Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 03] - The High Lord Read online

  Coren hadn’t held a novice hostage to keep his crimes secret, however.

  Would he have, if he had been faced with losing his powers, position, or even his life, as punishment? Sonea shook her head. Perhaps Akkarin simply wanted to destroy whatever illusions she might have of the famous figure that Coren was.

  The sudden appearance of Lord Makin interrupted her thoughts. The teacher placed a large box on the front desk, then faced the class.

  “Today I will be teaching you about illusion,” the Warrior told them. “And how it is used in battle. The most important thing to remember with illusion is this: it is all about deception. An illusion cannot harm you, but it can lead you into danger. I’ll demonstrate this with a story.”

  Makin moved to his chair and sat down, folding his hands on the table. All sounds of boots scuffing the floor or novices shifting in their seats ceased. Lord Makin’s stories were always interesting.

  “Our histories tell us that, five centuries ago, two brothers lived in the Elyne mountains. Grind and Lond were both magicians skilled in battle. One day a caravan of travellers passed, led by a merchant named Kamaka. His daughter, a beautiful young woman, travelled with him. The two brothers saw the caravan and descended from their mountain home to buy goods. When they laid eyes on Kamaka’s daughter they both fell instantly in love.”

  Makin sighed and shook his head sadly, gaining smiles from the novices. “An argument ensued between them over who would have the girl. The two brothers could not resolve their dispute with words, so they began to fight each other. It is said the battle continued for days (which is unlikely) and the brothers found themselves evenly matched in strength and skill. It was Grind who broke the stalemate. Seeing that his brother stood by a cliff on which was poised a large boulder, he contrived that this boulder should fall, but preceded it with another, illusory boulder.

  “Lond saw his brother staring at something above his head. He looked up to see a boulder falling toward him, and instantly dismissed it as the illusion it was. Of course he did not see the second boulder, which was concealed behind the illusory one.

  “Grind had expected his brother to detect the deception. When he realized he had killed his own brother, he became distracted with grief. The caravan was able to continue on its way, taking Kamaka’s daughter with it. So you see,” Makin finished, “while illusions cannot hurt you, allowing yourself to be deceived by them might.”

  The Warrior rose. “How do you make illusions? That is what I will be teaching you today. We will start by copying the objects I have brought with me. Seno, come to the front of the class.”

  Sonea listened as the magician explained different ways of creating an image of something with magic, and watched as Seno followed the teacher’s instructions. When the demonstration was finished, Seno passed Sonea’s desk on the way to his own. He looked at Sonea and smiled. She let the corner of her mouth curl upward in response. He had been particularly friendly toward her since a Warrior practice session some weeks before, in which she had taught him a trick that weaker magicians could use against stronger ones.

  As the lesson continued, she turned her mind to learning the illusion techniques. Just when she had managed to form an illusion of a pachi fruit something appeared in the air in front of her.

  It was a flower, the petals made of bright orange autumn leaves. She reached out and her fingers passed through the strange blossom. It shattered into a thousand sparks of light that spun in a quick dance before vanishing.

  “Well done!” Trassia exclaimed.

  “It wasn’t me.” Sonea turned to see Seno grinning at her, an orange leaf lying on the table in front of him.

  At the front of the class, Lord Makin cleared his throat loudly. Sonea turned back to see the teacher regarding her sternly. She shrugged to protest her innocence. He looked pointedly at the fruit in front of her.

  She concentrated until an illusory copy appeared beside it. It was a redder shade than it ought to be, and the texture of its skin was suspiciously like the veins of a leaf. She sighed. It would be easier if she didn’t have a memory of autumn leaves so fresh in her mind. She pushed away her annoyance. Seno hadn’t intended to distract her. He’d just been showing off.

  But why flaunt his success to her and no one else? Surely he wasn’t trying to impress her.

  Or was he?

  She resisted the temptation to turn and see what he was doing. Seno was a cheerful boy, talkative and easy to like, and she was probably the only Kyralian girl who didn’t tower over him…

  What am I thinking? She scowled as she realized her illusion had changed into a shapeless glowing ball. Even if I didn’t have Akkarin to worry about, what of Dorrien?

