Mage's Blood

3

The Standards of Noros

The Magi

Blessed are the Magi, the descendants of Corineus and the Blessed Three Hundred, divinely conceived and given dominion over earth and sky.

THE BOOK OF KORE

Shaitan, what hast thou wrought? Thou hast blighted the earth and sky with djinn and afreet, made demons crawl beneath our feet. Thou hast blasted the soil and poisoned the wells. And worst, thy evil hath been made flesh, in thy spawn the Rondian Magi.

YAMEED UMAFI, CONVOCATION GODSPEAKER, 926

Norostein, Noros, on the continent of Yuros

Octen 927

9 months until the Moontide

Norostein, the capital of Noros, lay on a high mountain plateau north of the Alps, set beside a cold clear lake that covered half the old city, consigned to the depths when the municipal authority dammed the river to improve the water-supply. Some said there were ghosts below, in the flooded graveyards, old revenants that would drag the unwary down to their watery graves. On days when the lake levels were low and no rains had muddied it, you could see the old buildings in the deeps. But it was no such day today: rain had teemed in to spoil the Darklight celebrations, the religious festival that the Kore had put in place of the old Sollan holy day of Samhain. Torrential downpours flooded the plazas and extinguished many of the bonfires. Pitch-smeared torches sizzled sullenly.

The bedraggled populace gathered before the cathedral, damply sweaty and red-eyed, awaiting the midday service. The mage-born would be allowed inside, but the commoners had to keep vigil in the square, praying as much that the rain would hold off as for divine favour. Pickpockets worked the crowds and drunks still reeling from the previous night’s celebrations pissed where they stood, usually about the heels of the person in front of them. Young men strutted about, eyeing the girls pretending not to be eyeing them. The crowd was a sea of pale flesh and greasy brown hair, white bonnets and green felt hats. Spontaneous choruses of traditional songs echoed about the plaza, songs of the Revolt, songs of the mountain kingdoms, old folk songs. Some harmless fights kept the Watchmen occupied. The air was laced with perspiration and beer, the smoke of the foodstalls blended with the drizzle, but the throng was in good humour.

Inside the courtyard of the Town Hall, the gentry waited. In a few minutes, the governor would lead them in procession through the crowd to the cathedral. Awaiting him in the courtyard were the landowners, the richest of the merchants, and, first and foremost, the magi families of Norostein, not that there were many; Noros had never attracted many of the descendants of the Blessed, and the Revolt had taken a heavy toll. Now there were just some seventy adult magi gathered under awnings. A few of the young men were showing off, using gnosis-shields to keep off the rain, and one young woman was amusing her friends by conjuring watery creature-forms out of the drizzle. There was laughter in the air, but tension too: young magi were always seeking opportunities to dominate weaker rivals.

A small bony youth with an olive complexion wormed his way through the courtyard, flicking wet black hair from his face. His colouring marked him as an outsider. The babble of voices and the heat of the packed bodies hit him like a wave, but he worked his way past the most boisterous of the young men without attracting undue attention. He peered into the darkest recesses of the courtyard to where the lightweights among the magi-children skulked and spotted the person he was looking for. He slid in beside a gangling figure with a drip of water or snot hanging from a long thin nose. Lank red-brown hair was plastered to a pale, morose face.

‘Alaron,’ the swarthy newcomer greeted his fellow, dangling a small wicker basket full of steaming sweet dumplings under his friend’s dripping nose. They both wore the robes of Turm Zauberin, the all-male gnostic college of Norostein. ‘Three fennik it cost me! Rukka Hel – festival day prices!’ He took a dumpling and swallowed it whole, then thrust the basket at his friend. ‘Bloody merchants, eh?’ he added slyly.

‘Thanks, Ramon.’ Alaron Mercer grinned despite himself. His father Vann was a merchant himself; he could see him just a few yards away, chatting to Jostyn Weber. Alaron wolfed down a dumpling and looked around. ‘What a waste of time. The service will be at least three hours long, you realise.’

