Previous Chapter: A Shadow over Dunfermline
The Sorceress Reminisces
“So you have it? Give it to me. It is my burden,” said the Thief, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife.
“You act as though I stole it! Here, here, take your precious Heart. I can see the gleam of madness in your eyes. I was simply keeping it for…”
“Yourself,” finished the Thief, snatching the Heart out of Fergal’s grasp. They stood at the mouth of the Lis river, the sea before them, the heat of the afternoon beating down upon the sandy shores with a fiery intensity. Cassilda lay upon the bank, dipping her toes into the water. Josun swam in the river, his clothes discarded next to the sorceress.
“Did you know he had the Heart?” asked the Thief angrily. Cassilda shrugged and yawned. The heat made her sleepy, as did the bickering.
“Everyone knew I had it. After the incident at Dunfermline, we simply forgot to tell you in the chaos. I took it in the dream, after all. It shouldn’t have been possible,” explained Fergal, his face red-cheeked and aggrieved.
“Bollocks,” spat the Thief, waving his knife. “He’s been waiting to carve it out of my chest just as you have.”
“Oh, put it away before I melt it into butter,” said Cassilda. “Fergal is telling the truth. It wasn’t a dream, after all. It was another plane of existence. The Heart is trans-dimensional. As part of the fabric of the universe, it exists in all realities. What you hold in your hands is but a sliver of the infinite aspect of being.”
The Thief glanced at the sorceress, put the fleshy Heart in his jacket, and stomped off towards the nearby shade of a sugar maple, where he promptly sat down with his back to the others.
“He is a moody fellow, is he not?” asked Fergal, regaining his composure.
“He is in love,” said Cassilda, admiring the muscular frame of the barbarian as he glided through the water like a seal, “though his concerns were not without merit. The Heart compels you, Fergal, and you would have sneaked off long ago if not for its presence.”
“Do you think he will give the Heart to you once we reach the Shimmering Isles?” he asked, ignoring the sorceress’s comment.
“I could make him give it to me right now, if I wished. But we are a company, and this quest is something we will do together,” said Cassilda, taking her feet from the river. “I would like fish again tonight, wouldn’t you?”
“That would be splendid. If you could conjure up that lemon sauce like you did last time…”
“You didn’t have a philosophical problem with it, as the Thief did?”
“Of course not. The fish was real. Who cares if the sauce wasn’t? It certainly tasted as though it was.”
“Yes it did, didn’t it? Some wizards become chefs. It is a lucrative field, or so I am told.” She didn’t know why she said this, for she had never spoken to another wizard about becoming a chef. In fact, besides Dazbog, she hadn’t spoken to another wizard in many years, yet Fergal didn’t need to know that. Expertise was earned in the eye of the beholder, and although she didn’t consider herself an expert on much of anything, her innate talents were always enough to sell the illusion of expertise. It wouldn’t be enough to kill Pliny the Black, however. That was why she needed the Heart.
The mad desire for revenge that had governed her movements and controlled her thoughts for years had suddenly subsided as of late, an occurrence that shocked and alarmed her. After her burnout at Dunfermline, she had found herself drained of the will to do anything autonomous. She marched towards San-Elza with the rest of the company feeling like a cipher. Yet when the scenery changed and the dull tan of the plains gave way to the bright greens of coastal forests, Cassilda found serenity. They walked beneath sunny skies with cool breezes and the smell of salt on the horizon. It was strange to find joy in the company of others, especially with these three persons, who had delayed her purpose and meandered her path. Fergal, she discovered, could entertain with his endless rambling regarding a variety of subjects, though his words scattered like the broken pieces of a sea shell, their meaning ambiguous even to him. Josun’s silent strength was admirable, and she enjoyed walking in his shadow. The Thief, when he wanted to, had the fleet feet and grace of a cat. The machinations of their meeting and the stress of the past few weeks ceased to matter. Lying on the bank of the Lis, watching Josun wade to the shore, his torso muscled like a centaur’s, she realized that it was possible to let go, however momentarily, of the rage built up inside of her.