  A memory flitted into her mind of Rothen’s son standing by the spring in the forest behind the Guild. Of him leaning closer to kiss her. She pushed it away.

  She hadn’t seen Dorrien for over a year. Whenever she found herself thinking of him, she forced herself to concentrate on something else. There was nothing to be gained from regret—not when it would have been an impossible relationship anyway, with her stuck in the Guild until graduation, and him living—all but a few weeks each year—far away, in a village at the base of the mountains.

  Sighing, she concentrated on the fruit, and began restoring her illusion.

  As Lorlen reached the door of his office he heard a familiar voice call his name. Glancing behind, he smiled as he saw his assistant striding forward to meet him.

  “Good evening, Lord Osen.”

  The magical lock unwound under his will, and the door clicked open. Lorlen stepped aside and gestured for Osen to enter, but his assistant hesitated as he looked inside the room, his expression changing from surprise to a scowl. Following Osen’s gaze, Lorlen saw the black-robed man who was relaxing in one of the room’s comfortable chairs.

  Akkarin had a way of turning up in locked rooms, or unexpected places, but this did not explain Osen’s scowl. Lorlen looked at his assistant again. The young magician’s expression was respectful now; no sign remained of the fleeting disapproval Lorlen had glimpsed.

  I hadn’t noticed his dislike of Akkarin before, Lorlen mused as he walked to his desk. I wonder how long he has nursed it.

  “Good evening, High Lord,” Lorlen said.

  “Administrator,” Akkarin replied. “Lord Osen.”

  “High Lord,” Osen replied, nodding.

  Lorlen sat down at his desk and looked up at Osen. “Was there something…?”

  “Yes,” Osen replied. “I found a messenger waiting at the door about half an hour ago. Captain Barran says he has something interesting to show you if you are free.”

  Another victim? Lorlen suppressed a shudder. “Then I had better see what it is, unless the High Lord has reason to detain me.” He looked at Akkarin.

  Deep creases had formed between Akkarin’s eyebrows. He looks genuinely concerned, Lorlen thought. Very concerned.

  “No,” Akkarin said. “Captain Barran’s request is more important than the issues I came to discuss.”

  A short and awkward silence followed as Osen stayed by the desk and Akkarin remained in his chair. Lorlen glanced from one to the other, then rose.

  “Thank you, Osen. Could you see to the ordering of a carriage for me?”

  “Yes, Administrator.” The young magician nodded politely to Akkarin, then strode out of the room. Lorlen looked at Akkarin closely, wondering if Osen’s dislike had communicated itself.

  What am I thinking? Of course Akkarin knows.

  Akkarin had paid little attention to Osen’s departure, however. He was still frowning as he rose and followed Lorlen to the door.

  “You weren’t expecting this?” Lorlen ventured as he stepped into the Entrance Hall. It was raining outside, so he stopped within the doors to wait for the carriage.

  Akkarin’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

  “You could come with me.”

  “Better that you take care of it.”

  He’ll be watc
hing, I’d wager. Lorlen looked down at the ring on his finger.

  “Good night, then,” Lorlen ventured.

  Akkarin’s expression softened slightly. “Good night. I’m looking forward to your views on this.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward, then he turned away and started down the stairs, the rain hissing as it met the invisible shield around him.

  Lorlen shook his head at Akkarin’s little joke. A carriage emerged from the stables and started along the road to the University. It pulled up at the bottom of the stairs and the driver jumped down to open the door. Lorlen hurried down and climbed aboard.

  The journey through the city to the Guard House seemed longer than usual. The rain clouds blocked the starlight, but the wet road reflected lamplight up onto the buildings. Those few people roaming about hurried by in their cloaks, the hoods covering their heads. Only one delivery boy stopped to stare at the carriage as it passed.

  The carriage finally pulled up outside the Guard House. Lorlen climbed out and strode to the door. He was greeted by Captain Barran.

