Child of the Sword, Book 1 of The Gods Within (11 page)

Chapter
6: The Man

“Why has he not progressed?” Olivia
demanded.

“Because he fears his own magic,” Roland
said patiently.

“Or is it because . . .”
Marjinell inserted smugly, “. . . that other than a
few simple spells, he has no magic?” Marjinell smiled sweetly, glad
that Olivia chose to direct her scorn elsewhere for a change.

“No,” Malka said, shaking his head
thoughtfully. “The boy has magic aplenty. I can sense it within
him.”

“Exactly,” Olivia fumed. “His power is as
plain as the six fingers on my hand.” She looked at AnnaRail. “So
why has he not begun to live up to his name?”

AnnaRail paused as if to think, but actually
she paused to allow Olivia’s temper to subside. It was difficult
enough to handle the old woman without her temper getting in the
way. “Roland said it a moment ago. Morgin fears his own magic. And
we unknowingly reinforced that fear by punishing him when he used
it to hide in shadow. We have made him aware of his power, and he
is progressing steadily toward purposeful control, though for a
sixteen-year-old he is a bit backward. But that progress is gained
at the cost of his natural defense mechanisms, and he may lose his
early ability at spontaneous magic. It may appear that he is
digressing, but you’ll realize that is not the case when you
understand he is progressing in control.”

“That’s not good enough,” Olivia said. Her
eyes narrowed as if she considered the situation carefully, but
AnnaRail knew that look well. The old woman was up to something.
“Perhaps the boy should be pushed.”

“No,” AnnaRail snapped. “That would only
worsen the situation.” AnnaRail shut her mouth quickly, realizing
that her reaction had been anticipated, that she’d been maneuvered
into yielding a bargaining point.

“Very well,” Olivia said happily. “His
training will remain in your hands. But I demand progress, regular
progress, or that situation will change.”

AnnaRail nodded, knowing better than to
speak further.

“Good,” Olivia continued. “Now what’s this I
hear about the other boys? I’m told Morgin associates only with
JohnEngine, that the others consider him moody and aloof.”

AnnaRail shrugged. “He’s a loner. He always
has been. What else can we expect after the kind of childhood he
had? And too, all of the boys, including Morgin, have recently
discovered girls. But while the rest are in hot pursuit, Morgin is
in retreat, I think because he is overly self-conscious of the
scars on his face. If we could do something about that, it would be
one less thing that separates him from the rest.”

“But even then,” Marjinell said, “the others
think him stupid and slow witted. Is he?”

“That’s enough, Marjinell,” AnnaRail said.
“You always seek to malign him. I’ll not stand for—”

“Be still.” Olivia commanded. “You’re
bickering like maidens. AnnaRail is right, Marjinell. You’re much
too harsh with Morgin. We know he’s not stupid, so I’ll hear no
more of that. And you—” she said, turning upon AnnaRail, “—are much
too quick to defend him. As for his scars, I see no reason why we
shouldn’t treat them.”

“It will take much magic,” Marjinell
said.

“For a member of this family, we have much
magic to give. But he must recognize that he is part of this clan,
this family. He will not be allowed to remain separate and aloof.
He will participate in all activities of this family, and that is
final.”

AnnaRail nodded. “We are in total agreement
there.” That took them all by surprise, even Roland. “But your
actions must match you words.”

Olivia frowned. “What do you mean?”

AnnaRail had gained a point, but the old
woman did not yet realize it. “Correct me if I am wrong, but had
you not planned that the entire family, with the one exception of
Morgin, would accompany us next month to Anistigh for Annaline’s
wedding?”

Olivia nodded warily; her eyes narrowed.

“Then we cannot blame the
boy . . .” AnnaRail continued,
“. . . if he interprets that to mean that he is
separate, and not equal.”

Her words had the desired effect. Olivia’s
brow remained wrinkled, but with indecision, not anger. “But the
boy cannot be trusted in the city.”

“I think he can. And in any case he’ll have
to be trusted, unless you wish him to withdraw even further into
himself.”