Yet she could not let herself forget.
Josun suddenly pushed back from the shore, collapsing backward into the water. Ambierce had been a tall man, not as muscular, yet dark-haired, with features chiseled out of stone. Wizards, just like sorceresses, altered their appearance, but not Ambierce: his true face was the face she remembered, though she later learned that he was much older than he appeared, leading her to believe that he must have taken tonics on a regular basis. He had been born in Galvania and possessed their characteristic distaste for civility which many mistook for rudeness. She could still see his face staring down at her, a girl in rags, a feeble pickpocket trying to steal a purse. That is not for you he had said, his eyes as blue as a summer sky. She didn’t feel fear then, her hand caught in his, and she never felt afraid in his presence until his death. There was a noise in the background, a gargling sound, as though someone was choking on water. You can drown an aeromancer, did you know? It was such a stupid question. You could drown anyone.
Feet rushed past her; she was dimly aware of Fergal wading into the water. Ambierce’s powers had been broader than her own. With a snap of his fingers, he could summon a warm breeze or draft; with a command, he could usher in a tempest or a week’s worth of sunshine. He had worked for the Baron for a while, traveling with his forces, making sure the rain and cold stayed away as they marched towards Valice. They had made him a lieutenant commander, though he never spoke of it, and she had only learned of his rank after finding his uniform in an old chest after his death. There was a diary with the uniform, a confessional, really, a list of sins. He had been ashamed of his service during the war, and she discovered that it was his biggest regret. The man described in those pages was not the man she knew. Someone was cursing, just like he had on that terrible day. She had wondered why they had not taken his tongue to protect against curses. She knew now that they had wanted her to hear him drown.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder, breaking her reverie. Out in the water Josun struggled, his arms thrashing about. A churning whirlpool to drag the dead down. If only she had found the body. There would’ve been a way—she would have discovered a way—to return the departed soul to its mortal remains. Dazbog says that the soul is Rankar’s deceit, a cosmic sleight of hand. She had only met the necromancer once, but his words stuck in her head like a knife. The hand on her shoulder shook her, said something unintelligible. For some reason she was having trouble participating in the present. I’ve become lost in the past.
The Thief now hurried past, crashing into the water. Fergal was trying to grab Josun’s hand and pull him from the whirlpool. She couldn’t have saved him; she had been telling herself this for years. Pliny the Black, immortal, invulnerable, omniscient. What could a novice like herself have done? Even now, years later, she knew she would be helpless in the same circumstance. That’s why she needed the Heart.
She pulled Josun from the river like a massive fish reeled in by an invisible line. In seconds he was back on the shore, coughing water out of his lungs, dark hair hanging limply before his eyes. Fergal and the Thief stood in the shallows confused, staring where the whirlpool had been moments before.
“I’m starving,” she said, which was true. “Let’s find something to eat.”
Ambierce had lived in the ruins of an old country estate that had once belonged to a nobleman named Gerald who had betrayed the Baron of Galvania by supporting a failed coup d’état and subsequently lost his head. The grounds were a mess, overgrown with an invasive vine species from Valice, and the eastern wing of the house was uninhabitable due to a partially collapsed roof and foundational damage, but the remaining portion of the building was spacious and comfortable enough for Ambierce, who was used to traveling on the road and sleeping with nothing but the open sky above him. The day she had attempted to rob him, he had taken her out of the city, telling her only that she had power and that she should trust him. He must have used a spell on her, for orphan pickpockets were not trusting by nature, and she remembered complying with his orders without the slightest thought of suspicion. Once they had arrived, he let her wander about the house while he prepared a test in his study. For a time Cassilda just stood in the main hallway and admired the staircase, which rose high and wide and featured an ornate banister that resembled an elongated dragon. Later she would learn that the old nobleman Gerald’s crest was a dragon, and that he had been rather obsessed with the mythical creatures, littering images of reptilian monsters about his house. No one had taken the paintings and sculptures after his death, likely due to their lack of artistic merit rather than respect for the dead. Most were quite grotesque; in the hallway, at the head of the stairs, was a triptych depicting the slaughter of the dragon Gorgan by King Wotan. The king was the worst of the two—he was nude, his skin a tawny color that does not often occur in healthy individuals, his musculature so bulky that he seemed wearied by his own body’s weight—but the dragon had a disturbing grin on its face, as though it were enjoying the lance piercing its flesh. Cassilda remembered wondering at the time if dragons were masochists, existing only to be slain, their deaths bringing glory to the righteous. She wanted to ask Ambierce about the paintings, particularly the triptych and what he thought of it and why he kept it in his home, yet she never did. It could have been indifference, for he never did a thing to improve the condition of the estate, but her own theory was that he appreciated their grotesqueness, particularly the triptych’s. In the painting Wotan did not enjoy being death’s herald—his expression was dutiful, almost pained—and the dragon’s clear delight in its own demise could be interpreted as a victory of sorts, for in the process of taking its life, the king lost some of his humanity.
