The Exile and the Sorcerer Read online

  “In which case it might be nasty. Some of them didn’t have far to go to start with.”

  “Perhaps I should go and talk to Sergo.”

  “You are in a dismal mood. Look, if I say I’m sorry your sphere blew up, will it make you happy? You can invoke another one tomorrow.” Klara hopped onto Jemeryl’s hand.

  “There’s a strange emanation in the air tonight.”

  “A premonition, or are we downwind of the village dung heap?”

  “Probably just me worrying.” Jemeryl studied the distant houses before asking softly, “If something was seriously wrong, they’d come to me, wouldn’t they?”

  “Of course they would. They’d race up here like scared rabbits.”

  Jemeryl stroked the magpie’s head and dismissed all thought of going to the village. If she admitted the truth, she was nervous of the villagers and unwilling to face their hostility. It brought back painful childhood memories.

  She forced a smile to her lips. “Perhaps things aren’t so bad. I’ve got time to study, and if the villagers aren’t happy and healthy, they’ve only got themselves to blame. Still, I wouldn’t object to someone to talk to.”

  “Don’t I count?” Klara sounded indignant.

  “You know you don’t.”

  Music from the village drifted on the wind. Jemeryl turned her back on the sound and retraced her steps down through the courtyard, in search of supper and then bed. She waited at the kitchen door, holding it open until the bears galloped in; then she pushed it shut, leaving the courtyard once more deserted under the stars.

  *

  Two mornings later, Jemeryl sat in her study. A large book lay open before her, but her concentration kept drifting. Something was pricking the edges of her mind, all the more irritating since she did not have a clue what that something was. For the third time, she started reading at the beginning of a long paragraph. Before she got halfway through, her attention slipped, and she lost the thread of the argument.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”

  “You mean in addition to what’s wrong with you generally?” Klara asked.

  The gibe from her familiar softened Jemeryl’s frown. With a yawn, the sorcerer flipped the covers shut and stretched back. The book could wait.

  “Maybe I’ve been overdoing things. A break might help. I could take the bears for a walk.”

  The suggestion found favour with Tumble, who had been sitting in a corner. The bear lumbered to her feet and trotted over to the desk, stubby tail wagging. The big, hopeful eyes made Jemeryl’s smile broaden. She scratched Tumble’s head, causing the bear to growl with pleasure. However, now that she had abandoned all attempt to read, Jemeryl’s sense of foreboding shuffled to the front of her mind. Something was about to go very seriously wrong.

  Jemeryl left her chair and went to a window. Everything appeared normal in the valley below. Snow lay on the ground, though less thick than of late. Sheep dawdled across the fields, tended by shepherds wrapped in layers of clothes. Smoke rose from distant chimneys. Jemeryl leaned her head against the glass and tried to call on all her training and talents to identify the threat.

  “What do you think it is, Jem?” For once, Klara was devoid of sarcasm.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you going to see Sergo?”

  “She might know nothing. Perhaps an oracle would...” Jemeryl shook her head indecisively.

  “You hate oracles.”

  “True.”

  Jemeryl stood, biting her lip and trying to pinpoint the core of her anxiety. The harder she concentrated, the less substantial her fears seemed, until there was nothing but a vague feeling of unease. “Perhaps I’m mistaken. I might just be picking up leakage from one of the crystal reservoirs in the hall.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Jemeryl took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I’m going to visit Sergo. Even if I’m imagining things, it’s about time I had a word with her.”

  Jemeryl hoped that making the decision would ease her tension, but, if anything, her agitation intensified as she left her study and stepped onto the high platform at the top of the stairs in the great hall.

  The small tower had been the captain’s quarters in the days when soldiers were stationed at the castle. The top floor was now divided between Jemeryl’s study and her bedroom. The floor below held a larger room that had been the captain’s audience chamber. Jemeryl had intended to use it for the same purpose. However, since nobody ever came to see her, it had become her private parlour and was now cluttered with personal belongings, including the outdoor clothes she would need for the ride.

  Jemeryl descended the stairs in the great hall. She had reached the lower landing and was about to open the parlour door when a noise made her jump. Echoing around the great hall was the sound of a gong, beating softly—a summons, and one Jemeryl recognised instantly. It set her leaping down the remaining steps and skidding to a stop in the centre of the hall. An image was intensifying before her, accompanied by hissing and rumbling. The figure was just identifiable as Iralin, Jemeryl’s mentor in Lyremouth.

  Klara landed on Jemeryl’s shoulder. “It’s a sending from the Coven.”

  Jemeryl nodded anxiously. It meant trouble. A full sending of sound and vision over the many miles between them was an enormous undertaking, undoubtedly requiring the energies of several sorcerers. In practice, it would require less effort for Iralin to walk from Lyremouth on foot. It implied a desperate urgency that confirmed her sense of grim foreboding.

  Iralin’s image was becoming firmer by the second. She was sitting in familiar surroundings, her study in the Coven, with Lyremouth harbour visible through the window behind. The charts lining the walls were unchanged since Jemeryl had last seen them, two years before.

  Apparently, Iralin’s view of Jemeryl was also improving. The senior sorcerer glared sternly. “What have you been doing?”

