‘Da, what did you think of the governor’s speech?’ Alaron asked as they wound their way home. Tomorrow he and Ramon must be back at college, but tonight they were permitted to stay at home.
Vann Mercer stroked his chin. He was a tall, strong man still, despite a slight broadening around the midriff as he settled into middle-age. ‘Well, I know what I think. But what about you, son?’
His father was always telling him to think for himself. Alaron collected his thoughts. ‘Well, Vult said that the emperor loves us – but we revolted just a few years ago, so how can he love us?’
‘I bet he loves to collect your taxes,’ put in Ramon.
‘You’ve been in Kesh, Da – you’ve always said the people there are a lot like us, and that skin colour has nothing to do with goodness. But Master Fyrell says when two races collide, they fight until one is eradicated. He says it’s a law of nature.’ He wrinkled his nose with distaste.
‘Is that the sort of lessons I’m paying for?’ Vann shook his head sadly. ‘What do you think?’
Alaron thought for a while. ‘Well, even though people say that we got the gnosis from Kore’s hand, we all know it’s really something bestowed by birth, so I don’t know. I’ve not seen many saintly magi,’ he added, thinking of Malevorn and his cronies.
‘And gifting the banners back was just a ploy to boost recruitment,’ Ramon said, his lively eyes sparkling. ‘In the last Crusade virtually no one from Noros joined up.’
‘So really,’ Alaron decided, ‘it was just a big show to boost enlistment numbers. But Da, why did the emperor decide to send his soldiers over the Bridge in 904 anyway? Wasn’t he making a fortune from the tolls and taxes from the traders?’
Vann puffed his pipe. ‘What do they tell you at college?’ he asked, a question for a question again.
Ramon snorted. ‘They tell us that Kore sent the emperor a vision that he had to save the world from the heathens.’
Vann half-smiled. ‘It’s the oldest game in the world: claim your God is the only one and your enemies automatically become evil. I was there that day, in the first windships above Hebusalim. I’ll never forget it.’
And he’ll not talk of it either
, Alaron thought. It was the day his wife, Alaron’s mother, was blinded.
But Vann surprised him and continued, ‘The windship captains told us the sultan was massing an army of his own to send over the Bridge – they said we were protecting our traders from being slaughtered. We didn’t know if this was true or not, but those were the first years that bankrupt magi families started marrying into merchant families in return for sizable dowries. The East had made a lot of traders very much richer, and the traditional order was being threatened. Some people believed the only way to slow or halt that process was to disrupt the eastern trade.’
Alaron waited for more, but his father fell quiet and they walked the rest of the way home in silence, Ramon sucking on a hardboiled sweet, Vann puffing his pipe. Alaron tried to imagine what it would have been like in Kesh, where his father had met his mother, fallen in love and saved her life.
‘Mercer! Pay attention!’ Fyrell barked.
Alaron blinked.
Damn
. ‘Sorry sir, just trying to remember the formula for calculating vectors.’ He and Ramon had talked away most of the night, dreaming of their futures after graduation, but now they were back in the grim, moss-walled college. Turm Zauberin was an old castle, four hundred years old at least. Magister Fyrell,
his least favourite teacher, had his feet up on his desk and was tossing random questions at the whole class as revision. Alaron hadn’t been listening for some time.
‘Nice try, Master Mercer,’ sneered Fyrell, ‘but we reviewed calculus last period. This is Magical Theory.’
Ooops
.
‘Must I repeat the question?’ The five Pure sniggered. Ramon leant back, shaking his head.
Alaron hung his head, flushing. ‘Yes sir. Sorry sir.’
Fyrell rolled his eyes and stroked his black goatee. ‘Very well. We are revising for the exams – remember them? I asked you to name the four classes of the gnosis and what defines them – a very basic question. Do you think you could manage that for us, Master Mercer?’
Alaron sighed.
Phew, easy
. He stood up. ‘There are Four Classes of the Gnosis. First is Thaumaturgy, which is concerned with the tangible and inanimate: the elements. The Four Studies of Thaumaturgy are Fire, Water, Earth and Air. Then there is Hermetic magic: the tangible and animate, which deals with living things, ourselves and others. The Four Hermetic Studies are Healing, Morphism – shapeshifting – Animism and Sylvanism – nature magic. Theurgy is the intangible and animate, using the gnosis to augment unseen forces – like strengthening one’s own gnosis, or healing the spirits of the living, curing insanity, calming people, or manipulating them emotionally. The Four Studies of Theurgy are Spiritualism, Mysticism, Mesmerism and Illusion. The last is Sorcery, which deals with the intangible and inanimate, where we use the gnosis to deal with the spirit world – the dead, in other words – to do things like strengthen ourselves, or find out about the past or the future or the now. The Four Studies of Sorcery are Wizardry, Clairvoyance, Divination and Necromancy.’
