11. Sorcerer

11

Sorcerer

Safira Chastain

T he sorcerer arrived on one of those bone-dry late summer days, where the sky is the sort of clear perfect blue that looks unreal and the acrid smell of the pine sap floats through the air with the dust. I was sitting next to Celyn at the pump while he watered my garden, reading aloud from a travelogue written almost a century ago. He watched me while I read, a faint smile on his face. Unlike with me, bugs never troubled Celyn – I supposed that he was a lake, after all, and didn't smell at all like a man – but he still occasionally swished his tail, flicking it across his thigh.

It was very distracting. He had very nice thighs, and they were always on display.

I'd just gotten to an interesting part, where the explorer had gotten trapped halfway up a mountain with a slick, dangerous ravine below him and a sheer climb above him, when Celyn jerked to attention, twisting so that he could look up at the Spire. I jumped at the sudden movement, startled into it.

He blew out a breath, his tail snapping in what looked like annoyance. "Ley powers," he said, that annoyance seeping out in his voice.

"Mages?" I asked, looking up at the soaring heights of Barixeor, as if I could see power the way he did.

"Sorcerers," Celyn replied. "Two of them. You will have a pump that works again soon, I think." He looked out at the dark soil around the plants in my garden, then set the hose down with the same care he always used, ensuring that it lay in the same groove it always did. I liked that he thought about the grass. I would have thought someone who lived on the scale of millennia wouldn't care about something like grass, but Celyn was always conscious of how his actions spread out across the world. He thought in terms of ripples, not raindrops.

"I suppose we'll have to find a new place for me to read to you, then." I settled the bookmark between the pages, smiling at him when he turned back to me with an eyebrow cocked. "Assuming you want to hear the rest of it."

"Every word in your voice is like the song of the loons to me," he said, his severe expression easing. "There are many beautiful vistas upon which you could read, and I would enjoy them all."

"Vain," I said, laughing at him as I got up. Every beautiful vista on the island was of the lake. Without thinking, I offered him my hand, but he only shook his head, a wistful smile touching his mouth as he stood.

"You know I cannot, Safira," he said, his voice quiet. "If you want my touch, you must come to me."

I flushed at that, my cheeks going warm and tight. I tucked the book up against my chest. "Sorry. I know. It was just habit. I didn't mean anything by it."

He glanced back up at the doorway to Barixeor, where a slim figure stood—Marin. "They will be desiring your presence, I think," he said. "Will I see you again?"

"Of course you will," I said, my brows drawing together. Marin gestured for me; I waved back. "Celyn, I'm your friend. I appreciate that you water the garden, but I like you a lot more than any water pump."

"Very well," he said, casting a smile at me. "Until then." With those words, he stepped forward into his equine form and trotted away, heading not downslope but towards the woods.

I watched him for a moment, feeling wistful and disappointed. But I didn't have time to linger on my unhappiness—either at him thinking that I might not visit him again once I had a water source, or at having offered him my hand like he was simply a man. There were sorcerers to meet.

When I made my way uphill to the Spire, Marin brought me up to the very highest room in Barixeor Spire. I'd never been in it, though I knew it existed: a massive, beautiful circle for working magic, inlaid with precious metals and gemstones. The black basalt floor made the rings of the circle stand out, gleaming in the sunlight streaming from the massive geodesic dome of quartz that capped the pinnacle of the Spire.

In the center of the circle stood a woman.

She looked young, no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, and she had long mahogany hair pulled into a severe braid hanging down her back. Like many of the mages I'd seen at the University, she wore clothing suitable for working in, though the cloth was much finer than anything most working folk ever possessed. She stood holding one wrist behind her back, and when Marin and I came up the stairs from the preparation room below, she turned only her head to look at us, her gray eyes placid.

The sorcerer looked worn, with dark circles under her eyes and the careful blankness of expression that spoke of great despair or grief. Despite her clear gaze, she didn't have the same self-assuredness I associated with mages. She had the same aspect as a foreigner lost in a strange city, a displacement that didn't make sense for a sorcerer, even one as young as her.

Something really bad happened to her , I thought as she turned her gaze back out across the distant landscape.

"Is this everyone?" a taut male voice asked.

