“Indeed I am. And you are Castimir.” The man held out his hand, which Castimir took firmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I have heard many things about you from our master, Sedridor, just this morning in fact. Most of them good.” His eyes narrowed and he looked Castimir full in the face. “But not all.”
Not all?
“Forgive me, sir, but I don’t understand,” Castimir said. “As far as I am aware, I have conducted myself appropriately. If I have erred, please tell me.”
Can he know? Can the Tower know about Master Segainus’s diaries and spell books and of how I kept them to myself?
He felt his face go red.
“I saw you drinking earlier, Castimir, with the clown.”
“Gideon Gleeman? We shared a drink, yes…”
“That is not quite appropriate. Gideon himself is not a problem- he is in fact a respected man at court. But not the other fellows he was with. To them, you are a wizard, young man. That means you must be more than they.”
Castimir said nothing. He felt suddenly embarrassed.
“I have lived in Varrock for many years. More than I would like to admit, anyhow,” Aubury continued. “I am a Master of the Tower, and my role here is to ensure that our order is properly represented in Misthalin and in the court of King Roald. It is absolutely vital that we have the crown’s support. We cannot allow that to be jeopardised by any unnecessary or uncouth fraternisation. Wizards must be held in awe by the common folk. We cannot be seen drunk or boisterous or prideful. You know this.” Aubury’s eyes narrowed. “And you know why.”
Because our power is an illusion, Castimir answered silently. Because we don’t know how to replenish our runes, and they are fast running out.
“I do know why, of course,” Castimir replied instead, biting his tongue.
“Good. That’s good.” Aubury spoke in the manner of a teacher encouraging a wayward pupil. “And I have news for you, Castimir. News I think you are expecting?”
Castimir felt his stomach curdle in nervousness.
“My thesis? Did I pass?”
His fingers pressed themselves into the wood of his staff. His heart thundered in his ears and head.
“You have passed. Congratulations. You are no longer an apprentice.”
Castimir sighed volubly.
Thank the gods!
“But you didn’t pass well,” Aubury continued. “It was a very close affair, indeed. In fact, you were the last in your class of five. The tutors thought the subject matter too complex for one of your years. Your inexperience showed.”
Castimir’s relief turned to sudden anger.
“Inexperience?” he said. Realizing he had spoken loudly, he lowered his voice. “But I’ve done more than most do in their entire lives!”
“I know,” Aubury conceded. “But some fear it has made you arrogant. You have time enough not to rush things, Castimir. And nonetheless, you passed, and I have here the token of your new office.”
He produced a long thin box, which Castimir recognised immediately.
“My new wand,” he remarked drily. “I lost my apprentice wand when I was in Kandarin.”
“And this is a teacher’s wand,” Aubury told him. “Sent to us from our desert-dwelling colleagues in Al-Kharid. Please try not to lose it.”
Castimir took the box with care. He had never really liked wands, for they were limited in their use, but they did help a wizard concentrate his spells. Even so, he favoured his staff over a wand, for at least the staff could be used as a weapon, should his magic fail or his runes run out.
Then the thought of his thesis brought the riddle back into his mind.
“Master Aubury, have you ever heard of the Dark Lady?”
The older man thought for a moment.
“It could be a name for the daughter of Lord Drakan of Morytania, though her existence is only legend. Other than that I do not know. Why do you ask?” Suddenly Castimir realised that he might have spoken too quickly, and revealed more than he had intended. But as he struggled to come up with a plausible reply, Aubury spoke again. “Ah! Your friend Theodore is about to begin his melee.”
They looked across the bailey to the enclosure, a raised wooden structure a man’s height with heavy ropes strung along each side. The eleven men under Theodore’s command climbed the steps to the space within. It was not entirely free of obstacles, for two wooden spokes sat in the centre, with enough room for several men to fight between. They helped to keep the contest more interesting for the onlookers.
Behind Theodore’s group came twelve more men, their armour blackened to distinguish them from their opponents. At their head was a huge fellow in black-dented armour with tusks protruding from his helm. Castimir feared him instinctively.
He’s bigger than Sulla! Theodore, be careful.
“That’s Lord Hyett, the Black Boar,” Aubury said seriously. “The strongest knight in Varrock, if not all of Misthalin. Let us hope Theodore knows how to hunt boar-for his own sake.”
The marshal sounded the gong, and Theodore leapt forward. The smell of leather, already wet with his sweat, dominated his senses inside the claustrophobic helm.
Through his visor’s two eye-slits, he saw the nearest of his enemies. But his thoughts were of his charges.
Don’t panic, men, he willed. Remember what I told you. They may be the best knights in Varrock but they fight as individuals, not as a group. But we will fight as one. And we will win.
He was conscious of the pounding of armoured feet behind him, following his lead. A vicious knock caught his shield, but it was a tourney, and in such events only blunted weapons were used. Still, he knew that there were often fatalities in such a contest.
In he crashed, the sword wielded in his right hand landing squarely upon the head of his opponent. At his side a whitearmoured gauntlet drove a shield into his enemy’s side, forcing the man off balance and causing him to fall onto his back.
A cry erupted from the crowd.
That’s it! Together we target them, one at a time.
But the man on the enclosure floor still hadn’t yielded-to be the first to do so would be a sign of weakness. So Theodore knew he had to be ruthless. Once the first had given in, others would find it easier to do so.
He swung his blunted tourney sword down, intending to smash the man’s sword hand.
It never made it.
With a roar a hulking shadow filled Theodore’s visor. He caught sight of a black boar on a red shield as it smashed his weapon aside and bludgeoned into him.
Such strength, he thought, his mind reeling. The man is a giant.
Now it was his turn to stagger as his new foe bellowed.
“No knight of Varrock will fall before those of Falador!”
The crowd cheered as the Boar closed the gap. Theodore saw the sweep of his sword as it came in. Lord Hyett wielded a broadsword in just his right hand, though most men would have been forced to use both.
Instinctively Theodore swung his wooden shield up. But the broadsword cut through the lower half, and as it was withdrawn the crowd gasped and cheered, and Theodore saw how the blade glinted.
That is no tourney blade, he realised grimly. It still has an edge. And the Boar means to use it!
He stepped back as the Boar came on. Once more, however, his men heeded his instructions. Three went forward as one. The man on Theodore’s left parried the Boar’s blade and pushed his arm wide, while the man on his right hacked at the red shield.
Leaving Theodore to deliver as hard a blow as he could muster. He brought his sword over his shoulder and cleaved down. Metal rang out against metal as the blade smashed against the Boar’s helm and slid off to impact upon his shoulder.