Cassilda had not interpreted the painting that first day. After wandering around the upstairs for a few moments, she had heard Ambierce calling her name, only to realize that no one was speaking. Answer me he commanded, the meaning of the words coming into her mind like an emotion. “Yes?” she said out loud, looking around, feeling foolish and a little bit afraid. She had heard of wizards, of course, had seen petty conjurors producing wisps of flame to dance upon the arms of passersby for coin, yet none of the street magicians could send thoughts through the air without moving their lips. He is a real wizard like those who serve the Baron she concluded. Cassilda felt his amusement, though he said nothing. Is this how you wish for me to answer you she thought. In the following silence, she noticed a dragon statuette staring with malicious intent from across the landing. It was a trollish-looking thing, with stubby limbs and stunted wings and a short, stocky muzzle, yet its eyes shone and moved like those of a living creature’s. Cassilda approached it, curiosity supplanting apprehension. Up close, she saw that it was a dull greyish-green and covered in scutes like the common lizards that crawled about trees and windowsills. Reaching her hand out to touch it, she was shocked when the dragon snapped its jaws together and jumped down from the podium, scurrying away with a hiss. “I want out of here!” she shouted, running down the stairs, her hands not touching the bannister. When she reached the bottom, the doors slammed shut of their own accord. Cassilda stood there clutching herself, feeling afraid. Inside her sleeve was a thin blade—all Galvanian urchins and waifs were armed in a similar manner—yet it seemed foolish to draw it, for what good would a pen knife do against a wizard? You’d be surprised said the voice in her head. Raethegar Meridian was slain by a splinter of wood. Granted, this was after he had been electrocuted, drowned, torn asunder by hurricane winds, and burned by a pyromancer’s fire, yet in the end, he had not protected himself sufficiently from small forms of physical damage. You must think of everything when you’re a wizard. The smallest blade can be as lethal as a pike.
“I don’t wish to play games anymore,” said Cassilda. “Show yourself or let me out of this haunted place.”It is haunted, of course he said. Gerald, the former owner of this estate, was more than a traitor. As you might have guessed, he was quite interested in dragons. He wanted to become one. I don’t think he was successful, although I cannot be entirely sure. The house is full of spirits he summoned to aid his quest. They linger in strange places, though many are trapped in those awful paintings scattered about. You saw something, didn’t you? What did you see?
“A little stunted dragon, ugly and vicious,” said Cassilda.
That is Zmey Gorynych, or at least, that is what it wishes to be called. It is difficult to know whether it is a dragon or just a malevolent spirit masquerading as one.
“Is he dangerous?” asked Cassilda.
All spirits are dangerous. They are not dead people, but rather creatures from other planes of existence. Some are parasites, others just enjoy causing mischief. Some are murders. They can change from one extreme to the next in an instant. Necromancers claim they can control spirits as well as talk to human dead, but necromancers are liars, by and large, only interested in perversion and darkness. Sorcerers are a mixed lot in general but beware of necromancers. Their dark art is banned in most cities and for good reason.