Olivia had trapped herself by her own
demands, which gave AnnaRail a certain satisfaction. But the old
witch recovered quickly. “Very well. He’ll go to Anistigh. But
he’ll attend each and every function before, during, and after the
wedding. With no time to himself, there’ll be no time for
temptation.”

She looked at each of them in turn. “It
shall be so. I command it. Malka. Please remain. I wish to speak
with you privately.”

~~~

Anistigh was a leisurely three day journey
from Elhiyne. Morgin and his brothers and cousins could have ridden
it easily in two, but no one felt the need to hurry. Besides, there
were women along, and carriages were slow, and even those like
Annaline—who had chosen to ride horseback, and proven often enough
that she was as capable in the saddle as any man—were hindered by
the petticoats and skirts that Olivia demanded they wear. “My
granddaughter . . .” she had proclaimed,
“. . . will not ride to her own wedding dressed in
the breeches of a man.”

Annaline didn’t seem to mind, though. They
were on holiday, and the trip was made in comfort, if not elegance,
though little eight-year-old NickoLot was not at all happy about
the situation. She wanted to ride with her brothers, but AnnaRail
would have none of that.

They followed the river Bohl, for it passed
close to Elhiyne and through the middle of Anistigh. It was also a
convenient source of water, and late in the evenings Morgin and his
brothers fished its banks, hoping to catch something tasty for
breakfast.

They came to Anistigh late on a warm sunny
day. It was not at all what Morgin had expected. What few memories
he could still recall were of muddy streets, cold, stone walls,
gray alleys, and dark hovels. But his first sight of the city was a
stretch of outlying farms, with Anistigh itself a jagged edge on
the horizon. The farms were neat and well kept, and the people that
greeted them as they passed were strong and healthy.

The city grew slowly out of the landscape, a
maze of buildings without a clear-cut boundary. Morgin had expected
something more sharply defined; a line perhaps, with city on one
side and country on the other, and he chided himself for being so
naive.

The heart of the city was formed of a
grouping of large estates where the rich and powerful lived. Many
were not clan, for just as a clansman could be poor, so too could a
commoner be rich. It was just easier for clansmen to acquire
wealth.

At the center of everything lay the Elhiyne
compound. It was not the largest of the estates, but it was walled,
and the most heavily fortified and guarded, for the clan was
Elhiyne, and Elhiyne was the clan.

They arrived in a flurry of servants and
retainers, and spent some time moving in. Once settled Morgin was
anxious to do a little sightseeing. There were a few hours left
before dinner so he hunted down JohnEngine and the two prepared to
leave, but Olivia refused to allow them to go without supervision.
“Two teenage boys,” she said, “alone, in the city? Never. You’d
find trouble where none existed.”

The logical choice for a chaperone was
MichaelOff, who was at first reluctant but allowed himself to be
persuaded. Accompanied by an adult ten years their senior, Olivia
had no choice but to give them leave. So the two boys set off with
their older cousin in tow, talking incessantly of the discoveries
they would make.

They headed straight for the market square,
for with the clan in town there would be jugglers and acrobats,
mimes, puppet shows, acting companies, and all forms of diversion.
There were vendors with sweets and delicious foods, wine and ale.
But as JohnEngine put it, the most important treats were the girls.
Girls, girls, and more girls.

All of this had been described by
JohnEngine, who had been to the city before. But as they approached
the sector of the city from which Morgin’s memories had sprung,
JohnEngine’s excitement grew while Morgin felt subdued, suppressed.
It had been ten years since he’d seen these streets, and much had
changed, yet he recognized them easily. And while his memories were
not clear, they were sufficiently distinct to rekindle long
forgotten emotions. They were memories best left unrecalled.

The market square itself remained almost
totally unchanged. Ramshackle stalls filled it completely, each
separated by narrow dirt pathways and operated by vendors loudly
crying their wares. Those with the greatest seniority were near the
outskirts where they could accost potential customers as soon as
they arrived and still had money in their purses. And of course,
the most valuable properties were the permanent shops that formed
