“I was prouder of the chest case,” said Vilkas, his voice deep and slow and lazy. It pleased me to see him so relaxed. It didn’t happen often. “We do work well together. Aral has a way of calming folk down and getting them to accept the healing that she ought to teach. The woman was nearly blue at the lips with it, and you know how those breathing cases panic.”
“So would you if you were fighting for every breath,” said Aral indignantly. “I had a bad chest infection once and it was terrifying. Don’t dismiss people like that. As if you wouldn’t panic if you couldn’t breathe.”
Vil bowed to her. “Quite right. Your pardon.”
“Oh, get on with it,” she said, flapping a hand at him.
“There’s not much to tell, but it was harder work. The purely physical, the gross injuries are just a question of structure,” said Vilkas, sounding briefly like Magister Rikard on a dull day. “It’s the cause behind the infection that was such a challenge. She’s one of those who gets a rattling chest every time she gets a cold. We didn’t just clear up her lungs, we managed—”
“You managed,” corrected Aral.
“We managed to find the underlying weakness in her lungs and repair it, though she’s still got her cold.” He grinned briefly. “She didn’t seem to mind. And don’t underestimate yourself, Aral. You were already there intuitively by the time I found it.”
“So Magistra Erthik was pleased?”
“She will be when we tell her,” said Aral, mischievously. “We finished ages ago and came up here to practice—other things.”
“Magistra Erthik is always pleased when we find a reason to be elsewhere,” said Vilkas. “She is a kind woman but there is nothing more she can teach us.”
“That’s enough, Vilkas,. There is no need to speak so of Magistra Erthik,” I said sternly.
It was hard to object, though. He was right. Magistra Erthik was wise in her way and had a deep understanding of human nature, but she had never had much to teach Vilkas that he could understand. Still, Vilkas was too inclined to judge everyone and everything by his own impossible standards.
It was part of his great gift and part of his difficulty with life. He was the strongest Healer to appear before the Magistri in many a long year. Some said he would one day be as strong as Magister Berys himself, but that was because Vilkas had held back when he was tested. There was untapped power the limits of which no one knew inside that long, lanky frame. Aral and I were the only ones who had any idea of it and Vilkas had sworn us to silence. He’d had no need to do so, really, for we knew little beyond the fact of its existence.
“Quite right. My apologies, Will. Can I offer you a cup of chélan? It’s bloody cold out there.”
I grinned. “Then close the window, idiot. And yes, please, chélan would be a pure gift, I’m frozen.”
Because I was the only outsider there, Vilkas sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, frowning with concentration. The window creaked in on its hinges. Despite myself, I let out a low whistle. “By the Lady, Vil! You’re getting good at that.”
Aral let out a sharp laugh. “Ha! Good? He’s getting insufferable. Just before you came in he lifted me off the ground and held me there for a quarter of an hour.” She glowered at him.
“It was nowhere near that long, and you came to no harm. I don’t see why you’re upset,” said Vilkas calmly as he made a pot of chélan for us all in the conventional manner.
“I don’t appreciate feeling helpless, idiot,” she replied. “Just let me catch you off guard and I’ll keep you still as a stone for an hour, then you might get the idea.”
“You might be able to, at that. Interesting thought. We should try it.”
“Oh be quiet and make the chélan, thou great and powerful wizard:”
“Honey for you, Will?” he asked. Their sniping was a good sign, it meant that all was well with them.
Vilkas and Aral—how to begin their story, they who have shaped so many stories since? At that time I had known them both for a little less than two years, ever since they first arrived at the College of Mages in Verfaren, young and fiery and green as grass in spring.
For a start, to look at, they were wildly mismatched. They could not have been more opposite in their appearance or in their approaches to life. Where he was quiet, solitary and withdrawn, she was all light and laughter, sound and movement. She spoke and acted according to her heart, he according to his head.
It was rather the friendship between them that was astonishing.
Aral was an attractive lass. She was on the short side of medium build, with long brown hair that curled and flowed like water when she let it escape from the braids wrapped around her head. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with the life in her, but she kept her generous curves hidden beneath what she called “work clothes” and what the rest of us called men’s clothes—trews and a tunic that came below her knees and was belted loosely around her waist. I could understand her reasons, though. On those rare occasions when she wore a fitted dress and let her hair loose, she drew every man in the place—including me—to her like moths round a candle. Every man except Vilkas.
He was on the tall side but young enough yet that he might stretch even more, and so thin that he always looked even taller than he was. His skin was very pale and his hair black like a raven’s wing, with the same blue depths, and his eyes when he unveiled them were a shocking brilliant blue. He wasn’t handsome, or that’s what the girls tell me, but he was certainly striking enough to look at. Soon after he had arrived he grew a neat beard and the picture was complete. A great Mage in the making. Several of the lasses tried for him, as they were honour-bound to do, but he showed no interest beyond friendship. Most of them found him too uncomfortable for that. Certainly it was the sense of mystery about him that drew Aral.