Fyrell grunted with displeasure and looked at Boron Funt. ‘Mercer sounds like he’s reciting a textbook. Boron, tell me the omission Mercer made with Sorcery.’ He called only the Pure by their first names.
Funt puffed himself up. ‘He said that the only spirits are dead spirits, Magister. He omitted the angels of God and the demons of Hel.’
That’s because I don’t believe in them
, Alaron muttered to himself.
‘Well done, Boron.’ Fyrell smiled. ‘Malevorn, tell me of Affinities, using your own as an example.’
Malevorn drew himself to his feet, half-closing his eyes as he spoke. ‘Every mage is different: our personalities define the Studies we excel at. Most of us have greater aptitude at one or more of the four Classes of the gnosis. We also usually have one elemental aptitude greater than the others. My element is fire and I am strongest in Thaumaturgy and hermetic-gnosis.’
Fyrell looked approving, as he always did when Malevorn spoke. ‘Well done, Malevorn.’ He turned to his other favoured pupil. ‘Gron, what is Blood-Rank?’
Gron Koll smoothed back his lank greasy hair. ‘The Ranks of Blood are numbered First to Sixth. The First Rank are the pure-blooded, those descended directly from an Ascendant or two pure-bloods. The Second Rank are the three-quarter-blooded; the Third are half-blooded, the Fourth are the quarter-blooded, the Fifth Rank the eighth-bloods and the Sixth Rank those with a sixteenth. There are no lower ranks, as anyone with less than a sixteenth of mage’s blood does not have the capability to utilise the gnosis.’ He paused, then added, ‘Above all are the Ascendants, the Three Hundred progenitors of all magi.’
‘Excellent,’ said Fyrell. ‘And what are the degrees of relativity between the Blood-Ranks?’
‘Each is roughly the square of the previous, sir. If we use the quarter-blood as a base, a half-blood is twice as powerful, a pure-blood is four times more powerful and an Ascendant sixteen times more.’
‘Meaning that we pure-bloods are worth at least four of Mercer,’ remarked Malevorn lightly, waving his hand at Alaron, ‘and sixteen of Sensini.’
Alaron steamed, but Ramon just shrugged.
‘Seth,’ invited Fyrell with a lazy gesture, ‘what can be done to improve one’s powers?’
Seth Korion had a placid face, short blond hair and a solid build. Everyone had expected much of him, the only legitimate son of the
famous General Kaltus Korion, but he’d been a plodder: a timid mage and fighter. He had shown none of the strategic and tactical thinking his teachers had expected would come naturally. The only thing he excelled at was healing, which was regarded by the boys as ‘girls’ magic’. Seth had always been the easiest of the Pure to get at.
‘There are varying levels of skill, talent and equipment, sir. An ill-equipped, inept or poorly trained mage is less effective than a well-equipped skilled and well-trained one.’
‘Fortunately we have the best in everything, sir,’ put in Francis Dorobon, sticking his chest out. His dark hair was slicked back, and he affected a little moustache on his upper lip, making his pale skin even whiter. He wore rings and diamond studs, and he liked to throw little Rimoni phrases into his conversation to remind people that he was rightful King of Javon, nominally a Rimoni country even though it lay in Antiopia. He raised his hand, displaying a large diamond ring on his middle finger. ‘This is a
primo
periapt.’
Students could own periapts, but they were not permitted to use them except in class until after they had successfully graduated. Alaron’s was a modest crystal, Ramon’s even poorer. Alaron knew his father was trying to purchase a better one for him, but quality periapts were rare and expensive.
Fyrell clapped his hands. ‘Excellent. Next week, your exams will begin. You will be tested on all aspects of the gnosis, as well as your ordinary academic lessons to decide whether you are to be granted the right to act as a mage and serve the community.’ His eyes swept over the Pure. It has been a pleasure to teach most of you.’ His gaze flickered disdainfully over Alaron and Ramon and then back to the Pure. ‘I wish you well for the coming weeks.’