  “Sorry to call you out on such a miserable night, Administrator,” Barran said as he led Lorlen down the corridor to his office. “I considered delaying my message until tomorrow, but that would have made what I have to show you even less pleasant.”

  Barran did not stop at his office, but descended to the same basement room he had taken Lorlen to before. As they stepped through the door, a powerful smell of rot enveloped them. Lorlen saw with dismay that something human-shaped lay under a heavy cloth on one of the tables.

  “Here.” The Captain moved quickly to a cupboard and took out a jar and two squares of cloth. He unstoppered the jar and tipped a few drops of yellow oil onto the cloths, then handed one to Lorlen. “Hold this over your nose.”

  As Lorlen did, a sharp and familiar medicinal smell overwhelmed the room’s odor. Holding the other cloth to his own face, Barran moved over to the table.

  “This man was found floating in the river today,” he said, his voice muffled. “He’s been dead a couple of days.” He lifted the cloth covering the body to reveal a pale face. The corpse’s eyes were covered by small squares of material. As more of the body was revealed, Lorlen forced himself to ignore the signs of decay and what he guessed were the nibblings of fish. Instead, he noted the wound over the heart and the long slash down the man’s neck.

  “Another victim.”

  “No.” Barran looked at Lorlen. “He’s been identified by two witnesses. This appears to be the murderer.”

  Lorlen stared at Barran, then the corpse. “But he’s been killed in the same way.”

  “Yes. In revenge, perhaps. See here.” The guard pointed to the left hand of the corpse. A finger was missing. “He was wearing a ring. We had to cut it off.” Barran replaced the cloth, then moved to a covered dish on a nearby bench. The guard drew off the cover to reveal a dirty silver band.

  “It had a stone, but it wasn’t removed. Our investigator found shards of glass embedded in the skin, and the grips of the setting were bent in a way that suggests the ring was smashed. He believes the stone was glass.”

  Lorlen resisted looking down at his own ring. Akkarin’s ring. So my suspicion about the murderer’s ring must be true. I wonder…

  He turned to regard the covered corpse.

  “Are you sure this is the murderer?”

  “The witnesses were very convincing.”

  Lorlen moved to the corpse and uncovered an arm. Steeling himself, he placed two fingers on the skin and sent his senses out. At once he detected energy within it, and felt relief. Something was odd, however. He searched, then drew back as he realized what the strangeness was. The life within the body was concentrated around the stomach, lungs, skin and wounds. The rest was all but empty.

  Of course, he thought. This man has probably been floating in the river for a few days. Time enough for small organisms to invade. Another day or two and the true cause of death would have been undetectable.

  Lorlen drew away from the table.

  “Seen enough?” Barran asked.

  “Yes.” Lorlen paused to wipe his fingers on the cloth before giving it to Barran. He held his breath until they were back in the corridor and the door was shut firmly behind them.

  “What now?” Lorlen wondered aloud.

  Barran sighed. “We wait. If the murders begin again, we’ll know for sure that we have a gang of killers to look for.”

  “I’d prefer it if the murders simply stopped now,” Lorlen replied.

  “As would most Imardians,” Barran agreed, “but I still have the murderer’s killer to look for.”

  The murderer’s killer. Another black magician. Akkarin, perhaps? He glanced at the door they had just passed through. That corpse was proof that there were—or had been—black magicians in the city other than Akkarin. Was the city filled with them? Now that was not a comforting thought. Suddenly, all Lorlen wanted was to go back to the Guild, to the safety of his rooms, and try to sort out the implications.

  But Barran obviously needed to discuss the discovery further. Smothering a sigh, Lorlen followed the guard back to his office.

  4

  The Next Step

  Rothen sat in his favorite chair to one side of the Night Room and watched his fellow magicians. Every week, Guild members came to this room to talk and exchange gossip. Some remained in pairs or small circles, bound together by friendship or familiarity with others of the same discipline. Others were drawn together by family and House ties; though magicians were supposed to put aside such loyalties when they joined the Guild, the inclination to trust and distrust according to tradition and politics remained strong.