Not many knew it, but I had heard that of all the students she was nearest to Vilkas in strength and intellect. The Magistri had admitted her into the college only months after Vilkas had arrived. She worried them. Magistra Erthik told me once that the Magistri thought the arrival of two such powers would mean either internal strife or some dire threat to the world, and were relieved after two years to see that neither seemed to be the case. Shows how much they knew.
It might be that that was what started their friendship. She never expected any more of him than friendship—well, not at first—and he found in her kindness and a mind equal to his. After a little time, though, they could not be separated. It was never love in the usual sense—not on his part, anyway—though they had a partnership that most would envy. I think it was simply that they found in each other the presence of something they lacked. For her, a sharp mind equal to her own that would challenge her, power even greater than hers that was willing to work with her, a friend to rely on who, despite all the boundaries he put up to keep the world out, was always willing to help, and even let her come close on occasion. For him, it was the contact with a loving heart, one that listened and gave a damn about what he thought and felt and did with his life, a friendly hearth-fire at which to warm himself when the roiling power within threatened to overcome him.
We worried about Vilkas, Aral and I. In a college full of intense young men, Vil was unique. He was fond of drink and could usually hold it well, but Aral told me that one time, in his cups, he had let slip his defences, just once, just for a moment. It had left her shaking. She had not needed her corona or even simple Healer’s sight to see what it was Vil was defending against. It was not that he was keeping the rest of the world out. He was defending the world from that which lived inside him. It terrified him, exhausted him, spurred him to learn and to control and to live life as full as he could, for he was convinced that he would never see thirty winters.
I for one was determined that he should live to be ninety, if only to prove him wrong.
Aral felt the same way, but lately for very different reasons. I knew the signs. She was young and passionate and spent most of her time with Vilkas, taking risks, worki
ng with their shared power. No wonder she fell in love with him. His complex intensity, which he shared only with her, must have been completely intoxicating for her, and their shared work was all their lives. It was hopeless, worse than hopeless from the outset and even Aral knew it, but love, like weeds, grows where it will, and the mind has very little say in the matter.
I was their one friend, being just that bit older, and both together and on their own they came to me when they needed someone to talk to. I enjoyed their friendship, in fact I was honoured by it. When I realised the awful depth of the hole Aral was digging for herself I simply decided that come what may I would be there to help her out when she finally fell in, for so she would one day, and I would not leave her to be alone when that happened.
Of course, the fact that I was deeply in love with her myself might have had something to do with it.
“What in the world are you thinking of, Will?” said Aral, smiling and handing me a cup of chélan. “You’re miles away.”
“Quite right, lass. I beg your pardon.” I shook myself. “So,” I said, sipping the hot chélan and enjoying the simple feel of the warmth in my throat. “Magistra Erthik has approved your activities, has she?” I smiled. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”
Vilkas lifted a corner of his mouth and Aral laughed. “Right as ever, Will,” she said. “Vil and I only told her that we were going to try working together on a healing or two. Turns out that’s her dearest cause.”
“Indeed. And how long ago did you two first manage to work together?” I asked. I knew them well, these two. They would not lie, not outright.
Vilkas turned to Aral. “End of last summer?”
“Aye. Before harvest, in any case. Perhaps two moons after the solstice?”
“Sounds right.”
Aral turned to me. “In any case, I can’t believe you’ve come here simply to pass the time of a winter’s day.”
“I might as well. There’s precious little to do in the garden this time of year, and my few simples are well stocked.” That made me smile. A college of mages, the best healers in the world, and there was still a demand for the teas that would ease a sore throat, or the warming grease that kept old bones from seizing up in the frosty weather. More serious things were treated every day, but the abiding curses of humanity still included growing old and catching colds in the winter, and there was nothing any Healer had ever found that could slow down the one or hasten the cure for the other.
“You know, if either of you were wealthy I’d be well off forever from the blackmail. If Magister Berys ever found out what you were doing you’d be tossed out of the nearest window so fast you’d hit the ground before the glass did.”
Aral instantly looked sombre. Vilkas snorted. “I’m not so sure. I swear, Will, I have caught traces of things in this college that should not be here, and the nearer you come to Magister Berys the thicker the smell. And have you noticed that he seems to have been reversing time lately?” Vil was now as serious as Aral. “It’s true, Will, I swear it. I didn’t know anyone could do that, demon master or not. He doesn’t look much changed in passing, but the last time I saw him I swear he had tried to make himself look old. He stood straighter than I’ve ever seen him, there were traces of players’ paint on his jaw and his hands no longer have wrinkled skin or age spots. There is something very, very wrong about Magister Berys.”
Berys
It has been a day for news. I have just had word of Gorlak, followed not an hour later by news, at last, of the fate of the mercenaries I sent after Marik’s daughter.
