Dragonrank master

CHAPTER 4: Master Thief

"Who is all-powerful should fear everything."

– Pierre Corneille LeCid

Al Larson awakened to utter darkness. He remained immobile in the dirt, not daring to believe he was finally out of Hel. The events of the previous morning: Fenrir's challenge, the dog fight, the rugged climb from Hvergelmir's pit all seemed too vividly real to have been a dream. Filled with bitter disbelief, he stared into the sky. Gradually, he discerned the pinpoint light of stars through interwoven branches, and he realized it was a normal, moonless night in Midgard. The air felt thick with the mingled scents of loam and pine and the comforting, acridly woody smell of a campfire. Larson rolled to his side. "Gaelinar?"

Gaelinar's voice came from Larson's left. "I'm here, hero. Are you ready for practice?"

"Now?" Larson groaned, twisted to face Gaelinar, and swept to a sitting position. "But I still don't have a sword."

Gaelinar perched on a fallen trunk, lit by a weak circle of flame. His golden robes spread about his legs like a crumpled flower, but the black sash around his waist held his katana and shoto, their sheaths and brocade immaculately clean. "That is of no consequence. I train the man, not the sword. The weapon is only a tool, an extension of the spirit. The technique, the intent and motivation of each cut remains regardless of the blade. Come." Gaelinar rose and trotted into the woods.

Larson rubbed his eyes, trying to shake the last, heavy vestiges of sleep. I can't believe this fucking gook's got me up in the middle of the night to swing an imaginary sword. Grumbling curses in three languages, he followed the Kensei between hardy trunks of birch and aspen to a grove of ancient pines. The lower boughs had withered and broken in the shadow of their younger brothers, leaving a thick blanket of needles as a floor. The higher branches clustered into a tangled roof thirty feet above Larson's head. Huddled trunks stood, as wide as fire hydrants, their limbs forming walls which barred the winds. To Larson, the clearing beneath the pines seemed not unlike an oblong, indoor stadium with the lights turned off.

Gaelinar kicked aside fallen branches to establish practice space. He walked to the center of the grove. "Sweeps. Begin, hero."

Larson blinked in the grayness at the edge of the clearing. "Let me get this straight. You woke me up to practice with a pretend sword? And in the dark for Christ's sake?''

Gaelinar waved Larson to him. "When I was a humble and lowly student…" He emphasized the adjectives with malicious glee. "… we sparred blindfolded, standing on ice. When you can't see your opponent's body, you must fight his spirit, and strategy is ultimately a contest of spirits. By training on ice, I was forced to keep my consciousness centered during combat. Until you learn to cut with your spirit as well as your sword, you'll master neither your weapon nor yourself."

Larson muttered beneath his breath, "You'd think I'd be used to his nonsense by now." Cautiously, he approached Gaelinar. "Fine, O most exalted swordmaster whom even the gods envy. What do you want me to do?''

Gaelinar ignored Larson's blatant sarcasm. "Sweeps. As I showed you at your first lesson."

Larson adjusted his stance. He clenched his hands together, as if to a hilt, and swung in high arcs. He pulled each strike just past his leg.

"Stop," Gaelinar said impatiently. "Is that how you would perform with a sword?"

Larson poised, left foot forward and weight evenly distributed. "Probably not."

"Try it again."

Larson realigned. He envisioned a long sword in his grip and attempted to maneuver once more. The movement felt more comfortable until, unbidden, a thought emerged in his mind. It's like the old joke about the unarmed soldier who kills his enemies with a fake gun and bayonet while yelling "bangety-bang" or "stickety-stick" until a weaponless adversary tramples him, saying ' 'tankety-tank.'' The absurdity of the idea threw off Larson's timing.

Gaelinar shouted. "Allerum, keep your spirit and body in the same realm, please. Start again."

Larson lowered his arms. "I'm sorry, Gaelinar. I just can't take this 'pretend sword' stuff seriously. Maybe if you let me use yours, just for the practice, I…"

Gaelinar interrupted, his tone fiercely angry. "After what I just told you, you would dare ask me for my sword? Haven't you been listening at all?" Gaelinar gripped his hilt with such violence Larson took an involuntary backstep. "I've carried this sword longer than you've been alive. Only through years of diligent practice can a weapon become a part of your spirit. Do you expect me to hand over my soul to you because you gave away your sword?" He took a threatening step toward Larson. "Hundreds of years of tradition dictate I could kill you for that question. But it will be forgiven this time and only this time. Handling my sword would be as handling my person. Either would be unwise and at your own peril."

Stunned by Gaelinar's fury, Larson stammered. "I- I'm sorry. I… but… you touch my sword!"

Gaelinar relaxed, but his voice retained its deadly sharpness. "This katana was the sole labor of a master smith for five years and the culminating work of his glorious life. He delicately folded joined layers of hard and soft steel, hundreds upon hundreds of times, to create an edge that, in the proper hands and spirit, can cut through armor as if it didn't exist. Your sword…" Gaelinar snorted, and his tone softened. "Your sword was beaten on a rock by a fat drunkard barely able to call his life an existence. If such is a fitting receptacle for your soul, so be it."

For a moment, Larson stood in silent confusion. Then, righteous indignation boiled up within him. "I'll have you know, you just called Loki a fat drunkard! We both saw him. He was neither. And I think he would have called his life an existence." When Gaelinar did not interrupt, Larson's self-defense became a tirade. "Look. I come from another world. I don't know all your picky, pissant rules. Your society dictates that you kill a man for touching a sword? How the hell am I supposed to know that? What next?" He imitated Gaelinar's gutteral accent. "I'm sorry, hero, but my people behead nose-pickers. Sayanara, Allerumsan. Sukiyaki…"

Gaelinar's demeanor returned to normal. "Are you quite finished, hero?"

"I think so."

"Good." Gaelinar again adopted his teaching tone. "Admittedly, we're from different cultures, and we're going to have misunderstandings. Yet you must realize that when I've been taught to take certain things as insults for sixty years, I'm still going to consider them insults. I find insults intolerable. But notice, I didn't kill you."

Larson found it impossible to feel appreciative. "Gee, thanks."

Gaelinar continued. "I expect the same from you. I don't assume you will tolerate things you consider a personal affront from me." He added carefully, "But at least I do not compound my offenses with stupid questions. Now, hero. Change directions in the middle of an overhand strike."