  The last thing Jemeryl expected was for the conversation to start with her own activities. The angry tone also threw her. “Ma’am?”

  “I said, what have you been doing?”

  “With regard to anything in particular?”

  “Don’t be flippant. We’ve had reports about you, passed on by sorcerer Chenoweth in Rizen. They haven’t been amusing.”

  Jemeryl was bewildered. “Are you sure there hasn’t been some mistake, ma’am?”

  “What have the villagers said to you recently?”

  “I, um...haven’t spoken to any of them for months.”

  “Why not?”

  Jemeryl could think of no suitable words to say aloud, although dozens of unsuitable ones came to mind. She cursed herself for not paying more attention to the locals. Somewhere, something had got completely out of hand.

  “You’re supposed to be looking after the inhabitants. How do you do that without talking to them?” Iralin persisted.

  “I assumed they’d come to me if they had any problems.”

  “You don’t consider it your job to go to them?”

  “They said they didn’t want me to.” Only as the sentence left her mouth did Jemeryl consider how it might sound.

  A long silence followed, during which Jemeryl could hear her heart pounding.

  At last, Iralin leaned back and steepled her fingers. “Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, from the beginning, just how this situation has arisen between you and the people entrusted to your care?”

  The emphasis on the last four words made Jemeryl flinch. “I’m not quite sure.”

  “Make some intelligent guesses.” It was an order.

  Jemeryl took a couple of deep breaths to clear her thoughts—not that they helped. “Um...when I first came to the valley, they offered me a cottage in the village. I think it belonged to the previous witch. But I wanted to work on my research, and it wouldn’t be safe with lots of people around. There was this abandoned castle, so I moved here instead...just me and Dorin.”

  Jeme
ryl’s face brightened. “Yes, of course. Dorin. He’d be the source of anything you’ve heard. The villagers insisted I had someone to wait on me. It wasn’t necessary, but I think Dorin was the village simpleton, and they wanted an excuse to get him off their hands. It was ridiculous. He couldn’t cope. The mere sound of Klara talking would terrify him. He only stayed a month. He spread some daft rumours back in the village. It’s understandable. For the first time in his life, people wanted to listen to what he had to say. I know he made up things. Stories about me calling up the dead, turning people into frogs, even sacrificing babies to the full moon, for all I know.”

  “Do you think we’d pay any attention to stories like that?” Iralin said curtly.

  I can’t imagine what else you’ve got the arse-ache about. The words nearly escaped Jemeryl’s lips. Fortunately, she managed to phrase it more diplomatically. “Then I’m afraid I don’t know what stories you have heard, ma’am.”

  “How about stories concerning two children lured to your castle? The lucky one left in a coma; the other was dead.”

  “They weren’t my fault, ma’am, neither of them,” Jemeryl said quickly.

  “So why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Jemeryl frowned. What had people been saying? But at least she now knew what Iralin was after. “The coma...that would be a girl called Shiral. She came here after Dorin left, and I think she had some of his stupid stories stuck in her head. One day when I was out, she went poking through my things. I’d told her not to. Perhaps that was the attraction. She found an old shadow mirror. I’m not sure what she saw in it, but we both know the visions can be nasty. The fright sent her into shock. It wasn’t a coma. I took Shiral back to her parents. I thought a home atmosphere would do her good while I helped her recover, but her parents wouldn’t let me near her. There was nothing else I could do.”

  “And the child who died?”

  Jemeryl would rather not recall the incident that had caused her anguish at the time and still intruded into nightmares, but there was no avoiding the question. “About a year ago, a man brought his daughter to the castle. She was only a toddler. She’d had an accident. Gangrene had set in, but they’d left it too long before coming to me. I fought to save her life; I really did. A day earlier, and I might have done it. I know her parents were upset and blamed me, but it was their fault. They should have brought her here sooner.”

  “Has it occurred to you, that if you’d performed your duties properly and talked to your citizens, you might have heard about the child’s injury in time?”

  “They wouldn’t talk to me. Even when I made the effort to see them, they hid things from me.”

  “They were frightened of you.”

  “I suppose so,” Jemeryl conceded.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So if you haven’t been performing your duties, what have you been doing?” Iralin’s voice could have cut through stone.

  “I’ve been researching into overcharged ether currents, using them to induce field containers for elemental auras.”

  “That’s a waste of time. It’s been proved it can’t work.”

  I’ve done it. Jemeryl was proud of her achievement, but now was not the time to boast.

  Iralin’s gaze shifted as she caught sight of something moving. “Is that a bear behind you?”

  Jemeryl glanced over her shoulder. Tumble had followed her down. “Er...yes.”

  “You have bears in the castle?”

  “Only two.”

  “Only!”

  “They are both fully entranced and safe.”

  “You have bears roaming the castle and then wonder why the villagers are too scared to come and ask you for help.”

  “The bears are harmless. To be more frightened of them than of gangrene is stupid.”

  “Looking after stupid people is the job you asked to do.”