“Oh,” said Cassilda, unsure what else to say. She looked around but did not see the dragon anywhere. The panic she had felt subsided, and she wondered if seeing Zmey Gorynych had been the test.
Come to my quarters. Go up the stairs, take a left, and continue till you reach the end of the hall.
“Do I have a choice?” asked Cassilda. She tried the door and discovered that it remained locked. A rustling was heard behind the stairwell, followed by a low, rumbling growl. In an instant she was up the stairs, heading down the hallway, straight into the open chambers of Ambierce. He sat in a sagging old chair behind a red oak desk, the overgrown gardens visible behind him through wide bay windows, dandruff on his shoulders and a stern smile on his face. This was a man who took his jokes seriously, she realized, before looking about the room. It shared the same ruined aesthetic as the rest of the house. A broken bookshelf rested against the wall, its tomes spilling out onto the floor. Wallpaper hung in torn sheets, revealing cracked plaster. There was cigar ash everywhere, as well as a musty, moldy smell that penetrated the nostrils and hung there, demanding attention. It was a hovel, little better than the boarding house she called home. Are the rats big there too he asked, eyes twinkling blue.
“Is it polite to read one’s mind?” she asked. He had a large nose, though she did not think it homely.
“Conflict arises from misunderstandings, and seeing how the world is riddled with all manner of disagreements, I think that it is most important that we understand each other. Taking into consideration the vagaries of language and the misguided discretion of men (and women), why would I ask for an opinion when I could access the source? How can I trust you when you do not trust me? Of course, that is unfair, for you cannot read my mind. However, one day you will be able, and then you will see that I am a man who always states exactly what is on my mind, etiquette be damned. I apologize for nothing, Cassilda. Privacy is not a god-given right, after all.”
She did not quite understand his argument, but Cassilda thought it best to not disagree. His dark hair, unruly and wild, reminded her of the mane of a lion. Without asking, she went over to a pile of books and sat down.
“There are a great many people with the ability to become wizards,” said Ambierce, turning in his chair towards the window and putting his feet up on the sill. “All they lack is a knowledgeable teacher and the will to let go of such irrelevant concepts as privacy. The baker boy could learn to summon vast extradimensional energies, but he is too scared to leave his apprenticeship and his mother. It’s a terribly common story, I’m afraid, though I don’t think I’ll have that problem with you. Do you know why that is?”
“Because I don’t have a mother?” asked Cassilda.
“You have nothing to lose and everything to gain, and you’re well aware of that fact.” His voice was as sharp as a well-honed knife.
“What exactly will I gain in becoming a wizard, besides the ability to read minds?” asked Cassilda.
“That depends on your natural talents. There are innumerable branches of magic: pyromancy, alchemical studies, conjuration, astral projection, speculative computation. Elemental talents are very common. I myself am an aeromancer—someone who deals in weather. There are very few of us out there, which is probably a good thing, for tampering with meteorological systems can have dire consequences for the novice as well as the expert. Here, let me see your hand.”
She placed her right hand on the table, and he seized it immediately in his own. He had the rough callouses of a day laborer. Later she would learn that he spent hours every day practicing with a quarterstaff.
“Do you feel that?” he asked. Cassilda flinched as a tiny discharge of electricity flowed from her palm across his fingers.
“As I suspected! A pyromancer, though your potential is diverse.”
“What will I do with such a power?” she asked, staring at her hand like it belonged to someone else.
“Kill rats? Immolate strangers in darkened alleys? Power the Mitte Academy’s scientific experiments? I don’t know. That’s up to you. It depends on how hard you are willing to work, and what sort of insight you possess. There are too many wizards out there letting themselves be used as pawns in the schemes of others. Take myself for instance. For a long time, I was the Baron’s personal weatherman, and that was the limit of my ambition. Vivo ut serviam. But a life of servitude isn’t quite a life, is it?” His eyes grew cold suddenly, ice forming on their blue surface. He is much older than I assumed thought Cassilda.
“Life is hard, and sometimes it eats at us from the inside out,” he said by way of explanation. “Where were you born, girl?”
“The Rock,” said Cassilda, averting her eyes.
