Lesson of the Fire (2 page)

She had to ask. “You are Weard Sven Takraf,
yes?”

He nodded. “Inform your peers and master that
the one they hoped would not come to Domus Palus has arrived. There
is no further need to attack arriving wizards.”

She raised her right hand to the level of her
cheek. “By the Oathbinder and with the heroes as my witnesses, we
will do just that.”

Sven weighed her with a glance.

She met those hard green eyes. “I, too,
studied at Nightfire’s Academy.”

He lowered his gaze. “I remember you from
Rustiford,” he said softly.

“Horsa and Katla are also in Domus
Palus.”

He glanced up, eyes wide, although Eda
couldn’t tell which name had surprised him. He recovered quickly,
seeming to digest this news. “You always liked to be on the winning
side, Eda. If you would stand with the victor, stand with me after
I take the Chair.”

“If you seize the Chair, I will follow you
into the Fens of Reur. Remember me when you are finished.”

“I will.”

Chapter 2

“
The first day of summer in Marrishland marks
the start of Duxfest, and it is the only time when the Mardux’s
power can be challenged. Any eighth-degree wizard not on the
Council may win the Chair by defeating the current Mardux in a
magical duel. If a wizard wins the Chair and holds it against all
challengers for one full day, he becomes the new Mardux.”

— Nightfire Tradition,

The Magical Traditions of Marrishland

Weard Sven Takraf, eighth-degree wizard and
graduate of Nightfire’s Academy, had a marsord because of his
power, but he had not brought it to Domus Palus. He knew he could
defeat anyone who would be Mardux without it, and the challenge of
retaining that position would not trouble him. He had no intention
of allowing it to.

Three days of challenges
and still no Mardux,
Sven thought.
Nightfire would have returned to the Academy if
someone had been able to hold the Chair, which means the magocrats
are divided. The gods could not have crafted a clearer
omen.

He smiled grimly.
And how long has anyone thought of Nightfire as
anything but his name, when it is truly just the title of
Marrishland’s arbiter of the Law.

Sven wore knee-high boots turned down at the
tops all the way to his calves. His loose pants were dark green,
tucked in and bunched up above the boots. A leather strap served as
a belt, and thick, studded leather gloves hung from it. His brown
shirt had a collar — also turned down — and long sleeves with
drawstrings at the end to tighten them. His leather utility vest
showed years of wear. All his clothes had travel stains, but old
ones.

Close-cropped brown hair and dark, almost
mud-colored, skin surrounded his green eyes, hawkish nose and sharp
mouth. Green eyes — Marrish’s eyes, as the mundanes called them —
were rare among Mar, but Sven knew of three others besides his
parents who had them.

So much coincidence cannot be
coincidence.

Domus Palus was the seat of the Mardux, the
not-quite king of Marrishland and ruling magocrat. The city on the
coast was the center of Mar civilization, and home to thousands of
wizards, six times their number in mundanes and the largest slave
population in the country.

And like our civilization,
it stagnates around us,
Sven thought as he
passed a square reclaimed by the swamp. There was even a suckmud
willow in it.

The slaves — mostly convicts whose crime had
been reneging on an oral agreement — lived outside the ancient
city. The mundanes, Mar who had not studied magic, lived throughout
the city. Sven only cared about one group right now, the wizards,
and they were at the citadel.

The “palace” of Domus Palus.

In the center of the city, eight tall steps
led up to a wide walkway crossing between the citadel and the
temple of Marrish. On that walkway, many of the most powerful
magocrats in Mar history had fought for the position of ruler of
Marrishland. Most contenders died simply because killing a powerful
wizard was far easier than subduing one.

Sven heard the sounds of battle before he saw
anything.

The massive citadel came into view, its stone
and iron bulk in marginally better condition than the buildings
around it. Crowds of wizards appeared, a milling mass of city
officials on a holiday. Most wore green and auburn, but he could
make out patches of blue, amber and cyan. This late in the night,
slaves kept torches lit, filling the air with oily smoke.

What a waste of
energy,
Sven thought, shaking his head
sadly.

