Oathen (35 page)

“You train all the Scions?” Sanych
blurted.

“Yep.”

“Then why don’t you fight with them?” she
asked, curious.

“I haven’t stopped being a coward yet,” he
said, waving his hand in the air. “Besides, my gift, and my curse,
is to see magics both possible and impossible.”

Sanych blinked. “Impossible magics? How does
that relate to me?”

“You, like the Scions, are both more and less
blessed than I am.”

“I don’t follow.”

Curzon sighed, his shoulders slumping. “She
told me you were special.”

That made Sanych angry. Staring at the old man
before her, she analyzed him to within an inch of his life.
Aged
hermit, made some deal with Meena long ago…Curzon the Crooked,
cowardly spellcaster with a strange gift
. The facts were forced
into place by the strength of her will, and she stepped closer, her
short stature barely raising her chin higher than the man’s
head.

“If you’re truly Curzon the Crooked, then when
Meena healed you in that cave in Gothrún, you realized she was
special too. She already knew that about you. She brought you here
and built you this cave. It’s nearly identical to her home in
TethNarra. You’ve lived here for the past, what, sixty cycles,
awaiting her return. Why would you do that? Give up the entirety of
your life, to keep a promise to one woman? What deal did you make
with her, and what does it have to do with destroying the
Dire
Tome
?”

She stared down into Curzon’s vivid blue eyes.
“Why have you been waiting for me?”

Curzon blinked, pleasure and surprise
suffusing his face. “And she was right. How you put all that
together, I’d love to know. But even more exciting is the prospect
of seeing what a mind with that sort of organization can do with
the tenets of magic.” He clasped his hands together in eagerness.
“Your questions will be answered soon enough. Shall we
begin?”

The morning passed quickly, with Curzon
filling Sanych’s head with magic theory. “Theory is
crucial
,” he repeated often, slapping his hands together.
Her perfect recall sent him into throes of ecstasy, and he stood
and danced in circles of glee more times than Sanych had
fingers.

He explained that the resonance between
certain people and the planet’s living core was the source of the
ability to alter reality, as he colloquially termed the use of
magic. It was heritable, which explained why many Scions in each
generation retained the ability passed down to them from Arisson
Triserren.

He went into painful detail about the strength
of ability and how it varied between individuals, and his pet
theories for what could explain the differences in magical
strength. According to Curzon, there were things like mental blocks
or traumatic inhibitors that might stunt one’s ability, either
temporarily or permanently.

A thumping on the door made them both jump,
and Curzon stood and headed to the door.

When he opened it, Sanych heard a familiar
voice ask, “Did someone order venison delivery?”

“Geret?” she exclaimed, her stomach turning
over at the sound of his voice. She ran to the door and looked out
under Curzon’s arm.

Geret stood atop a fresh deer kill that was
tied securely to a rope that ascended up out of sight. He held on
with a single hand, swinging in midair with casual
confidence.

“What are you doing here?” she
blurted.

“Good day, Archivist,” he greeted her with a
winning smile. “Hermit Curzon. I’ve brought lunch; may I come
in?”

He slung himself in the doorway with the deer,
and he and Curzon began skinning and butchering it while Sanych got
the fire going. Once she got over her shock at seeing him, and her
relief that he appeared to be unharmed, her feelings of resentment
returned, and she welcomed the chance to be in a different
room.

Soon Meena, Ahm, Narjin and Ruel climbed down
the ladder and joined them in the small cave as the meal began to
fill the air with savory aromas.

Narjin explained that she and the others had
set up camp in the middle of the night after riding in with nearly
everyone from Sosta’s castle cell. Other cells had joined them:
half in the forest at the top of the cliff and half in the village
at the bottom.

Ruel said that other stragglers from Ahm’s
cell had shown up in the camps during the night, alone or
accompanying other cells, but Rhona and Salvor weren’t among
them.

Sanych kept her mouth shut, but she knew she
wouldn’t miss either of those two if they never appeared again. It
was hard enough being in the same room with Geret, pretending he
hadn’t been the world’s biggest liar and that everything was fine
between them.

Well, not completely fine. He seemed to pick
up on her mood, and by the end of the meal, he could barely look at
her.
At least he has some semblance of shame
, she thought
with satisfaction.

