The magi gasped, seeing Charra’s arm dangling limp. All three lifted their hands and unstoppable power slammed into me.
Survive, Dissever commanded. I am not done with you yet.
Everything went dark.
Chapter 20
I drifted in and out of consciousness, living more in dream than reality. Every so often I woke in agony, followed by a vague sensation of soup being spooned down my throat before something sweet and sticky was squirted into my mouth, flinging me back into the dream…
“Stop fidgeting, boy.”
When the Archmagus tells me to stay still, I dare not even blink – even if he does have my eyelid peeled back and is blinding me with a candle held in front of my eye. He goes through the same checks and tests again and again, every day. It is tedious. At least the beeswax candles favoured by the Archmagus fill his chambers with the delicate scent of honey rather than the reeking incense used elsewhere in the Collegiate.
“Move your eyes from side to side again,” he orders.
I look back and forth across his personal quarters while sinister animal heads mounted on the walls stare back at me with glassy eyes. His rooms are packed with an assortment of intriguing mechanisms and bubbling vials and tubes that beg to be poked and prodded. His possessions are obsessively orderly and despite the amount packed into the room everything has its set place; I suspect that his servants live in mortal fear of moving something when cleaning. It is cold in the Archmagus’ rooms and all I want to do is huddle next to the hearth and savour the warmth and the light – especially the light. It has been weeks since I was carried from the Boneyards, but I still can’t be alone at night without a candle by my bedside, and even then I only manage to sleep thanks to exhaustion. The nightmares are relentless.
My eyelid slaps back against my eye. I reach up and rub the tears away, multi-coloured wisps dancing across my vision. Byzant strokes his beard, deep in thought. I stay put, keep my eyes down and hope that he is finally done with me. I say nothing, fearful I won’t speak properly to the Archmagus and get punished, even thought he has only ever been considerate towards me.
“Has the fever abated?” he says, concerned, his hand cold against my forehead.
“Yes, Archmagus. Over a week ago.”
“Eating well?”
My face twists. “Mistress Sellars makes sure that I eat nothing but stin… uh… healthy foods.”
“Mmm, good, good,” he replies, distracted. Eventually he lifts up my chin with a liver-spotted hand. “Try once more. What am I thinking of?”
I swallow and stare into his eyes, take a deep breath and concentrate on opening my Gift, reaching out to him. For a moment everything seems to go fuzzy and I feel lightheaded, but that’s all. I try again, and all I get is a headache.
After a while the Archmagus sighs and shakes his head. I couldn’t manipulate fire, water, earth or air, and now this, whatever it is. I’ve disappointed him yet again. I’m useless. He strokes his beard, great emerald ring glinting in the firelight. “That is enough for today, young Edrin.” A twinkle appears in his eyes and a smile creases his lips. “Go and get yourself something decent to eat. Perhaps something that does not stink.” My face flushes red. “If Mistress Sellars objects then tell her to pass her protestations on to me. What do you desire?”
I grin. Finally I’ll get some decent grub in my belly. “I can’t wait to tuck into some smoked haddock.” I frown and scratch my head. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I hate fish. I meant to say that I fancy a big slice of cheese and some roast pork.”
The smile on the Archmagus’ face is worse than death-grins on corpses, and I’ve seen a fair few. His eyes are lumps of ice. He says nothing, just shivers, turns and waves me away. I am halfway out when he unexpectedly speaks. “I will help you to manage this special Gift that you have been granted. You will come at the same time every week without fail.”
“Yes, Archmagus,” I squeak, walking from his quarters as quickly as I can without running. Outside the great iron-bound doors I sag against the wall, shaking. Have I said something wrong? I don’t even know what all of this is about. Surely private tuition with the Archmagus is a rare privilege reserved for children from the High Houses? It is almost like he suspects me of something bad. I find myself shaking and don’t know why. I mull it over as I walk to the kitchens.
My belly rumbles and my mouth waters as the scent of a pig roasting on the spit wafts down the hall. I dump all those confused thoughts into the back of my mind.
The dream began fading, piece by piece, until it dwindled away to nothingness. I felt myself clothed in heavier, aching flesh.
I cracked open sleep-crusted eyes, feeling like they were filled with broken glass. A blurry blue shape sat on a chair by the foot of the bed, tinkering with some sort of glinting metal object. I was dozy and weak, barely able to focus. There were no windows in the room, but a gem-light embedded in the wall gave off more than enough light for me to recognize the fine stonework and the distinctively ornate vaulted ceiling. I was in the Collegiate? I tried to push myself up to peer at the figure by my bed, but found myself chained to the steel frame, manacle bands digging into wrists and ankles. I was naked and covered only by a thin blanket, but didn’t feel unhappy having been stripped and chained, even though I should. I didn’t feel much of anything but numbness and a raging thirst.
“Byzant?” I said, my tongue thick and swollen. “S’that you?”
The figure stood. “Hardly,” she said, voice firm but with an edge of something more – a mix of resentment and relief. “Archmagus Byzant went missing ten years ago. Would you happen to know anything about that?”
Her voice seemed naggingly familiar but I couldn’t quite put a name to it. I blinked away the gunk and peered through one eye, unable to focus with two. She wore robes of finest blue Ahramish silk, and curly brown hair spilled around her shoulders. A name floated up from somewhere. “Cillian? That you?” As my vision cleared I noted the odd device in her hands, comprised of metal circles holding coloured glass discs. It looked harmless, but in this den of vipers it was wise to distrust everything. “What do you have there?”
“It is I, Edrin.” Cillian sighed and shook her head. She flicked out a disc of red glass and held it up to the oil lamp, splashing red light across the wall. “No need to be afraid, it is merely a tool for new initiates, a visual representation of the Gift.” She flicked out a blue disc to turn the light magenta, returned them and then held up a lone disc of yellow to filter the light. “I intend to use it to demonstrate that the source of light, representing magic, is the same for all, but that each Gift filters it differently.” She held the disc closer to the lamp – to the source of magic – and the glass disc bubbled and melted. Sugar-glass rather than true glass. “I also feel it to be an elegant illustration of the inherent dangers.” She studied my face. “Tell me, Magus Edrin Walker, why did you flee Setharis shortly after the god Artha died and Archmagus Byzant disappeared? Why did you go rogue?”