Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) (10 page)

A spark kindled in Kerwin’s eyes.  “Oh, I suppose one
more season won’t hurt.  I give.  Tell Torrance to put me back on the paylist.”

Grinning, Marik dashed away to ask Dietrik and Landon
before returning to inform Torrance he had selected his three fellow
bodyguards.  The commander was a pretty good boss after all, allowing him pick
his own co-contractors as an additional reward for his excellent performance
against the Noliers.

*        *        *        *        *

The sound of steel-on-steel drifted through Marik’s
window much more loudly than before.  Over the last several eightdays the
normal practices of mercenaries keeping their skills honed had been added to by
the daily training of D Class recruits.  Four-hundred men had been accepted by
the judging panel, and fully half their number needed to elevate their talents
to Kings’ standards by spring.

Marik had walked past the training hall the first day
of orientation.  Men had packed it to the rafters.  The sight had fostered a
suspicion that the requirements for passing had been relaxed this year.  Two
instructors spoke from the raised floor, a different pair than Marik had
learned from, yet these were also a male and female.  It must be policy to use
a Fifth Squad woman as an instructor so the new recruits understood the band
was not gender exclusive.  Too many other concerns had weighed on his mind to
make him think on it long.

He’d been working on Tollaf’s damned book every day,
pushing on, determined that the old goat would never get the best of him. 
After so many deciphered pages of Natalie’s handwriting, he grew to recognize
her style.  Within a few lines he knew if the page would contain useful
information or ramble on about her sexual proclivities.

Carefully jumping through the tome’s pages, he had
finally reached the end.  Backtracking to the few instances of useful
instruction gave him the general idea behind her scrying working.  With those
untested theories had also come the time to consult with Tollaf.

He hefted the heavy book into a comfortable position
for the trip to the Tower.  In the dining area Kineta read through papers while
sipping from a tankard.  She sat by the door as had become her habit, ready to
accept any challenge the men might be foolish enough to advance, her entire
bearing silently daring them too.

Most had learned their lesson.  Others were either
slow learners or nursed a masochistic streak.  Bad enough that she could run
rings around them with her Perrisan scimitar, but her unfettered mouth could
set even these hardened men’s ears to flaming.  Every fighter in the First Unit
had spent at least one five-day stretch under her grueling training régime. 
Vance was currently working on his fifth.  Fraser had made it clear that any
man failing to follow her orders, or her punishment training, could count their
remaining marks in the band on one hand.

Marik had yet to challenge her, having no issue with
her sergeantcy, though his interest in a spar had gradually peaked as she
demonstrated her skill.  Too bad Tollaf expected him today.

He made his way into the chief mage’s realm with his
weighty burden.  Yesterday the entire afternoon had been spent with the smug
old man discussing what he’d learned. 
Master
Tollaf had thoroughly
enjoyed correcting every slight misconception on his part.  The apprentice had
somehow kept his temper in check.

Marik entered without knocking just because he knew
how much it irritated the dried-up fossil.  Disappointingly, Tollaf hardly
seemed to notice today.

“I prepared the mirror for you last night.  I need to
work on this.”  The old man gestured at a fresh tower of papers annexing his
workspace.

“You were supposed to help me.”  Despite their
poisonous relationship, he had no wish to attempt this for the first time
alone.

“Tell that to Torrance!  He dropped all this on me
without warning.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No.”  Elaboration failed to follow.  When Marik
continued standing still, he snapped, “Well?  Are you going to get to work or
not?”

“I’ve never done this before!”

“So?  There’s plenty of things
I’ve
never done
before, but I don’t get to hold my mother’s hand while I try!”

Marik glared.  “You’re supposed to look after your
apprentice.”

“That’s why we spent all yesterday discussing this. 
There’s little danger in a working like this, only a lot of effort.  Therefore,
go at it until you get it right.”  He swiveled on his stool and left his back
to the room.

Marik struggled and finally decided against knocking
the old man over the head with Natalie’s diary.  In lieu of that, he approached
the mirror.

He had never seen a larger one.  It rested atop Tollaf’s
smallest worktable, nearly two feet tall.  Ornate silver framing curved around
the glass.  Once before he’d seen the old man summon images through it when
Torrance had needed a communication link to the palace.

Today he would attempt a similar feat.  Marik stood
the book on end, open to the page he needed.  When he let go, the pages curled
forward. He stole the iron weights from a scale on one of the other tables. 
Placed flush with the pages, they held them in position.  The tops still leaned
forward, but he could read what he needed to.

A small porcelain bowl and knife were waiting.  With
the knife he severed a lock of his hair.  He reviewed the book one last time
before dropping the hair into the bowl.

His mage talent tapped the line of power flowing past
Kingshome under the horses’ vale.  A year ago he would have given every coin he
owned not to be able to do this.  He had grudgingly come to accept this
unnatural ability only because it would prove useful in helping him find his
father.

This working required him to fill his interior
reservoirs with the maximum pure energy he could contain.  It needed far more
power than he normally produced, then, once it actually started, it could
easily need a hundred times as much.  Or perhaps not.  The book had never
clearly explained that aspect.  Given his past experiences with open channels
linking him to raw energy, he carefully erected triple surge shields,
subscribing to the theory that one could never have too much protection when
delving the unknown.

The first step called for imbuing the mirror.  He
would infuse the frame with pure mage power.  It sounded easy enough, except
the power infused must remain free of a specific purpose.  Marik had never done
that before.

