EPIC: Fourteen Books of Fantasy (419 page)

Looking to the street, he saw a stranger staring at him. It was a bald old man, dressed in the rags of a beggar, and apparently blind in one eye, judging by its milky white color. But what gave Geveral pause was the stranger’s slender Drycaenian features and pointed ears. It was the first Geveral had seen of one of his kind since leaving Treeveil.

Finding himself discovered, the stranger looked away quickly and hurried off up the street. Geveral made an abrupt decision.

“Do you need me at this meeting, Eydis? Because if not, there’s something I’d like to do.”

She must have wondered what sort of errand he could possibly have to fulfill alone in a strange city. But she told him to go ahead and she would meet him with Orrick later.

He barely let her finish before bounding down the steps and back onto the street in time to see the bald stranger round the corner. Geveral pursued at a distance, following him down one side alley after another. He could easily have caught up, for the stranger’s pace was slowed by a slight limp. But something told him to hang back and see where the other Drycaenian might lead him.

They entered an impoverished-looking part of the city, where all the buildings were decaying and the yards around them overgrown with weeds. The stranger squeezed through an unlocked iron gate and into a high-walled courtyard. Spying through the gate, Geveral saw that the enclosed yard held the remains of a large burnt-out house that had only one wall and chimney still standing. The rest of the building had collapsed and been reclaimed by nature, being overgrown with tall grass and saplings.

But it wasn’t toward this ruin the old man scurried. He approached a smaller structure, an oblong building like a small house but constructed from panes of glass. Slipping through the gate, Geveral waded through the weeds after him, ducking out of sight only when the old man stopped to cast a quick glance around before entering the glass house. The glass panes were too grimy for Geveral to make out more than indistinct dark shapes inside. He hesitated, unsure why he felt compelled to go in. Maybe it was the pull to be near one of his kind again. Or maybe he was curious why the stranger had been watching him and why he had crept into that glass house with such stealth. What did he fear?

As Geveral considered, a reverberating sound reached his ears, like the deep roll of thunder. Only it wasn’t coming from the sky, but from that house of glass.

Emboldened by his curiosity, he let himself in the same door by which his quarry had entered. Once inside the shadowy interior, he stopped cold. The place was filled with row upon row of lush green plants and small trees, some growing out of clay pots, others sprouting from trays atop rickety wooden tables. He recognized fruit trees, stalks of vegetables, and a collection of herbs.

But it wasn’t the green things that drew his attention. It was the roiling gray cloud forming like a thick fog near the glass ceiling. Another low peal of thunder sounded, rattling the walls and roof. Before Geveral’s eyes, a light mist descended from the cloud overhead, moistening the greenery below. Swiftly, the mist became a sprinkle, soft droplets of rain falling down on Geveral’s upturned face. Entranced, he didn’t care that his clothing was getting wet. He hadn’t seen magical weather manipulation since that night back in Treeveil. The night Mentor Kesava died driving the birdmen away with a wild hailstorm.

But there was no question he was witnessing nature magic now. And standing amid the indoor garden, head thrown back and arms outstretched, was the mage creating it, the bald old man in beggar’s rags. He appeared unaware of Geveral’s intrusion. His eyes were glazed over, his expression rapt, as the rain showered down on him. Geveral had seen that enthralled expression before, when Mentor Kesava or Mage Jauhar worked the weather. It was the look of one so immersed in nature he no longer knew his surroundings or what occurred around him.

Out of respect, Geveral waited in silence until several minutes passed and the cloudburst abated. Then the old man came out of his trance, becoming abruptly aware.

“I thought you might come,” he said, betraying no surprise at the sight of the waiting Geveral. His one good eye shone brightly. “I suspected you would be as intrigued by me as I was at the unexpected sight of you. Few of our people are left in the world, and even fewer are to be found in the baselands. What brings you to Asincourt?”

“I travel with friends,” Geveral said evasively, unsure how much to reveal to this stranger. Abruptly remembering his manners, he added, “My name is Geveral of the Elder Forest.”

