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Party Petrified, Part 3
Tyvian had always found the city of Tasis to be without a sense of humor, and nowhere was this state of affairs more evident than in the middle of the night. Where other great cities had taverns filled with music and shouting, gambling houses packed with smoke and the jingle of money, or bustling burlesque houses lit up like midday, Tasis was quiet, dark, and still. Before the war it had been a city of tents, bright and jolly and gay, or so Tyvian had been told. After Mudboots Varner and the Grand Army of the West had sacked the place, the Emir decided that permanent, defensible buildings should be constructed, and the slaves of the Empire had obeyed, pushing the caravan tents and open-air bazaars to beyond the city limits. What started as fortified brick houses had, over the last decade or so, degraded into row upon row of tumbledown adobe tenements. Every door was locked, every shutter closed, every light extinguished, and even the streetlamps were put out by midnight. Tyvian supposed the local inhabitants thought of it as ordered or even ‘safe.’ He found it frightfully depressing.
Sand, blown in from the desert, hissed through the dark alleys and sifted its way into Tyvian’s boots as he piloted Milo to the alchemist’s shop. It was this same alchemist who had sold him the oil that had gotten Tyvian into this mess in the first place, but he tried very hard not to let that very bitter fact skew his judgment. The man was, after all, the only alchemist in the city willing to do so much as talk to him—beggars and choosing and all that. Blasted alchemists! If it weren’t for them and their ridiculous professional pride, he would never have wound up in this situation in the first place.
“Where…where are we going?” Milo spoke for the first time since they had left the artifactory.
Tyvian could tell by the artificer’s cow-eyed looks at his surroundings that he had never been outside the artifactory walls. The fellow was owed an answer, he supposed. “I’m going to drown you in the river, Milo.”
Milo went limp and sprawled like a rag doll in the street. “No…you can’t! That isn’t decent! That’s not fair!”
Having spent half the evening dragging the scrawny monk around, Tyvian lacked the energy to pick him up again. He sighed. “For the love of Hann, Milo, the river is two miles in the opposite direction. I was kidding.”
Milo didn’t get up, but he stopped whining. Tyvian gave him a few tugs, but the artificer didn’t move. Finally,Milo hissed. “That wasn’t funny.”
“My mission this evening has had nothing to do with your entertainment, Milo. Get up, will you?”
Milo lifted his head from the cobblestones. “Why should I? You’re only going to kill me.”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. The alley where the alchemist’s shop hid was only a few yards away. “Milo, I’m not going to kill you.”
Milo hooked his free arm behind his head. “Yes, you are! You’ve been threatening my life all night.”
Tyvian brushed the sand away from a spot on the street and sat down. “You were a rather cantankerous sort when we first met, if you’ll remember. A measure of violence has done you some good. Oh, and I never actually threatened to kill you.”
Milo sat up. “You are not going to kill me?”
Tyvian grimaced. He sincerely hoped the scrawny artificer wouldn’t take this as a cue to go stating ultimatums again. “My intentions are to get my arm back to its normal, fleshy self, and never, ever see you again. With any luck, your blood needn’t have anything to do with it.”
Milo let out a long breath. “I thought the Teeth of Kroth were to come for me. My death loomed before me.”
“Don’t get comfortable—you did turn my arm to stone.”
Milo showed his teeth. “You were robbing the holy labyrinth! It’s your own fault! It was but luck. All of you should have turned to stone!”
Tyvian poked Milo in the eye. The artificer squeaked and clutched his face. “There,” Tyvian smiled, “now I feel better. Let’s go.”
“You blinded me!”
“You’ll feel better in a minute. Stop whining, Milo.” Tyvian, rested, threw his energy into hauling Milo up. The artificer stood, but dragged his feet as they squeezed down a narrow, trash-strewn alley and reached the alchemist’s door.
Tyvian pounded for all he was worth. “Basil! Basil! Wake up, you tooka-smoking charlatan! WAKE UP!”
The alchemist’s shop was a narrow, one-story hovel squeezed between a pair of narrow, two-story hovels. When Tyvian knocked, he was fairly certain he was doing some kind of structural damage. Inside, he heard some pots fall off a shelf and clatter on the ground. Still, no one came to the door.
“Son of a bitch!” Tyvian wiped the dust off a dirty little window cut into the door at a crooked angle. “WAKE UP!”
Milo was prodding his eye for damage. “Your friend seems to have abandoned you to your fate, thief.”
Tyvian waggled a finger at him. “You’ve got two eyes, you know.”
Milo covered his face with his hands, yanking Tyvian’s stone arm over his head. The sensation on Tyvian’s end was much like someone yanking on a tooth not yet ready to come out.
Tyvian forced Milo’s hands down and the two of them tumbled into the sand and grime, wrestling. It ended up with Milo on his back and Tyvian sitting on his chest, both of them panting and covered in trash. Looking at the dust and grime now caked on his shirtsleeve, Tyvian began to think very seriously about murdering the artificer. “You dirty little wretch! Look what you’ve done to my shirt! Do you have any idea what this cost me? Dammit! There isn’t a decent launderer in this whole blasted city, either!”
Milo kept his free hand in front of his face. “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me, please!”
Tyvian sat back and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his head. “This is getting rapidly intolerable, Milo. I think you may be the least pleasant person with whom I have been forced to interact for quite some time.”
“I am well liked in the artifactory.”Milo squeaked.
“Milo, I’m going to make you a deal.”
Milo peeked out from behind a hand. “You have nothing I want, thief.”
“First off, my name is Tyvian Reldamar, not thief. Second, I will stop hitting you if you promise to stop squirming, whining, lying down, and saying stupid things.”
Milo scowled. “I am not stupid.”
Tyvian pursed his lips. “Milo, you somehow managed to get yourself attached to a man who was trying to rob your artifactory because you fell for the ‘look out behind you’ trick and dropped your dangerous wand. Trust me, you are very, very stupid. You are also, by denying that fact, in violation of the fifth clause of our pending agreement—that which states that you will stop saying stupid things. Now, do we have a deal?”
Milo’s face fell into a droopy-lipped sulk. “Yes.”
Tyvian nodded. “Wonderful—I will now break into Basil’s shop. Try not to sweat too loudly.”
Milo sat up in the dust. “How are you going to break in? His door must be locked!”
Tyvian motioned forMilo to get up. “I need you stand just next to the door there, Milo.”
Milo obeyed, so that, with his arm outstretched, Tyvian could stand just about a pace from the door. “Are you going to pick the lock? Can you dispel locking enchantments? How can you…”
Tyvian kicked the door in with one try. “The doors around here are made of wicker, Milo. Come along.”
Inside, the dark, narrow confines of Basil’s shop were hot and damp. The air was so thick with oily tooka smoke and the burned off remnants of botched potions that both Tyvian and Milo found themselves coughing and blotting at their burning eyes. Tyvian fumbled around the tables and shelves in the dark until he found a candle and lit it with the spark-crystal in his pocket. “There. Now, where is that alchemist…”
The weak light from the candle was mostly consumed by the cloudy air of the narrow shop, but from what Tyvian could make out in the gloom, it was clear Basil had been enjoying himself with the bag of silver Tyvian had paid him for his shoddy invisible oil. The charred remnants of quite a lot of dried tooka weed were still smoking from the bowls of several pipes scattered around the tiny shop as well as several bottles of very cheap wine. Towards the back, Basil himself was lying unconscious on his straw sleeping pallet, a half-naked girl curled up next to him.