After the meal, Meena told everyone to clear
out so Sanych could keep studying. “And stay alert,” she cautioned.
“If the cult’s going to find us anywhere, it’ll be here in the
open. The only reason they haven’t attacked us yet is because
they’re still working on a plan. Let’s make sure we’re ready for
it.”

~~~

Left alone again, Curzon and Sanych delved
right back into their studying.

“So much of what is possible, from a magical
standpoint, originates within the mind. I truly hope you can grasp
the significance of this, my dear girl. Many do not, and their
magics are forever less than their full potential. Tell me what you
know of the properties of light,” he ordered.

“Light.” Sanych let her eyes flick as she
recalled the treatises on optics she’d read at the Temple. “Well,
according to
Principles of All Light
by Vernes Varahei,
light comes from the sun, and in smaller quantities from fire and
the odd natural phenomenon. It produces both heat and illumination,
and travels in straight lines, unless bent or reflected with the
air, prisms or mirrors. Learned Hrolgan states in his
Examinations of Natural Properties
that a properly shaped
lens can focus the light, creating a heat point or bringing distant
things into easy view. Too much sunlight will burn your skin, or
blind you—”

“All right, that’s plenty to work with,” he
stopped her, hands raised against her onslaught of information.
“You, dear girl, can control light.”

“But I can’t!”

“You have the ability,” he insisted. “You just
need to practice. Did you not already exhibit several of light’s
capabilities?”

“Yes.” Sanych rested her chin against her
knuckles and leaned her elbows onto her knees, intent.

“Then why, knowing what you know of the way
light works, do you believe you cannot exhibit the rest, in perfect
control?”

“I…” Sanych closed her mouth. It sounded
logical. Light worked in known ways. Surely light-magic would do
the same. “All right,” she admitted, “I can’t argue with that. But
what if
I’m
the flaw in the system? What if the magic won’t
work because I just can’t handle it?”

“I won’t tell you that it’s easy to learn at
first; it’s not. That first overwhelming crush of power can be
frightening. I’ve had Scion students up here in tears, terrified
they were going to kill their families before the cult ever laid
eyes on them.”

“Really?” The Scions had such a masterful
grasp of their magics. Surely she didn’t have to be Meena’s
descendant to learn how to use it well.

“It’s true. You’ve seen how they turned out.
You tell me you’re the youngest Archivist in the history of your
Temple of Knowledge. Do you feel you are unequal to the task
they’ve completed?”

Sanych shifted uncomfortably. She’d rarely
been unequal to any task, save avoiding seasickness. “It’s just so
far outside my scope,” she said, but it sounded weak even to her
ears.

Curzon glared at her. “Your scope includes
everything you touch, see, hear and experience. You’ve told me what
you do for your Temple. Don’t try to weasel out of this just
because it frightens you.”

Sanych grabbed a handful of her long hair and
squeezed it, frustrated. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone else!”
she cried.

“Ah,” Curzon relented, sympathy in his voice.
“You don’t want to learn magic, out of concern for the sake of
others. A noble, yet foolish, act.”

“Foolish?” Sanych said defensively. “I’m not a
fool!”

“I should hope not,” he harrumphed,
“considering how much the Shanallar is relying on you.”

And there he had her. Although she was used to
watching Meena do the heavy lifting, Sanych knew she would move the
sea and the earth for the Shanallar. Her expression firmed.
“Magic’s just a skill. A skill like any other. I have the tools; I
just need to learn how to use them.”

“Precisely so. Now answer me this, if you can:
Narjin is gifted with the ability to manipulate fire. You’ve seen
her toss Dzur i’Oth about with it?” When Sanych nodded, he
continued. “What else do you think she can do with her
fire?”

Sanych frowned, itching her ear. “I don’t
know. Things that fire does?”

The braided hermit giggled and held up a
finger to credit her. “Yes; you’d be surprised how many Scions
don’t grasp that basic fact. Most of their magic is channeled into
offense, leaving vast expanses of their potential unexplored. Now,
granted, I’m not saying the Scions are at fault for this; they are
at war, after all. My point, however, is this: their magic is still
limited by what they believe is necessary and possible.”

“Belief? Does that have anything at all to do
with reality?” Sanych asked, leaning back on her stool.

“Indeed. They cross paths at the limit of the
spellcaster’s strength. You can cast magic all day long if you keep
it small enough. Bigger effects will tire you out quickly. Some
tasks just require too much magical energy, and cannot be done at
all.

“The difference between belief and reality, my
dear,” Curzon said, squinting at her from beneath his bushy white
brows, “is in knowing these limits. Only in testing yourself will
these limits be revealed. However,” he raised an instructive
finger, “once you know where they are,
everything—
everything
—between you and them is a possibility.
Now, Archivist: do you know the limitations of light?”

Sanych blinked at the old, white-braided
hermit
. Can it really be that easy to harness the power of
light? To command it at will and know it will obey me?
She took
several breaths’ time to review absolutely everything she’d read on
the capabilities and limits of light, and then she met her wizened
teacher’s eyes.

“Yes. Yes I do.”

~~~

At an empty crossroads in the middle of the
rolling plains north of Cish, a small jade-colored inn with a
bright red chimney sat across from a chain of small, steaming hot
springs. The road signs read
Immi’s Wayside Inn ~ Rooms, Meals,
Drinks
. The logo carved into the signs, and into the front door
of the building, was a stylized stalk of barley.

“We’re here,” Salvor murmured, pointing ahead
in the dimness of early dusk.

Rhona didn’t answer. He looked over and saw
that she’d fallen asleep in her saddle. He didn’t blame her; they’d
been traveling nonstop for a night and a day. Riding close, he kept
a hand on her shoulder until they rode into the small stable beside
the inn. There he woke her gently and helped her off her
horse.

“Gods’ folly, I hate horses,” she muttered,
leaning into her tired mount for support. Salvor left her there for
a moment while he fetched a stable boy to unsaddle and rub down
their horses.

Their horses settled, the pair headed into the
inn. By the small number of other mounts in the stable, Salvor knew
to expect few other guests, and indeed there were only a handful
sitting around the common room. The proprietress stepped forward
from behind the bar counter to greet them.

“Welcome to Immi’s, my good travelers,” the
dusky woman said, bobbing her fat brown bun-braids at them. “I am
Immi. Would you like supper before you retire? I can see you look
exhausted.”

“My wife,” Salvor said, using their cover
story, “could use a bath brought up, if you’ve got one. We’ll see
about supper in a few minutes. Your barley image, is that the
highland variety?”

A slight twitch beside Immi’s right eye was
the only sign she understood the code phrase Daym had given Salvor,
identifying him as someone in need of safe shelter with the
Scions.

“You’ve a keen eye, sir,” she replied,
indicating that no one had come seeking them yet. She turned to
call for one of her maids. “Kimmsin, please show these fine guests
up to room seven, and get Albrel to help you carry up the
tub.”

The maid curtseyed and led the way upstairs to
a small, clean room with a wide bed and a small window.

“I’ll be back with your bath in a trice,
madam,” Kimmsin said, curtseying again. “If you need anything else,
just ask.”