“And likely torn from your mother’s breast as soon as a week passed. There is no shame with me, Cassilda. What Galvania does with its prisoners is a crime against humanity.”
“I have no shame,” she said, meeting his gaze. Anger welled up inside her, but she banished it to the cold recesses of her heart. “Her name and her crime do not sully me. I am a new person.”
“Tabala rasa. A blank slate waiting to be covered with writing.” He sat up from his seat and went over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “I accept you as my pupil. Do you accept me as your teacher?”
“Yes,” she said, without thinking. Behind her something scurried down the hallway, its claws tearing into the wooden floor. She turned just in time to see the stunted tail of Zmey Gorynych disappear around the corner.
Ostensibly, she was Ambierce’s apprentice. They meditated together in the morning from eight to nine, and then practiced fundamental magical skills from nine thirty to noon. After that, however, he gave her a comprehensive list of “duties” (chores, really) to perform the rest of the day in any order she saw fit. These duties consisted of menial tasks like dusting the hallway (why the hallway needed dusted, Cassilda couldn’t fathom, for Ambierce didn’t seem to care much about cleanliness and rarely entertained visitors) or washing the infinite number of dishes he sullied to obscure devoirs such as placing a marble on a pedestal upstairs for exactly twenty seconds without using one’s hands or counting the number of dragons depicted throughout the house. The stranger assignments she would ask about, yet he never gave a straight answer and only reiterated the importance of adhering to his list. Cassilda had the sense that if she failed to perform one of her duties, he would know about it, so she never left anything undone, no matter how ridiculous the task. From the start, she had a great will to please him. She wanted desperately to become a magician, to walk among the people with a secret power, to know their thoughts and yet feel as though she were not one of them, separate and free. Wizards didn’t need to pick pockets, nor did they stoop to rifling through trash for their meals. She also gathered that they didn’t run from the voices of drunken men or surrender their purses when accosted by thieves. To be a wizard, she imagined, was to know no fear of anything nor anyone.
One day in the garden, after successfully levitating a statue the size of a man for the duration of five minutes, she asked Ambierce whether a wizard had anything to be afraid of in the entirety of the known universe.
“Of course,” he said dismissively, “a wizard is just as much of a man or woman as any other person. I have taught you spells to steel yourself against the blade of a sword or the blow of a hammer, yet they do not protect against a knife in the back or a cup of poison before bed. Magic takes concentration, and no spell can be cast for an infinite duration. Besides, there are sorcerers that can strip you of your barriers and wards in an instant. They can kill you with a glance or crush your heart with a gesture. Most wizards are trained at schools that teach ethics and restraint, while a few are taught independently, like yourself, by teachers who attempt to replicate their own education without reproducing the creatively stifling conditions so commonly found in academia. Sorcerers, however, have no concern for morality or discipline, nor do they express any curiosity toward any skill or school that does not further their lust for violence and power. In the healing arts, they are usually deficient, and they often have an easier time breaking wards than casting their own. Recognizing no governing body and possessing no license or certification, they operate independent of oversight and so are considered outcasts by wizards, magicians, and the governments they serve. Do not make the mistake of underestimating a sorcerer, if you should meet one. They will view you as either a rival or prey. Retreat and avoidance are your best strategies.”
“Is it not cowardice to retreat?” asked Cassilda brazenly. Sparks crackled between her fingertips. She was feeling rather invincible at that moment.
“Let me tell you something about cowardice,” said Ambierce quietly, the sky darkening as he spoke. Thunder was heard in the distance, and a strong wind ripped through the garden, toppling the statue that Cassilda had been levitating and carrying it down the road like a stone skipping across water. “Everyone is a coward. Almost everyone wishes to live. Those that retreat live to fight another day. Those that do not die and vanish from the earth. Do not be so eager to drive towards death. Do you not enjoy sitting with me in this garden? Just a moment ago the sun was shining, and birds were chirping, and you were reveling in your nascent mastery of telekinesis. Now it is dark, and a tempest brews, and you realize that there is nothing you could do if I chose to level this house and everything in the general vicinity. Remember, no matter how powerful you feel, you are never totally in control. If you wish to become a battlemage, then go to Dortmund, though I will warn you, they are prejudiced against female wizards learning the martial arts. I will not train a mercenary, however. The world needs no more mercenaries.”