“She’s…I can see her…you know…”Milo pointed at the girl.
Tyvian sighed. “They’re called breasts, Milo, and I’d advise you not to look at them too long. They’re likely to strike a man like you blind.” He kicked Basil in the thigh. “Alchemist! Wake up!”
“Unggghhhggnnn.” Basil opened one eye halfway. The eye was bloodshot, dilated, and failed to focus on anything. Then it closed again, and Basil belched at such a volume that the house shook.
“Is he poisoned? Dying?”Milo asked, eyes still fixated on the nubile form of the half-nude girl.
“He’s both drunk and drugged. I’m fairly certain I could cut off his toes and he wouldn’t wake up.” Tyvian sighed. “This keeps getting worse.”
Milo was still staring. “Yes.”
Tyvian snapped his fingers in front of the artificer. “Milo, stop looking at the advertisements if you can’t afford the wares. Focus.”
Milo blinked. “You mean she…the girl is a…”
“Whore, yes—do you think a man like Basil there beds a girl like that on his own merits? Focus, dammit—look at me.”
Milo looked at him, and the adolescent lust dropped off his face like a loose hood. “You’re mocking me.”
“I need you to undo the petrification, Milo.”
“What…of your arm?”
Tyvian slapped him. “No, idiot, of my cold, stone heart. What the hell do you think?”
“You said you’d stop hitting me!” Milo whined.
“You said something stupid, thereby violating our agreement.” Tyvian snarled. “Now, can you or can you not undo the petrification of my arm?”
“I’d need the proper materials.”
“We are in a bloody alchemist’s shop.”
Milo looked around at the cluttered workbenches and disordered shelves. “I don’t know where anything is.”
Tyvian grimaced. The flesh around the base of his arm was starting to itch, which he gathered was a bad thing. He knew that petrification was reversible, of course, but he wasn’t sure if there were any lasting side-effects that might become more severe the longer something remained stone. “Milo, let’s sit down and have a talk, you and I.”
Milo eyed Tyvian warily as they perched themselves on a pair of stools. “What are we talking about.”
“We’re talking about you, Milo, and your career. How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you’ve been with the Artificers…”
“Ever since I was a small boy. I was an orphan! They took me in!”
Tyvian nodded—he had suspected as much. “So, naturally, you’ve not left the artifactory since that time and you feel a deep and abiding loyalty to the monks and their organization. I completely understand. So, here is my question: what were you doing in the labyrinth so late at night?”
Milo’s expression froze. “I was running an errand.”
Tyvian smiled gently. “For whom?”
“Master Acroto.”
“And the nature of this errand?”
“None of your business.”
“Did it involve messing around with a wand of petrification?”
Milo blushed. “N…no.”
“You weren’t on any errand, were you,Milo?”
Milo dropped his eyes to the floor. “No.”
“You were playing with the wand because they wouldn’t let you touch it, otherwise.”
Milo took a deep breath. “Master Acroto forbade me to. He said I haven’t the touch to work the artifacts. He says I’m too clumsy.”
“Not doing well in your training, are you?”
Milo glared at Tyvian. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”
“And what am I trying to do, boy?” Tyvian grinned at him.
“You’re trying to convince me that I haven’t got a future with the Artificers. That I’ll spend the rest of my life as an acolyte.”
Tyvian shrugged. “Let’s be honest, Milo—you don’t. If you had, you would have petrified all of me, not just my arm. Right?”
Milo looked at his feet. “It’s not true.” His voice was a murmur only.
“Prove me wrong.” Tyvian hoisted his stone arm onto a workbench, Milo’s wrist still clutched in its petrified grasp.
Milo looked at Tyvian’s arm and wiped a tear from his eye. “This is just a trick.”
Tyvian leaned closer. “Prove Master Acroto wrong.”
Milo’s face hardened. He bared his filed teeth. “You just want your arm free.”
“And you want your arm free, Milo. When you go back, you can tell them all about me—crow from the temple heights how you, a mere acolyte, stopped the world’s greatest smuggler from robbing your wretched artifactory blind. You’ll be a hero! Think of the story, Milo—you waited until I fell asleep, looted the supplies of a black market alchemist, undid the spell trapping you to me, and made it back to the artifactory without having your throat cut by bandits. Who else can claim such a feat inside those walls? Not even Acroto, I’d bet!”
Milo clutched his throat. “Bandits?”
“Forget the bandits part, Milo. I’m embellishing, of course.” Tyvian grimaced. He really wasn’t embellishing. “Are you man enough to do it, though? Are you?”
“I am.”Milo said, then nodded firmly. “I am!”
Tyvian slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit—now, off we go. Let’s start undoing this spell!”
That was all it took. Milo was infused with a new level of energy. The young acolyte began looting the shelves of Basil’s shop with the practiced eye of, well, and Artificer who had spent his life fetching ingredients for his betters. Tyvian played the role of assistant, grinding this and mixing that. Basil contributed by belching and farting on occasion, just to remind them of where they really were. At some point the whore woke up, pulled on her clothes, and slipped out after robbing Basil of all his silver. Neither Tyvian orMilo said a word; everyone politely ignored each other, as was civilized in situations such as this.
Finally, after nearly an hour, the poultice was done. It was thick and blood red, like the clay on the banks of theTassad Riverthat ran past the city. Tyvian looked at it dubiously. “You’re certain it will work?”
Milo scowled. “I know my work, smuggler. Rub it in carefully—all of it. Not an inch of your petrified arm can be missed.”
Tyvian scooped up a handful of the sticky paste. It was warm to the touch and tingled his fingers. “I assure you that I will be thorough.”
He was—Tyvian rubbed the stuff over every square inch of his petrified arm with the silent determination of a soldier oiling his sword before a battle. He felt it beginning to work—the heat was building in his arm. He felt his arm! He smiled at Milo. “You appear to be a man of your word,Milo.”
“It’s working?”
Tyvian nodded—the stone now had the consistency of thick clay, and it was softening every second. “Seems to.”
Milo jumped up from his stool. “Kroth spare me! I didn’t think I could do it!”
Tyvian ignored him, focusing instead how his petrified arm was able to extend slightly asMilo moved. He could almost feel his fingers…almost…
Milo leaned in and hugged Tyvian. “Thank you! Thank you, sir!”
Tyvian found himself patting the artificer on the back. “Errr…yes, that’s quite all right, Milo. Thanks for fixing my arm.”
Milo didn’t let go. “I never would have guessed I could do this! I was certain I would die! No one in the artifactory thinks I can do anything right! I can though! I can!”
Tyvian tried to push the acolyte off, but he still only had one arm to do it with. “Milo, if you don’t mind—you’re interfering my ability to enjoy the return of my arm.”