‘At least we’re inside,’ Ramon observed. ‘The commoners get stuck out here in the rain all afternoon – they can’t even sit down.’ He glanced around, looking like a ferret peering out from its burrow. Ramon Sensini was a secretive young man, the son of a Rondian mage (whose identity he’d never shared) and a Silacian tavern-girl. The Turm Zauberin gatekeepers had initially refused him entry, even though he’d funds enough to enrol, but he had shown the Principal a letter and that had got him in.

As usual, Alaron had a bee in his bonnet over the festival. ‘Did you know that every Sollan festival has had some stupid Kore ritual put in its place? I mean, could they be more brazen? There isn’t even any evidence that the gnosis has anything to do with the Kore! And Johan Corin was actually born a Sollan worshipper! Why does no one remember that? I read in a book that—’

‘Alaron, shush! I agree, but it’s blasphemy.’ Ramon put a finger to his lips, then pointed at a girl not far away. ‘Hey, look, there’s Gina Weber. Aren’t you and she going to be betrothed?’

‘No!’ said Alaron sourly, ‘not if I have any say in it, anyway.’

‘Which you won’t,’ put in Ramon unsympathetically.

Alaron peered at the fleshy blonde girl clinging to Jostyn Weber’s arm. His father Vann was trying to gesture him over. ‘I’m not talking to that boneheaded milkmaid,’ he grumbled, pretending not to notice. He looked down at Ramon. ‘I can’t believe you only got four dumplings for three fennik– that’s more than three times the normal price. I thought Silacians knew how to bargain?’

Ramon smirked sourly. ‘Of course I bargained! No one else was getting more than one per fennik, so count yourself lucky.’

A blast of trumpetry made further conversation impossible. Governor Belonius Vult appeared at the doors to the town hall, walking down the stairs to the sound of a low, half-hearted cheer. Some twenty more magi, Rondians attached to the occupying army, followed him. Alaron could remember previous years when Governor Vult had been loudly jeered, but dissident voices were rare now the governor had settled into his powerful role. Not that everyone now approved of him, but these days it was neither profitable nor safe to show it.

‘Look, it’s Lord Craven of Lukhazan,’ muttered Alaron to Ramon for old times’ sake.

Vult mounted a horse and led the Town Council out of the courtyard. The noise outside in the plaza rose momentarily, then fell as the rain intensified, sending a collective shiver up thirty thousand spines.

Alaron wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with.’

After the town leaders, came the magi, the Kore-blessed wielders of the gnosis. Seats were reserved at the front of the cathedral for them, and that included around a hundred students, mostly Noromen, but also from Verelon, Schlessen and, unusually, one Silacian: Ramon. They ranged in age from twelve to eighteen, with just nine or ten students in each year – Turm Zauberin was, after all, both expensive and exclusively male. The magi-girls of the region went to an Arcanum Convent outside of town, and all of them were here today, well-chaperoned, but eyeing the boys with interest – Turm Zauberin boys were a good catch, more so than those from the poorer provincial Arcanums.

Alaron’s year was smaller than usual, a legacy of the Revolt. As well as him and Ramon, there were only five others: Seth Korion, Francis Dorobon, Malevorn Andevarion, Boron Funt and Gron Koll. Only Funt and Koll were actually Noromen, the other three present because their guardians were involved in the Rondian occupying forces. All but Koll were pure-bloods – they referred to themselves as ‘The Pure’ and treated Alaron and Ramon like dirt.

Malevorn, the most gifted of them, lifted a haughty eyebrow as they approached the procession. ‘Look what’s crawled from under the flagstones. Where have you been, Mercer, selling oatcakes outside?’

Francis Dorobon grinned and sniggered. ‘Yeah, piss off, Mercer. Your place is at the back.’ Dorobon was supposedly the rightful king of some place in Antiopia.