I find nearly everything you say offensive. Americans are just too damn tolerant. Larson kept this thought to himself, believing the conversation had already dragged on too long. "All right." He assumed a fighting stance, his hands before him as if holding a sword. With a short, forward lunge, he raised his arms above his head, then spun on the balls of his feet and executed a strike. His left elbow smacked a pine trunk, shooting agony along his forearm. "Shit!" Larson danced into the clearing as the pain changed to a sensation of pins and needles.

The throb of his injured arm heaped upon the night's frustrations turned Larson's mood completely sour. He tilted his head and regarded Gaelinar through one eye. "Are you sure about this bullshit? Does a sword really work because of the intentions of the man, not the weapon?"

"Yes. It's not the weapon that cuts. It's the focusing of your spirit."

Larson spread his thumb and forefinger and aimed his imaginary gun at Gaelinar's chest. "Bangety-bang!"

Gaelinar's forehead crinkled. "What are you doing?"

"Just trying something." Larson smiled, feeling better for the charade.

"Fine, hero. Now try that strike again. And from now on, whenever you begin a kata, I expect you to finish it."

Larson massaged his aching elbow. "But I hit my funny bone."

Gaelinar caught at his own elbow in imitation and spoke in a perfect mockery of Larson's Bronx accent. "Excuse me, O most worthy opponent. I banged my arm. Please don't decapitate me."

Larson's practice continued deep into the night.

Later, over a breakfast of fresh berries and stale bread, Larson felt invigorated. Gaelinar had insisted on prolonging the sword session until Larson demonstrated some degree of competence. The successful cuts and figures Larson had executed at the conclusion of his practice left him with fonder memories of its last half hour. Now, he basked in the drying tingle of his own sweat and the feeling of accomplishment it represented. "Gaelinar, I know we arrived in Midgard at twilight. But, eventually, we're going to have to reverse our days and nights back to normal."

Gaelinar shrugged. "There are some few advantages to traveling at night."

Larson popped a handful of green, striped berries into his mouth. He recalled shadowy figures, all but invisible in Vietnam's darkness. For all their tanks, jets, and helicopters, the Americans had never conquered the jungle nights. "If you're used to it, I suppose. Otherwise, all the advantages belong to your enemies."

Gaelinar rose and tossed dirt on the fire, plunging them into moonless darkness. "Wolves hunt by sight. In daylight, Fenrir would see us better than we could avoid it. Night disadvantages it more than us."

Larson sighed, sprang to his feet, and helped the Kensei bury the remains of their camp. Wistfully, he wondered if he would ever see sunlight again. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"There's only one place we can find another person with Silme's power." Gaelinar paused, as if uncomfortable with his own revelation. "We're going to the school of Dragonrank magic."

Taziar Medakan kept a loose grip on the pine trunk, his legs braced on the branches beneath him. The tree swayed in the icy autumn breezes, but he felt confident on his carefully chosen perch. Across a stretch of fire-cleared plain stood the wall of the Dragonrank school; the late morning sun gave the granite an eerie red cast.

Taziar had studied the school since dawn, pacing the edges of the forest to define the square of wall which enclosed its grounds. He knew the gate occupied the center of the southern wall. A glance through it had revealed that the Dragonrank mages employed armed sentries in addition to whatever magics they used to protect their fortress. The walls towered to four times Taziar's height, and a climb to the highest secure boughs had gained him only a distant, ill-defined view of rows of buildings, boring in their similarity, and colorful gardens between them.

Suddenly, the gates swung open, and a loose formation of forty Dragonmages emerged. Taziar inched down between the needled branches, curious but fearing discovery. He scanned the disorderly ranks for a leader and singled out four sorcerers, each of whom held one of the trademark staves of the Dragonrank: a rod of polished and stained mahogany tapering to a carven dragon's claw, its black toenails gripping its owner's rankstone. Taziar recognized the gems in their staves as jadestones. Several of their followers carried translucent stones on thongs at their belts. Though faceted, the jewels' scratched and purpled interiors betrayed them as glass. Others fingered rock-sized bulges in their pockets. By their insecurity and quickness to obey their jade-rank masters' commands, these men and women were probably also of glass rank, the most inexperienced of the mages by Astryd's descriptions.

Once outside, the glass-rank sorcerers split into eight groups of four or five. The jade-rank leaders separated, one to each wall, while their students moved to the corners. For most of the morning, Taziar observed the two teams of glass-rank mages working from either corner of the western wall. Facing the granite, their backs to Taziar, they pointed fingers at varying levels of the stonework and muttered garbled, mystic syllables. Weak sparks bounced from the wall stones and fizzled out, leaving no recognizable traces. Then, moving half a step closer to the center of the western wall, the sorcerers would repeat the process.

Taziar had no means of identifying the glass-rank mages' spells, if, indeed, they were using magic, but he suspected their work might make his already rugged climb even more formidable. He was pleased to note that whenever their jade-rank teacher rushed over to reprimand one team, the members of the opposite group would slacken pace. When a flaw in the structure of the wall placed the northernmost crew into a hollow beyond sight of their master, the glass-rank students whispered conspiratorially. They yawned, worked cramps from their hands, and cast only a few spells along the narrow stretch of granite. Like overtaxed apprentices everywhere, Taziar noted their laxity with amusement. But, this time, their negligence may work to my advantage.

Gradually, dusk turned the sky pewter gray. A crescent moon rose, visible as a pale outline. As the trainee teams approached the center of the western wall, and one another, Taziar clambered from the tree. He crept deeper into the pine forest, stopping well beyond sight and sound of the Dragonrank school grounds. Rummaging through his pockets, he passed over half a dozen gold coins and a gaudy, emerald brooch filched from a gambler during a card game while the shyster smugly cheated Taziar out of a handful of coppers. From beneath the jewel, he retrieved a vial of fish skin glue and a thong. Using the knife at his belt, he shaved slices from the leather strip and blended them with the brown-tinged, transparent paste. A fraction of a drop of the juice of a weed berry gave the mixture the pinkish color Taziar sought.