Milo let him go. Tyvian’s arm, at this point, was completely flexible. He could feel it now—cramped and painful, but it was sensation, and that was good. With a grimace and a grunt, he uncoiled his fingers around Milo’s wrist, releasing the acolyte. “There you are, Milo—free at last.”
Milo literally leapt for joy, striking his head on the low crossbeams of the shop. Tyvian showed him outside, the acolyte thanking him profusely the whole way. “Wait until they hear back at the artifactory. They’ll be so impressed! You really think I’ll be a hero?”
Tyvian smiled and shrugged, stretching his re-fleshed arm and wiggling his fingers. “You’ll be the closest thing they’ve ever had, at any rate. Run along home now.”
“Oh thank you, sir, thank you!”Milo turned and ran back in the rough direction of the artifactory. Tyvian wondered whether he ought to have given him directions.
He walked back inside to find Basil sitting up and scratching his bloated stomach. “Reldamar? Say, when did you get in here. What…what happened to my door.”
Tyvian regarded the door impassively. “The whore broke it. She robbed you, too.”
“That bitch.” Basil belched, but showed no other sign of being upset. “Was your robbery a success.”
Tyvian slipped a hand inside his shirt and drew out Milo’s wand and held it up to the candlelight. The workmanship was good—not wonderful, but good. “Yes…I’d say so.”
Basil looked over his shoulder. “You’ll make a tidy profit on that.”
Tyvian stretched his recently petrified arm again. “Ah, Basil, the things I do for money…”
THE END
Partly Petrified, Part 2
The path out of the artifactory’s labyrinth was complicated by definition. Tyvian let Milo take the lead, though more so he could keep the knife in his back than out of any need of a guide. He had learned long ago that any time you planned on infiltrating a labyrinth, memorize the map before you went wandering around. That way, should your torch go out or, say, your right arm was turned to stone while your left was needed to hold some hairless weasel at knifepoint, you wouldn’t be stuck wandering around for the rest of your life.
Conversation was light on the way out, which suited Tyvian just fine. He had nothing civil to say toMilo at the moment, and he doubted rather severely that the cloistered milksop was capable of any kind of stimulating conversation. Still, as they got closer to the populated portions of the artifactory—the parts that lay above ground—he grew more concerned that Milo might do something stupid, like yell or cry or otherwise draw attention to himself. He readjusted his grip on the dagger.
“Now Milo, I want you to listen to me very carefully.”
Milo swallowed air. “Yes.”
“When we get upstairs, you are to say nothing. You so much as breathe a whisper, and I plan on making you very uncomfortable, got it?”
Milo nodded. “You’ll be caught. The golem will stomp you.”
Tyvian grimaced. He had a point there. “You better hope they don’t squash me, Milo, because you won’t be too far away when they do.”
Robbing Kalsaari artifactories was never very high on Tyvian’s list of things to do. It wasn’t that he had anything against stealing from the artificers—far from it. The greedy monks made enough money off their slapped together magical junk that he didn’t think relieving them of certain valuables was in any way immoral. Tyvian’s major problem with artifactories and, for that matter, all establishments of a sorcerous nature, was the presence of golem.
Golem were animated colossi typically used for guard purposes. They weren’t all that difficult to construct, really—Tyvian himself could probably reason it out, given a spellbook and enough time. All you had to do was get a good-sized chunk of rock, check the ley of the local area to find out when enough astral and dweomeric current would be in the air, cut in a couple key runes, speak the right incantation, and viola—you now had several tons of animated stone that would perform your every command. Of course, such crude golem were barely useful, lacking, as they were, in such crucial ‘extras’ as intelligence, magical warding, and arms. The ones found in Kalsaari artifactories—places where it was their business (and religion) to enchant things—were top of the line models. They could talk, they were twenty feet tall, and they most certainly had arms. They had big, spike-covered arms.
The particular artifactory that Tyvian had elected to invade that evening was the proud owner of two golem, situated on either side of the only exit. It was late, and the ground-level corridors of the artifactory were deserted, most of the artificers having retired to their living quarters on the upper floors for the evening. Tyvian dragged Milo past empty display rooms and indoor gardens, making a direct line for the golem. With every step, the artificer got heavier.
Tyvian applied pressure with the dagger. “Keep up, Milo. If I wanted to drag you, I could have killed you in the labyrinth.”
Milo straightened. “You’re mad! You’re committing suicide! The golem, they’ll…”
Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Squash us—yes, you mentioned that. Stop whining or I’ll hack off your hand.”
Tyvian pulled Milo and himself against a wall and peered around the corner. From his position, he could see through the archway that led to the entry courtyard. On the other side of the courtyard was the cast iron gate that separated the artifactory from the rest of the city of Tasis. On the edges of the courtyard, standing in stone alcoves built into each wall, stood the golem. He could only see their legs from this vantage point, but that was enough.
Milowas panting with his mouth open, showing his pointy teeth. “Oh no, oh no, oh no…”
Tyvian piloted him around the corner. “You first.”
Getting past the golem on the way in had been complicated enough. Unlike regular guards, who could get distracted, be negotiated with, and so on, golem had no such weakness. Furthermore, the average person wasn’t especially keen on killing whereas golem had no compunction about smashing you into paste. Even when Tyvian had been invisible, there was a very good chance they might have heard him or possess powerful enough enchantments that would have seen through the veil of the invisible oil. It had taken him five minutes of careful, painstaking stealth to make it through that courtyard the first time. This time around, he was betting it would take less than ten seconds, one way or another.
They had not gone more than a pair of steps into the open air of the courtyard before the golem lumbered into action. As one, they pivoted from their alcoves to block the way and tilted their massive stone heads down to fix Tyvian and Milo with passionless stares. When their feet hit the ground, Tyvian’s jaw rattled with the impact.
“REMAIN STILL!” The golem spoke in unison, their voices emanating from somewhere in their chests; their lips did not move.
Tyvian thought very carefully about what ‘still’ meant before deciding to look up—head movement could very well be on their list ‘motions that require stomping.’ As it happened, moving his head around didn’t seem to qualify and golem continued their blank, sightless stare. He hadn’t really given this pair a good look on his way in, being more concerned with stealth and all that. Now, seeing as they would likely be stepping on him in a second or two, he figured he ought to know what they looked like. The workmanship on them wasn’t what Tyvian would call ‘good,’ but adequate enough for Southron sculpture, he supposed. They had been made to look like a pair of artificer monks wearing armor festooned with spikes in all the proper places—shoulders, wrists, hands, elbows, knees, et cetera. Their bald heads and snarling mouths filled with pointed teeth reminded him of a ludicrously large and muscular Milo, without all the sweating and whimpering. Their eyes glowed with a cold blue flame—a minor illusion placed, no doubt, for the purpose of intimidation. Evidently the creators had thought thirty feet tall and angry-looking wasn’t frightening enough.
“YOU ARE AN INTRUDER.” The golem announced.
Tyvian looked at Milo in shock. “You are?” Then, to the golem, “I’m sorry, good sirs, but I had no idea!”
