The Covenant Rising

6

Rain lashed Bhealfa’s eastern region all through the night. But dawn broke sunny and clement.

Kutch Pirathon sat by a swollen brook, idly lobbing pebbles into the rushing water. He was growing restive. For the hundredth time he glanced at the tumbledown stone cottage further up the barren hill. Its ill-fitting door remained resolutely closed.

He sighed and continued bombarding the stream. There was little else to do. The hillside had nothing to offer but dripping scrub, a few withered trees and a lot of rocks. His only company was a brace of circling crows.

In truth, he could have employed himself gainfully. He was obliged to, in fact. More than obliged; bound by an oath. He should be undertaking the mental exercises necessary to advance in the Craft. His time was supposed to be spent honing his will, recognising the vital currents and channelling them. But they were techniques taught to him by his master and he couldn’t focus properly for thinking about the old man. There was no shaking off the feeling that he had let Domex down, that he might still be here if it hadn’t been for his timidity. Neglect of duty added to his guilt. Yet, for the moment, his heart wasn’t in it.

His melancholy would have deepened had the door of the cottage not creaked open. He looked up to see Caldason emerging. Flinging the last of the stones at the stream, Kutch stood and dusted off his breeches. He watched as the Qalochian addressed a few last words to the elderly hermit he’d consulted. Then he waited as he made his way down the crude path to him.

During their short acquaintance, Kutch had found that Caldason wasn’t one to volunteer information. Nor was he easy to read. Now was no exception.

‘What happened?’ Kutch asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Oh.’

‘But you weren’t to know he couldn’t help. I’m grateful for you bringing me here.’

They began their descent.

Kutch still didn’t know what Caldason’s problem was, beyond the so-called fits. He tried fishing. ‘Did he, er, say anything at all about your… condition?’

‘He didn’t

say

anything. He wrote his questions on a slate.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’

‘Is he naturally dumb?’

‘No. When he was a boy, his father cut his tongue out. To stop him talking about the mysteries of the Craft. It was the kind of thing they used to do in those days.’

‘The world’s just full of delights,’ Caldason remarked cynically.

‘His father would have had it done too, by

his

father. The knowledge was passed down, generation to generation, and that was the price. It was considered normal in some branches of the Craft until not that long ago.’

‘I thought magicians were constrained by secrecy anyway.’

‘True. Though I’m not sure how reliable some of the licensed ones are.’ Kutch jabbed a thumb at the hovel. ‘But he can be trusted.’

‘So why did they go in for mutilation?’

‘It was extra insurance. Some of the older practitioners think it was a good thing and should be brought back. Maybe they’ve got a point. It seemed to work.’

‘You wouldn’t have minded your master doing it to you then?’

‘Well…’

They continued in silence.

After a few minutes, Kutch ventured, ‘You don’t seem disappointed. About him not being able to help, I mean.’

‘I’ve learnt not to be.’

‘There are other seers I can recommend.’

‘Maybe provincial sorcerers aren’t up to what I need.’

‘A lot of them are as good as any you’ll find,’ Kutch replied indignantly. ‘They just prefer the solitude of the countryside. They’re less likely to get harassed by the authorities too.’

‘Like Domex? All right, low blow. Sorry. But the fact is there’s more money and status in the cities, and that tends to attract the best talent. Perhaps that’s where I’ll find the right magician. If there are any left I haven’t already tried.’

‘Come on, Reeth, there must be

thousands

of them.’

‘I’ve been searching longer than you know.’

Kutch didn’t expect any expansion on that and was proved right. Silence descended again. They reached the foot of the hill and struck out for the house. A gentle wind ruffled the trees.

The quiet was broken only by distant birdsong.

At length, Caldason said, ‘So, how far advanced in magic are you?’

After yesterday’s display with the homunculi, Kutch reckoned his companion already knew the answer to that. It was Caldason’s way of changing the subject, or being polite. But he played along with it. ‘Fourth level, going on fifth.’

‘Sounds impressive. Out of how many?’

‘Sixty-two.’

‘Right.’

‘Mind you,’ Kutch quickly added, ‘anything above twenty-three’s considered pretty rarefied.’

‘I think I must need the highest possible level.’

Caldason’s expression was inscrutable. It was difficult to tell if he was serious or making an uncommon attempt at humour.

‘I may have a way to go in my practical studies,’ Kutch admitted, ‘but I do understand something about occult philosophy. Whatever ails you should have a magical remedy. It’s just a case of finding it.’

‘I’m not so sure of that.’

‘Let me tell you about one of the Craft’s basic principles.’

‘Careful, you don’t want to lose your tongue.’

‘It’s not really giving anything away. We’re taught that magic is energy, and energy can’t be destroyed. It can only be converted into something else.’

‘That much I’ve heard.’

‘Then you’ll know that spells vary in quality and durability.’

‘Of course. That’s what determines their price.’

‘I’m not talking about their coin value. I’m referring to their strength. For example, there’s no reason why a building couldn’t be a glamour, and last forever. But creating and maintaining it would be incredibly expensive.’ He pointed to a boulder at the side of the track. ‘That rock could be a glamour. It would only take a simple spell. Except nobody would bother. What would be the point?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I’m guessing that what’s wrong with you is magical in origin.’ Caldason gave no hint that Kutch was right. The youth carried on. ‘If you are under some kind of enchantment, it should be possible to convert its energy from malignant positive to benign negative. In the same way that the rock could become non-rock or the building cease to be and rejoin the energy pool. At least, that’s the theory.’

Caldason looked thoughtful. ‘You put it better than most other magicians I’ve spoken to, Kutch. But why haven’t any of them been able to do it?’