He picked out and counted the lavender and
yellow wizards, those one or two ranks below eighth-degree. As he
reached a hundred, he stopped. Then he sought the bright cloaks of
eighth-degree wizards and found them on the walkway. Two fought in
the center, marsords flailing as fire burst between them. Sven
judged the battle nearly over.

There were fifteen besides the two fighting —
a group of five on the citadel side, two standing near them but
separate, and eight standing in front of the temple, perched like a
bunch of greedy, terrified scavengers waiting for the damnen to
finish its meal.

Sven pressed forward, the color of his cloak
making the crowd bend around him like water around a bubble of
marsh gas. As he reached the foot of the steps, one of the
red-cloaked men on the walkway drove his marsord through the
other.

The victor — hands bloody, face blackened by
burns — cut off his opponent’s head and kicked it to the feet of
the eight scavengers, a dark scowl on his face. Sven searched the
victor’s eyes and found the tiredness there. The foremost of the
eight, the Dux of Flasten, Volund Feiglin, glared murderously at
the victor and nudged the young man by his side.

Ketil Wenigar, Volund’s
son.
Sven wondered who the challenger had
been.

“Would anyone else like to die before
sunrise?” the victorious wizard called hoarsely.

Volund scowled at Ketil before speaking.
“There will be a challenge tomorrow, you can be sure.”

Nightfire stepped forward, part of the pair
behind the victor. “Does any other wish to challenge Einar Schwert
tonight?”

Einar wiped his marsord on the corpse of his
opponent and sheathed it. None of the reds at the edge of the
square stirred.

“Weard Schwert will return at noon. If no
challenger defeats him by this time tomorrow, he will be
Mardux.”

The bloodied wizard turned on his heel and
marched to the citadel. The stiffness of his dirty red cloak
betrayed a limp he had not yet healed. The group of five parted to
let him pass, following only after Nightfire and his companion
caught up to Einar. Sven crept up the stairs as Volund, cursing
loudly at his son, stormed after them into the citadel. Ketil
followed meekly.

Ignoring the six bickering reds and their
seventh-degree companion, Sven joined the yellow-garbed priests of
Marrish as they began disposing of the body.

Ketil hesitated because
Einar just killed his brother,
Sven noted
as they moved the head.
Volund cannot take
the Chair while he is on the Council, but he would have a son
there. And what brings a borderland weard like Einar Schwert into
this?
Sven glanced at the six
reds.

A tall one with burning grey eyes was
watching him as though all the Mar’s troubles could be laid at
Sven’s feet. He turned to shout something hotly into the
discussion.

They seem to want the Chair as well, but
they let Volund’s son fight first. Why?

As Sven eyed them, he gauged
their strength. Surely any eighth-degree could defeat a tired
eighth-degree. He shook his head.
Gobbels
will eat their own if it is the least dangerous source of
food.

The crowd began to disperse. The
eighth-degrees who still disputed Einar’s claim to the Chair and
their attendants did not stir from their place by the temple.

Sven thanked the priests as they blessed him
in Marrish’s name and gently moved him away from the corpse. He
walked over to the vultures as the crowd and priests began to
disperse. They did not notice him immediately.

“ … Must have gotten a message out of Domus
before Duxfest,” the angry, gaunt man was saying.

“A pest to the last, our Rorik Beurtlin,” a
man adorned in gold rings and necklaces said. “Like a konig worm
infestation.”

“Dux Feiglin’s gambit has failed like his
son,” the obese man said. “Weard Schwert will hold the Chair
tomorrow.”

The only woman in the bunch frowned and
opened her mouth to speak, but the gaunt man cut her off.

“We will be in the Fens of Reur before snow
flies, am I right, Weard Faul?”

A slight young Mar balled his hands into
fists and opened his mouth to speak. He closed it when the yellow —
a pale-skinned man with straight, black hair — touched his arm.

The one with the jewelry sneered. “I did not
see you step forward, Vigfus Vielfrae. Why did you bother traveling
to Domus from Flasten if you had no intention of making yourself
useful to your dux? Surely it caused you some ... strain.”

The rotund man’s face purpled in rage. “And
what of you, Solvi Zorn? If you had challenged Einar in his
weakened condition ...”

