Sorcerer's Son (38 page)

Gildrum clasped her hands behind her back, tightly. “The events which caused my lord to make what you have just seen happened before you were born, Master Cray, and I fear I cannot discuss them with you. Suffice it to say that my lord had his feelings, no matter what your mother’s may have been. And so the thing was made. And so, I hope, you now understand why it is that my lord treats you as he does.”

Cray shook his head and heaved a loud sigh. “I do not understand at all, but I do perceive that my apprenticeship in Ringforge will never give me what I want.” His hands flexed into fists. “I must leave, then, Gildrum, and find some other, more honest master. I have wasted a year; there’s little point in wasting another day. I shall leave tomorrow.”

“You needn’t leave, Master Cray,” said Gildrum.

“I will miss you, I know.”

“You can stay and learn.”

“Learn what? How to scrub out a kiln? I know that already, thank you.”

“I will be your teacher.”

Cray looked at her speculatively. “Is it possible?”

“I know everything my master knows. I could conjure demons if I wished, if the very thought did not repel me. I will teach you.”

“Teach me to enslave your kind? When the very thought of it repels you? Would you really do that?”

“For a price.”

Cray rocked back on his heels. “Ah

a price.”

“I will teach you,” said Gildrum, “in return for my freedom.”

They stared at each other for a long moment then, he with brows knit tight above questioning eyes, she with a bland, steady expression. At last he said, “How could I give you your freedom when you belong to Lord Rezhyk?”

“When I have done teaching you, you will know how.”

“And

he will be my enemy.”

“If he is still alive.”

“Will I have to kill him to free you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But

perhaps?”

“Not if you don’t want to.”

“What would he do afterward, though—after I have stolen away his oldest and best demon?”

“You will not be without resources—I will see to that.” She stepped toward him, one hand outstretched, as if offering the future on a platter of flesh. “I can teach you his art and more. He has spent years seeking knowledge; I will give you what he knows and what he has not found yet. You will be greater than he is, in a fraction of the time. He will not be able to stand against you.” Her hand reached for him, hovering just below his face, and he could not help staring down at it, though it held nothing but invisible promises. “Live here in Ringforge,” she said. “Feign my lord’s apprenticeship while you serve a truer one to me. I promise you, you shall not regret it.”

He lifted his gaze from her soft pink palm to her eyes. “You would betray your kind to me

for your own freedom?”

“If you find another master, we are as well betrayed. This, at least, will profit one of us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “And did you not tell me that you would be different from him? That you were not interested in demon-mastery but in something else?”

“You know what I want,” said Cray.

“Then we shall both have what we want. Will you stay?”

“Won’t Lord Rezhyk find out?”

“Not if you are circumspect. You will have to continue to scrub the kiln and other such drudgery, but you needn’t waste your time with the lessons he sets you. I will report to him on your progress, and you can keep a book of nonsense to show him whenever he visits. That will not be often.”

“Shall I believe you, Gildrum? Or are you tricking me as much as he is?”

Her hand dropped slowly away from his face. “Believe me,” she said, “I want my freedom more than I can tell you. Without you, I have no hope.”

Cray bowed his head. “I don’t know what to say, Gildrum. I want an answer, not a war with another sorcerer. The answer may determine the course of the rest of my life. Or it may do nothing at all. I don’t know. I can’t make you any kind of promise with a good conscience. Perhaps I should just find another master.”

“No!”

“You’d be no worse off than you are now.”

“Master Cray—I beg you

”

“And I don’t know if I want to learn that much sorcery. I only want

an answer. If you could give me that answer, I’d leave Ringforge now.”

Gildrum stood silent.

Cray gazed at her through lowered lashes. “If you were my slave, you’d find that answer for me.”

“I can show you how to conjure a slave that will.”

“Will you show me that, then, Gildrum? Only that? I don’t want the rest.”

“You might decide you do want it. Later.”

“That would be later. For now

” He shook his head. “I can’t make you a promise, Gildrum. I’m sorry.”

She turned away from him. “I will teach you then,” she said heavily, “in hope that later your heart will soften toward me.”