He was sullen for some time after that and sequestered himself in his study, refusing to teach her while still expecting Cassilda to perform her duties. She complied and did not worry about Ambierce’s moodiness, sensing that his melancholy was brought on by more than just her questions. Her training did not recommence until a curious encounter with Zmey Gorynych sent Cassilda running to his study.
She had made her quarters on the second floor in a room a short distance from Ambierce’s own. It was a decently-sized room, with a large, comfortable bed, and an armoire in the corner that remained mostly empty until she learned to sew. Her favorite feature was the floor to ceiling windows and the small balcony beyond them where she often mediated in a rocking chair overlooking the garden. On the day in question, Cassilda was sitting in the chair, facing the garden, eyes shut, the cool breeze and warm sun hitting her face, when she was jarred from reverie by the distinct clickety-clack of claws walking on wood. She could sense that it was the dragon—other spirits may have moved about the house, but none except Zmey Gorynych was brazen enough to roam during the daylight—yet instead of turning around quickly, she decided to be patient and wait. Other than their initial encounter, she had only seen glimpses of the mysterious creature, though it frequently made its presence known through its noisiness and general indiscretion. Listening intently, Cassilda heard it snuffling around the corners of her room, its utterances sounding like a dog or even a pig. It had a peculiar odor—part wild onion, part rain-soaked earth—that was not altogether unpleasant, for it recalled a pastoral prehistory that Cassilda had not known she was nostalgic for. Eventually it wandered to her left and sat down in the shadows a few paces behind her shoulder. For a while it simply sat and wheezed, pausing every so often to let out a long, cat-like yawn. It didn’t want her to look at it, so she didn’t.
“What a pleasant day,” said Cassilda suddenly. She heard a pause in its breathing, but it soon recommenced. “It is nice to share it with somebody,” she continued, trying hard not to stare at the dragon out of the corner of her eye. At her comment, it let out a snort. So it understands me. Would it answer if asked a question? She decided to find out.
“What kind of name is Zmey Gorynych?” She felt silly saying its name. It gave no response, so she waited awhile before speaking again. In the garden, two blue and black butterflies fluttered in circles, performing a dance of ellipses.
“It is okay if you do not wish to answer. Maybe you are not aware that I am a wizard now. Perhaps you are more inclined to speak with wizards? Ambierce said that you may be an evil spirit. I prefer to believe that you are a dragon.” Again, it uttered something akin to a snicker.
“Well, alright, I am not quite a wizard yet, if that is what you are laughing about. Do dragons know much about magic? Spirits do, I’d imagine, though it likely isn’t the sort of magic one should learn. Frankly, I don’t care if you are an evil spirit. You can’t be that bad. I’ve lived in this house for nearly two months and had no trouble with you.” The butterflies suddenly ceased their circle-making and fell from the sky as if struck dead by an invisible force. Cassilda felt a strong wave of nausea rolling through her stomach. The gaze of Zmey Gorynych bored into her side like a heated blade.
“You didn’t do that, did you?” she whispered. This time she clearly heard it laugh, a dead sound like something old and dry catching fire.
“I’ll drive you from this house,” she said, anger rising. Why should she be afraid of such an evil, stunted thing when she could summon fire from her fingertips? With sparks crackling between her hands, she turned confidently towards Zmey Gorynych, ready to turn it into a pile of ash if need be.
The cavernous, eyeless face of a dead man stared emptily back at her, its mouth full of pointy, brown teeth.
Cassilda fell from her chair with a scream, sparks flying impotently from her fingers. She didn’t wait and see if any damage was done—as quickly as possible, she leapt up from the balcony and hurried through the door, not stopping until she’d reached Ambierce’s quarters. The door was locked when she tried it, so she beat on the door and howled until it finally opened and she fell into his chambers, a stuttering, wailing wreck. He took her into his arms and calmed her almost instantly, his weathered hands around her shoulders. He seemed to know what had happened before she spoke. His voice was soothing and apologetic, yet once her fear left, she was angry and tore herself away from him.