Satisfied, Taziar used his concoction to craft a claw-shaped mark on the back of his right hand, a copy of the scar which marred Astryd's flesh. His garnet-rank lover had told him the symbol appeared, naturally, on the skin of any person destined to become Dragonrank; it remained as an identifying feature for the remainder of the sorcerer's life. Taziar flexed and extended his fingers while the compound dried, maintaining the freedom of movement he would need to scale the walls. He studied his handiwork with a frown. Far from adequate, but it should pass a casual inspection in the dark. He headed back toward the Dragonrank school.

By the time Taziar arrived at the edge of the forest, the sorcerers were gone. He assumed they had returned home to eat dinner and rest after a long day of hurling spells at a wall. Or perhaps they're tearing through the woods seeking would-be thieves and unwelcome visitors. Taziar dismissed the thought. Surely, if they noticed me lurking about, they would have threatened or killed me by now. And the fact that most people believe it impossible to sneak into the school should keep such attempts rare. If I'm lucky, uncommon enough for their security to have become lax.

Taziar smoothed wrinkles from his shirt and britches. The sun had slid fully below the western horizon, leaving the clearing in darkness. The sliver of moon seemed a welcome friend; Taziar had undertaken nearly all his major conquests in its presence. It hid his black-clothed form better than any phase but the new moon and still left him enough light by which to see. In Cullinsberg, where most citizens had known him as Taziar the junk merchant and a few as a night-stalking thief called the Shadow Climber, Taziar had worn a hood to prevent cross-recognition. Here the extra precaution seemed unnecessary, a form of dress which could only draw attention for its oddity.

Taziar dropped to a crouch, awash in the euphoric mixture of excitement and restlessness which came to him whenever he undertook an impossible task. He savored the accompanying clarity of thought and action which made the remainder of the world seem to move at half speed. Dropping to his chest, he belly-crawled across the cleared ground, tensed for sudden bursts of magic or verbal challenges. He arrived at the base of the wall without incident and examined the massive structure of granite.

Moonlight flashed from chips of pyrite in the stonework, and Taziar's mind registered something out of place. He hesitated, considering. As yet unable to identify this new source of concern, he crept to the depression in the wall where he had seen the glass-rank apprentices grow remiss in their duties. The wall lay flat gray and featureless before him. At the edges of his peripheral vision, the stone still appeared to glitter, lit by the meager glare of the moon and stars. Now, Taziar realized what had bothered him. The reflections formed a pattern of jagged lines not quite random enough to pass for a work of nature. Magic. Taziar smiled. I can see it, so I can avoid it.

Glad he had taken the time to observe the glass-ranks at work, Taziar found handholds in the stonework of the hollow. Cautiously, he shinnied upward. The granite felt rough and cool against his skin, and the challenge of its ascent seemed, somehow, appropriate. Taziar felt a strange sense of belonging, as if he had been born solely for this climb. He reveled in the sensation until, at a level twice his own height from the ground, he caught a glimpse of silver on the stone upon which he was about the place his fingers. He recoiled, catching his balance on the remainder of his limbs. Hunching closer, he examined a spot on the wall. It appeared dull and benign in the darkness. Gone? Too certain of his eyesight to doubt what he had seen, Taziar avoided the site as he continued his climb.

Three quarters of the distance up the wall of the Dragonrank school, Taziar wedged his fingers into an irregular crevice. Sudden pain stabbed through his hand. Instinctively, he jerked away. The movement jarred his toes free. He swung, smashed flat to the granite, clutching desperately to his one remaining handhold. Magic seared his abdomen where it touched the wall. He bit back a scream; it emerged as an anguished whimper. He scrabbled for a toehold, fighting his natural urge to fling himself away from the pain. The sorceries stung his hand and body relentlessly, like the barbs of woodland nettles.

The seconds it took Taziar to secure his position dragged like hours. He squeezed shut his watering eyes, clung to the wall, and nursed his throbbing hand. A breeze swirled around him, cool, gentle, and soothing. He savored its mundaneness as the pain diminished to a steady ache. Visually tracing his path to the summit, he discovered three more of the glowing areas. He winced, wondering why he could see them so clearly now when he had been unable to discern them up close. Without an answer, he memorized the positions of the spells above him. They seemed to disappear as he came upon them, but he avoided their remembered locations and arrived at the top without further incident.

Pressed to the stone, Taziar examined the layout of the Dragonrank school grounds. The night sky turned the scene into a blur of gardens and dormitories. Through a drab curtain of gray and black, Taziar perceived a palatial structure at its middle. It sported at least one crenelated tower, and Taziar could discern globs of oddly-shaped masonry on its roof and walls. One-story buildings, each with its own garden, radiated from it, spiraling outward toward the walls. Nearer the central structure, unidentifiable ivory or metallic figures studded the gardens, and the crops formed straight rows. Nearer the walls, the buildings became squatter and longer, the gardens less ornate.

Taziar shifted on the summit, craning his neck for a better view. Apparently, the Dragonranks move closer to

the center as they advance in skill. It seems likely they use the gardens for practice and training sessions. The outermost quarters could house half a dozen glass-rank mages apiece. The more powerful sorcerers probably live alone. Taziar counted carefully. Assuming no more than three actually live in the castle, a maximum of seventy-two sorcerers could reside here at any given time, of which fifty-four would hold a glass or other low rank. Taziar considered. Not many, given the necessary maintenance and chores to keep a fortress like this one. That explains why they hire sentries for routine duties such as guarding the gate.

The area within the walls seemed larger than Taziar's walk around the outer perimeter implied. Magic. It only makes sense. The realization turned his thoughts back to his own predicament. Even with the proper tools, few men could have scaled that wall. Had I not seen them placed and misplaced, the glass-rank sorcerers' spells would likely have killed or, at least, deterred me. He shook his injured hand. The pain had subsided while he studied the grounds. Now I'll need to dodge whatever sorcerous defenses lie inside the school as well as the magical and common soldiers which inhabit it. And I still have to find Astryd. Memories of his lover fueled Taziar's desire, and the enormity of his task only made him more determined. He examined the inner side of the wall for telltale shimmerings of magic but saw none. Quickly, he shinnied down it into the Dragonrank school grounds.

Taziar descended onto the dirt path of a garden enclosed on the north by its accompanying building, by the outer wall to the west, and by whitewashed wooden fences on its other two sides. The walkway led to a gate in the opposite fence. It was crossed at several places by other paths which cut the garden into rectangular beds of soil. Several of the perpendicular routes led to the dormitory. Others dead-ended against the fence. A grotesque-appearing statue stood at the center of the garden, moss-covered and vaguely human in shape. A cluster of bushes graced the central edge of each of a dozen flower and vegetable beds.