Ah, Gorlak. My apprentice, my assistant in conquest. The King of the East Mountains, with a large and powerful army, a brutish son, a thirst for ever greater power and a weakness for flattery. He had come to my hand willingly when I sought material assistance in my aim, for why use demons when there are men who will fight among themselves instead? Gorlak’s was the only line of the Kings of Kolmar untouched by disaster, for only Gorlak had agreed to wage war on the other three as my proxy. I would leave him untouched, as I had not left the others; I would assist him as I could with information, silver and provisions, and he would conquer the other three Kingdoms for me.
Why should any man do so? For power, of course. I have no heir nor ever will, and Gorlak knows it. I have even sworn that should such a one be born he might kill it with impunity. No, I have promised Gorlak the thrones of the Four Kingdoms when I am done with them. And I am an old man, am I not? How long would he be forced to wait—ten years, perhaps fifteen?
I may have forgotten to tell him of my experiment with lansip, that was restoring my youth. Ah, well. I am sometimes forgetful. Doubtless he will learn of it in time.
For the moment, however, I knew that some weeks since he had set a muster for the northwest border of his Kingdom of the East, so very, very close to Eynhallow, the capital of the North Kingdom. It is well known that it would be insane to attack Eynhallow in winter, so of course the Northerners were completely unprepared.
I had already heard, through word passed by my sources in Marik’s Merchant House of Gundar throughout Kolmar, that Gorlak had fallen with no preamble upon the fortified city of Eynhallow. King Karrick for all his age was no dotard, even taken unawares, and it took Gorlak nearly a full moon to take the city, but it is taken. It is mine now. Ancient Karrick, cut down in battle, was buried with honour in the chapel of his ancestors. It cost Gorlak nothing, and it kept the populace from rising against him.
One accomplished, two to follow.
Gorlak is no fool. He immediately fortified Eynhallow with his own men, and when the assembled army of the North, under Karrick’s surviving generals, came upon him, he was ready for them. They were badly prepared and far fewer than they should have been. After only one more moon he has subdued the North and managed to keep word of it from reaching beyond the borders, for the most part.
However, a spy of the Silent Service has managed to find out this very day, as swiftly as the news has reached me, and it is known now to those who can pay for the information.
I am not overly concerned. It will be a good first test—what will happen to Gorlak, now that he has taken such a desperate and irreversible chance? If he survives until spring, the next step in the plan is lisa. It is a kingdom of farmers, sparsely populated, and unlike Karrick, King Tershet can barely remember his own name. The army of Ilsa, such as it is, has not been mustered for ten years. Those few with some claim to the throne have been hovering like carrion birds for years now, doing nothing. If they are cut down at the same time as Tershet, who will mourn? Not the people. The people don’t give a fart who the king is, as long as the taxes are low and life goes on much as normal.
So much for Gorlak. He has done well and I am pleased. Several large boxes of lansip leaves are on their way to him, guerdon for his good work. It may not seem much, but if you assume that the old man you are secretly fighting for is going to leave all to you, it would be enough.
Gorlak, as I have said, does not know that I am now physically no more than thirty years of age. I have stopped taking the lansip essence, for having lost more than half my years I am well enough content. No more stiff joints, no more failing eyesight and diminished hearing, no more aches and pains to plague me. No more, no more of those times when the glass showed Death looming over my shoulder, far too near.
As for the mercenaries, I had word early from those I sent north, to the Súlkith Hills between Verfaren and Elimar: they found something curious but it was not what I sought. The folk in the villages reported seeing far more of the little useless dragons about the place than ever before. Dragons are not all that unusual, though they tend to be shy of contact with men. Try as I might, however, I cannot see how they, the small, common dragons, might be connected with the Kantrishakrim. It is said in some of the oldest histories that far back in time they were one people—it is possible, I suppose, in the same way that the Rakshasa came originally from one kind. The Rikti said “Kantrishakrim and not”
—I can only assume that the stupid thing mistook a large number of the little dragons for one of its larger cousins. Therefore Lanen must have been protected by the other “not Kantrishakrim” in northern Ilsa. In proof thereof I have had no word from those I sent to that place until this morning. It seems that only one of those who were in my pay survived. He left the others before they were killed. That must be only the second clever thing he has ever done, for the fool only bothered to send me word written by a public scribe and sent by the Long Riders, and even that was done many se’ennights after he must have known the fate of his comrades. The Long Riders are swifter than normal travel, but I had paid the leader to send word far more swiftly by means of a device I had given him. It must have died with him.
The only other clever thing the survivor has ever done was not to sign a name to his missive, nor ever to touch it himself. I cannot trace him. Alas.
ix
Life, Death and Fire
Maikel
A brief knock at the study door and Durstan came in without waiting. “Magister, your patient is awake and in distress.”
Berys seemed unmoved. “Can you not assist him?”
“I will come, Durstan,” I replied. “No need to bother the Magister. He has spent enough of his precious time with me already.” I bowed to Berys and turned to leave, but he laughed and came around the desk to take me by the arm.
“Ah, Maikel, your dedication does you credit, but it is no trouble. I will come with you. Surely together we can put Marik at his ease.”