Milo nearly broke his arm from pointing over his shoulder. “No, no, no! It’s him! He’s the intruder!”
This bit of debate stalled the golem’s thinking for a second. Reaching some kind of consensus, they spoke again. “THE ONE WITH HAIR IS THE INTRUDER. BALD ONE, STEP AWAY FROM THE INTRUDER.”
Milo dug his heels in to run, but was jerked back by Tyvian’s still-petrified arm, wrapped as it still was around the artificer’s wrist. Snarling, Milo clawed at Tyvian’s unfeeling hand. “Let go!”
Tyvian let the weasel squirm and looked at the golem. “As you can see, sirs, we are irrevocably attached.”
The golem on the left raised a foot. Milo looked up and screamed. “NO! You can’t kill me! I’m an artificer! I’m an artificer!”
The foot stopped in mid-air. The golem paused another moment, then, “BALD ONE, HACK OFF THE HAIRED ONE’S HAND.”
Tyvian smiled. It had been ten seconds, he was still three-dimensional, and the way out was becoming rapidly easier. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. My hand, you see, is currently made of stone, and we lack the proper utensils.”
The foot returned to the ground. “ACQUIRE THE TOOLS, BALD ONE.”
Milo nodded. “Yes, of course.” He looked at Tyvian. “We have to go back inside, now!”
Tyvian ignored him. “Excuse me, but is it true that you cannot destroy this man?”
“THAT IS CORRECT. WE ARE FORBIDDEN. ACQUIRE THE TOOLS, BALD ONE.”
“You’ve failed thief! We must go back.” Milo made an attempt to drag Tyvian back inside. Tyvian kicked him in the knee, and Milo toppled into the dirt with a squeak, nearly pulling Tyvian over in the process. Still, the squeak had been worth it.
Tyvian focused on the golem. “Do you mean to say that we must go back in the artifactory to get the proper tools to separate myself from this man?”
“YES.”
Tyvian sighed. “Well, I’m really very sorry to bring this up, but I’m not allowed in there.”
This seemed the strike the golem as a very good point, so much so that they actually exchanged glances. “THIS IS TRUE. THE BALD ONE MUST GO ALONE.”
“But he can’t—he’s attached to me, remember?”
The golem said nothing. They exchanged a longer glance. “YOU MUST REMAIN HERE.”
“I’m not allowed here either, am I?”
“THIS IS TRUE.”
Milo staggered to his feet. “Don’t listen to him, stone ones! Don’t listen!”
Tyvian knocked Milo down again with a shoulder check. “Here’s my suggestion, sirs. You allow me and the bald one to go out the other door and get a utensil to separate us, and we will be right back. How’s that?”
“ACCEPTABLE. PROCEED.” The golem moved aside.
Tyvian wasn’t gentle as he dragged Miloto his feet. “Come along,Milo. We’ve got a shop to visit.”
Milo said nothing. His mouth was a perfect ‘O’ as he watched the golem retreat into their alcoves.
Partly Petrified, Part 1
(Author’s Note: In rummaging around the Dead Story Bin, I dug up this one–a pretty early Alandar tale I never quite finished. I figure, what the hell–may as well do so now. Tyvian Reldamar is the main character in the Alandar novel that will be entering its third revision this winter.)
“I have caught you now. There is no way out.” The artificer’s teeth had been filed to points, giving him a singularly predatory grin.
Tyvian was willing to concede the man the point. Dammit! He should have known that invisible oil was inferior. Never buy magic from a Southron—how many times had he heard that? It was supposed to last one hour—more than enough time to get into the artifactory and out again—yet here he was, visible, caught by some bald-headed acolyte with his master’s wand.
The bony tip of the artificer’s wand came to point at Tyvian’s chest. Tyvian braced himself for something awful. “Return what you have taken. I will not ask again.”
How long had he been here? It couldn’t have been an hour. He thought back: five minutes to get through the front door, another five getting the layout of the above-ground structure, fifteen minutes filching the map to the labyrinth, then he had wandered through the woman’s bathhouse—maybe five minutes in there. No, make it ten…or fifteen. Blast it! Who knew there were so many attractive artificers? He had never considered naked bald women a major temptation.
The artificer raised the wand, revealing the better part of a tattooed forearm from within his black robes. “Return it to me! I will not ask again!”
Wonderful. He was going to get zapped by some moron because he had spent half an hour ogling bald women in an artifactory bathhouse. How was that for an epitaph? Bloody wonderful.
Tyvian put up his hands. “I’m afraid there’s been something of a misunderstanding. You see, I haven’t actually stolen anything yet.”
Sweat beaded on the man’s shaven head. “This is your last chance!”
That last comment got Tyvian thinking. He had been under the impression that the first two times were the ‘last chance.’ At this point, Tyvian thought it entirely possible, if not probable, that the fellow had no intention of using that wand at all. Of course, there was only one way to be sure.
“I beg your pardon, but do you actually plan on zapping me with that thing, or are you just saying so to sound menacing?”
The artificer’s black marble eyes blinked.
Tyvian smiled. “I only ask, sir, because you have warned me three times now, and each time you have assured me that there would not be another. Of course, the first two of those instances warned, specifically, that you would not ask me again. However, and you will excuse me if I play the grammarian here, you have yet to ask me a question at all. You seem to be more inclined towards imperative statements—‘Return what you have taken,’ ‘Return it to me,’ etcetera, etcetera—which means that your warnings don’t make any sense. You see why I might be confused, naturally.”
The artificer nodded blankly, the wand still held firmly in his grasp.
“Well?”
There was a long pause before the tumblers in the man’s brain locked into a response. “Well what?”
“Do you plan on zapping me or not?” Tyvian’s eyes were riveted to the artificer’s face. All he needed was a moment of relaxation, just a moment…
The man’s lips flapped. “I…well, this is your last warning…”
Tyvian couldn’t take it anymore. “LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU!”
Tyvian had practiced that phrase a great deal, and he thought he was rather good at making it sound sincere. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book, but there was a good reason tricks like that stuck around so long—they worked.
The artificer glanced behind him. In that instant, Tyvian struck, knocking the wand aside with his left arm and following up with his right fist aiming at the man’s throat. The artificer blocked the blow more out of chance than skill, and they grappled with one another for a few seconds. The thin, robed man was rapidly getting the worst of the struggle, and Tyvian was in the earliest stages of planning his escape when, for no good reason he could think of, the blasted wand went off.
The sensation of petrification wasn’t quite as unpleasant as one might expect. An immediate and bottomless chill spread rapidly through Tyvian’s right arm but, unlike ordinary cold, this spread from the inside out. Before he really knew what was happening, Tyvian’s arm had gone rigid, as though afflicted with massive spasms, and then it was as if it wasn’t there at all.
The artificer dropped the wand. Tyvian, stunned, released the artificer—or, he released him with one hand at least. His right hand—his stone hand—wasn’t releasing anything. It remained tightly wrapped around the artificer’s left wrist, and there it stayed as the skinny man squealed and twisted to get away.
“You…son of a bitch!”
The artificer yanked on Tyvian’s stone arm as hard as he possibly could. “Let me go! Let me go!”
