The Exile and the Sorcerer Read online

“Is that likely?” Tevi had to fight to form each word.

  “There’s a lot of silly rumours, and I admit I’m disturbed by her. But I don’t think you have any other options.”

  After a long pause, Tevi whispered, “Yes.” She would have agreed to anything.

  *

  Tevi was vaguely aware of being bundled out of the cottage and onto her pony. There were voices, but she could not be bothered to make out the words. The only detail that registered was that her weapons were still on the saddle pack. Presumably, nobody had taken the time to unload her belongings. Tevi certainly had no use for them.

  The journey to the castle seemed unending. At last, hands helped her dismount, patted her on the shoulder, and guided her to the pony’s reins. She wrapped them around her wrist and leaned against the flank, fighting the twin urges to pass out and throw up. Without the support of the pony, Tevi knew she would have fallen. A bell clanged loudly. One of the people who had brought her must have rung it, or maybe it was the sorcerer’s magic. Whatever the cause, the bell was followed by the sound of her guides running away as fast as their legs could carry them. In a better state, she might have been apprehensive, to be left abandoned at the sorcerer’s door. However, Tevi was completely beyond caring.

  The silence was broken only by the whisper of wind and the call of wild birds. Then came soft, furtive shuffling from within the castle. Hinges groaned as the gate swung open. Knowing what was expected, the pony trotted forward a dozen yards or so, dragging Tevi with it. She felt the loss of warmth as she went from sunshine into shadow. Underfoot, the ground changed from earth to cobblestones. The echoes indicated that she was in a large, enclosed courtyard. The gate closed behind them—not a loud crash, but a solid, decisive thud.

  Rapid chattering broke out just above Tevi’s head. Small things rushed past her feet. Claws touched her knee. Then the shambling steps came in her direction, accompanied by wet, guttural breathing. It was surely not the sorcerer or anything human. Whatever it was frightened the pony. It skittered away, nearly jerking Tevi to her knees. She yanked on the reins. There was no point running from anything in the castle; it could do its worst; she only hoped it would do it quickly.

  Again, the pony tried to flee. Lacking the will to fight, Tevi released the reins and let it go. She was alone, surrounded by the unseen creatures of the castle. The ground seemed to sway beneath Tevi’s feet. Her teeth clenched shut. The approaching thing grew near. Something warm and wet touched her hand, and despite her resolve, Tevi flinched away.

  A new sound caught Tevi’s ear—the unmistakable rhythm of human footsteps. The sorcerer was coming, walking confidently and descending stairs. Abruptly, the soft shuffling stilled and retreated. The small things around Tevi’s feet fled. Tevi twisted her head, following the sound of heel and toe, first on stone and then over a hollow, wooden platform. The feet descended more steps and stopped. In the sudden silence, a harsh, inhuman screech rang out, echoing off stone walls. The cry seemed to reverberate from beyond the limits of the known world, cold and desolate.

  For the space of two dozen heartbeats, nothing stirred. Then the human footsteps resumed, walking towards her, getting closer. With the last of her courage, Tevi turned towards the sound, waiting until it was no more than ten paces away before she spoke.

  “Please. I need your help.”

  “I know. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Part Two

  The Sorcerer

  Chapter Ten—A Student of Magic

  The wind blew in gusts over the castle walls, sending flurries of snow to swirl and chase around the battlements. Stars burned cold in the night sky and stark moonlight glittered on frost coating the trees growing in the enclosed courtyard. A warmer yellow light spilled from the icicle-encrusted windows of the great hall and lay in bars across the trampled snow covering the cobblestones.

  Inside, it was warm and still. The steady light from small floating spheres was supplemented by red flickering from the stone fireplace. In front of the hearth lay a brown bear, sleeping peacefully on a rug, like a huge dog. Faint snores and the crackling of flames were the only sounds.