Taziar knew he could climb any of the garden's boundaries without difficulty, but a casual stroll through the shadowed edges of the pathways and out through the gate seemed far more inconspicuous. A romp through the soil beds or over a building or gate would surely draw suspicion from anyone who might catch a glimpse of him in the darkness. Otherwise, they might mistake him for a glass-rank mage out for a walk in the night air.

This decided, Taziar started down the trail, prepared to hide at the first indication of unwanted company. He had taken only a couple of steps when something stung his forearm. He slapped at it automatically, cursing silently. A few paces later, a like pain stabbed through his opposite wrist. Ach! Taziar clamped his hand to the site. He had known insect stings before, and these felt remarkably similar. But why should bees fly at night or attack unprovoked? Taziar took a careful sidestep. The movement earned him another bite in the shoulder accompanied by the jangle of a bell.

The noise startled Taziar. He sprang behind one of the bushes. Moments later, the rhythmic pounding of running footsteps sounded on the path, coming from the direction of the building. An adolescent voice squealed, "My ward! Master Ingharr, did you hear? Someone set off my ward!"

Another voice reprimanded the first in a disdainful baritone. "Learn dignity, Kirbyr. I do not find an improperly placed spell praiseworthy or exciting. This would not be the first time your sloppy wards alarmed without cause."

Taziar flattened to the ground, heart pounding, as the men approached. He considered sprinting for the southern fence but doubted he could make it over without being spotted or setting off more wards. He lay still, hoping the sorcerers would pass by him in the dark.

Closer now, Kirbyr's voice trembled with repressed disappointment and anger. "Master, I-I set them right. I know I did. I swear I did. An intruder…"

"Kirbyr." Ingharr spoke with scornful condescension. "Magic incorrectly cast costs life energy, just less. One day, just by chance, you will channel your powers properly, drain your soul force, and you will die. You will die, Kirbyr, of your own laziness."

Taziar judged the Dragonrank mages now stood where he had triggered their ward. He was glad they continued to talk. His own breathing sounded far too loud.

Kirbyr seemed close to tears. "Master, please. I cast them properly."

"Very well." Ingharr adopted a teaching tone. "Let us say we have uncovered an intruder. What do you know about him already?"

Taziar remained immobile, wishing he had risked a run while he had the chance. Ingharr's nonchalance shocked him. No doubt, the sorcerer was in no hurry. He either felt certain of Kirbyr's ineptitude or he knew he was competent to handle anyone who dared to break into the Dragonrank school. So much so, he patiently used it as an opportunity to teach. That degree of arrogance usually arose from multiple successes, though Taziar knew that overconfidence could also become a weakness.

Apparently pleased to abandon the subject of his incompetence, Kirbyr responded to Ingharr's question with enthusiasm. "I know only that he triggered my wards. And, master, he may escape if we don't do something."

"Ah, my young fool. But you know much more." Ingharr shifted to stand on the pathway to the gate. "You know our intruder must be a thief and a foreigner.''

The accuracy of Ingharr's guess surprised Taziar. He could now see the gray-robed outline of the elder Dragonrank mage. Ingharr had certainly chosen his position by design. His presence blocked Taziar's escape toward the garden gate. Even in the darkness, the sorcerer surely had a reasonably good view of the flower beds to either side of the pathway. Taziar's only logical means of evasion lay back the way he had come. But once he had climbed partway up the wall, he would become an easily visible target.

Kirbyr seemed stumped by his mentor's logic. "How do you know he's a thief and a foreigner?"

"Easy, Kirbyr." Ingharr's volume increased, and Taziar suspected the mage phrased his explanation as much to scare the potential intruder as to inform his student. "A sorcerer would never have blundered clumsily into a glass-rank apprentice's wards. A swordsman bent on murder would have tried to slay us by now. Theft is the only other rational motive. And only a foreigner could be stupid or ignorant enough to attempt to penetrate our school. The natives know what we did to the last thief we caught." He spoke even louder. "We used him for spell practice: fire, pain, mutilation. We seared out his eyes with lightning strikes. We burned his fingers to shriveled stumps. We tore his body and soul apart, piece by piece. He screamed for two days before he died… and three days after."

Taziar shivered, certain Ingharr was baiting him, yet chilled by his evil tone and description. In choosing to remain still, he had chosen wrongly. Undoubtedly, Ingharr knew he lay within earshot. Taziar would have to slip away, quickly and silently, to retain any chance of surviving this encounter. His one advantage seemed to be Ingharr's insistence on turning this into a learning experience for Kirbyr. Trusting to his black clothing and hair to hide him and the sorcerers' conversation to mask his progress, Taziar inched back toward the outer wall.

Kirbyr seemed discomforted by his master's narrative. He said nothing.

Ingharr returned to his lesson with an abruptness which made his prior threat sound even more menacing. "Kirbyr, what shall we do with our foreign thief?"

Kirbyr spoke tentatively. "Spell of slaying?"

Taziar crept faster. As the wall loomed before him, he turned ninety degrees toward the white-washed fence. He hoped it was the type of maneuver Ingharr would not anticipate. If he could slip closer, a mad dash and climb over the southern fence would become Taziar's only chance to find Astryd or escape Kirbyr's garden. A barrage of "bee stings" made his journey even more uncomfortable, but luck or Kirbyr's lack of skill kept him from triggering another of the apprentice's audible alarms.

Ingharr went pensive. "Slaying spell, you say? You're awfully free with my power, aren't you, Kirbyr? And would you have me cast it at random or do you know the precise location of your imaginary thief?"

"Oh." Kirbyr hesitated a moment. "First, a locating triangle."

Taziar wriggled across the dirt. Moonlight polished the smooth white of the fence, still several body lengths away. Even in the shadow of the next building, Taziar knew his dark dress would work against him clambering, unseen, over the barrier.

"Well thought out plan." The scathing sarcasm in Ingharr's voice was unmistakable. "By the time I'd finished, our thief would have whatever he wanted, and I'd have too little life energy left to cast your slaying spell. Think simple, Kirbyr. How about… this!" His voice rose on the last syllable.