Tyvian backhanded the fellow. “Do you think I want to hold hands, you insufferable boob? You turned my arm to stone!”
The artificer reached inside his robes. Tyvian knew when a man was going for a knife, and decided to beat him to the punch. His own dagger was at the man’s throat in an instant. “I wouldn’t try to get any more on my bad side, if I were you.”
There was an awkward pause in the conversation as each man regarded the other. The artificer seemed markedly less eager to make demands now that his wand was gone and he was forcibly attached to Tyvian. The whites of his eyes were making a fine showing as the sweat beaded on his face. Tyvian, in the meantime, was trying to convince himself that this really wasn’t all that bad. It was only his arm, right? All he had to do was hack off the artificer’s hand, and he’d be free.
Then again, he doubted he could talk the artificer out of screaming bloody murder when he did so, and he didn’t think he wanted any more wand-toting bald fellows trotting his way. Besides, his shirt was made of silk, and blood and silk were two materials he was loathe to introduce to one another.
“All right.” Tyvian applied sufficient pressure to get the artificer to his feet. “What’s your name?”
The artificer scarcely whispered. “Milo.”
“Very well, Milo—let’s go.”
“Go?”
“Out. You’re going to escort me out.”
Milo shuddered. “I’m not allowed…out.”
“You have a real problem differentiating questions from commands. I didn’t ask you to escort me out of here, I bloody well told you.” Tyvian twisted his shoulders so that his stone arm would yank Milo in the direction he had come from.
Milo went rigid. “I’ll raise the alarm!”
Tyvian was not, by nature, a violent man. In his estimation, violence was among the crudest methods of coercion, right below bribery and blackmail—none of which he used save as a last resort. With that said, however, there was still a certain magic that happened when one pressed a dagger into another’s back hard enough to make it hurt. Even Milo, who seemed among the most sullen of idiots, became as accommodating as a lap dog. “March.” Tyvian hissed.
Milo marched.
Myreon’s Test, Part 3
When the time came, Myreon was the first applicant called. She looked neither right nor left as she walked through the ranks of her wealthy, well-dressed peers. Myreon didn’t need to see the contessa’s face to know what she thought of her, nor was it a mystery what kind of toothy, artificial grin Gold Chain would sport as she passed. They had come back in twos and threes, surreptitiously clutching small pieces of jewelry or tiny vials of dark liquid, not speaking with each other save to offer vague commentary about the weather or the time. Myreon had glared at them all, but they hadn’t returned her look. They looked away, politely ignoring her existence. They were wealthy, and they had a lot of practice evading the gaze of poor people. They were good at it.
Passing through the iron gates of the Arcanostrum was like passing through a thin sheet of cold rain—the taste in the air changed, the temperature cooled, the sunlight became filtered and diffuse. Myreon had done this twelve times before, but even on the thirteenth she was still disoriented. She could never tell if the place she was now was actually on the other side of that gate or not—it looked nothing like the simple paved path one could see from the plaza beyond. It was a garden, of sorts, shaded over by old willow trees and featuring a perfectly circular pool with a rim of mossy stone and filled with yellow-green water.
There, standing around it in a half circle, were the five Archmagi—Cormyr of the Dweomer, Odric of the Fey, Salien of the Lumen, Lyrelle of the Ether, and Lord Defender Trevard. They wore simple cloaks and bore staves as unique as their persons—this one withered and bent, that one gleaming, straight, and true. The Lord Defender was wearing a suit of mageglass armor so spotlessly bright that it sparkled like silver in the twilight gloom. These were the five most powerful wizards in the world, the Keeper of the Balance himself excepted, and they were all staring at simple Myreon Alafarr, with her dog-eared old spellbook and her plain dress.
“You are aware of the test’s requirements?” Cormyr asked, his hawk-nose bouncing a little with every accented syllable.
Myreon nodded. “Yes.”
Salien smiled at her. “Very well,Ms.Alafarr—you may cast your spell.”
Myreon didn’t move. She had been planning what to say ever since Lyrelle left her on the plaza, but now she could think of nothing that wouldn’t sound like a whine or an excuse. She clenched her teeth to keep her chin from quivering.
Salien motioned for her to begin, her every movement soft and somehow fascinating, like the gentle motion of a swan on water. “Go ahead, Ms. Alafarr. No one expects much.”
Myreon’s eyes began to water. “I…I’m afraid I can’t cast a spell, Magus.”
Salien frowned. “Oh. Not a one?”
Odric tugged a twig out of his long, unkempt beard. “Hmph. Did you read the sign?”
Myreon nodded. “Yes, but…but I can’t.”
Lord Defender Trevard nodded slowly. “We understand, miss. It is a very challenging test—you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Tears were flowing down her cheeks at this point. Myreon was holding her breath so as not to sob. If only they weren’t being so nice about it. If only they mocked her like the others, then it would have been easier. Instead, she stood there feeling like she was being stabbed over and over in the guts, and there was nothing she could do but to stand there and take it. “I…I know…thank you.”
Lyrelle tapped her staff against the ground. “We will be making our final decisions for admission tomorrow, Ms. Alafarr. Please return then to hear our results.”
Odric raised his hand. “You should know, though, that not passing the final test weighs heavily upon our decision.”
Myreon nodded again and dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes. Thank you, magus. Thank you for passing me this far.”
Cormyr shook his head. “We promote on merit and merit alone, miss. You have nothing to thank us for—thank yourself.”
And that was it. Myreon left that magical garden and walked back into the plaza. All of the other applicants saw her face and didn’t need to ask her a thing. They all knew what had happened.
The walk back to the inn was long—longer than usual. It might have been due to the time of day; it was still early, and the streets of Saldor were bustling with all kind of traffic. Myreon, though, wasn’t thinking about the traffic. She was thinking about those glittering spires and ivy-clad halls to her back. She was thinking about the things she would never learn and the places she would never see. She was thinking about winter.
Drython Alafarr was sitting on the steps before the inn to meet her coming home. Mitos the innkeeper was with him, whittling a stick and chewing tobacco. Both men rose when they saw her coming.
“You’re home early!” Drython said, smiling at her.
Myreon didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to cry—particularly not in front of that creep, Mitos. “It was a different kind of test today.”
“Did you fail?” Mitos asked, spitting into the gutter.
Myreon glared at him. “That’s private.”
The innkeeper shrugged and went back to his whittling. His eyes, however, kept straying to Myreon’s bodice.
Her father seemed not to notice. “When do you find out how you did? Tomorrow morning?”
Myreon nodded.
He clapped his daughter on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll do well, Myrrie. They’d be fools to fail you.”
Myreon shook her head, her eyes fluttering and mouth pressed into a thin line. Her father saw her expression and she knew he understood. He gathered her up in a warm hug and whispered. “Never give up, Myrrie. If they don’t want you, make ‘em look you in the eye and tell you so.”
Myreon knew he didn’t understand; to think that Archmage Lyrelle would have a problem telling her she failed to her face! The hug felt good, though, and she leaned into it.