They’re welcome to him, Alaron thought, and good luck to the poor heathen bastards. He could grudgingly admit that Malevorn was both talented and blood-strong; Dorobon was merely the latter, and the same could be said for Seth Korion, son of the famed general. Boron Funt was a portly youth who had ‘priest’ written all over him, and Koll – well, Koll was just slime personified.

Alaron muttered under his breath and tried to sidle around them, but Malevorn laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was strikingly handsome, with a large-boned frame and tanned skin that made him look years older than he was, and he oozed rakish charisma. His black hair curled about his ears and his grey eyes were steely. ‘Hey, Mercer, I see that slut Weber is still trying to get your father to agree to a betrothal. Shame she’s no longer a virgin. I popped her cherry last year. She cried, you know. It was very touching.’

‘Piss off, Malevorn,’ Alaron snarled and shoved the bigger boy back. Malevorn went to cuff him, gnosis light flared between them as their shields brushed and the crowd about them started to look interested. Before anything could develop, a hawk-faced Magister with a flowing black hair and beard stepped between them. ‘Enough! I’ve warned you before, Mercer.’

‘Sorry, Magister Fyrell.’ Alaron bowed his head, seething. Fyrell always takes Malevorn’s side!

Ramon pulled Alaron away from their smirking classmates, keeping his hand on Alaron’s arm as moon-faced Gron Koll spat at him, making sure Alaron didn’t attempt to retaliate in front of Fyrell.

What a fine example of the divine magi we are, he thought as he stamped into place in the procession.

The walk across the plaza was fraught with discomfort, the ordinary people peering at them with mixed fear and envy. Girls made eyes at them, knowing that to bear a magi’s child was a path to wealth. Young men envious of something they would never have glared sullenly. Citizens who genuinely believed that the magi were beings blessed personally by Kore Himself wanted to kiss their robes, to have their children touched, to give and receive blessings. It all made Alaron’s skin crawl.

These poor fools see us as some kind of sacred brotherhood blessed by the Gods. Alaron might have believed that once, but seven years alongside the ‘Pure’ had destroyed that notion. What a crock! We’re more like a pack of wolves. He loathed each of the Pure, for different reasons. Malevorn Andevarion was handsome and worldly and far more skilled than Alaron would ever be – and driven, in a way none of his friends were. The Andevarions had fallen on hard times and Malevorn was to be their redemption. He worked as hard as anyone at the college, with a burning competitiveness that meant he couldn’t resist stamping down upon all of the others, to make sure they all, even Francis Dorobon, a king-in-waiting and Seth Korion, son of the greatest general of Yuros, knew that he, Malevorn, was the Alpha. But Malevorn’s particular delight was bullying Alaron, and so Alaron hated him as much as he envied him. He also despised Dorobon for his self-righteous prating about his destiny, his rights and his privileges. No silver spoon was polished enough for the prince, who complained ceaselessly, until even his friends got impatient with him.

Ramon always called Seth Korion ‘The Lesser Son’. Magister Hout, their history teacher, had once commented that great men often had weak sons who failed to live up to their parent’s deeds, and Ramon played on this relentlessly, no matter how often Seth beat him.

Boron Funt was a sanctimonious preacher, always toadying to the religion-master and pulling up the others, especially Alaron, on perceived moral failings. He ate seven meals a day and dressed in pavilion-sized robes. As for Gron Koll – well, he was the sort of boy who practised his fire spells on small animals.

It wasn’t a fun group to share seven years of life with, made tolerable only by his friendship with Ramon and weekends at home – but the end was in sight. They were within five weeks of graduation. Next week, the exams began, and in forty days he would be holding his periapt, a fully graduated mage. Then he could join the Crusade and make his fortune.