  At the other side of the room sat three magicians who appeared to be engaged in anything but idle chatter. Lord Balkan, wearing the red robes and black sash of the Head of Warriors, was the youngest of them. Lady Vinara, the green-robed Head of Healers, was a stern, middle-aged woman. White-haired Lord Sarrin, the Head of Alchemists, wore his purple robes.

  Rothen wished he could hear their conversation. The three had been talking energetically for an hour. Whenever anything was debated among the Higher Magicians, these three were the most vocal and most influential speakers. Between Balkan’s direct reasoning, Vinara’s compassion and insight, and Sarrin’s conservative opinions, they usually managed to cover most sides of an issue.

  But Rothen knew he would never get near enough to the trio to listen without being observed. Instead, he turned his attention to closer magicians. At once his heart skipped as he recognized a familiar voice. Administrator Lorlen…somewhere behind his chair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice.

  “…I understand that many of the Alchemists have been involved in long-term projects they are reluctant to put aside,” Lorlen said. “All will have an opportunity to object to their involvement in the construction of the new Lookout, but they must prove that their work will be irretrievably harmed by the delay.”

  “But…”

  “Yes?”

  There was a sigh. “I just cannot see why we are wasting Alchemists’ time on such…such foolery. Weather monitoring, of all things! Can’t Davin build himself a little hut on that hill? Why a tower?” The magician objecting to the project was Lord Peakin, the Head of Alchemic Studies. “And I do not see the need for the Warriors’ involvement. Is this structure going to be for alchemic or military use?”

  “Both,” Lorlen told him. “The High Lord decided it would be short-sighted to construct a building of this kind without considering its defensive potential. He also saw that it was unlikely that the building would be approved by the King if its use was solely for monitoring the weather.”

  “Then who will design this structure?”

  “That is yet to be decided.”

  Rothen smiled. Lord Davin had been considered an eccentric for years, but recently his study of weather patterns and prediction had gained a little respect and interest. Lord Peakin, however, had always found Davin’s gush
ing enthusiasm and peculiar obsession irritating.

  The discussion about the tower ended as a new voice joined the others.

  “Good evening, Administrator, Lord Peakin.”

  “Director Jerrik,” Peakin said. “I have heard that Sonea will not be attending evening classes now. Is this true?”

  At Sonea’s name, Rothen was instantly tense and alert. And Jerrik, as University Director, oversaw all matters involving the training of novices. From this conversation, Rothen might learn about her progress.

  “It is,” Jerrik replied. “The High Lord spoke to me yesterday. A few of her teachers had commented to me that she appeared to be tired and was easily distracted. Akkarin had made the same observation, and agreed to let her have the evenings free for the rest of the year.”

  “What of those subjects she has already begun studying?”

  “She’ll have to begin them again next year, though she won’t have to repeat any projects if she doesn’t need to. Her teachers will take into account what she has covered already.”

  The voices were growing fainter. Rothen resisted the urge to look around.

  “Will she be favoring a discipline?” Peakin asked. “This will make it even more necessary that she focus her efforts on one soon, or she will not be proficient in any by graduation.”

  “Akkarin hasn’t decided yet,” Lorlen replied.

  “Akkarin hasn’t decided?” Jerrik repeated. “The choice is Sonea’s.”

  There was a pause. “Of course,” Lorlen agreed. “What I meant by that is Akkarin hasn’t indicated to me which he’d prefer her to choose, so I’m assuming he hasn’t decided what to recommend.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to influence her in any way,” Peakin said. “Which is why he…a good grounding…before…”

  The voices faded into the distance. Guessing that the magicians were moving away, Rothen sighed and drained his glass.

  So Sonea had her evenings to herself. His mood darkened at the thought of her stuck in her room in the High Lord’s Residence, close to Akkarin and his evil habits. Then he remembered that she had always spent her spare time in the Novices’ Library. No doubt she would simply go there every evening now she was free of classes.