The gaunt Mar cut him off. “And make an enemy
of Flasten? I may take the Chair tomorrow, but not without
consulting my allies first.”

He noticed Sven then, and all eyes turned to
the newcomer. Sven kept his face expressionless.

“Solvi Zorn of Domus?” he asked quietly.
“Perhaps you can tell me how many challengers Einar Schwert has
defeated.”

The gaunt Mar’s grey eyes narrowed, and Sven
did not need Fraemauna’s eyes to guess the man’s next move. “Do you
think you can topple the old man?”

“It was a simple question,” Sven said.

“We do not even know who you are,” said the
yellow smoothly, head and body swiveling to catch all the glaring
eyes. “Young wizard, tell us your name.”

Sven felt the slightest
brush of a spell against his cheek and instantly snapped at the
myst.
The yellow is trying to calm me with
his magic.
Sven took an involuntary step
back.

“I am Sven Takraf.”

Vigfus gave a dismissive snort, but Solvi
leaned forward a little, intrigued. The woman leaned over to
whisper something to the gold-encrusted man, and the yellow stepped
behind the frail, young wizard as though attempting to vanish.

I remember you, too, Robert Wost.

“Sven Takraf?” Solvi asked. “Of Tortz?”

“Ask your friend Dux Feiglin about me, Weard
Zorn.”

“Your ears are sharp, Weard Takraf,” Solvi
said. “I suppose you heard my name and Vigfus Vielfrae’s. The thin
one is Weard Ari Faul, and his man there is Weard Robert Wost. The
woman is Weard Arnora Stolz, and her friend with the rings is Weard
Valgird Geir. The silent one with the vacant expression is Weard
Horik Neid.”

“He is drunk on narcotics,” Vigfus said. “He
is a worthless piece of Domin’s own dung, is that not so,
Horik?”

Horik opened his mouth, but only drool came
out.

“Weard Takraf, we hear the renegade Brand
Halfin imprisoned you four years ago at Tortz.”

“Volund Feiglin was there,” Sven said. “I am
sure that you can learn the story from him. If you cannot answer my
question, I can go ask Nightfire or some other member of the
Council.”

“Einar Schwert defeated Ozur Betrun this
afternoon, and two opponents tonight.”

Sven nodded.
A fourth opponent surely would have finished him,
yet none of them stepped forward. These are the ones who will
challenge me, and they do not trust each other. It is a wonder
anyone ever wins the Chair.

“Do you intend to challenge Weard Schwert,
Weard Takraf?” Solvi asked, voice too smooth for Sven’s liking.

They want more power, and they do not even
know how to use what they already have. Yet, they live for power.
They would do anything to acquire more for themselves.

Memories of Tortz pressed in on him. He
forced them away, gritting his teeth.

Or to keep others from having any.

Sven clenched his hands into fists at his
side. “I will be Mardux because you cannot defeat me.” They all
started talking at once, but Sven spoke over them. “Weard Vielfrae
would have to break a sweat, so he will not fight. Weard Geir is
too weighted down with gold to step forward tomorrow. Weard Stolz
would require many nine-day spans to plan a way to eliminate the
danger of her defeat. Weard Faul cannot think for himself. Weard
Neid does not even know what the Chair is. Weard Zorn, you fear my
reputation too much to step forward. A mundane has more courage
than any of you, and a mapmaker possesses more wisdom.”

He started walking away.

Solvi hollered after him, “We had an
agreement with the dux! His sons would go first!”

This is why I have come
here,
Sven thought.
This is why the gods chose me for this path. This is why the
Mar need me
.

He walked into the citadel.

Nightfire must have noticed me while I
watched the end of the battle.

Sven sent a slave to find him. The boy
couldn’t have been older than twelve, with dark eyes and calloused
hands.

What crime could he have committed? What
oath could someone so young break?

Sven waited in a room that might once have
been a meeting hall. Several centuries of ivy had eaten through the
ceiling. The flagstone floor was a mass of cracks, and bare earth
peeked through in places. A second-story hallway opened to the room
across the back, resulting in a crumbling balcony large enough for
the entire population of Rustiford to stand on.