He brightened at this thought and managed to keep his temper as Funt and Dorobon jostled him as they entered the cathedral. He made it to his seat near the front without being tripped again, where he huddled alongside Ramon. Magister Fyrell appeared and Alaron braced himself to be chastised, but instead Fyrell gestured for the five Pure to follow him. Alaron was puzzled, but at least he and Ramon wouldn’t have to share a seat with them.

The next two hours of sermons and hymns were purgatory. Alaron, infected both by his father’s apathy towards religion and Ramon’s cynical views, had decided the Kore was nothing but a lie told by the magi – he’d certainly never seen an angel, and he felt nothing but his own sweat when he used the gnosis. It had never felt ‘divine’. He knew such thoughts were the sort of heresies that could get him expelled if voiced, so he kept them to himself and bowed his head dutifully as the call and response of the prayers echoed through the cathedral:

‘Blessed be the Magi, touched by Kore, the Light-bearers. May Holy Kore uphold their might.

‘Blessed be Holy Corineus, giver of the Light, wisdom of our Hearts; may his visage light our path to heaven.

‘Blessed be the Kore, the Holy Church, guardian of the True Faith, whose light illumines the darkness of the heathen.

‘Blessed be the Kirkegarde, Knights of the True Way; may the Amteh blades falter before their charge.

‘Cursed be Corinea, sister and betrayer of Corineus. May all women repent of their sinful ways.’

He caught Gina Weber looking at him and wondered if Malevorn had been telling the truth about deflowering her. Probably lying; it wasn’t easy to get a girl alone … but then again, Malevorn could apparently do anything – and he was quite able to ruin a girl out of spite.

Well, that seals it. I’m not interested in his leavings.

The old bishop wound up his address by announcing Governor Belonius Vult. With a father like Vann and a friend like Ramon, Alaron had always been encouraged to take a keen interest in local politics. Vult was well known to all: a pure-blood magus from an old family, politically appointed as a general during the Revolt, against the famous General Robler’s wishes, and then excluded from the legendary general’s primary staff. It had been Vult’s forces, guarding Robler’s rear, that had infamously surrendered without a fight at Lukhazan, precipitating the defeat of Noros. Some said Vult had betrayed the cause, sold out to the Rondians in an act of betrayal. There had been calls for his arrest. Others insisted the war was already lost, that Vult had saved lives and paved the way for peace, even at the cost of his own reputation. Statesman or Traitor? Grateful parents welcoming home their sons from the prison camps after the war gave him respect, but others, especially those who had lost sons in vain, were less forgiving.

Vult had silken silver hair and an elegant beard. He possessed a catlike sleekness of movement and his voice was beguiling as he began, ‘People of Noros, the words I speak today are being read aloud in every town and village of this great empire, from Rondelmar, Argundy and Lantris to Verelon and Schlessen and all the way to Pontus. This is a historic address, for it concerns the coming Crusade.’

A low rumble churned through the congregation, then everyone fell silent. Outside, Alaron could hear the rain, carried on a low, moaning wind. Vult’s voice echoed about the cathedral and was repeated outside.

‘These are the words of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Constant Sacrecour:

‘My Beloved People. You are my children and I your father, sent to you by our Father in Heaven Above. I am your emperor. I speak with the voice of Kore.

‘Kore’s words are as stars to the navigator and they have steered our great empire these many years. For make no mistake, we are one nation. Though some may look upon the men of Rondelmar, Bricia, Argundy, Noros, Schlessen and elsewhere on the great lands of the empire and see differences, I your father see only similarities. We are one people, despite the differences of language and custom.

‘For I have looked upon the Dark Continent and seen what we are not.

‘We are not heathen. We are the children of Kore, the one true God.

‘We are not dark-skinned as the gutter-born of the East. The whiteness of our skins marks the purity of our souls.

‘We are not barbarians, who have as many wives as whim takes us, who rule despotically in lavish palaces while nine-tenths of the people must sleep beneath the stars. We are not heathens who dress salaciously and make idols of beast-gods born of dark imaginings. In short, we are not as they.

