Guild Mage: Apprentice

A blast of night wind caught Liv’s skirts and cloak as she stepped past Matthew and through the open door. A tendril of white hair spilled out of her hood and into the light, and she reached up to tuck it back behind her ear. The great open hearth at one end of the common room at the Sign of the Terrapin lit the entire space in a warm glow: the heat immediately warmed her hands and her face. Then, Matthew was inside as well, and pulled the door closed behind them.

The chamber was wide, and a low ceiling with exposed beams meant that a very tall man might need to duck his head. For someone as small as Liv, of course it was no problem, but she hesitated all the same as every eye in the place turned to fix on them. Or was it, perhaps, on her?

Liv was instantly aware that she was the only girl in the room. At the bar, a tall man with short-cropped gray hair and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose leaned forward on both elbows. The near table was occupied by a weather-beaten man wearing a great coat and boots, with a glittering golden ring in his left ear. A far table, facing the entrance, had been taken by a man who kept the back of his chair to the wall. He wore a jack of plate and a rapier, though the armor was not in the green and white colors of Baron Henry’s guards. Instead, the man’s jack was green with purple accents and brightly polished brass fastenings that gleamed so that they almost looked gold in the firelight. He had a scar on his face that turned the corner of his mouth down, so that he looked to be perpetually scowling.

Finally, seated on a stool in front of the hearth, was a man who looked to be the oldest of all those present. His mane and beard were shaggy white, though his forehead was high and gleaming due to a receding hairline. In his arms, he cradled something like a lute, though shaped oddly. The storyteller plucked a single string, breaking the silence, and the attention of the room returned to him.

"What’ll you have?" the man at the bar asked.

"Ale for me, and wine for the lady," Matthew answered. He counted a score of copper coins out of his purse, and set them on the bar. Once they had their drinks, he led Liv over to an empty table, where he pulled a chair out for her.

"Lady, is it?" Liv teased him, taking a sip of her wine. It wasn’t local to the valley: the innkeep must have bought it from guild traders coming through the pass.

"For one night, at least," Matthew joked right back. "Jokes later, I want to hear."

And indeed, the storyteller at the fire seemed about to make a beginning. "Inspiration, move me brightly," he said, and his voice was that of a singer. It filled the common-room easily, aged and mellow like the scent of the baron’s old liquor. "A tale of the first days, I think, in the first age of the world. Before the falling star that devastated the west. Before the war, even, when the great wolves and bats and the clanking soldiers of Antris marched in rank upon rank. A tale that begins at the house of Sivis, Vædic Lord of Storms."

Liv settled back into her chair, keeping her cloak wrapped tightly around her, with her cup of wine clutched in both hands, and listened. It reminded her of the stories Gretta used to tell her before bed, when she’d clutched a rag-doll in her arms by candlelight.

"The Eld were not the first race to walk this world, though they are older than us," the storyteller continued, strumming soft notes as he spoke. Liv thought that his eyes flicked in her direction, and she sunk lower in her chair. "The old gods, who as far surpassed the Eld as the Eld do men, shaped the first age of the world. When they found the ancient, primitive people of the two races, the Vædim enslaved us, and made our ancestors their servants. They changed the Eld with their magic, to make our older brothers and sisters pleasing to their eyes, and took them as concubines, or as entertainers, to fill the air with songs of wonderment and sorrow."

Concubines. Liv thought back to the words of the Elden merchant, Airis Ka Reimis, about the aunt she’d never known. "She died in the depths of the Tomb of Celris, where the Vaedic Lord of Winter perished. Your great-grandfather. It is his power that sings in your veins. That is the other reason I knew who you must be - no one but a child with the blood of the old gods could stumble upon a word of power without training." Concubine was a fancy word for whore, Liv knew. She doubted her ancestors had received much in the way of a choice about bearing the children of a god.

"Humans, weak and fragile, doomed to short lives, were the lowest of the low," the storyteller went on. "Our forefathers were field hands, miners, fishers, and laborers who earned their bread with sweat and pain. One of these slaves was a human woman named Miriam. Half human, at least, for her own mother was the most favored concubine of the Lord of Storms."

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"But when Sivis learned that his toy was with child, he grew angry, and commanded his Elden seneschal to kill the babe at birth. The seneschal presented Sivis with a dead infant, sure enough; however, he spirited Miriam herself away to the house of Tamiris, Lord of Potential. Miriam’s Vædic blood fascinated the god; he was curious to see whether a halfbreed would be able to learn things other humans could not."