  The hall was a workroom. Charts and shelves lined the walls, holding collections of books, herbs, bones, stones, and arcane instruments. Dozens of multicoloured bottles reflected back the firelight from every corner of the room. The flagstones of the floor, although stained, were swept clean. A wooden staircase rose at one end of the hall. It gave access to two doorways: the lower one was halfway up the wall, the higher level with the blackened rafters. The opposite end of the hall had a raised dais. An ancient table stood there, its scorched and battered top bare apart from an open book, an ink bottle, and a pen.

  A floating sphere hung over the table, but this one was very different from the lamps. It was nearly two feet in diameter. A green tincture rippled over it, and the surface quivered in the soft currents of air like a soap bubble. It was semitransparent, but the indistinct outlines seen through it did not look like the far side of the room. It did not move, but it still gave the unmistakable impression of searching—or hunting.

  The sphere’s creator, Jemeryl, oath-bound sorcerer of the Coven, sat back to view her handiwork, supporting her chin in her cupped hand. Her free arm was draped along the back of the chair. One leg was hitched over the armrest. Her clothes were loose fitting and clearly chosen for comfort rather than to reflect her status. They looked not so much as if she had slept in them, but rather that it would be hard to tell if she did. Her face was composed of angles—narrow chin, pinched nose, chiselled cheekbones. Her hazel eyes studied the green sphere intently. Then, slowly, the serious expression gave way to an impish grin. She ran a hand through her curly auburn hair and then punched the air in triumph.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  On a nearby bookcase, Klara, the magpie, stopped preening her wing and glanced in the sphere’s direction. “I can’t see why you’re so excited.”

  “It will create a lot of interest in the Coven.”

  “Why? Is there a serious shortage of hideous green blobs?”

  Jemeryl grinned at the magpie before swinging her leg down and bouncing to her feet. She paced around the table, appraising the globe from all sides. “It’s the theory behind it that’s important. By all accepted rules of magic, it ought to be utterly impossible.”

  “Well, personally, I think it’s a bit of a shame that it isn’t.” Klara glided over and considered the object with distaste. The sphere emitted a faint whine like a hundred trapped mosquitoes. The air around it was unpleasantly chill. Klara fluffed up her feathers. “I suppose I should be grateful it doesn’t smell. Or is that likely to come next?”

  Jemeryl brushed the sarcastic magpie off the table, ignoring the indignant squawk, and hooked a stool from under the table with her foot. Klara returned to her perch on the bookshelf. For several minutes, Jemeryl riffled back through her notes; then she picked up a pen and began writing. All was silent except for the faint scratching of quill on paper. On the other side of the room, Klara tucked her head under her wing and fell asleep.

  *

  The logs were burning low by the time Jemeryl put down the pen and stood up. She stretched her arms and rolled her head to loosen stiffened muscles. It was far later than she had intended. Jemeryl gave a mental shrug. One advantage of her current situation was that she could set her own schedule, taking a late supper and having a lie-in the next morning—especially as there was one more thing she wanted to do.

  “Now what I need is...” She spoke aloud, awakening Klara.

  Jemeryl’s staff was leaning in a nearby corner, six feet of polished oak, unadorned apart from the iron end caps, and looking better suited for use in a street brawl than as a magical aid. From her observation point atop the bookcase, Klara watched with increasing alarm as the sorcerer grabbed the staff and returned to the sphere. After five years as Jemeryl’s familiar, the magpie knew an ill omen when she saw one. She launched herself from her perch and la
nded on the head of the sleeping bear.

  “Quick, Ruff! Get up and hide. Jem is going to do something silly,” Klara said.

  The bear awoke with a jolt and snorted, a loud, surprised, “Wuff.”

  At the magpie’s insistence, he scrabbled to his feet and lumbered down the hall as fast as his four legs would carry him, vanishing behind a heavy cupboard in a far corner. After a few seconds, his head reappeared cautiously around the corner, with Klara still in place between his ears.

  “Cowards!” Jemeryl called, grinning. She gestured at the three squirrels on a high shelf that were peering down with inquisitive eyes. “Look. They aren’t frightened.”

  “They haven’t got the sense.” Klara and Ruff again disappeared from view.

  Jemeryl spoke to the squirrels, using tones normally reserved for babies. “Don’t worry your fluffy little heads. Auntie Jemi knows what she’s doing.”