When they broke apart, Mitos was still there. He spat again. “If you fail tomorrow, missy, there’s a job for you here, if you like. I pay serving girls better than most.” His eyes glittered over he quivering moustache.
Drython Alafarr gave the Ihynishman a curt nod. “Thank you for the offer, sir, but my Myrrie didn’t fail anything.”
Mitos shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
#
The next day was cold and wet, with a rainy fog the clung to the stones and the lampposts of the city early in the morning. Myreon wore her patched and faded wool shawl and was wet through and shivering by the time she reached the plaza again. This time, though, she was completely alone. She waited before the gates in the morning mist, glancing left and right for any sign of anyone else, but there was no one.
Had everybody failed? It was possible, she guessed. Probably the archmagi saw right through their fake sorcery and had failed them outright. Or maybe they had all been passed straight away; the archmagi had just looked each wealthy young person up and down and said ‘congratulations, you’re just the kind of clever, wealthy fellow we’re looking for’ and that was it.
It couldn’t be, though. Could it?
The gates opened, all by themselves. Beyond, a Defender of the Balance in full mageglass armor and firepike pointed at her. “Myreon Alafarr?”
“Yes?”
“With me, miss, if you please.”
Myreon stepped through and, again, the cold shiver passed through her body and she found herself standing again in that strange garden. It wasn’t raining here, nor was it cold; it was precisely as it had been the day before. The archmagi were there, as well, looking exactly the same as well. This time, however, there was a chair. Archmage Lyrelle motioned for her to sit in it.
“It has been an unusual year for applicants, to be certain.” Lyrelle said, her voice firm and declarative, as though she were reading a prepared statement. “Each year we expect a certain number of applicants to cheat or attempt to cheat, but very seldom do so many of them do so.”
Myreon blinked. “They all failed?”
“They were all eliminated immediately.” Cormyr said, his lip curling. “As you would have been, had you taken Lyrelle’s little offer.”
“So, I was right—it was a…”
Lyrelle raised her hand. “If you please—I haven’t finished. Now, it was wise of you not to accept my offer to cheat, Ms. Alafarr, even if it did mean you failed the test. As some of your fellow applicants surmised—and correctly—the test was an impossible one. It is extremely unlikely for a person without any formal training to be able to perform a sorcerous act to our satisfaction. Indeed, we expressly do not want the progeny of hedge wizards and adherents of petty witchcraft infiltrating these halls.”
“Hmph.” Odric offered, folding his thick forearms beneath his bushy beard.
Lyrelle favored the Archmage of the Fey with a significant glance—one that apparently bore enough weight that Odric un-folded his arms—and continued. “There is a second part to the test, however. We wanted to see if the applicant was willing to fail.”
Myreon’s heart leapt. Could that mean…
“What we do here,” Lyrelle continued, “is train young men and women to manipulate the very fabric of creation itself to their whim. It is a considerable power and with it comes considerable responsibility. There are a great many shortcuts and work-arounds in the High Arts, and all of them are dangerous and unwise. We do not wish to instruct people who would rather cheat than fail—that recipe leads to disaster for all of us.”
Myreon waited, but Lyrelle appeared to have finished. “Ma..magus, does that mean…”
The archmagi all nodded.
“I PASSED!” Myreon leapt to her feet. “I’m an initiate?”
Salien came to her, arms spread. “Welcome, initiate. May your stay here be long and enlightening.”
Myreon hugged her—she was thin and bony, like a bird—but broke away. “I…I have to go.”
Lord Defender Trevard blinked. “Go? Where?”
“My father! I need to tell him!”
“Bah!” Odric barked. “The man already knows.”
“Why?” Myreon said, blinking at the old mage as the other came forward to shake her hand. “Who told him?”
Odric laughed. “My girl, a man doesn’t need a test to tell him his daughter is a winner. He knows. He knows deep in his bones.”
Myreon grinned more widely than she had in weeks. She felt like she could fly away—she was air, the sun. She was the summertime in a wool shawl.
THE END
Myreon’s Test, Part 2
Myreon was not alone in her assessment of the odds of passing. As the plaza before the Arcanostrum’s gates filled up in preparation for the day’s test, more and more young men and women read the note and were thoroughly horrified. Their reactions were, on the whole, more volcanic than Myreon’s own. Many wept, bitterly and openly, and cursed anything and everything nearby, though chiefly the archmagi. Others raged and stormed and shook their fists through the iron gates as though, by expressing their displeasure, the magi of Saldor would relent in their unreasonable expectations. Still others simply deflated, turned pale, and wandered off to various corners of the plaza, heads down, and drew invisible plans in the dust with their feet.
Myreon, for her part, went nowhere and said nothing. She could think of no coherent plan to enact, no preparations to begin, and no reasonable recourse to fall back on. A lot of applicants quit, right then and there—some of them loudly. One fellow, at least five years older than Myreon, wearing an ostentatious ensemble of lace and ostrich feathers, threw his floppy hat at the gate and spat, “I’ve had it with you! To Hell and Damnation with all of you wizards! Jean-Pierre Marsien DuPoirrette is not to be mocked!”
He turned and meant to march straight away, but Myreon was in his path. He glared at her, is pointed nose flaring like miniature bellows, and shooed her aside. “What are you still doing here? Go home, peasant! You failed—we all failed!”
Myreon felt her stomach flip and knew her bottom lip wanted to quiver, but she held them still. “I’m staying because I’m going to pass. You leave if you want to.”
The contessa from earlier lifted her head from her servant’s lap. “What? Do you know a spell, then?”
Myreon folded her arms. The contessa was no older than thirteen, and Myreon had no interest in looking stupid in the eyes of an arrogant child. “Maybe.”
That attracted a lot of attention. A few seconds later, every applicant in the plaza was crowding around Myreon, Pierre, and the young contessa. “Show me the spell you know!” One girl yelled, pulling off a solid gold ring with a diamond setting. “I’ll give you this!”
Another girl, probably Myreon’s age exactly, sniffed delicately at the ring. “Exactly the kind of gift one would expect from a Galaspiner Guild-girl.” She gave Myreon a sickly-sweet smile and unclasped her necklace. It was enchanted with emeralds that changed color in watery patterns and from it emanated a sweet, spring-like aroma, like fresh rain on a grassy field. “There’s much more like this for my friends. Can’t we be friends?”
Myreon’s mouth was hanging open, so she shut it with a click. “I’m…I’m keeping the spell to myself. I don’t know how to teach it, anyway.”
“Selfish little commoner!” The contessa hissed. “You think just because you know some piddling little magic trick that we’d consent to beg?”
The boy in Eretherian livery shook his head. He was at the back of the crowd, but he was taller than almost everybody by six inches, so everybody could see the smirk on his face. “She doesn’t know anything; she’s bluffing. I’d do it, too, if I were her. She needs us to quit so she can be the only one left in an hour. Then they’d have to take her, spell or not.”
The girl who’d offered Myreon the ring laughed. “They don’t have to take anybody. My uncle says there were a few years while he was an apprentice that they took no one.”
Another boy spoke up. “My father says that some years they take up to fifty. Maybe if we all fail the test, they’ll take all of us—we’d all be equally qualified, right?”