“Why do you let something like that live in this house?” she demanded.
“You can’t run away from evil. You must learn to live with it,” he explained.
“But what could it have done to me?”
“It can’t hurt you unless you let it. Don’t humor spirits, Cassilda.”
At the time she had thought that his explanation was inadequate. Why must one live with evil? Why not banish it, eradicate it, vaporize it into dust? It was many years later before she realized that he had not been referring to Zmey Gorynych.
At first she saw only a typical market square—peddlers hawking produce, performers juggling fire, pedestrians browsing at their leisure—but as she walked closer, she realized that the street ended rather abruptly just past the stalls and disappeared into nothingness for several hundred feet. Cassilda walked right up to the edge of the chasm and peered down into its depths. Vapors rose from its bowels, their source concealed in darkness. Suddenly an emerald light flashed far below, and a guttural bellow belched forth, bringing with it the reek of sulfur. Past the pit lay another city, its edifices crumbling, its streets filled with ghosts, their shadows burned onto brick. One city divided into two, life severed from death. Was there life among the ruins? It looked like a city of bones.
“Makes you ashamed to be a wizard, doesn’t it?” asked a voice. She turned to see a wrinkled old woman sitting a few feet to the right, legs dangling into the abyss.
“Excuse me?” said Cassilda. The old woman wore a tattered blue robe streaked with filth.
“Never thought I’d see magic used in such a manner. ‘Course it wasn’t the first time, and it shan’t be the last. They never did figure out who gave the order. The Baron claimed the Calamity wasn’t even an option, that the wizards never discussed it with him. The wizards blamed it on Zakariyah Pentos, who disappeared after the war. There was talk of trials and executions, but far as I know, no heads rolled for the Calamity. They were all a part of it, truth be told. No wizard walked away from Valice with clean hands.”
The old woman rolled back her head and spat into the void. Cassilda took a step back as so not to lose her balance because of vertigo.
“See that yonder peak?” The old woman pointed at a rock jutting up from the sea. “That’s where they stood, the lot of them, while the army battered at the gates. A light shot up from them and flew into the sky, a light of an unnatural color, though you won’t find much agreement on what shade it was. Some say it was green like the bowels of the pit. Others claim it was crimson, like the color of dried blood. I’ve heard people say it was an unholy blue like flesh left too long in ice. When it reached the sky there was a terrible thunder like the earth being split open. A great beam of hellfire rushed downward, obliterating the heart of the city and splitting the remainder into two halves. The only ones that survived were people hiding indoors. The city guard was melted in their very armor. Many of the Baron’s troops perished as the walls plummeted.”
“Valice fell after that. There wasn’t even much pillaging and raping, for everyone was shocked and appalled at the vulgar display. The Galvanians rebuilt half of the city but they couldn’t get rid of the pit. They say that it goes all the way down to the heart of the world. Wouldn’t you figure that if wizards created it, then they’d be able to erase it? Suppose it don’t work that way. Seems wizards are better at destroying things than fixing them.”
“Who are you?” asked Cassilda. The old woman looked her hard in the eyes before turning back to look into the Calamity.
“You are young. An apprentice. You do not guard your thoughts. Where is your master? Has he drowned in the deep blue sea? Do the gulls pick at his carcass or do the fishes? He didn’t want to do it, but he did it all the same. Mourn for him as you would for me.” With those words the old woman plunged into the pit.
Cassilda stared for a while at the place where she had sat. She left without looking again into the Calamity.
…
Cassilda was warming herself by the fire when Fergal came out of the night with three rabbits and a pheasant. He waved his bounty cheerfully and sat down next to her to skin the conies, humming as he worked. The poor Aiv nearly cut his finger when he noticed the pheasant he had slain over an hour before sitting on his shoulder, head cocked quizzically, as though it were about to ask him to explain the finer points of game preparation.“That was quite unfunny, Cassilda. I almost lost a finger,” he said, grabbing the bird by its neck. “Why don’t you put your talents to good use? I provided this meal. You can prepare it.”