  “Rubbish!” came the derisory squawk from behind the cupboard.

  Jemeryl’s smile faded as her attention returned to the sphere, and a look of intense concentration took its place. Her eyes stared at the shimmering globe. However, her perception was not limited to sight. Her extra-dimensional senses let her see far beyond the boundaries of the ordinary world. Long seconds slipped past. Then she raised the staff horizontally, holding it firmly in both hands. The time had come to put theory to the test.

  The sphere heaved and began to swell. From deep inside its core, a glow appeared, pulsing and surging like a heartbeat. Forms started to congeal, twisting like imprisoned phantoms. Jemeryl’s breath came in strained gasps, and sweat beaded her forehead, while the intertwined shapes grew ever more chaotic. They filled the entire sphere, flowing around the inner surface until, without warning, the globe exploded in a blast of acrid yellow smoke.

  The boom resonated in the stone walls. Glassware on the shelves rattled, and dust rained down from the rafters. Then the echoes faded into silence, leaving only the sound of squirrel claws frantically scrabbling as the animals dashed for the exit. Hand held over her mouth and nose, Jemeryl followed as quickly as she could, bumping into furniture in her haste and swearing when she cracked her ankle on an unseen obstacle, before making it through the doorway and out to the covered porch. She leaned against the wall, coughing spasmodically. Wisps of luminous smoke trailed away from her hair and clothes into the night.

  Klara arrived in a blur of black and white. “Did you mean to do that, Jem?” The innocent tone was utterly unconvincing.

  A fresh bout of coughing prevented Jemeryl from answering. Once it subsided, she rested her head on the stonework and took in gulps of the cold air. Her eyes stung; her throat would be sore tomorrow; and her ears were still ringing, though she had taken no serious harm. The aegis of the staff had shielded her and the animals—at least, she hoped so. There was no sign of Ruff. Even as Jemeryl realised this, the bear ambled from the door at the foot of the adjacent small tower, trailing a plume of smoke and carrying a thick cloak in his mouth. She took it gratefully and pulled it around her shoulders. The bear sneezed, and more yellow smoke snaked away from his fur.

  Through the open doorway, the sickly yellow haze had swallowed the lights. There was no point trying to clear up; it could wait until morning. Jemeryl sighed and stepped out from the porch. All the castle buildings opened onto the snow-covered courtyard, surrounded by battlements. To her left were kitchens where she could find supper and the small tower where she had her bedroom. But her stomach was queasy from the smoke, and to reach her bedroom meant using the stairs in the hall. Waiting for the air to clear would definitely be a good idea. So instead, she headed for the keep.

  The tall stone tower that dominated the site served no real purpose. She need not have bothered including it in the reconstruction, except that it completed the aesthetic feel of the castle and provided a wonderful lookout.

  Jemeryl climbed the stairs to the drawbridge and entered under the old portcullis. The spiral staircase led up past the armoury and barrack room and onto the roof. She emerged under stars. Dawn’s freezing mists had coated the stonework in a sparkling rime that had not melted during the short winter’s day. It crunched under her hand as she leaned against the battlement and looked down.

  The castle courtyard was laid out below, with its circle of buildings. Five beech trees grew in the enclosure. They did not belong in the reconstruction, having sprouted after the garrison left, but Jemeryl had let them stay for the squirrels. Ruff was padding around the trunks, sniffing at anything that caught his notice. The other bear, Tumble, came out of the kitchens, and while Jemeryl watched, the two began to play, skidding on the ice and sending up plumes of snow as they chased each other. Squirrels scattered before them, chattering in indignation—or maybe it was excitement. Even a sorcerer could be hard put to know exactly what a squirrel was feeling.

  Jemeryl wandered to the other side of the tower and looked down on a winter landscape of bare fields. White snow, brilliant in the moonlight, was cut by inky shadows under the firs. Small silhouettes of cattle and sheep clustered near their barns. The houses of the village were grouped in picturesque disorder around the shearing shed. The wind had dropped, and the far side of the valley was lost in blue-grey mist through which twinkled the lights from distant farmsteads. It was starkly beautiful, but as Jemeryl looked out, troubling thoughts marred her appreciation of the scene. Klara landed on the parapet beside her.