“Gildrum! I don’t mean to hurt you, but

” He waved his hands uncomfortably. “Gildrum, I am very young. I don’t really know what it is that you’re offering me, nor if I want it, nor if I ought to have it. My life is too much of a turmoil for that sort of decision here and now. You ask a great deal of me, and I am not even prepared to contemplate it.”

She cast a glance back over her shoulder. “There will be time for contemplation if you stay.”

He took a deep breath. “Then I will stay. Until I find my answer. Beyond that

” He shrugged.

“I accept that,” said Gildrum. “You are young. I forget sometimes how very young you are.” She smiled, tentatively. “You’re a good lad, Master Cray. Another might have given me his promise without ever intending to keep it.”

“We must be honest with each other,” said Cray, “if we are to work together.”

She looked away from him. “I am limited in my honesty, Master Cray. My lord commands, and so there are things I must keep from you. I hope you will forgive me for them.”

“As long as you do not lead me astray, Gildrum.”

“I shall endeavor not to.”

“Then there is something I must ask of you, to seal our bargain. But perhaps Lord Rezhyk has commanded you to keep it from me.”

“What?”

“Your true form.”

She threw her head back, lifting her gaze to the ceiling, and her long yellow plaits swung behind her, brushing the blue fabric of her skirt. “My true form,” she echoed. “No, he has not forbidden it. But this is the shape I wear in his presence. You would prefer it, I know, to my true form.”

“Still,” said Cray. “I would see it.”

“Very well, Master Cray. I suggest you step back from me. My flame shall be cool and shall not sear your flesh, but it will be bright.”

He saw her watching his reflection in the far wall as he backed off. When another wall prevented him from moving further, she nodded once. Then, in a single instant, between one heartbeat and the next, blond girl and blue dress vanished in a burst of flame.

Cray started violently, clutching at the smooth surface behind him as if it were his mother’s skirts. His mind could hardly fathom what he had seen, and his eyes could only stare glassily, unblinking at the fire that spilled about the room, bounced off the walls and was multiplied a hundredfold in polished bronze.

Her voice, when it came at last, was whispery, crackling, like damp logs burning on a hearthfire—not the girl’s voice but something inhuman and unknown. “Are you satisfied, Cray Ormoru?”

He pressed hard against the wall, and then the flames splashed toward him, engulfing him in yellow light. He started again and closed his eyes involuntarily, and when they were closed he could still see the light, blood red, beyond his eyelids. But he felt nothing. He opened his eyes again and found himself still enveloped, flame like a robe about him, dancing oh his arms and legs, veiling the room from his sight like a tenuous yellow curtain. He raised a hand before his face, and it was alight, a living wick. He looked past his hand, to the far wall, and he saw his whole body blazing.

In another moment, the flame had drawn away from him, was flowing toward a corner of the room, coalescing into a small, bright ball, pinching into an elliptical shape. The fire dimmed then and solidified into a small, blond girl. “You have seen,” she said in her human voice. “And now, I think, our friendship will never be the same.”

Cray tried to swallow, but his throat was desert-dry. He whispered, “Now I know why the ancients worshiped fire.”

Slowly, she walked toward him. “Are you afraid of me?” she asked.

He pushed himself away from the wall with one hand. “No!” he said loudly.

“Are you quite certain?”

They met at the center of the room, halting when there was a single arm’s length between them. He looked down at her. “I feel like a fool,” he said. “I, the child of a sorcerer, and an apprentice in my own right—I cringed from a show of sorcery. I am ashamed of myself, and I ask you to excuse my behavior.”

“Your mind knew I was a demon,” said Gildrum. now your heart knows, too.“

He offered her his hand. “I reaffirm our friendship, Gildrum.”

She gazed at his extended hand a time, and then took it firmly. “Our friendship,” she said. “As much as it can be.”

