The Exile and the Sorcerer (30 page)

Jemeryl studied her patient. Tevi’s aura was clean and regular; all traces of the sickening crystal drains were gone. Jemeryl could still detect unfamiliar perturbations, but in her opinion, they were not dangerous. It was something she might look into later. After all, she was going to be spending quite some time with this woman.

“Changing your eyes back was a bit tricky. There were a few problems I hadn’t expected, but it went all right in the end.” Jemeryl’s memory prodded her. “Oh, and um...I don’t know if you were keen on your previous eye colour, but they’re now grey.”

“Grey?”

“Were you hoping for something else...green or blue?”

Tevi shrugged. “As long as they work, I’m not bothered.” However, she was clearly disconcerted by the idea and raised a hand to her eyes. “When can you take this bandage off?”

“I’d like to leave it another day. If you don’t have headaches or other problems, we can see how your eyes are after nightfall tomorrow. It would be best to remove the bandage when it’s dark, as your eyes will be very sensitive to light for a few days.”

Tevi looked happy with the answer.

They talked for a while longer before Jemeryl announced, “I think it’s time for bed.”

Although Tevi could have managed alone, Jemeryl took her hand and escorted her to the door of her room. The warmth of Tevi’s fingers sent ripples through Jemeryl, spurring her to ask, “Are you sure you’re all right in here? The bed’s pretty small, and there’s no fire. Won’t you be cold?”

Before she could say more, Tevi interrupted, grinning. “Thanks, but I’ve just come over the old pass. I’ve been sleeping on snow and rock. This room is heaven by comparison, and if I get cold, there’s a spare blanket in my pack.” She slipped her hand from Jemeryl’s and closed the door.

The sorcerer’s face held a bemused smile as she made her way to her own bed. She spoke softly to the empty room, “It wasn’t a blanket I was planning on offering.”

Klara crowed with derision. “Oh, go on. Give the girl a chance to view the merchandise first.”

*

After breakfast the next morning, the two women went onto the battlements. The sun was rising in a clear blue sky. Jemeryl breathed in the sweet air and listened to the sound of water dripping from melting snow and trickling along gutters. With her extended senses, she could feel the presence of new life ready to burst forth.

“Spring is on the way,” she announced, although this would hardly count as news, even to her blindfolded companion.

“Good. I’ve seem enough snow for this year.”

“Your trek over the Spur can’t have been fun.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I was hired by traders who’d got stuck in Treviston. They didn’t have time to wait until spring.”

Jemeryl was confused. She had assumed that the dangerous journey was in some way connected with Tevi’s quest and had been probing for information. “But you must have had your own reasons for crossing the Spur midwinter.”

“No. Why?”

“Because I know that you’re currently on a quest.” Hearing her own words, Jemeryl frowned. It was a bad habit of sorcerers to use scraps of information they picked up to give the impression of infallibility.

Tevi, however, seemed more puzzled than impressed. “I don’t think so.”

“You’ve not sworn to catch someone or to find anything?” Jemeryl suggested, feeling a trifle foolish.

“Oh, well...yes. Abrak’s chalice.” Tevi’s sudden downturn in mood was conspicuous.

“Has Abrak lost her chalice?”

“She’s dead. Her chalice is a family heirloom.”

“But you’re looking for it?”

“Sort of. A bird stole it, so I said I’d get it back.”

Jemeryl’s eyebrows rose. Tevi’s apathy certainly made a change from the self-important arrogance of most quest-bound warriors. In fact, from Tevi’s expression, Jemeryl got the feeling that her guest would much rather talk of something else. On the other hand, Jemeryl was becoming very tired of not knowing what was going on. She wanted answers.

Once they were settled back in the parlour, she allowed Tevi no opportunity to evade the subject. “We’ve got all day. Why don’t you tell me about this chalice?”

For a moment, it looked as if Tevi might refuse, but at last, she started. “Do you know anything about the Western Isles, out from the coast of Walderim?”

“Is that where you come from?” It would explain Tevi’s unfamiliar accent.

“Yes.”

Jemeryl searched her memory. “I didn’t know there were any islands. I’ve never seen them marked on a map. I take it your people don’t have much contact with the mainland?”

“No. Abrak was the last person to arrive. And I’m the first person to leave for...” Tevi’s face contorted in distress.

Jemeryl sensed that Tevi was fighting with memories. The young islander must be missing her home and family very much.

Softly, Jemeryl asked, “Tevi?”

“I don’t...it’s...” Tevi took a couple of deep breaths. “I’m not sure what to tell you about Abrak. We have lots of songs and stories, but you won’t want the full saga. It would take days.” Tevi bit her lip. “I guess I should start with the old clans fleeing to the islands...”

*

One hundred years after its founding, the Protectorate was expanding rapidly. At first, this worked to the advantage of the warrior clans of Walderim. Practitioners of magic withdrew from the strip of land between the Aldrak Mountains and the sea, either to join the Coven or to go places where their power would be unchallenged.

Their departure created an opportunity for the men who relied on strength of arms. They believed that their swords had freed the land from the tyranny of sorcerers. It was what they wanted to believe. Real men could put their faith in sharp steel and not submit to the whims of women and weaklings with their cowardly magic.

Yet the days of the warrior clans were short-lived. Within decades, the wealth of the Protectorate guilds, rather than the magic of its sorcerers, had undermined their dominion. A few warlords saw the inevitable coming and remembered the tales told by storm-blown sailors of uninhabited islands far out to sea. Magic could not cross water, so common knowledge had it. With their rule failing, the warlords took their families and fled, although in their stories, it was not retreat but regrouping. They saw themselves as heroes in exile who would one day return to burn every sorcerer and become kings of the known world. They called themselves the Sons of Freedom.

