. “I am honored by your faith in me, Mardux.”

  Sven frowned. “Do not mistake my trust as affection, Weard Schwert. You are a competent man.” He smiled grimly. “The Oathbinder himself will assure me of your loyalty. Should you break my trust, I will lay my full wrath upon you, and this time, I will hand you over to Domin. What, then, have I to fear from you, Weard Schwert?”

  Einar mastered his anger at the insult only with a force of will. “I will do as you command, Mardux,” he said stiffly.

  “Yes,” was all Sven said, and then he vanished into the Tempest.

  Chapter 8

  “The blue myst is Power. It creates raw telekinetic force — lifting, carrying, crushing and producing barriers. Wizards use Power to attack almost as much as they employ Energy, especially if they intend to capture an opponent. Power is a versatile tool and the most effective defense against physical attacks in any wizard’s repertoire.”

  — Nightfire Tradition,

  Nightfire’s Magical Primer

  Erbark Lasik was a formidable man. He projected “mapmaker” the way a calloused handshake radiated bootmaker. His broad limbs and careful walk spoke of years fighting enemies toe to toe. He had the thick black hair and sun-darkened skin of a mundane from one of the least civilized towns in Marrishland, but his clean-shaven face proclaimed him a wizard even if his dark green cloak had not. His brown eyes were fearless and confident. He had a penchant for speaking only when necessary, and only his fellow Rustifordians recognized this as something he had learned since leaving home.