Ť ^ ť

As the years passed, Cray’s features hardened. He had been a boy when he set out on his quest, no matter what his mother thought, or what he thought himself. He had had his full stature and his adult strength, but his face had been still soft and rounded, his cheeks full, his chin downy. Now the subtle changes of maturity crept upon him, hollowing the spaces beneath his cheekbones, narrowing his once-wide eyes and etching them with shadows. He grew a pale beard and a mustache that veiled his upper lip like dandelion fluff. In the mirror of his walls, he saw himself every day and was not startled by the gradual alteration in his appearance, but on each anniversary of his arrival at Ringforge he paused to stare at himself and wonder what his mother would say if she could see him.

“I look more like her now than ever before,” he mused one time. “Except for the beard, of course.”

At his shoulder, Gildrum looked at his reflection and then away, saying nothing.

He was an excellent student. He found that sorcery could be fascinating if the frustration of constant failure were removed. His workroom was alight through more nights than not, as he strove to master Gildrum’s instructions, as he smelted brass and bronze and silver, as he practiced the gestures and intonations that would bring him his goal. He hardly saw Rezhyk anymore; Gildrum was their go-between, relaying even the orders to perform menial tasks and reporting fraudulent training and results to her master.

Cray kept his notebook of nonsense, though Rezhyk rarely looked at it, and in the meantime his true notebooks multiplied with the intensity of his concentration.

Occasionally, after he had grown the beard, after he realized his talents truly lay in the direction of sorcery, he would think about his life as it had been. In the moments while the oven was baking ores, while a new mold was cooling, or while he was scrubbing the kiln for Rezhyk, his mind would drift back and he would feel an ache deep inside himself, a loss, an emptiness. At last, he succumbed to these feelings, one night when a new alloy lay cooling atop the oven; he opened the cabinet where his old gear had lain untouched for so long. His sword was there, his shield, his chain mail. There was no dust upon them, no dust anywhere in Castle Ringforge, thanks to the diligent demons. He drew the sword from its scabbard, slowly, and the steel blade seemed a cold thing in the warm bronze light of the room. It seemed heavy, too, to his muscles long unaccustomed to hefting its weight. He took up the shield then, and his left arm sagged, tendons protesting sharply below the elbow.

Has it been so long? he wondered.

He swung the sword experimentally, and he felt his joints creak, like those of an arthritic old man trying to rise in the morning. He let the tip of the blade dip till it touched the floor. His hand clasped the hilt tightly. He felt shame rise within him, for his body no longer obeyed him with the ease of yesterday.

From that day on, he began to exercise. He had little enough time for such things, yet he found some opportunities, which otherwise he might have spent in reverie. In the workroom, he stretched, he tumbled, he ran in place, he lifted bars of metal over and over again. And in his bedchamber, each night before sleeping, he swung his sword at the reflections in the walls. There was no opponent with unanticipated reflexes, nor even a tree to beat at, yet Cray found himself enjoying the activity. The skills came back quickly, the stamina followed. Soon Cray carried the shield and swung the sword with the old ease, as if they were extensions of his body, and if he never struck a solid target, at least he never ran any risk of shattering his weapon from the impact. He never wore the chain.

Gildrum found him feinting at his reflection one evening. She said nothing, but her quizzical expression prompted him to offer an explanation.

“I’ve grown soft here in Ringforge,” he said. “The exercise is good for me.”

She said nothing. She was frequently silent these days, except during the lessons. Cray had begun to work with gold already, and they both knew that the time of his first conjuration was fast approaching. Though Gildrum had vowed to speak of the future to him, she had not done so, had shied away when the topic came up between them, as if she were afraid that the mere mention of what could be would make him reject it.

“I suppose I can’t forget completely,” Cray said, gazing at his reflection. “This is what I was for so very long. I look more the part now, with the beard, don’t you think?” He smiled with one side of his mouth. “No more the stripling, Gildrum. There’s none could deny I’m a man now.”

“You are still young,” she murmured.

“I’ll be twenty soon enough. Not young anymore.”

She shook her head. “Still.”

She was not with him when he conjured the demon.

The rings had taken him more than a month to make, simple bands, smooth and slim, one fitting the little finger of his left hand, the other larger, an armlet for the slave. They bore no stones, no figured devices, and Cray knew that whatever demon would be drawn to them would be scarcely greater than one of Rezhyk’s sconce lights. Yet Gildrum had assured him that his answer could be extracted even from such a one.