I wheeled, almost spinning on my heels, then dropped immediately into a deep bow as I recognized the Archmage. I hadn't seen him in years, and I knew he wouldn't recognize a nobody like me, but the sight of his face broke open the fragile walls I had against remembering. It had been a gala, one of the rare ones open to all mages, and the wizard had taken me there with him to show me off like a trained animal.

"She's a pretty little thing, isn't she? Once I put a babe in her belly, it'll all be ruined, so enjoy looking at her tonight!" Laughter. Making myself smile and put a hand on his arm, as if I couldn't agree more with his assessment, saying something about it being a shame women always lost their looks, isn't it, darling?—

"Yes, archmagus," Marin said, her voice clear and calm, dragging me away from the memories. Her sharp elbow struck my ribs, making me stand up with a jerk.

"Safira Chastain, archmagus," I said, alternating hot and cold flooding my body as remembered horror battered at me. "The gardener."

He smiled, a political expression, then turned towards the woman in the circle, who still looked off into the distance. "Magus Rain Leyweaver is the new Spirekeeper of Barixeor," he said, sounding sour about it. "She'll be leading a major spellcasting soon, Miz Rutter, so if you need more hands for the guests, place your requests for them—"

"Tomorrow," Leyweaver said, her voice smooth and emotionless.

The Archmage narrowed his eyes in her direction. She didn't even look at him.

"Thirteen sorcerers," she continued, in the same even tone. "The stronger, the better. I'll need Jace, Highmoon, Darkhaven..." Her eyes flicked in his direction. "You."

His jaw clenched, but then he relaxed and smiled, a silken expression. "Then, Miz Rutter, I will simply assume you'll need more hands. Will twenty do?"

"Aye, archmagus, for thirteen sorcerers I can make do with twenty. Thirty may be better." Marin spoke with calm confidence, unafraid in the face of a quarter of the world's population of sorcerers descending on the Spire.

"Then you'll have thirty," he said, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," the Archmage said with a sigh. "So be it." He left without saying farewell, turning and striding down the stairs, his robes billowing behind him as he left us alone with Leyweaver.

I rubbed my sweaty palms on my pants, trying not to tremble. Sorcerers. Thirteen of them—fourteen with Leyweaver. And one of them would be Jace Songdog , the most powerful sorcerer seen in the Material Plane for more than a thousand years, for all that she was barely a teenager. Who knew what she could do? What she would do? Anything could happen—

Celyn's seen sorcerers more powerful than her , I thought, and all at once I wasn't so afraid. The water-horse of Tsirisma Lake had seen Barixeor Spire rise. He'd seen civilizations plant themselves along his shore and fade into oblivion. This was nothing new. I was beneath their notice, just a servant. I could go about my duties, and they'd pay me no more mind than any wealthy or powerful person did to their underlings.

We all stood there in silence for some minutes, Marin standing next to me and Bashen leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

At last, the sorcerer standing in the middle of the summoning circle sighed and turned to regard us. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice sad. "I know the next few days are going to be difficult for you, but the commotion is... necessary. The sooner it's done, the sooner we can..." Emotion flickered across her face. "Rest."

"Bashen and I will prepare the Spirekeeper's suite for you," Marin said, which let me know that Leyweaver's appearance had been a surprise. "Do you have any dietary restrictions, magus?"

The sorcerer shook her head, another flicker of emotion twitching the corners of her mouth. "Not that I know of," she said, then sighed again and tilted her face up to the sky, closing her eyes as the sunlight fell on her fawn-brown skin. "When they tell you about Tarandrus, don't ask me about it. I don't want to tell the story ever again."

I looked over at Marin, then Bash, confused. Bash gave me a tiny shake of his head; he didn't know what Leyweaver was talking about, either.

"You can go," she said, halfway to a murmur. "I'm just going to remember the sunlight for a little while."

"Very well, magus," Marin said. She bowed with the proper form to the woman, as did Bashen.

I did the same, a moment after them and with far less grace, then scurried down the stairs and back out to the clean alpine air. I fled to the simplicity of lakes and gardens, running far, far away from sorcery and the woman standing in a summoning circle, her quiet face tilted towards the sky.