Whenever he molded mage power, such as for his
shields, the energy’s purpose was integral to the forging process. 
Concentrating on what he wanted the energy to become guided his mental hands in
their movements.  Also, the working’s intended purpose became as much an
influence on the raw power as his mental hands.  Once injected with a purpose,
the energy no longer remained pure, somehow altering its basic nature to best
fit the working’s need.  In such a manner did shields similar in structure
become transmuted to specific shields against different energy types.  This
scrying working demanded he transfer energy without allowing its intended
purpose to mutate it in any way.  That would come later.

But Tollaf had assured him this was easy. 
It’s the
same as opening a channel.  Instead of drawing energy in, you’re pushing it
out.  All you need to remember is to keep your mind free of specific thoughts.

With the idea of a channel firmly in mind, Marik drew
pure power from his core. 
To the frame.  Attach to the frame and wait.
 
His mental hands were filled with warm energy.  Carefully, trying to direct his
talent in a manner unlike any he ever had before, he moved those hands along
the frame’s edge.  In their wake he left power the way a baker iced his cakes
from a frosting bag.

Marik made a full circuit around the frame, joining
the ends together, hardly believing he’d managed it on the first try.  He
scrutinized it carefully, fully expecting to find signs that the power was
being bent toward some purpose.  It remained pure.

Unfortunately, the first step would be the easiest. 
With the frame imbued and primed, he must now give it the instruction he had
strived so hard to keep separate before.  The working, with the glass surface
now firmly an integral component within the energy matrix, should show him what
he desired it too once the purpose snapped all the existing elements together.

Constantly siphoned energy from the vale line refilled
his reserves.  The book and Tollaf both had said he needed to connect the
scrying circle he’d created with the essence contained in the hair.  To do
that, he needed to imbue the hair with mage power in a similar fashion, then
connect the bowl to the mirror.

He did so, seeing the strands begin to glow with
etheric power as they were saturated.  A new energy line connected it to the
scrying circle around the frame.  The structure for the working was complete.

Marik let his intentions flow through the channel
feeding raw energy to the hair, which in turn flowed to the mirror.  He made
the purpose as strong as he could. 
Find this man.  Find every man with a
connection to this.  Show him to me.

The mirror’s reflection shimmered for a second, then
stopped.  Nothing at all happened.  Only the same reflection showed of the
workroom, Tollaf on the far side hunched over his papers, himself sitting
before the mirror.

Irritated, Marik broke the channel to the hair and
started over.  Again the same result.  The shimmer clearly meant something
transpired.  What prevented the working from doing what it should?  Twice more
he got no results.

“Hey, old man!  Your mirror’s broken.”

“What?  It better not be!”  Tollaf stalked over to
inspect his mirror for cracks.

“The scrye isn’t working!”

Tollaf glared at him.  “Be clear then!  What’s wrong?”

He made Marik perform the working, having him explain
all he did.  When the shimmer disappeared, Tollaf glowered at his apprentice in
annoyance.

“It’s doing exactly what you told it to.”

“What?”

Tollaf pursed his lips.  “It’s showing
you
, you
idiot.  Tell it to look for your ancestors.”  Grumbles escaped him all the way
back to his stool.

Face flushed, Marik ground his teeth. 
Like he
knows so much.  I bet he made a thousand mistakes as an apprentice!

When the mirror next reflected him, he sent negative
emotions through the link, urging the circle to find others with ties to the
hair.  He visualized everything he could remember about Rail.  The details had
softened over time, the sharp lines of his face blurring indistinctly in his
memory.  In their place, he recalled the feelings connected to the man; the
pride at succeeding in a small task Rail had set him, the abashed chagrin when
he had been caught waving a dagger in a sword-like manner.

The room’s reflection vanished, and without warning a
monstrous serpent erupted from the frame.

Or so it seemed at first.  Marik stifled his initial
cry.  He watched the etheric creature move.  But it was no creature at all.  It
was actually a writhing whip of pure energy.  The head streaked through the
etheric plane with unimaginable speed, leaving only the uncoiling body
undulating past him.  Its body stretched ten feet from the mirror before fading
into invisibility.  He watched the body, still connected to the frame, shake
like a snake in truth.

Natalie’s quick reference to the working sending out a
seeking tendril finally made sense.  Its impression of unwinding halted after a
minute, then it apparently stopped moving except for the lazy side-to-side
slithering.  Marik felt his strength waning.  The circle drew power through him
to form the etheric serpent that sought the working’s target.

Luckily the energy he siphoned from the vale line
flowed into him at the same speed the circle sucked it out.  The feel of energy
rushing through him was unsettling.  He acted as a simple conduit between the
etheric energy source and the scrye.

The seeking serpent rotated so slowly it took him
several minutes to notice it moved at all, traveling around the mirror in a
sunwise direction.  After two full candlemarks, it rotated around to the
position where it had started.

When it reached its initial point, the etheric serpent
abruptly disintegrated.  “Damn it!”

“What is it?”  Tollaf swiveled from his piles, into
which he had made no noticeable progress.  “No luck?”

“The working suddenly fell apart.  What does that
mean?”

Tollaf returned to check the mirror.  “Probably that
he’s dead or too far away for the scrye to find him.”

Marik scowled.  “And how far is that?”

“How would I know?  Use your blood.  That’s a stronger
catalyst, and it might have the strength to find him.  Your hair obviously
doesn’t.”

Marik ran a thumb over the sharp knife edge.  “How
much?  I’m not about to slash my wrists.”

“Don’t be a fool!  It says right there that only a
small amount is required.”  Tollaf thumped his hand against the pages to
illustrate his point, which knocked the heavy book over backward.  It fell to
the floor, corner first, and smashed his foot.