  From the village came the faint sound of music and voices, the noise carrying cleanly on the cold air. A party seemed to be underway, presumably to entertain the small group of travellers who had passed below the castle earlier that day, leading a train of mules. Visitors from the outside world were rare at any time of year. It was unsurprising if folk were making an event of their arrival. Jemeryl considered the high mountains above the valley. Even with her magic, she did not like the thought of crossing Whitfell Spur in midwinter. She wondered what desperate circumstances had prompted the travellers to risk the journey. Perhaps she should go and find out.

  A sudden desire to meet people and talk struck Jemeryl. Her eyes fixed bleakly on the village hall as she imagined the reception she would get. Jemeryl could not remember the last cheerful face she had seen, but she certainly would not find any if she entered the village.

  “They don’t like you, you know,” Klara volunteered.

  “I know.” Jemeryl sighed deeply. “I just wish I knew why.”

  As a child, in the village of her birth, Jemeryl had inspired fear and resentment. The other children would not have her as a playmate, although they soon learned it was unwise to throw stones at her. When she was four, her family had persuaded the local witch to adopt her, purely to rid their house of Jemeryl’s disturbing presence. She had felt no regret to go. It had been a home without love. At eleven, she had gone to study at Lyremouth, still holding a child’s contempt for the ungifted. Her education at the Coven had done much to increase her tolerance—for all the good it had done with the villagers.

  True, she had not wanted to come to the valley, had not wanted to leave Lyremouth. She loved the esoteric study of magic and would happily devote her life to it. However, Coven rules insisted that new sorcerers spend time out in the world, to learn firsthand the needs of the ungifted. Her application for assignment to the valley had been a long shot; she was ridiculously overqualified. To her astonishment, the authorities had agreed.

  At the time, Jemeryl had assumed that they saw things the same way she did; the rule was a waste of talent. All her responsibilities in the valley would take no more than a few days each month, leaving her free to concentrate on her studies. Jemeryl had a high opinion of her own talents and would not have been at all surprised to learn that many of her teachers secretly agreed with her.

  Two years had passed since she had arrived in the valley. The research had gone well, but her relationship with the villagers had not proceeded totally to plan. Over the months, contact with them had dwindled to the point of non-existence
. On the rare occasions when they crossed her path, many displayed blatant hostility or fear.

  “I’ve tried to be nice,” she said defensively.

  “That was a waste of effort.”

  “I know. I just couldn’t seem to talk to them.”

  Klara’s head swivelled towards her. “If you want my opinion, the lessons about getting on with the ungifted took the wrong approach. Instead of going on about citizenship and equality, they should have taught you a few amusing anecdotes about sheep. That would have helped you fit in. It’s all the locals ever talk about.”

  “I think they now talk about me quite a lot.”

  “In a year’s time, you can apply to return to Lyremouth; then they’ll have to go back to the sheep.”

  The dream of returning to Lyremouth was what sustained Jemeryl through the hard work and isolation, but standing on the battlements, she was hit by unusual self-doubts. “Am I deluding myself, thinking my research is important? That they’ll want me back? Perhaps the Coven let me take this assignment because it’s all they think I’m fit for.”

  “Nonsense. The office is trivial. It wouldn’t strain the powers of a third-rate witch.”

  “Even so, I’m not fulfilling its requirements.”

  “Only because the locals don’t want you to. It’s not your fault, Jem. You can’t force them to ask you for help.”

  Jemeryl was not convinced. “It shouldn’t come down to what they will or won’t let me do. I’m supposed to be looking after them.”

  “You’ve done your best. You’ve set up so many charms to keep out enemies and illness, a belligerent hamster couldn’t enter the valley, especially if it were feeling a bit poorly.”

  “I’m not sure. I might have gone too far.”

  “In what way?”

  “Overprotecting people is bad for them. It has side effects. They can lose all common sense and start acting like children.”