‘You all know that we are at war with Antiopia. We have led two Crusades to chastise the heathen, and twice, great victories have been won.

‘In nine short months comes the Moontide, when the Leviathan Bridge will rise again from the sea. Once more, we will march, and Yuros steel will ring again in Antiopia. Once more the Kirkegarde will raise the banner of Kore in the Dark Lands.

‘Every morning our brothers in our fortress in Hebusalim scan the skies for windships bringing supplies. Every day they throw back the heathen from their walls. Their need is great. So I say to you, my brothers in Kore: let the Great Muster begin! Let us once more gather and march to Pontus. Let us once more tread the Bridge of the Moontide, the songs of Kore on our lips. Let us bring blessed relief to our sons fighting even now in Hebusalim. Let us give of our blood, our will and our money, to make this Third Crusade the greatest and most glorious of all.

‘Let the Third Crusade begin! This is the will of God!

‘Thus speaks our Guide, the God-Emperor of Pallas, Constant Sacrecour.’

Vult paused for applause, at first hesitant, which swelled in fervour as the soldiers about Cathedral Plaza drummed their spears against their shields, then the roar of the people rose above even that clamour. In the pulpit Vult gave a satisfied smile, enjoying the moment. After a minute, as the noise was just beginning to falter, he raised a hand, and silence fell, at least within the cathedral. Outside the noise of the rain-soaked crowd did not subside until he began to speak once more.

‘People of Norostein, those are the words of the emperor: a call to arms from the lips of Kore Himself. How can we do otherwise than to heed it?’ He leant forward. ‘There is one true war on Urte, and it is eternal. It is the war of Good and Evil: the struggle of Kore against the false idols of the heathen. The Bridge was wrought for this – to enable the victory of Kore! And should any of you believe that our war is not just, that friendship with the heathen is possible, let me point out these facts.

‘First, it was they, not we, who struck the first blow, massacring traders in Hebusalim. Our war is just! Second, it is written in The Book of Kore, penned by the Scribes of the Three Hundred themselves, that only those who walk in Kore are worthy of Heaven. Therefore the heathen must perish!

‘Third, there is a source of power here in Yuros that brings tyrants, despots and false priests to their knees. The gnosis is that great strength of our people, the gift of Kore, his reward for the sacrifice of Corineus. I speak as one of the descendants of the Blessed Three Hundred: we alone are the wielders of the gnosis. The heathen gods have given no such gift; the heathen have no such shield, and this is proof of our rightness, the instrument of our dominion. The gnosis, in the hands of the magi, will light the path to victory and secure our place in Heaven.’

He had to stop, drowned out by the drumming of iron-clad staves on flagstones and weapons on shields. Alaron looked about the old grey cathedral at the other faces around him, all caught up in a fervour of patriotism. He glanced back at his father. Vann Mercer was giving every outward sign of cheering vociferously, but Alaron knew his father better. Watch the eyes, he always said. Now he winked at Alaron, who twitched half a smile and then did some cheering too, in case any of the teachers were watching.

When the tumult quietened enough, Vult told them recruitment for the legions would begin that afternoon in the plaza, to replenish every Noros legion, then raise five new ones. The ceremony seemed to be over, but Vult, like a master showman, had saved his best trick until last. With a wave of his hand, he announced: ‘A gift, from The Most Holy Emperor Constant to his beloved people of Noros.’ Everyone leant forward as Vult smiled benevolently and gestured again with his right hand.

From behind a pillar emerged Malevorn Andevarion, effortlessly regal, bearing the standard of the Noros IX Legion, the beloved ‘Mountain Cats’ of Robler’s command, one of many lost in the Revolt. The people gasped. Malevorn strode to the front, and the congregation first fell silent, gaping, then let loose the biggest, most genuine cheer of the day. Alaron glanced at his father, and this time his cheers were real: Vann Mercer had fought under that very banner. Behind Malevorn came Francis Dorobon with the ‘Silver Hawk’ of the Noros VI, Gron Koll with the Noros III’s ‘Grey Wolf’ and Boron Funt bearing the Noros VIII’s ‘Alpenfleur’. Bringing up the rear, Seth Korion returned to the people of Noros the ‘Waystar’, the banner of Vult’s own Noros II, lost at Lukhazan.