Pierrepulled himself to his full height, which wasn’t impressive, and stuck his nose in the air as though he smelled something. “I do not accept a world in which I am ‘equal’ to any of you. The blood of the Griffon Throne runs in my veins, and…”
The girl that offered Myreon the magic necklace rolled her eyes. “You Akrallians and your stupid bloodlines. As though the drop of royalty in your veins even compares to the hearty river of nobility common to all well-born Eretherian families. My grandfather was…”
Everyone began shouting at that point, and Myreon ducked out of the crowd. She sat underneath a nearby tree and watched the sons and daughters of the rich and powerful compare heritage and wave around pieces of heraldry and signet rings each of which would have purchased the whole inn she and her father had stayed in and would have enough left over to knock it down and build their own mansion. Her father had always encouraged her to look at people through their own eyes, but she found it practically impossible with these brats. Even without passing this test, they would all be lords and ladies—second sons and daughters, granted, but still noble. Where would Myreon be? Nowhere, that was where. She hoped they did all quit; at least then she wouldn’t be forced to listen to them bicker.
In the end, the group broke up. The Eretherians formed their own little circle (wherein they still argued among themselves, as Eretherian nobles did), the Akrallians formed their own circle (where they spent much of their time comparing bloodlines and seniority, as was their wont), and the Galaspiner guilders clustered in a little group nearby to Myreon. They seemed a bit more organized, and were pitching to one another various theories on what to do. Eventually, one of the quieter ones—a boy about Myreon’s age with blacksmith’s shoulders and a gold chain around his neck that could have bought and sold any dozen blacksmiths—whispered loud enough so that Myreon could scarcely hear. “What if we cheat?”
Myreon jerked her head sideways to stare at him. He caught her eye and grinned. “What if that’s the test?”
“What do you mean?” A pimple-faced redhead asked, scratching at his collar.
Gold Chain shrugged. “Every year they say the Arcanostrum’s final test, whatever it is, is a trick of some kind. Maybe this is the trick—maybe they want us to give up. Only those of us with enough cunning to find a way to pass make it through.”
Myreon stood up and came closer. The Galaspiners paid her little mind. “If we’re caught, we’ll be automatically failed!”
“We’d fail anyway—they’ve got to know that, don’t they? They want us to cheat.”
“How?” Myreon asked. “How do you cheat with something like this?”
Gold Chain grinned. “Easy—I know an enchanter near here. He can put a simple spell into something like a ring that will last for a few hours or maybe only work once. You get him to enchant it, walk into the test, cast your ‘spell’, and take what comes.”
The Galaspiners grinned like thieves. “Good idea. What’s something like that cost?”
“No more than a couple dozen gold marks, I’d bet.” He gave Myreon a wink. “Not cheap enough for everybody, I guess.”
They laughed at that; the sound of it was like a slap in the face. Myreon blinked and backed away. “What if I tell?”
Gold Chain shook his head, still chuckling. “Your name’s Alafarr, right? Your dad’s a vintner?”
Myreon froze. “How do you know that?”
“You tell on me and my friends, Alafarr, and I’ll see to it that my father buys that rotten little vineyard and throws you to the wolves.” Gold Chain, still smiling, gave her a little half bow. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—we’ve got a test to pass.”
Myreon watched them go, rage and fear making her heart skip in her chest. She wanted to smash Gold Chain’s toothy face with his stupid chain, but didn’t dare to anything other than glare at him. She turned away, just so she wouldn’t have to watch them leave.
Elsewhere in the plaza, those who hadn’t quit seemed to have gotten the same idea as the Galaspiners—they headed in various directions, babbling about potions that could make them float and magic scrolls that could cast themselves. They had relatives or business contacts or retainers who could fashion these things, and in every case the only cost would be money or favors. With every little lordling that walked off with a sly grin on his face, Myreon felt the weight of the test pressing more and more heavily on her chest.
What if she was the only one who failed, and only because the rest of them cheated? What if this was how it happened every year—the rich ones just bought their entry, and the others got brushed aside. Surely the archmagi could see through their tricks—couldn’t they?
What if they couldn’t?
Myreon threw herself under the same tree and put her head in her hands. She didn’t cry—she was too paralyzed by events. She was numb. She was going to fail, and the rest of these spoiled, cheating brats were going to win. It wasn’t fair.
“You’re one of the applicants, aren’t you? Myreon, isn’t it?” The voice was a woman’s, warm and firm like that of a kindly grandmother who doesn’t accept excuses.
Myreon looked up to see a striking woman with golden hair just barely streaked with gray and a firm face barely creased with the cares of age. Myreon didn’t need to see her black robes or the intricate staff by her side to know who she was: Lyrelle Reldamar, Archmage of the Ether and Mistress of theBlackCollege.
Myreon struggled to her feet. “Magus, I…I didn’t see you…I didn’t know that you’d…”
“I take care not to be seen when I choose not to be, child. Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.” Myreon said, wiping under her eyes just to be sure. Her hand came back wet.
The Archmage Lyrelle smirked. “Of course not. Are you ready for today’s test?”
“I…no. I’m not. I can’t cast any spells at all.”
Lyrelle’s lips pursed in maternal concern. “My dear, that means you’ll fail. Whatever are you to do?”
“I…I…” Myreon couldn’t hold it in anymore. Her whole body seemed to melt into sobs. It was all she could do to hide her face in her hands. Her cheeks burned with equal parts misery and mortifying embarrassment—here she was, an applicant to the Arcanostrum who had made it all the way to the thirteenth test, and she was crying like a child in front of a woman widely considered to be the most powerful mage in the world.
Lyrelle put an arm around Myreon’s shoulders and patted her on the head. “Now, now, Myreon Alafarr. Stop this nonsense—sobbing makes you look like a market pig.”
Myreon half-snorted. “Wh…what?”
“I’m speaking to you now because you are one of our most promising applicants, and I personally don’t wish for you to fail. However, the other archmagi are unlikely to accept a girl who can’t even cast a simple spell, so…”
Myreon blinked away some tears. “Are you…are you offering to help me cheat?”
Lyrelle clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Cheat? Such a stigmatized term, isn’t it? I’d like to call it ‘surreptitious assistance’.”
“But I don’t have any money and…”
“Do I sound as though I’m asking you for money, darling?” Lyrelle smiled at her and shook her head. “I have all the money I need, I promise you. No, I’m offering you this, free of charge, because I’d rather have a hard-working Saldorian girl in the Arcanosturm than any dozen spoiled Akrallian brats, Eretherian boobs, or Galaspiner sneaks. We Saldorian women should stick together, don’t you think?” The Archmage winked at her.
Myreon felt herself blush. “Thank you, magus.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Your answer, Myreon. Do you wish to have my surreptitious assistance in this test or not?”
Myreon looked into the archmage’s eyes. They were a warm brown shade, but there was something sharp about them, too. Myreon realized she was reading Myreon’s facial features—observing, assessing, judging. The words of Gold Chain came back to Myreon suddenly. “What if this is the test?”