"Miriam was not raised as a slave. She was educated by Tamiris as if she was his own daughter, and in time he grew to love her as if she had been his flesh and blood. Furthermore, she fulfilled all his hopes: from an early age, she displayed command of her father’s word of power. She could summon a wind or a fog; she could conceal herself in a cloak of mist; she could float up like a feather, call lightning on a clear day, or bring rain down from the sky to drench a parched field."

Despite herself, Liv set her goblet on the table and leaned forward. She sounds like me, Liv thought. Had this woman, dead so long ago, felt a storm at the back of her mind, always struggling to break free?

The storyteller took a sip from his own goblet, then continued. "But as she grew, Miriam’s heart began to break from guilt and sorrow. For while she lived a life of ease in the house of Tamiris, she saw her fellow men and women working in his fields. She began to leave her foster father’s house in the evenings and visit the workers of the fields, using her many words of power to heal their cuts and bruises, and to soothe their muscles."

The door to the common room banged open again, and a group of half a dozen men, laughing and chatting, walked in together. They called out to the innkeeper for ale, and settled around the largest table. Liv frowned, trying not to show her annoyance. She wanted to hear the rest of the story.

"Eventually, Miriam’s foster father discovered what she was doing, and called her into his garden. "Why do you creep about in the night, concealing your activities from me, your father?" he asked her. Miriam answered that her heart wept for the slaves in the fields, who she knew were her kin, and begged her father’s mercy. She asked him why the Vædim must keep men as slaves, and argued passionately with him long into the night. As the sky grew bright with dawn, Tamiris forbid her from visiting the fields any further."

"Sounds like fathers are all the same, even when they’re gods," Matthew commented at Liv’s side, but she shushed him.

"As soon as her adopted father had left her presence, Miriam fled Tamiris’ house. She wandered Varuna of old, walking from one field to the next, visiting the slaves in their hovels and tending their injuries, or soothing the women in childbirth. She did not confine her aid to men alone, but did her best even to help the Eld, who lived lives of ease in the houses of their masters."

"Knife-eared cunts," one of the new arrivals shouted. He was fat around the middle, and red-faced, with dark brows and beard. From the slurring of the man’s voice, Liv guessed he’d been drinking even before his arrival.

Liv leaned over so that she could murmur in Matthew’s ear. "Maybe we should leave," she suggested.

"As soon as the story’s over," he said. Liv didn’t like it, but she settled back in to listen.

"After three years of wandering, Miriam returned to the house of Sivis, her father, though she knew him not," the storyteller continued. "There, she saw that the fields were particularly green, and the skies particularly pleasant. She was surprised to find that the slaves seemed to recognize her. When she asked them why they looked at her so, they turned away silent and fearful; but one man stepped forward and spoke up. ’You have the face,’ he said, ’of a woman we recognize from many years ago. She was Lord Sivis’ concubine, and she gave birth to his daughter. When he had the baby killed by his seneschal, she threw herself from a high sea cliff onto the rocks below. Lord Sivis left her body there for three days and three nights, and then we secretly took her and buried her."

"Miriam found the Elden seneschal while he was inspecting the fields, and revealed herself to him; and when his face grew pale, she knew the truth for certain. She turned and walked to the house of Sivis, and the skies grew dark. As she came within ten paces of the gate, a bolt of lightning struck the way clear before her."

"She found Sivis in his chambers, occupied with his concubines. Who can say for certain whether he knew the truth when he saw her countenance? Whatever he thought, he was quick to defend himself. Within moments, the house of Sivis was in flames as father and daughter called lighting and fire from the skies above, throwing violent storms at each other. The walls cracked and tumbled, the fields burned, and the slaves cowered in fear."

"As the battle raged, however, it became clear that Miriam could not match her father’s power. Though he was sorely wounded, still he smote about her with lightnings and fires, and she fell to the ground burned and bloody, too weak to move."

The jangling chords of music died away, leaving only the storyteller’s voice, and the occasional clink of a goblet on one of the wooden tables. "Lord Sivis approached and stood over her, and raised his hand to strike down his own daughter. As he did, a single slave - the same man who had been brave enough to tell Miriam the truth - thrust a scythe through the god’s back. Sivis staggered, and before her eyes closed, Miriam called lightning one final time from the storm above."

"When she woke, tended by the same seneschal who had spirited her away so many years before, Lord Sivis was dead. In the days that followed, word of Miriam’s act spread, and slaves fled the homes of their masters to come to her. Though she had acted only in a moment of rage, she became a symbol of hope to her people, and found herself the center of a rebellion."

The storyteller set his instrument aside. "And with that, my cup is empty," he remarked, rising to make his way over to the bar.