When the five youths bore the standards outside, onto the steps of the cathedral, the rain and cold were forgotten. The pride of Norostein had been restored; the emperor did love them, his loyal subjects. Vann Mercer was crying unashamedly now, as were many of the older men – the veterans, Alaron realised. These were their banners.

Now Vult could do no wrong. The crowd cheered him to the hilt as he joined the banners on the steps of the cathedral, watching as men fought to be first in line for the recruitment stations. A true festival atmosphere prevailed, though the rain continued to pour down, but no one cared. The five flag-bearing students were caught up in the adulation, and Alaron heard grown-ups calling them ‘our pride’ and ‘the Hope of Noros’, though three of them weren’t Norosborn. Even he and Ramon became minor celebrities for a time as they walked about the square, young men asking them which Legion they would sign for. They stayed a while, but the attention became tiresome and Ramon was getting waspish about this overwhelming display of patriotism. ‘These morons probably got this excited about the Revolt too, and look where that got you,’ he muttered. As soon as they found Vann Mercer in the crowd, they persuaded him to leave.

‘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.’

Ramon just shrugged disinterestedly. ‘War is overrated, amici.’

‘Huh.’ Alaron got up and stretched. ‘I gueth I better go,’ he said. ‘Thym will be wondering where I am.’

Alaron found Cym in their usual place, a wrecked hovel against the old walls that stank of piss and rot. She was wrapped in a brown blanket, her head cowled in a large shawl. She had lit a fire, small enough to escape the notice of any passing watchman but barely large enough to raise the temperature. She was amusing herself by firing tiny energy-bolts into the city wall, leaving scorch-marks and a strange metallic tang in the air. Such bolts were the mage’s most basic weapon, deadly enough against an ordinary human, but easily countered by any other gnosis-wielder.

‘You lose another fight?’ she asked, eyeing his bloodied lip. ‘Here, let me have a look.’ It was a sad fact that once she got the hang of it, Cym was actually better than both of them at most of the things they taught her. Alaron suspected that her mysterious mother – Cym never discussed her – had been of considerable power, and Cym herself was a natural. Alaron’s frequent scraps with Malevorn meant she got plenty of opportunity to practise her healing.

He closed his eyes, wincing as she poked and prodded, then sent a painful tingle of gnosis-power into his cut that reduced the swelling and sealed the wound.

‘There, that should be gone in a few days. Idiot. Hasn’t he beaten you up enough for a lifetime already?’ It was a rare week that he and Malevorn didn’t come to blows, either on the weapons-practice field or in some hall or back room. He just couldn’t hold his temper around the Pure.

‘Thanks,’ he said, running his tongue over the healed cut. He tried to squeeze her hand, but she avoided him deftly, pretending not to notice.

‘So,’ she said, ‘this is it: my last lesson with you. After tomorrow you’ll be off doing your exams and I’ll have to find other ways to learn.’

‘We could continue after the exams,’ he offered. ‘We’ll be graduated then; we could do it openly.’

She shook her head. ‘Our caravan leaves on Freyadai – we’ve got to be in Lantris before the snows.’

‘Will you be back in spring?’ He found he wasn’t able to feign nonchalance.

‘Maybe. Who knows.’ She leant forward, her face hungry. ‘What new things can you show me?’

For the next two hours he taught her the drills he’d learnt since last time and reviewed her progress on earlier lessons, where, as usual, she’d already overtaken him, and ended up helping him as much as he did her. He hoped he might be more than just a rotemage one day, but he wasn’t there yet. He tried to demonstrate shaping fire, but the flames sizzled and went out with a dispiriting pop.