Malevorn stood up. ‘Sir, it has been a privilege to learn from you.’ He made a lordly bow. ‘For myself, your name and memory will always be on my mind as we strike down the heathen.’
Fyrell puffed up as the other Pure followed his lead, taking turns to praise and thank him.
Alaron and Ramon slipped away, unnoticed.
*
‘Malevorn
alwayth
doeth tha’. How do you ge’ an ego tha’ large into the room? An’ Fyrell panderth to him all the time. I am tho thick of thith plathe!’ Alaron was nursing a split lip from the fight he’d got into with Malevorn between classes. It stung, but neither he nor Ramon were very good at healing. Three days out from the end of classes and he felt totally miserable – of course he’d totally failed to lay a finger on Malevorn, as always. He was probably the most unsuccessful brawler in the school’s history. The younger students, most of them of the same ilk as Malevorn, openly laughed at him.
He sat on the tiny balcony of the room they shared, Ramon beside him, looking glumly over the city as dusk fell. The air was cold, killing the smell of the refuse pits below this side of the building – of course the Pures were on the other side, the sunset side, overlooking the gardens. Each had a room four times the size of Alaron and Ramon’s.
Alaron saw the mighty shapes in the sky first, the dark silhouettes in the northeastern quarter, three black dots that grew and grew. He pointed, and Ramon followed his finger.
‘Windships,’ Ramon breathed. ‘Merchant-traders, up from Verelon, maybe, or Pontus.’ His eyes shone. All boys dreamt of windships. They watched them grow in the sky, sails billowing as the trade wind swept them up from the Brekaellen Valley, following the river towards Norostein. The enchanted hulls were winged, painted and gilded in fantastical designs, the prows like eagles and serpents, the tall masts hung about with canvas sails. A scarlet flag billowed above. ‘From Pontus, I think.’
They watched in silent awe as the ships swung into the Mooring Yards beneath Bekontor Hill. Windships had curved hulls to lessen wind-resistance, and retractable braces for landing. The enchanted hulls and keels kept them airborne, but though Air-gnosis gave the ships life, it was wind that provided propulsion. Air-thaumaturgy could shape the winds, and a ship that was well-guided by a strong Air-thaumaturge could even sail against the wind, but that took real skill and endurance.
All of the trainee magi had learned to fly in small skiffs. Alaron
was barely competent, but Ramon had some genuine ability despite his weak mage-blood. Vann Mercer had always hoped that Alaron would be able to build and pilot a trading vessel for him, but Alaron’s prime elemental affinity had turned out to be fire and he had proven to be a very poor Air-mage. He was, he’d been told, better suited to a military career. The teachers also told him he had ability in sorcery, but sorcery scared him shitless. Ghosts and spirits … ugh!
Ramon looked across at him. ‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to see Cym tonight? It’s your turn.’
Alaron thought about that. His lip was still swollen, his jaw and ribs hurt and he felt totally depressed. But he knew a smile from Cym would lift his mood, though his chances of coaxing one from her would be nigh-on impossible. It was his turn, though …
When Ramon had shown up at the college all those years ago he had brought with him a tiny self-possessed gypsy girl with big flashing eyes, cherry-red lips and cinnamon skin. Alaron had taken one look and fallen hopelessly in love. Her name was Cymbellea di Regia, Ramon said; she too was mage-born, but Saint Yvette’s, the girl’s Arcanum College of Norostein, would not take her in, so she was living in the Rimoni camp outside of town. Without their help she would never learn how to use her powers. Ramon said she’d run away from her mother, who was her mage-parent, which sounded terribly romantic to Alaron, and her plight offended his sense of justice, so it had taken little persuasion to enlist his help in educating her. For the last seven years they had been taking it in turns to slip out after dinner and meet her beside the sally port in the old ruined city wall.
Alaron loved his evenings with her. Even though she gave him nothing more than grief and frustration, he wouldn’t have missed their meetings for the world. ‘Of courth I’ll go. It’th my latht turn.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You know, after gra’uation you’ll return to Thilacia and who knowth where Thym will go? We migh’ never meet again. Da wantth me to be a part of his buthineth and get married. I migh’ no’ even ge’ to joi’ the Cruthade.’
‘And a good thing too,’ remarked Ramon. ‘You don’t want to be
a part of that – it’s just a bunch of pure-bloods slaughtering loads of Keshi and Dhassans. You’re better off out of it.’
‘But,
everyone
ith going …’ He exhaled heavily. ‘Everyone
elth
.’