  “But—”

  Iralin did not let her finish. “I was against your taking this appointment from the start. My objections were overruled, but I find I’ve been proved right. I doubted your motives, and I felt you lacked the necessary maturity. In dealing with ungifted folk, you have always been arrogant and inconsiderate. You see the villagers as unimportant—a distraction from your real interests, but it is their lives at stake. They are simple, honest folk, who are also loyal citizens of the Protectorate. If you were unable to feel responsible for them, you shouldn’t have taken the job. You have failed to perform the duties of your post and failed due to lack of effort rather than inability. You have disgraced the Coven.”

  Jemeryl was stunned. Wilful failure to fulfil an appointment was one of the worst offences a sorcerer could commit. “I’ve tried my best to perform all my duties.”

  “Your duties consist of caring for these people. You have not cared for them. You made no attempt to work thought your difficulties with them; you were happy to give up. When you realised you were having problems, you should have asked the Coven for assistance. We have considerable experience of young sorcerers alienating their charges. Apart from that, you could have monitored them without their knowledge. You have the ability to aid the villagers without being asked. But you didn’t care. You have not shown a shred of concern for their well-being.”

  Here was a charge Jemeryl could refute. “I haven’t just forgotten them. I set wards. I’ll detect disease or anything dangerous entering the valley. Nothing serious could harm the villagers without my knowledge.”

  Iralin regarded her solemnly. “Then I take it you would be surprised to learn that a basilisk has turned up?”

  “It can’t have. There must be a mistake.”

  “There is no mistake.”

  “I’ll go and—”

  “You needn’t bother; the basilisk has been taken care of. Even as we speak, a passing warrior has done your job for you and killed the creature.”

  Jemeryl was speechless. Eventually, she found her voice. “I am indebted to him.”

  “Her,” Iralin corrected. “However, she has paid for her bravery. She removed the head of the basilisk but neglected to treat it with due caution. The beast was able to transmute her eyes to a crystal bridge. You must rectify that.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll go and find her at once.” Jemeryl spoke in a half-daze.

  “There’s no need. She will come to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “There is only one more thing.”

  “Ma’am?” What more could there be? Jemeryl fought to keep her composure. As a student, she had been hauled up for her share of misdemeanours—juvenile pranks and the like—but never had she been in trouble like this.

  “The judgement of the Coven is upon you.” Iralin’s voice had been harsh before; now it was cold and uncompromising. “Sorcerer Jemeryl, you are removed from your post, and it will be recorded that you failed to perform the appointment you accepted. The mark will stand against you until you prove yourself fit for some other work. Your new assignment is this. The aforementioned warrior is currently on a quest of some importance. You will accompany her and assist until the quest is completed or you die in the attempt.”

  “But my research? I have been achieving so much.”

  “Your so-called research is unendorsed and unapproved. There is nothing more to say. You will heal the warrior and leave the valley with her. You have twelve days to quit the castle. Is that clear? I would suggest you use the next few hours to get ready for your guest. This conversation is terminated. Next time we speak, I trust the circumstances will be more favourable.”

  With that, the image imploded on itself and vanished. Jemeryl stared in horror at the point where the figure had been. Her head was in turmoil as she fought to absorb the implications of what had just happened. The least of her worries was the curtailment of her studies. The reprimand meant her reputation might be permanently sullied, blocking any hope of claiming a permanent post in Lyremouth. As the impact hit home, tears filled her eyes. Her mood
shifted from shock to shame to anger. Jemeryl’s hands clenched into fists, and she was overwhelmed by bitterness—at Iralin, at the villagers and at the unknown fool of a warrior she was now bound to follow.

  *

  Many miles away, Iralin slumped back in her chair, exhausted by the effort of maintaining the link. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her forefingers. After a couple of deep breaths, her arm dropped, and she looked at the other two sorcerers, a man and a woman, who had monitored the conversation. Her eyebrows raised in a silent query.

  “That was a bit heavy.” The man’s tone implied a statement of fact rather than criticism.

  Iralin snorted. “Conceited young puppy. She needed something to shake her. Everything I said was quite true and I wanted to be certain that her behaviour was simply due to thoughtlessness.”

  “You surely didn’t think Jemeryl had become a murderer?”

  “Oh, no, but she can be arrogant enough to think the rules don’t apply to her. I wanted to know how far over the line she’d been stepping, and there wasn’t time for gently wheedling out the truth.”

  “I guess you know Jemeryl best, but I don’t think I’d have been that hard on her. My own record with the ungifted isn’t good.”

  “Jemeryl has to accompany this warrior, and it’s vital she applies herself to the task wholeheartedly. Given her low opinion of prophecy, I doubt she’d do that if I gave her the candid truth on the matter.”

  The third sorcerer had been staring out through the open window, her thoughts clearly pursuing some other goal. She was older than the other two; sunlight etched deep lines on her face. Yet despite her frailty, she had an aura of authority that even Iralin could not match—a power that made it unnecessary to see the white amulet on her wrist to know that she was Gilliart, the Guardian and leader of the Coven.

  Gilliart’s lips twisted in an ironic grimace. “In Jemeryl’s place, I wouldn’t take it very well either. She has to drop everything to go...gods know where with some muscle-bound oaf, just because an extremely vague oracle said the future of the Coven probably depends on it.”