“And I am Janya of the Ashwoods,” replied the old man.

“Janya, I fear curiosity led me to trespass on your property and interrupt you at work.”

The old one’s face split in an ugly, yet good-humored, grin. “Of the former you need not worry, as this is not my property. As for the latter, I have finished with the day’s rain.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking…” Geveral hinted.

“What am I doing with these crops?” Janya finished. He swept an arm around them. “What you see before you is my humble livelihood. In looking for a place to sleep, I once stumbled across this abandoned house of glass and realized it was the ideal place for growing small crops. The sun’s rays on the glass warm the interior in winter, the walls protect the sprouts from wind in fall, and I have full control of the weather in all seasons. The produce of my garden feeds me, and whatever is left I can sell at market. The profit is minimal but enough to keep an old man alive. The only difficulty is keeping my little garden secret. That nosey Lord Karol is suspicious of magic and forbids me to interfere with the city’s weather. And so I must confine my practice to this small space.”

“I’m sorry,” Geveral said, thinking not of the old man but of the difficulty Eydis might face, trying to win support from a lord who had no respect for mystical gifts. Perhaps their task in this city wouldn’t be as simple as hoped.

Janya didn’t follow his line of thought. “Never mind Lord Karol,” he said easily. “His eyes can’t be everywhere at once, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt me. Anyway, enough of my troubles. I can see you have deeper concerns of your own.”

“What do you mean?” Geveral asked guiltily.

“I mean that magic block hanging over you.”

“Magic what?” Geveral glanced nervously toward the ceiling, half expecting a physical block to be hovering like a bolder above his head.

“A magic block is a barrier some of our kind are born with. It’s like a wall, holding back the swell of magic until it builds like flood waters rising behind a dam. Surely you can feel it?”

Geveral furrowed his brow. “My magic has been weak since childhood, but the mentor in my village never spoke of any barrier. He said time and training would grow my magic.”

Janya shrugged. “Every mage has his strengths and his blind spots. Perhaps your mentor simply couldn’t see what I do. If he had, he might have lifted the block for you.”

“Then it can be removed?”

“That depends on the block. I’d have to take a more thorough look.”

He came closer and took Geveral’s head in his hands. His eyes glazed over as they had when he worked his weather magic, and for the space of several heartbeats, all was still.

Then Geveral felt a strange sensation in his skull, like the easing of a pressure he hadn’t realized existed until it was removed. With it gone, everything instantly felt sharper and clearer, like a hazy cloud had been lifted from his mind. His skin tingled from scalp to toes, with a vivid awareness of the life around him. He had previously been conscious of the green growing things as a vague presence, but now he fully felt them for the first time. He was linked to them, just as he had briefly connected with the tree that saved his life the night of the hunger hounds’ pursuit.

Janya’s hands fell away, and his good eye grew focused again. “There we are. It is done,” he said gravely. “It was a simple barrier, easily removed. Almost any mage could’ve broken it down without effort.”

Geveral defended, “Mentor Kesava was a good mage.” But his heart wasn’t in the protest. He was too charged with wonder and excitement at the new world that had opened up before him. He felt almost powerful now, like he could do things he’d never done before.

“I don’t doubt your mentor’s competence,” said Janya. “But between a good mage and a great one, there is a difference. Me, I once had the potential to become one of the greats. But I didn’t attend academy and finish my training, so it all came to nothing.”

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

“Then don’t try. No one born with the gift should be separated from it. Knowing I’ve helped restore the proper balance of things is all the gratification I need.” Janya glanced toward the glass ceiling, where the sun could be seen working its way through the sky. “Now the afternoon is wearing on,” he said, “and I fear there’s someplace I need to be.”

“Is there no time to talk?” Geveral protested. “I have so much to learn now that there’s no block between me and my gift.”

“Sorry, my boy, but I’m no mentor. I left the traditional life of a Drycaenian long ago, and now I’m just a kind of glorified gardener, struggling to get by in a land that’s lost all respect for your kind and mine. If it’s training you want, you should seek out one of the mage schools. Learn from my mistake and don’t neglect your education.”