The men settled down to a life of fighting and fishing. They engaged in bloody feuds. They made sure that women kept in their place. They told stories, reinventing the history of the world they had left, and made prophecies of their glorious return. None dared admit that the islands were not a cradle of kings but a forgotten backwater. In time, all contact with the mainland ceased, while each year, the shoals of fish returned and the war bands fought their petty wars.

No one would have predicted any great change when Thurbold the Blood-Reaper became ruler of Storenseg. He was a strong and ambitious warrior who had murdered several relatives to become king while scarcely into his twenties. His schemes went further. He led his war band into battle, inspiring them with his berserker courage, in a bid to conquer all the islands.

Then Rathshorn, Varseg, and Tanenseg allied against him, forcing him back from every gain he had made, until Thurbold was on the point of surrender. On a bitter winter morning, he sat brooding in his hall when he learnt that a shipwreck survivor had been washed onto the beach.

The castaway was not an enemy sailor, as first assumed, but an elderly woman. She had no possessions except for a small leather bag containing a battered pewter chalice. Exposure had addled her wits. She cackled and talked to herself. Yet, between the nonsense, she said enough for Thurbold to realise that she was a sorcerer.

It should have been straightforward. In the clansmen’s way of thinking, a burning was the only option, but Thurbold was desperate. (Although, as things worked out, he was quite secure. The coalition against him would soon break down, victim to the mistrust between islands.)

In his despair, Thurbold decided to bargain with the sorcerer. He offered her gold if she would cast a spell to make his warriors invincible; she giggled about seaweed. He offered her a boat off the islands; she sang about apple blossoms. He did unpleasant things to her and then offered to stop, and finally, she agreed.

The sorcerer was named Abrak. She was allowed to roam the island, muttering and babbling her nonsense. Thurbold’s warriors muttered in turn—that he was a fool to trust the madwoman. Yet his reputation was such that none dared say it to his face.

Soon, Abrak returned to Thurbold’s hall. She had found what she needed for a potion. She promised that Thurbold would conquer all the islands, and his name would be remembered there forever. Thurbold was elated; his decision to negotiate had been right.

Abrak offered to show the men how to make the potion, but even fear of Thurbold would not move his warriors to accept. They would take the potion if there was no other hope of victory, but they would not defile their hands by brewing the sorcery. It was woman’s work. None thought anything of it when Abrak’s screeched laughter shook the rafters of the hall. The sorcerer was mad.

Abrak instructed the women on harvesting plants and preparing the potion. She stood before Thurbold one last time to explain how the magic worked. A boy should be given a mouthful of the potion each day from the time he was weaned until his beard started to grow. Then, with the change to manhood, there would be a change in his body, and his strength would be increased twofold for the rest of his life.

Abrak swore by the gods of earth, sea and sky that she was telling the truth. However, it was not the spell Thurbold wanted. His fear was for the coming summer campaign, not for the wars of twenty years hence. This was his excuse—if he felt that one was needed—to order a pyre built and send Abrak to the flames. The brutality and double-dealing were typical of Thurbold, yet all accounts agree that Abrak’s laughter was never louder than when she went to her death.

The decision to use the potion could not have been easy. In the end, Thurbold took the risk and gave it to his infant son and every other baby boy. However, the concoction was not poisonous, and time proved that Abrak had spoken the truth. The potion-enhanced warriors of Storenseg were unbeatable. Within twenty-five years, they had conquered all, and Thurbold was King of all the Western Isles, the first to claim the title—as his son was to be the last.

Thurbold’s ancestors might have warned him—those who’d had dealing with magic users in the days before the flight to the islands. The vengeance of sorcerers may be slow and subtle, but it is as sure as the turn of the tides.

Abrak’s vengeance began with the rebellion of the sons. The superhuman warriors would not long take second place to a rabble of weak, elderly men. Thurbold had less than one year as king, then spent the rest of his days as his son’s slave, tending the sheep. Yet worse was in store for the men of the Western Isles.

The legends differ as to the reason, although all agree on the outcome. Some man was eager to push more work onto his daughters, or a nurse found it easier to give the potion to all babies in her charge, or a woman had been privy to Abrak’s plans. Whatever the cause, even before Thurbold’s son had grown, it became the custom to give the potion to girls as well as boys.

The men who ruled the islands had no regard for their daughters. Their lives revolved around men, swords, and the clan. Women were not worth consideration, except as vessels of sons or trophies to their virility. Which is how it escaped their notice that while the strength of men was increased twofold by the potion, the strength of women increased fivefold and more.

Maybe this oversight was not so remarkable. Most women failed to see what the potion would mean, unable to conceive of the social order standing on its head. But not all were so blind. One woman in particular foresaw a new future. She was a schemer and a fighter who engineered the second rebellion and became the first queen.

It was not easy to turn women, trained to cower, into warriors. However, Abrak had put all the weapons into their hands. Even the facts of reproduction worked in their favour. They could kill ninety-nine men out of a hundred, but the men could not reciprocate without forgoing the next generation. By the fortieth anniversary of Abrak’s death, the warlike patriarchy had been replaced with a mirror-image matriarchy.

The women settled down to a life of fighting and fishing in a society that revolved around women, swords, and the family. They called themselves the Daughters of Abrak’s Revenge.

*

“It sounds as if they got a bit carried away with the rhetoric,” Klara observed at the end of the tale.

“I think they got a bit carried away with everything,” Tevi said.

Jemeryl had mainly listened in silence. Now she asked, “So on your islands, the warriors are all women?”

“Yes.”

“And the story of Abrak explains why,” Jemeryl mused. “It’s imaginative, but it must raise more questions than it answers.”