“You are making the same mistake as most people who come to depend on magic. You expect it to solve all your problems. Wizards are asked to fix things with a snap of the fingers or a wave of the hand.”
“Isn’t that what most wizards do?” asked Fergal earnestly.
“No. Wizards are resolved as a body to do as little as possible to aid their fellow man. They are all selfish at heart. Not that I am any better, being a sorceress.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Fergal, tossing rabbit guts behind him.
“I am not in the service of any government or academic institution, and therefore do not possess a license to conduct magic. I am a “rogue actor” according to the terminology of the Conventum. If one is caught performing magic without certification, then the offender is extradited to Bilbao, where the Conventum will determine the proper course of action.” Cassilda leaned back against a rock and sighed. “‘Sorceress’ is frequently used as a pejorative to refer to rogue actors who possess agendas different from the Conventum’s. It has negative connotations that are not entirely inaccurate, for the most part.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing! When I was a wanderer, I encountered many mages and never heard once about the Conventum.”
“When was this? Hundreds of years ago? Governments feared wizards, so wizards had to make concessions. The Conventum was formed eighty years ago in response to some crisis or another—I can’t remember. It’s not important.”
“If you say so,” said Fergal. Josun and the Thief stepped up to the fire and sat down some distance away from each other. Cassilda could tell that they had been arguing.
“How goes your reconnaissance? Spot any blopkins or gumbelsnatches?” she asked.
“There is nothing for miles that we can see,” replied Josun. “Though that does not mean we should not be vigilant.”
“I would like to have a full night’s sleep for once. It is hard to rest when there is always someone blustering about,” said the Thief.
“The dead sleep for all eternity,” replied Josun.
“You’ll wake them with your snorting and spitting. Must you breathe so loudly? You chuff like a horse.”
“Another word from you, and I’ll cut off your tongue,” said Josun quietly.
“Let us eat,” interrupted Fergal, passing out the plates. He had grown skilled at diffusing the tension between the Thief and the barbarian by diverting their attention from one another to unifying necessities such as food or watch duty, though he grew tired of playing the role of peacemaker (if you could really call it that).
“Cassilda, correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems likely that we may have pursuers eager to recover the Heart,” asked Fergal. “Who are these people?”
“The whole of Capetia, in all likelihood, travels in our footsteps, going from door to door, searching after a courtesan capable of magic and a black balladeer named Robert Zimmers,” said the Thief, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “What could they know? We left the mountain without a trace. We were on the sea in no time. Our vessel was stolen by raiders. The barbarians scattered and fled into the forest. We have encountered nothing but monsters on our way towards San-Elza. That is why I see no reason for keeping a watch. What are we watching for? No one hunts us. Were it not for the fact that I do not trust the lot of you, I would be able to relax. I should think that the difficult part of our journey is over. From here onward, it is just a long walk to get paid.”
“An extended constitutional, is what you’re saying,” offered Fergal.
“I do not think that it will be that easy,” said Cassilda, standing up and stretching before the fire. “But I agree with you that our tracks have been well-covered.”
She settled down, her thoughts turning back to Ambierce. Was he not worthy of being avenged? It didn’t matter what he had done in the service of the Baron or in the company of power-mad wizards. He gave me a home, a purpose, an understanding. Without his kindness, she’d be fleecing pockets or working in a harlot’s den. At best you’d be cleaning house for a tottering old merchant who probably couldn’t keep his hands to himself. She listened to the sound of their voices, the deep bassetto of Josun, the guttural mutter of the Thief, and realized that their conversation was easing her to sleep. Ambierce’s voice could do the same thing. The more she remembered, the more the pain stung. You can’t heal. Not until you’ve had your revenge.
She went to sleep thinking of Pliny the Black’s ghoulish skull and how it would look on a spike.
Next Chapter: A Visit to a Brothel in Wine Country
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