the outer perimeter of the square. The noise and excitement were
overwhelming.

MichaelOff decided they should first tour
the perimeter, strolling down the aisle between the permanent shops
and the outermost stalls. And as they walked Morgin became
progressively uncomfortable, for everyone bowed deeply to the three
of them. The stall owners held samples high for easy viewing, but
they were uncharacteristically passive, never shouting prices at
the three young men as they passed. And by that Morgin slowly came
to realize that it was he and his kinsmen who were the center of
attention here. With that, and the familiarity of the market
square, he found himself looking for a convenient shadow.

A hand touched his shoulder. He jumped with
a start. It was MichaelOff.

“Morgin. Why so jumpy? What’s wrong?”

Morgin tried to look in all directions at
once. “They’re all staring at us,” he hissed.

MichaelOff scanned the crowd casually. “Yes
they are, aren’t they?” He smiled, looked back at Morgin and shook
his head sadly, took a deep, considered breath. “You’re going to
have to get used to that, you know. Anistigh is the capitol city of
the Lesser Council, which is made up of the four Lesser Tribes. Of
those four tribes, ours is the foremost, and our clan is held in
high regard for that. You are an Elhiyne. You are of the ruling
house of the foremost clan of this city, and wherever you go people
will stare. So get used to it and learn to ignore it.” MichaelOff
turned to a nearby stall. “Come. Let’s spoil our appetites a
little. I’m buying.”

Morgin found he couldn’t ignore the staring
eyes. No one was rude enough to stare directly into his face, but
if he turned quickly, he always caught several of them watching him
from behind. At one point a young boy of eight or nine ran across
his path, stumbled, and fell into the dirt. And without giving it a
thought Morgin reached down to help the lad to his feet. Once up
the boy turned to see who had helped him and froze suddenly. His
eyes grew wide and he hissed “Witchman!” then said no more.

An old woman, as filthy as the boy, stepped
out of the crowd and grabbed him by an ear. She gave the ear a
twist. “I’ve told ya not to bother the gentlemen,” she
bellowed.

She gave the ear another twist and turned to
Morgin. “Fergive me boy, yer worshipfulness. He’s a brute, he is.
I’ll punish him rightly.”

“Oh no!” Morgin said. “No. Don’t. He did
nothing wrong. He just stumbled in front of me.”

“Well,” she said. “If ya say so, yer
wizardness. I’ll let him go this time.” She turned back to the boy
and gave the ear one final twist. “And you be more careful.” Then
she released him, and in an instant he disappeared into the
crowd.

Most of that afternoon was a strange
kaleidoscope of images and events that faded into a single overall
impression of a lot of poor people, surviving through this day and
into the next, though there was one incident that Morgin would
remember well.

He was browsing through the stalls at the
center of the square, thinking he might find some little trinket
for Annaline with the few pennies he had. He stopped at one stall
to look close at some small amulets. He could sense the stall’s
owner hovering nearby in anticipation of a sale. He looked into the
man’s face to ask his prices, and was suddenly struck by terror,
for he was looking at a face that would always make Rat’s heart
jump, a man whom he remembered as the cruelest of the vendors, with
a sharp throwing rock always at hand.

Rat back-stepped quickly, eyes wide, looking
for the safety of a nearby shadow.

“Is something wrong, your lordship?” the man
asked.

Rat, still back-stepping, stumbled over
someone. They both fell to the ground in a tangled heap. Rat stood,
ready to run, but found instead poor Mathal sprawled at his
feet.

She looked up fearfully. “Forgive me, you
worship. I didn’t see you coming. Stupid me! Stupid me!” Then she
began picking up the fruit he’d knocked from her hands.

“Out of his lordship’s way, old hag,” the
man shouted. “You made him stumble. Be gone.”

The vendor lifted a hand to strike her, and
in that instant something crawled up the back of Morgin’s spine,
something alive and deadly. “Hold,” Morgin shouted angrily, feeling
the power of magic sparking among his fingertips as he raised his
own hand high.

The vendor froze into a fearful stillness.
“It was I who made her stumble,” Morgin said. He looked into the
man’s eyes. “And if you strike her—” He borrowed an expression from
the first time he’d ever seen Roland in these same streets. “—then
you’ll face my wrath.”

The man bowed meekly. “Yes, your lordship,”
he said, then disappeared into the crowd.