Taziar heard a click. A sudden flash shattered his vision. He rolled, stifling a startled scream. Jagged bands of light striped his retinas. He jammed his lids closed, not daring to move until his sight cleared.

Slowly, Taziar opened his eyes. Brilliant, white magic lit a perfect square of the garden like the noonday, summer sun. Around Ingharr's sorceries, the world remained dark as pitch. Taziar noted, with relief, that he lay just beyond the edges of the spell.

"And this!" screamed Ingharr.

Taziar dove behind a bush as light exploded around him, illuminating a second square beside the first. But this one included Taziar, his arms drawn tightly before him. The spells had come too fast, leaving him no time to think. He had chosen this bush because it stood closest. But it was small. A larger man would have found it no protection at all. Even Taziar was uncertain whether it hid him completely from the sorcerers.

Taziar held his breath as a minute crawled mercilessly past. A breeze ruffled the branches, and tiny leaves tickled his face. He knew the end would come fast, and he resented the fact that he would meet it crouched and cringing behind a bush. But he also realized movement of any sort would seal his fate. He had no choice but to wait and hope Ingharr could not see him.

Ingharr's voice boomed through the silence. "Are you satisfied?"

The magical lights winked out, plunging Taziar back into darkness. He paused, allowing his eyes to readjust.

"But, master. I was so certain." Kirbyr sounded sullen. "Maybe he sneaked away while we talked. We waited an awfully long time before…"

"Silence!" Anger colored Ingharr's reply. "I can tolerate an apprentice sorcerer who makes mistakes. But an apprentice sorcerer who makes mistakes and refuses to admit them becomes a danger to me and to himself. Admit it, Kirbyr. You misplaced your wards."

There was no response.

Taziar crawled toward the fence which formed the southernmost border of the garden. The mages' voices grew fainter as they walked toward the dormitory building. Taziar smiled in relief.

"Say it, Kirbyr!" Ingharr screamed.

Taziar could not make out the words to Kirbyr's incoherent grumble, but it seemed to satisfy Ingharr. As the Cullinsbergen stood and broke into a hunched run, the elder Dragonrank mage spoke.

"Kirbyr, an inferior enemy should be played. No one 'sneaked away while we talked.' My keen sight and hearing would have detected…" His words faded into the distance.

Mardain's mercy, I made it! Taziar grinned in triumph, only three strides from the fence. Suddenly, he struck something unyielding. Light slammed into his eyes, etching red streaks in his vision. His sight of the barrier vanished in a whooshing ball of flame. Fire seared his left arm and set his shirt ablaze. Screaming, Taziar reeled backward. Heat waves shimmered the air before him, bright green and unlike anything he had seen before. He hit the ground with bruising force, and the world plunged into oblivion.

Taziar awoke to pain and darkness. His arm and side still felt on fire. His head ached. By the position of the moon, he realized he had fallen unconscious only a few moments ago. Groggily, his mind registered the sound of approaching footsteps, and he sat up as two gray robed figures came up to him.

"Who are you, boy?" the taller one demanded.

Taziar recognized the voice as Ingharr's. He winced, cradling his injured arm to stall for time. Apparently, the Dragonrank mage had mistaken Taziar's slightness for immaturity, and Taziar sought a means to capitalize on Ingharr's error. Dizzy with pain, he mimicked the higher-pitched, frightened voice of a child in his best Norwegian accent. "I-I-I. I'm a glass-rank. J-just arrived tonight, master. Please. Don't-don't hurt me any more." He cringed.

"Dragonrank?" Ingharr's voice conveyed bitter disbelief. His eyes crinkled, and he glanced about the garden as if to trace Taziar's route. "Where did you come from?"

Taziar raised his right arm and pointed a shaking finger toward the gate in the eastern fence. The trembling was no act. The burns and his fall had sapped Taziar's strength.

Kirbyr piped up excitedly. "See, master. Someone did trip my ward."

Ingharr waved his apprentice silent. "Did you set off Kirbyr's spell?"

Suspecting it would be safer to lie as little as possible, Taziar nodded, studying his wounds. The fire had melted huge holes in his sleeve and side. The flesh beneath appeared bright red and had already begun to blister.

Ingharr persisted. "Then you heard us talking."

Taziar met Ingharr's stare with widened, blue eyes. "Yes, sir."

"That's 'yes, master.' And why didn't you speak up then?"

Taziar let wild anger seep into his voice. "You scared all hell from me,'s… master. You were going to burn my eyes out and use slaying spells and everything."

Kirbyr added. "And tear his body and soul apart."

"Silence!" Ingharr raised a warning hand toward his apprentice.

Taziar bit back a smile. He seemed to have found an ally. At worst, Kirbyr's childish exuberance might distract Ingharr. Night muted the sorcerers' features to blurs, but Kirbyr's blond ringlets and pearly skin were easily visible. Though he held no rankstone in evidence, a telltale lump distended his hip pocket. A sword swung at his opposite side. Ingharr appeared darker. He carried a dragonstaff with a garnet clutched in its claw.

"You don't look or talk like any Northerner I've ever met," Ingharr challenged.

Taziar pursed his lips. He knew Dragonrank mages were a Norwegian phenomenon. South of the Kattegat, only a few seasoned travelers had even heard of sorcerers, and most believed them only as mothers' stories. But Ingharr's swarthy features encouraged Taziar to defend his claim. "I was born and raised in Cullinsberg." He spoke the truth, but saw no way around the lie which followed. "My father was a Viking. A guilty conscience returned him to my mother last year, and he recognized the Dragonmark on me."

Ingharr hesitated. He had to notice Taziar's story, though unlikely, demonstrated knowledge of the Dragonrank school few outsiders could have. "Show me the mark."

Taziar held out his right arm, displaying his doctored scar. When Ingharr reached for a closer look, Taziar clamped his hand to his burn. "I hurt," he pouted.

Kirbyr chimed in helpfully. "You triggered Master Ingharr's ward." He gestured toward his mentor. "A strong one, too."

The immediate danger past, Taziar stumbled to his feet, silently cursing wasted time. He still needed to find Astryd and escape before daylight. "I have to go now. Mistress Astryd may get mad if I'm late."

"Wait." Ingharr stepped between Taziar and the path to the gate. "Your rankstone. I want to see it."

Taziar's chest tightened. Sidestepping the garnet-rank mage, he stalled, adopting a childlike bravado. "No! You threatened me. You called me 'thief and 'foreigner.' You hurt me, and you made me late for my mistress. I was told to protect my rankstone. Leave me alone."