"Now, we should go," Liv said. She was relieved when Matthew did not argue. The two of them stood, pushed their chairs back in, and picked their way over to the door.

"That story was shit," one of the drunken men complained. "Tell us something about a nice set of tits." His companions roared with laughter, and banged their table with their goblets.

Matthew yanked the door open, and another gust of wind blew past him. This time, it caught Liv from the front, instead of from behind, and tore her hood back completely, revealing her face. Her white hair danced in the firelight, showing her ears for the entire room to see.

"What the fuck is this," the dark haired man who’d shouted out earlier called. "A knife-eared bitch right here with us the entire time. The fuck are you doing this far south?"

"That’s no way to speak to a lady," Matthew called back. "You’re drunk, and we’re leaving. Good evening, all of you. Thank you for the story."

"You think you’re some sort of little lord, do you?" The dark bearded man stood, knocking his chair over. "Think you’re better than us, running around with your Eldish whore?"

"I don’t think I’m better than you," Matthew shot back, disgust dripping from his voice. "I know I am."

The rest of the table threw their chairs aside, and lumbered to their feet. Liv caught at Matthew’s arm, trying to pull him out the door.

"I don’t want trouble, you hear?" the innkeeper shouted, but the men ignored him.

"Knife ear slut," the dark bearded man ranted, shoving tables and chairs out of his path on the way over to Liv and Matthew. "I’ll teach you to come around decent people. I’ll trim your tips for you, then you’ll look just like everyone else." He drew a dagger from his belt.

Liv’s hand clenched around a staff that wasn’t there, and she silently cursed herself as an idiot for leaving the thing behind. She counted five men. Without the staff to focus her mana, she knew that she’d waste a lot of magic. Better one big spell, then, she decided. To take out as many as she could. But she didn’t want to kill any of the men, she just wanted time to get away. Perhaps an Icewall over the door. Her eyes flicked from side to side: no, they’d just go out the windows.

Matthew stepped between her and the approaching men, and pulled his arming sword.

"Put that away before you hurt yourself, boy," one of the drunks told him with a grin.

"Aye, we’re just gonna teach the northern girl a little lesson," the man with the black beard said. Their eyes were cruel, and the stink of alcohol wafted off them. Liv would have preferred to face another stonebat.

"I won’t let you," Matthew said, and raised his sword. Liv at once felt terrified for him, but also a warm flush coming up from her belly to her neck. Had anyone in the entire world ever stood up to protect her before? Master Jurian, in a way.

For a long moment, the entire scene seemed to be frozen. The world waited to see whether the men would back down, or press forward.

"Get ’em," the man with the black brows and beard growled. The drunks charged, and Matthew slashed with his blade. The foremost of the men cried out, and a spatter of blood flew through the air to stick on the wall next to the bar.

"Celent’he Aiveh Encve Stelim Kapium!" Liv shouted, raising her hand to point at the men. The men were surging toward her, and without Matthew in their way she could never have gotten through the words in time. A small part of her noted that, and put the problem aside as one to be considered on another day.

Five grasping pillars of ice ripped their way up through the floorboards of the common room, surrounding two of the men and squeezing them tight. They screamed in pain, dropping their daggers as they struggled to free themselves. One of the men stumbled back toward the bar, eyes wide in fear. Five rings of mana. Liv knew she would be able to cast one more spell for certain, two at most. She would have to thank Master Grenfell for all the time they’d spent measuring and recording, over and over again, every bit of information on her magic.

"I’ll kill you for this, boy," the man with the dark brows slurred. He had Matthew by the arm now, and was looming over both of them like a monstrous bear.

"That’s more than enough," a cold voice broke across the room. The soldier who’d been sitting across the room appeared behind the drunk man, and punched the back of his head with the pommel of his rapier. The big man dropped instantly, as if his legs had suddenly lost all their bones.

Liv looked around for the fifth attacker, hand raised, ready to cast another spell. However, the drunk was jacked up against the wall of the room, arm twisted behind his back, by the man in the long coat.

"Thank you," Matthew said, lowering his blade. "Thank you both."

"Well, I’m not fool enough to fight an Eldish witch," the soldier muttered. "Nor to watch murder done in the duke’s lands."

"Baron Henry’s lands," Matthew corrected him.

"Aye," the soldier said. "You’re his boy then, aren’t you? Just my luck. Help me tie them up, lad. The sheriff will want to be called for this."

Liv pulled the door closed, to shut out the night wind. It appeared that all chance of them sneaking back into the castle unnoticed was lost.