Lyrelle tapped her staff on the cobblestones. “Well? Imp caught your tongue?”
Myreon opened her mouth but it took a second before the word came out. “No.”
“Really?” Lyrelle blinked.
“No thank you…magus.” Myreon made a small curtsey. “I…I told my father I’d make him proud.” The last bit sounded very stupid when she said it aloud, so she blushed and apologized again.
Lyrelle pulled herself to her full height and adopted a more aloof expression than before; it was as though the ‘motherly’ part of her was slipped off as easily as a pair of gloves and stuffed in her pocket. “Such a pity, my dear. Such a great pity.”
And then, without so much as a pop, the archmage was gone.
Myreon’s Test, Part 1
Myreon Alafarr’s father looked brittle and tired, like a rusty hinge about to give out. Still, he smiled his snaggle-tooth smile and handed her the battered old spellbook that had been handed down from generation to generation on the Alafarr vineyard. “You’ll do me proud, Myrrie, I know.”
Myreon smiled at him; it was difficult. “What about the bill, Papa?”
Drython Alafarr looked over his shoulder at the tiny room he and his daughter had shared the past week. Tucked under the eaves of the inn on its top floor, Myreon could only stand upright in one half of the room, and the other half was comprised of a stale straw mat that smelled of mildew and sweat. Her father had let her have it; he slept on the floor. “I’ll settle the bill; worry about the test—that’s what matters.”
“Don’t let that weasel cheat you.”
“Mitos isn’t a cheat—he’s been very kind to us.”
“Mitos is a sleaze, and he’s stuffed us in this hole and taken all our money because he knows you’re too kind a man to say anything.” Myreon glanced down the steep spiral stair to see if anyone was listening—it was still early, and the Ihynishman that owned the inn was seldom awake this early, but one could never be too careful. She’d noticed how the man had been watching her ever since they’d arrived. He would be sitting in a chair by the fire with her father every evening when she returned from the testing. He would be waxing his thick black moustache with his thin fingers while his eyes hugged her hips and slid up and down her backside. The leering only stopped when his wife would happen into the room, and then he would let his eyes flutter up to the rafters or into the fire and continue to nod along with whatever her father was saying. Myreon knew, though. She knew what kind of man he was.
Her father sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “At least my daughter thinks I’m kind. Hurry up—go. You’ll be late.”
Myreon nodded. The knot of anxiety just beneath her breastbone tightened another quarter turn; when she left, it really would be time to face the final test to enter the ranks of the Arcanostrum, the greatest school of sorcery in the world. “Good bye, Papa.”
Her father hugged her tightly. “Don’t be frightened. I believe in you, no matter what happens. Hold your head high, no matter what—it shows good breeding. Do me proud.”
Myreon nodded again, unable to say anything else, and went out into the street.
#
The Alafarrs were once well-to-do vintners before the war, and Myreon remembered her father and uncles doing well by their families and never wanting for much. The war had changed that, as wars so often do, and left them barely able to keep what little land they still owned. Myreon knew her father had spent the whole of the family’s savings on this trip to Saldor, and just for her. If she failed or if she passed the test today, they would have a difficult winter. She could scarcely stand the idea of her father and uncles and mother going hungry because of her. “I will not fail.” She repeated to herself, over and over, just as she had every morning for the past two weeks. The knot in her chest tightened another quarter turn.
Myreon’s father was too poor to afford an inn inside the OldCity; they couldn’t even afford one just outside. They had been forced to stay in a run-down neighborhood in Crosstown, all the way across the river. It took Myreon the better part of an hour to wind her way through the tangled cobblestone streets, across the river on a water taxi or flat-bottom ferry, and then through the ivy-clad gates into the OldCity, where the impossibly tall towers of the Arcanostrum stood at its heart. Every day the sorcerous academy looked different, and every day Myreon made her pilgrimage to its gates, gazing up at its scintillating parapets and gleaming spires every few seconds. All the while, inside her head, she kept chanting, “I will not fail, I will not fail.”
Each year in late autumn, the magi of the Arcanostrum held a test to admit new initiates into their order. Applicants went through a variable number of tests, depending on who was doing the testing, with each test growing more challenging than the last. This year there were thirteen tests—the most in decades, they said—and today was the thirteenth. Where there had been literally thousands of applicants, there were now only a dozen or so, of whom Myreon was one.
Her competitors were the sons and daughters of ancient noble families or wealthy guildmasters, tutored since birth and afforded every luxury. They, Myreon had no doubt, were staying in fancy hotels or in private villas mere steps from the gates of the Arcanostrum. They had a team of people coaching them—perhaps even magi from the Arconstrum itself who were their friends and relatives. They weren’t distracted by lecherous innkeepers or destitute fathers or the chance of starving this winter. The Arcanostrum rarely took more than three or four new students a year—what were the chances she could overcome and…
“No!” She cursed at herself. “I will not fail. I will not fail. I will not fail.”
When Myreon finally made it to the wrought iron gates of the Arcanostrum, about ten other applicants were already there, chattering eagerly to each other. If they noticed her, they quickly turned away. Some sniggered, and Myreon assumed they were laughing at her. Others, though, looked worried. Some looked positively pale, as though they might pass out at any moment. One girl in an expensive dress vomited into a bag held by her manservant.
Myreon tapped the girl on the shoulder. “Excuse me?”
The girl glared at her. “Did you just touch me?” The manservant moved to block Myreon from physically accessing the girl again.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
The girl pointed to her tiara. “I am a contessa! You don’t tap me on the shoulder like some barmaid.”
Myreon set her jaw. “Look, I just wanted to know what’s going on.”
The reminder of why they were there seemed to hit the contessa all over again, and the color drained from her face. “Emile! The bag!” She spun around and the manservant held the bag up as the rich girl heaved the contents of her probably very expensive breakfast inside. For the first time in two weeks, Myreon was glad she hadn’t eaten anything.
“Hey, girl.” Another applicant—a young man maybe two or three years older than her and wearing the livery of an Eretherian noble house—pointed at the gate. “There’s a note about it there.”
Myreon looked where he was pointing. Pinned to the gates was a note that read “The final test will begin an hour later than normal. You will be asked to perform a spell; come prepared.”
The tension in Myreon’s chest tightened another full turn. Her heart started pounding and she felt suddenly faint. “Cast…cast a spell?”
The young man shrugged. “I know. I’m pretty well cooked—I can’t cast a jot.”
Myreon stepped away from the gate, trying to keep tears from welling up in her eyes. Her whole body seemed to shake at once. A spell? She couldn’t actually cast a spell! That was why she was coming here! How could they expect her to cast a spell? It wasn’t possible!
Frantically, she tore open the little family spellbook. It was a collection of silly rhymes and simple curses—no real sorcery at all, just superstition and mummery with a little bit of common sense. She had been using it to keep notes in the margins and that was all, but now she paged through it furiously, looking for a spell anywhere that might serve. Nothing. Nothing at all. The only real spells in there were too complicated by half and written in a tongue she barely understood. “Oh no. Oh no.”
Myreon knew, beyond doubt, that she was going to fail.