Ingharr's tone turned menacing. "Show me your rankstone. Now, boy! Or I'll give you a sample of real pain." He signaled Kirbyr with a brisk sweep of his fingers.

Taziar tensed to run, aware he had no further tricks. He considered drawing his sword and rushing the sorcerer, but he doubted his mediocre skill with weapons would serve against a garnet-rank Dragonmage, especially in his weakened state.

Kirbyr caught Taziar's shoulder. The glass-rank mage's sword sheath slapped the Cullinsbergen's thigh. "My master wants to see your rankstone."

Kirbyr's nearness gave Taziar an idea. And so he shall. With subtlety gained from years of practice on the streets, he flicked his hand into Kirbyr's hip pocket. Seizing the apprentice's rankstone, he deftly flipped it into a fold of his black britches. The maneuver took less than a second, and Tazier held Ingharr's gaze throughout it. Chin jutting, he displayed Kirbyr's gem-cut glass stone as his own.

Kirbyr's grip loosened. Ingharr took the glass from Taziar and studied it at arm's length, then immediately before his face. He spoke harsh, wordless noises, and the rankstone glowed a brilliant, opaque yellow.

Taziar held his breath, hoping the spell would not reveal the owner of the stone.

Ingharr seemed satisfied. "It's a rankstone. Apparently, you've stored most of your life force in it which explains why I can't see your aura." He offered the stone to Taziar. "What's your name, boy?"

Taziar accepted the glass piece and placed it in his pocket. The first Scandinavian name to come to his mind belonged to a barbarian prince in Sweden. "Manebjorn. Please, master. I have to go. I've obviously wandered into the wrong garden. Where can I find Mistress Astryd?"

"There." Ingharr pointed toward the center of the school grounds. "Leave here through the gate. Follow the road straight. Turn right after the second building, and you'll find the entrance to Astryd's garden on your left."

"Thank you." Taziar trotted down the pathway. The rapid motion jogged pain through his side, but he wanted to leave the garden before Ingharr found more errors in his story.

"Manebjorn, stop!"

Reluctantly, Taziar turned.

Ingharr came up beside him. "Don't move, young fool.

You nearly ran into another of my wards. Didn't the arch-master teach you how to avoid them?"

Taziar shook his head, covering his ignorance as well as he could. "He said so much, master. I can't recall."

"Then I will remind you." Comfortably, Ingharr slipped back into his teaching role. "The wards become visible if you don't look at them. What do you see before you?''

Taziar stared. "A dirt roadway, master," he admitted.

"Now." Ingharr inclined his head toward the center of the garden. "Look there."

"I see a shabby-looking statue."

"Hey!" Kirbyr protested the insult to what was, apparently, his magical artwork.

Ingharr loosed a snort which Taziar suspected was a politely suppressed laugh. "What do you see here?" He indicated the roadway.

Gaze fixed on the stone figure, Taziar studied the path from the edge of his vision. Just before him, glimmering, narrow bands crossed the walkway in an intertwining pattern. Smaller, less dramatic wards hovered throughout the garden. Taziar recalled the difficulties he had had locating the magics on the wall stones. Now, it all made sense. He knew Ingharr's revelation would serve him well. "Thank you, Master Ingharr," he said with genuine gratitude and left the garden as quickly as possible.

After Taziar's run-in with the Dragonrank mages, dodging spear-toting sentries in the roadways seemed like play. Under normal circumstances, he would have enjoyed the simple challenges eluding guards demanded. But the left half of his body alternated between numbness and excruciating pain, making his usually careful dodges seem unprofessional and clumsy. The pathways outside the gardens contained no magical wards, and Taziar suspected the Dragonmages did not permit the guardsmen in their private gardens. That would explain why the sorcerers trap their gardens so thoroughly, and yet the sentries can still move freely.

Four flawless, clean, stone walls enclosed Astryd's residence. Taziar found the gate where Ingharr had told him to look for it. But a complicated ward filled the entry way like a huge, glimmering spider web. It seemed odd to Taziar that anyone would create a gateway, only to render it unusable. As he clambered painfully over the granite wall, he wondered how Astryd entered and left her own garden.

Once inside, Taziar studied the garden from the corners of his eyes and memorized the pattern of Astryd's wards. Skirting them, he followed a winding pathway to Astryd's home. The soil beds on either side sported plump vegetables of varieties Taziar had never seen. He paid them little heed. Born and raised in a crowded city, he knew nothing of the farmer's livelihood. Cullinsberg's food supply came from trade with neighboring towns, hunting, and the bakers' skills with grains from the city's holdings.

At the center of Astryd's courtyard, Taziar paused to examine its single statue. An alabaster horse supported a rider dressed in a simple tunic and breeks. A wine glass in the figure's hand spouted water into a basin on the ground between the animal's dancing forelegs. Taziar could not imagine a carving tool which could have rendered the fountain's surface as smooth as it appeared. But what impressed him most was the rider's features. The face bore a striking likeness to his own. He stared, wondering if this was Astryd's idea of a tribute. Though, surely, she never expected me to see it. Flattered, he continued toward Astryd's building.

As Taziar reached the doorway, anticipation filled him with eager excitement. More than a month had passed since he had last seen Astryd, but he recalled her features as if she had departed only yesterday. She stood smaller than him, an asset few women and fewer men shared. She sported the taut, lithe frame of a young swordsman or a dancer. She had a boldness and cunning beyond that of any person Taziar had known since his days with the street gang. Though plain, her face was in its own way attractive; it had become the standard by which he measured beauty.

As Taziar raised his hand to tap on Astryd's door, doubts assailed him. What if she's forgotten me? What if time has allowed her to realize it was her ranks tone, not

my charm, which made her fall for me? He rejected his questions as they arose. She knows that already, and she claimed it didn't matter. And her fountain would suggest she still cares for me. He knocked as his fears of rejection turned his thoughts to raving paranoia. Unless she uses my likeness for target practice.

Before Taziar could pursue the idea, the door swung open. Astryd stood in the doorway. She wore a faded pink sleeping gown which in no way revealed the gentle curves of her figure. Her blonde hair hung in tangled disarray. As she stared, her eyes lost the glaze of slumber and filled with open astonishment. Her jaw sagged.