Already, the old man was heading for the door, calling back, “You can hang about the place if you like but latch the gate on your way out. I don’t want my turnips pilfered by scavengers and beggar children.”

The door opened and shut behind him and he was gone, leaving Geveral alone in the glass house. He barely hesitated. He would start small, he promised himself, but practice he must. There was a burning need in him to test his newfound strength. Besides, the vegetables looked thirsty.

Chapter XXI

E
YDIS

A
S
SHE
SHOVED
HER
way through the noisy tavern to an empty table at the back, Eydis tried to think how she would break the bad news to her friends.
Sorry, but it turns out Lord Karol is a shallow fop who cares for nothing but luxuries. The fate of the seclusionary means less than nothing to him, and he wouldn’t heed a warning from the First Mother if she appeared in the flesh to deliver it herself.

That much had become clear early in their meeting. As the corpulent lord sat on his velvet cushions, sipping wine and twirling his mustache with a bored air, his lack of concern for the warnings she delivered was obvious. The seclusionary itself was insignificant for tactical purposes, he assured her, and its inhabitants were a lot of dried up female clerics no one had any cause to disturb. Least of all some imaginary sorcerer from beyond the grave. He was skeptical of her visions and her connection with the oracle, and even unimpressed with the mark she wore to prove the First Mother’s favor.

Truly, she thought, if the lords of Asincourt had ever possessed a sense of duty toward their people or a reverence for the Mother and her adherents, that had been many generations past. Lord Karol could hardly shoo her out of his presence quickly enough, so he could turn his attention to a more pressing engagement—the arrival of his clothier. Any hope Eydis had harbored for gaining local military support died at that point.

Collapsing into an empty seat, she rubbed her forehead. The reek of Karol’s perfume had given her a headache. Casting a glance over the smoke-filled room, she looked for Orrick, who ought to have been here before her, but there was no sign of him.

A freckle-cheeked serving girl appeared at her elbow, and Eydis ordered a meal, thinking it had been far too long since she’d enjoyed real food. When the aproned girl moved away, unblocking her view, Eydis finally caught sight of Orrick. Lurking in the shadows at the back of the room, he was locked deep in conversation with some stranger. At least, Eydis first thought the person a stranger.

But then she realized there was something familiar about him, something that held her attention. He wasn’t a remarkable sort. Of medium height, he wore a nondescript cloak and kept the hood up, despite the warmth indoors. No weapons were visible on his person, but still there was a threatening air about him that made Eydis wonder if Orrick might be in need of her support. Before she could decide whether to join the two, she saw a coin purse change hands between them.

The scene evoked a memory. Suddenly she was back in that icy tower in the mountains, spying from behind the columns as a silver-haired stranger tossed a jingling pouch of coins to a hooded assassin. There was no doubt that assassin was the same man she was looking at now, as she watched Orrick accept the money and the pair exchange parting words. Then the hooded man left, slipping easily through the crowd and out a side door.

Mind reeling, she tried to understand what she had witnessed. She was barely conscious of the serving girl returning with her meal. Her appetite had vanished. Given her visions and what she knew of Orrick’s past, she scrambled to make sense of this new development. How could she come to any conclusion other than that her companion was somehow in league with the assassin and the person he worked for? Why Orrick should conspire with them or what any of them wanted with her remained a mystery. She knew nothing of the silver-haired man, other than that he was a mysterious force who wanted her, the mistress of masks, destroyed. And now he had drawn Orrick into the scheme.

That troubled her more than it should. Over the course of their journey she had put aside her doubts about the barbarian, had ignored even the vision of him betraying her. She had come to think of him as, if not a friend, at least an ally.

“Everything all right?”

At the unexpected intrusion, she started so badly her knee banged against the table leg.

But it was only Geveral who lowered himself to join her on the bench. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he observed. “Or the White Lady of the lake.”

She rubbed her smarting shin. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” She couldn’t be sure whether taking action against Orrick at this point would alter the events she’d foreseen for the better or the worse. Best to keep silent until she’d mulled it over.