‘Let it flow, Alaron,’ she scolded. ‘You’re so tense – you need to relax, let it run through you, like water.’

‘I can’t!’ he groaned. ‘I just can’t.’

‘You’re a mage – let it come naturally!’

‘It’s not natural, it’s as unnatural as you can get,’ he complained dispiritedly. He felt tired and clumsy. Outside, the new moon was up, its great arc covering half the sky. It looked almost touchable – more touchable than Cym, anyway. The Rimoni girl followed his glance, shuddered and pulled up her cowl. She was always leery of the massive weight of the moon hanging in the sky above. ‘Off you go. You’re too tired for any more. Go home.’

He knew she was right, but to say good night … that would be to shut the door on so many dreams. He hesitated, but she’d already stood and ducked under the rotting leather sheet that formed a makeshift door. He had to follow, feeling even more wretched.

Cym turned to him. ‘So: after seven years, this is the end, for you and me. I do not know how to thank you for your kindness in teaching me.’

He tried to think of something charming and witty and romantic, but instead he was mute. She put a bony finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’ She pressed something into his hand and he looked down at it: a copper amulet of a rose. The Rimoni Rose. He gripped it tight, and suddenly realised he was crying.

‘Oh, Alaron, you idiot!’ Cym stepped into him, pecked his cheek and then she was two feet away, four, ten and then the shadows of the old wall had swallowed her and she was gone. Maybe for ever.

The headmaster addressed them on the last day of the school year. The rest of the students had already gone home, and the usually bustling old keep felt oddly lifeless. Headmaster Lucien Gavius was a political appointment, personally endorsed by Governor Vult himself, elevated out of the classroom where Alaron had always thought of him as a lifeless slug. Gavius waffled about the coming exams, but they already knew what to expect. There were four weeks left in the month of Noveleve, and each would bring a series of tests. Week one was academic: history, theology, calculus, and Rondian, of course, to prove they could read and write. Calculus is going to be the worst, Alaron thought, though the most important part was next Freyadai, when they had to present their theses. Recruiters would be there, and scholars too. The thesis was their chance to contribute to the knowledge of the mage community; it was seen by many as the most important part of the exams.

Week two was all about the skills of the battle-mage. They would have to prove their skill with missile weapons and horsemanship, and fight without using the gnosis against soldiers handpicked from the ranks of the Watch, and though using blunted weapons, these men knew what they were doing. The whole week would be demanding, exhausting and dangerous.

During the third and fourth weeks, they would be tested on their use of gnosis: basic energy manipulation and theory, hermetic and theurgic-gnosis, then in the last week Thaumaturgy and Sorcery. All of the teachers would be involved in the testing, and many people would be watching, including recruiters from the Kirkegarde, the Volsai, the Legions, the Arcanum and the City Watch, and private individuals who hired magi: merchants looking for bodyguards, schools looking for teachers. This was the shop-window; their futures would be made or broken by their display.

Malevorn, Francis and Seth had their future assured by birthright. Gron Koll and Boron Funt were of strong bloodlines too. Ramon, as a foreigner, would only graduate if he pledged himself to a stint in the legions, though he would return to his Silacian village as an important man, probably the only mage in the locality as there weren’t many Rimoni-magi.

For Alaron, just another urban mage of no great birth or blood, it would be harder. Quarter-bloods were plentiful, often bastard-born, and tended to end up as front-line battle-magi, the target of every enemy crossbowman and archer and not exactly loved by their own rank and file. Many didn’t last long. Vann Mercer wanted his son to eschew the legions altogether; he’d always tried to interest his son in the cut and thrust of trading, but when Alaron dreamed, he dreamed of great deeds and heroism in battle – glory, recognition. He wanted the acclamation of his peers, respect from the Pures … and a particular Rimoni girl on his arm.