Taziar spoke with matter-of-fact politeness. "Good evening, Astryd."

"Shadow," she whispered. Suddenly, she caught him by the arm and jerked him into the hallway.

Caught by surprise, Taziar staggered. He heard the door slam shut behind him as Astryd seized him around the waist and half dragged him past several curtained or open entry ways and into a room at the farther end of the hall. Again, he heard a wooden door close. Astryd swept him into a hug.

For some time, they clung in a silent embrace. Astryd's closeness filled Taziar with warm desire. He caught her lips in a passionate kiss, assessing the layout of the room over her shoulder. Behind Astryd, a bed lay, rumpled from sleep. Closed wooden trunks lined the walls on either side, and a shelf at the farther end held a jumble of bric-a-brac, including a transparent pitcher filled with water. Beside it, an oil lamp bathed the room with light.

The bedroom, Taziar guessed. How convenient. He maneuvered Astryd down against the wrinkled sheets and blankets.

Astryd resisted, scrambling out from beneath him to face him from across the bed. "Shadow, stop it! Not now. We need to talk. Why? How?"

Taziar smiled. Here with Astryd, all his pain seemed unimportant. "Could you be more specific?" he asked.

She cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips with mock sternness, studying him in the lamplight.

"How did you get by…" She broke off with a gasp. "Shadow, you're hurt."

"Just a scratch," Taziar lied, dropping his left arm into the shadow of his body.

"Take off your shirt."

Not wanting to worry Astryd, Taziar protested. "But I don't need…"

"Take it off, Taziar Medakan. Or, I'll rip it off you."

"That sounds like fun." Taziar joked, trying to downplay his injuries. The entire left side of his body throbbed, and the exertion of climbing and running had begun to wear on him. Obediently, he removed his ruined shirt. The linen scratched the blisters on his arm and ribs, reawakening the sharp agony of his burns. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he sat on the edge of the bed.

Astryd took a seat beside him and reached for the raw and swollen areas of his skin.

Taziar flinched away.

"Just a scratch," Astryd mimicked in a wry singsong. "So why did you try to jump off the bed when I looked at it?"

Taziar said nothing. A half blind beggar could see the jagged red burn which ran from his shoulder nearly to his hip, splotched yellow-white with fluid-filled blisters.

"Hold still. I can make it feel better." Gently, Astryd took Taziar's arm, inflicting a fresh wave of pain. She ran her ringers across his shoulder, her touch cold as metal in winter. "I hope this wasn't caused by one of my wards. You know, Shadow, if you'd come through the gate, rather than over it, you would have tripped my signal spell. I could have escorted you around my defenses. Why do you always have to do things the hard way?"

That explains the sorceries across her entryway, Taziar mused. Astryd's caress soothed the ache of his wound, and he felt more comfortable as her hand slid along his arm. "It was Ingharr's ward. And while I'm thinking of it, return this to Kirbyr when you get a chance." He retrieved the glass rankstone with his uninjured hand and tossed it to the balled coverlet.

Astryd followed the stone's flight. "A Dragonmage would sooner give up his eyes than his rankstone. How did you get it?"

Where Astryd had touched Taziar, the blisters disappeared and the flush waned. "Kirbyr didn't give it up willingly." At Astryd's horrified glance, he clarified. "Don't worry. I didn't hurt him. I stole it." While Astryd inched her healing magics across Taziar's puckered skin, he described his experiences infiltrating the school and its protections.

Astryd listened with rapt attention.

Taziar finished as Astryd ran her sorceries along his side. "… But I can't understand why Ingharr lets Kirbyr get away with his annoying, childish whining."

Astryd smiled knowingly. "Sometimes we do spoil the glass-ranks." Her voice went soft.

Taziar realized Astryd's healing magics had weakened her, and guilt twinged through him. Apparently, the spell was a difficult and taxing one; it had significantly drained her life energy.

"As you know, only one eligible jade-rank can advance to garnet each year." Astryd met Taziar's gaze, her fingertips resting against him. "The others must abandon any further education here. Despite the law forbidding Dragonmages lesser than garnet from killing other Dragonmages, the competition gets evil and fierce."

Taziar nodded. One such conflict had brought him and Astryd together.

"Once garnet, a Dragonrank mage loses all need to compete, but the rivalry has often become ingrained. So the schoolmaster decided to assign glass-rank apprentices to each garnet."

Taziar grimaced. "Sounds lethal for the glass-ranks."

"Doesn't it?" Astryd's fingers circled Taziar's ribs. "You'd be surprised. The time demanded by our training prevents nearly everyone from having a family. The glass-ranks, especially the young ones, become like our own children. We protect them, teach them, and boast about their abilities. It's a proud moment when one's own apprentice becomes a jade-rank graduate. It redirects the competition. Of course, we're not allowed to participate in their rivalry in any way."

Astryd continued. "Apparently, Kirbyr has become Ingharr's prodigy. Besides, Shadow. There are other reasons to tolerate some glass-rank foolishness. Someday, one of Ingharr's apprentices may become more powerful, and of higher rank, than him. Ingharr wouldn't want his student to recall the time his master punished him for silliness by holding him underwater until he lost consciousness." She considered. "Though I doubt Kirbyr could ever become more powerful than Ingharr."

Astryd's movements grew sluggish. Her eyelids drooped.

Noting Astryd's somnolence, Taziar redirected the conversation to the school's defenses. He held no illusions that his escape would be much easier than his break-in, even with the knowledge Ingharr had imparted. "You once told me a Dragonmage's worst enemy is another Dragonmage. But it seems to me an enemy wizard could find a way over the walls, if he didn't already live here. And he would surely know how to avoid the wards." Nothing remained of Taziar's burn but a faded pink scar and an occasional flattened blister. Not wishing to weaken Astryd further, he reached for his shirt before she could continue her healing.

"The school's actually far better protected against sorcerers than thieves. We have a law against Dragonmages at the school killing one another, and the schoolmaster has ways of finding and dealing with criminals. Not very pretty, I'm afraid. Magic, by its nature, functions best against creations or users of magic. The ward which harmed you might have killed Kirbyr. And most of our spells work only when used for or against sorcerers. For example, an invisible barrier lines our outer walls and forms a ceiling over the school. Any attempt to pass through by magical means would result in the sorcerer's death. It's a powerful spell, the result of years of high rank cooperation. No one has managed to create anything similar to use against nonmagical creatures; if possible at all, such a spell would prove far more challenging to invent or to cast."

Carefully, Taziar pulled on his shirt.

"For a sorcerer, the only safe entrance is our front gate. And we have protections there, too. You, however, blundered unscathed through wards which would have killed the most powerful diamond-rank master."

Taziar mulled over Astryd's explanation. Though confident of his own abilities, he was not arrogant enough to believe no other thief could have sneaked into the Dragonrank school. Still, the mundane and magical defenses would have thwarted all but a handful of men and women. Of those capable of penetrating the training grounds, few or none would have good cause. By Astryd's descriptions, any mage above glass-rank could defeat all but the most skilled and cunning warrior. It seems strange that I could survive magics which would kill a sorcerer. Yet, somehow, it seemed appropriate, part of the natural scheme of the gods to assure mankind's survival. Most societies had some moratorium against soldiers killing civilians; and, aside from the odd plague, fatal diseases were always rarer than those the body could overcome.

Astryd stretched, arching her arms overhead.

Taziar watched her, awed as always by her beauty. Fatigue had slowed her words and movements, but it diminished none of her natural grace and charm. Staring, he fell in love with her again. Jealousy of the Dragonrank school which held her as student and prisoner stirred within him. He scooted closer to her, aware they had whiled away precious time deliberating matters of no importance. He also knew why they had kept their conversation to trivia. The Dragonrank school's defenses, the wards in Astryd's courtyard, the relationship between Ingharr and Kirbyr, all kept Astryd and Taziar from addressing the single issue they needed to discuss: themselves. Now, Taziar stared at his feet, fighting the wellspring of emotion Astryd's closeness inspired. In his life, he had made her only two vows. He had already fulfilled the first; he had found a way to enter the forbidden school grounds to see her again. He had also sworn never to interfere with her Dragonrank training. At the time, he meant both with equal assurance. He knew he could no more deny her the right to her power and schooling than she could deny him the reckless thefts and escapades which kept his life interesting. Yet here in her presence, his good intentions seemed to crumble. "I have to go soon," he mumbled, afraid of what he might say. "I'll see you next week?"

"No." Astryd's voice went firm, but her expression betrayed a hint of grief. "By morning, Ingharr will know we have no new glass-rank named 'Manebjorn.' He'll change security. If you're caught, they'll kill you… and perhaps me, as well. Shadow, I love you. But you mustn't ever return. When vacation time comes, I'll find you."

Taziar met Astryd's moist, blue eyes, and she looked away quickly. Her welling tears hurt him worse than her rejection. He caught her hand and thoughtlessly mouthed the words he had promised himself never to say to her. "Astryd, marry me." Even as he spoke, he knew he should not have forced her into such a decision.

Her grip tightened about his. She turned back to him, her face now composed. "You know I can't."

"I'm sorry." Taziar hid disappointment behind humor. "I went wildly insane, but I think I have it under control now."

Astryd's forehead crinkled thoughtfully. "Unless…" She dismissed the idea with a grin. "My turn to go insane."

Taziar leaped on the opening. "Unless?"

"Unless nothing. I made a mistake."

"Unless," Taziar repeated relentlessly. "I distinctly heard you say 'unless.' "

"All right." Astryd went defensive. I said 'unless.' I made a mistake. I had a thought, but I realized it would be impossib…" Astryd broke off suddenly, her expression pained; apparently she knew Taziar too well.

Excitement suffused Taziar. Despite the trials of his break-in and a day and a night without sleep, he felt suddenly wide awake. The lure of a task deemed impossible inspired him every bit as much as the chance to marry Astryd. "Explain. Let me decide if it's impossible."

Astryd sighed resignedly. "Very well. But only because I know you won't leave until I do. If you stay here much longer, we'll get caught and killed." She squeezed his fingers affectionately, which softened the reprimand. "In order for me to gain rank, I have to remain at the school. But the attainment of power and ability requires only practice, initiative, and guidance. I could leave the school and still reach my potential if a high ranking Dragonmage would accept me as an apprentice."

Taziar tapped his thumb on his knee as he considered. "You'd always be garnet-rank?"

"True. But that doesn't matter. The rank itself is only a symbol. A king without a crown is still a king. The color of the gem in my staff doesn't matter if I've gained the knowledge of a master."

It sounded too simple to Taziar. "So all I'd need to do is find a Dragonrank outside the school willing to train you? That doesn't sound impossible."

Astryd drifted to her back and stared at the ceiling. "It would have to be a sorcerer of ultimate advancement, a diamond-rank master or a sapphire-rank, at least. I know of only one of each, siblings locked in a bitter war who would have better things to do than concern themselves with a Dragonmage of comparatively insignificant experience. Bramin, the diamond-rank, would gleefully torture you to death for no cause. Silme might listen, but her powers and attention are stretched far enough trying to protect the world from Bramin's evil. Her assistant takes a dim view of anyone he considers incompetent."

"Assistant?" Taziar lay down beside Astryd. "If Silme can handle one assistant, why not another?"

Astryd snickered at a private joke. "He's not that type of assistant. Gaelinar's a ronin samurai and quite capable of taking care of himself."

Taziar shot bolt upright. "Gaelinar?" He whirled toward Astryd, catching her arm in an anxious grip. "Did you say Gaelinar?"

"Yes. Why? Do you know him?"

"Not yet." Astryd's words reminded Taziar of the real purpose of his visit. The challenges of his entrance and his love for Astryd had allowed him to forget. "I need to locate this Gaelinar as quickly as possible. This may sound ridiculous, but many lives depend on it. Can you do some sort of… 'Gaelinar-finding' spell?"

Astryd laughed, but stopped abruptly when she met Taziar's solemn gaze. "You're not joking."

Taziar shook his head.

"The location triangle is not in my regular repertoire. I haven't enough practice to try it with my life aura partially spent. I've drained it far too low healing you."

Taziar cursed himself ruthlessly. His delay in raising the most critical issue might have jeopardized matters far more crucial than his relationship with Astryd. "Save your strength. I'll be back, Astryd. I'll just have to handle whatever additional protections Ingharr takes. We have no choice." Before Astryd could protest, Taziar rose, retraced his steps to the outer doorway, and disappeared into the twilight.