Kutch felt a glow at the compliment. He also took the Qalochian’s words as tacit confirmation that his problem

was

magical. ‘I don’t know. Maybe the spell, if it

is

a spell we’re talking about, is especially powerful. Or the result of some really esoteric branch of the Craft. There are many different disciplines, you know.’

‘Something rare enough to be unknown to most sorcerers, you mean?’

‘It might be. Or it could be a question of balance.’

‘Balance?’

‘Another cardinal law of magic. The Craft has rules just like the mundane world, as we call it. For instance, drop a stone and it falls to the ground. It’s obeying a rule. A glamour looking like a stone might fall upwards, or fly, or mutate into something else. But it would still be following a rule; one dictated by the type of spell governing it.’

‘I don’t see where balance comes in.’

‘My master would have said that a real stone falls because of the balance between our expectation and experience. We expect the stone to fall. Stones have always fallen. So the stone falls. In magic the balance is between reality and unreality. There has to be symmetry for the spell to work. The same way the military and magical balance between Rintarah and Gath Tampoor stops one empire overcoming the other.’

‘I think I almost understand that,’ Caldason said. ‘But how does it apply to me?’

‘Maybe you’re caught too tightly between the real and the unreal. As if you were in a clamp.’

‘Like Bhealfa.’

Kutch smiled. ‘Yes. Or it could be that the balance is out of kilter, blocking rescue.’

‘Neither seems a comforting thought.’ If Caldason resented learning from someone so much younger, he had the grace not to show it. ‘Ironic that it should take a humble fourth level…’

‘Nearly a fifth.’

‘…practically a fifth level apprentice to make it clear to me.’

‘I’ve not told you anything you couldn’t have found out for yourself. You look for a solution in magic, Reeth, but take little interest in its workings.’

‘I see it as a malevolent force.’

‘It’s the foundation of our culture.’

‘Yours, not mine. Not Qalochian. For you, magic is a needful, benevolent thing. To me it’s deceiving and pernicious. It helps maintain injustice.’

To Kutch that seemed close to blasphemous. ‘My master always said that magic has no morality, any more than the weather does. The people who command it decide if it’s light or dark, as suits their purpose. Your argument should be with them.’

Caldason’s severity mellowed a little. ‘I grant there’s wisdom in that. But if there was no magic the temptation wouldn’t exist.’

‘I intend using my skills only for good.’

‘I don’t doubt it. And when you speak on the subject you show more passion and insight than you do about anything else. You shed the half-child and talk more like a man.’

The youth’s cheeks coloured, underlining the point.

‘I can see magic’s your calling,’ Caldason added. ‘But who can say what enticements the future might bring?’

Kutch tried steering back to the issue he thought more important. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not advanced enough to help, I know that, but I’d be better armed to find you somebody who could.’

‘What I suffer from tends to… trouble people.’

‘It wouldn’t vex me. Together, we could -’

‘

No.

I don’t form attachments. I’ve no need of them. Anyway, I have to move on, you know that.’

Kutch was disappointed, but knew the futility of arguing with the man. ‘You’ll not go before my master’s funeral?’

‘I promised you I wouldn’t. But let’s make haste, I want to be out of these parts today.’

They pushed on, exchanging few further words.

Twenty minutes later they reached a wood. This they skirted, their journey taking them by the cultivated fields that served the village. A handful of farmers tended the fledgling crops. Though none of them acknowledged their passing, the duo had the distinct feeling of being watched. Beyond the meadows the hamlet itself came into sight, nestled prettily in the palm of a shallow valley. Even from this distance the indigo power line that slashed through the settlement could be plainly seen.

But the village wasn’t their destination. When the path forked they took the coastal road. A short climb brought them to the cliff’s edge. Beyond its rim and far below lay a vast expanse of calm, shimmering ocean.

On the grassy ribbon of land running to the lip of the cliff stood a funeral pyre and atop it lay the seer Domex, resplendent in the robes of his calling, hands crossed on his chest. Paraphernalia was heaped about his body – a grimoire, journals and scrolls, pouches of herbs and a sceptre were among the personal belongings that would accompany him to the next world.

The whole of the pyre was encased in a glistening, transparent half bubble, rainbow-hued like an oil and water mix.

Kutch’s first act was to remove the protective barrier. He took a small, flat runestone from his belt pouch and approached the pyre. Mouthing a barely audible incantation, he placed the stone against the bubble. The magical shield soundlessly discharged itself into non-being.

He looked around. The cliff-top was deserted, as were the modest hills on either side. ‘No mourners,’ he said, his voice catching. ‘I’d hoped somebody would turn up, given how much he did to help the people hereabouts.’

‘I expect they were too afraid to come because of the circumstances of his death,’ Caldason told him. ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’

Kutch nodded. He dug into his pouch again and brought out a sheet of parchment. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded it. ‘There are some words that need to be spoken,’ he explained.

‘Of course.’

Falteringly, and in a soft tone, the apprentice began reading his lament in the old tongue. When he stumbled over a particular phrase, eyes brimming, just a boy after all, Caldason laid a hand on his heaving shoulder. It seemed to strengthen Kutch and he carried on more or less evenly.

What was being said meant nothing to Caldason, though somehow its rhythm and feeling conveyed something of its poignancy to him. His gaze went to the horizon and he contemplated the scurrying clouds and distant sea-birds.

At last the dirge was over. Kutch screwed up the parchment and tossed it onto the pyre.

After what he thought was a decent interval, Caldason asked, ‘How do we apply the flame?’

‘I have to do it,’ Kutch sniffed, ‘and it has to be kindled using the Craft.’ He gave the Qalochian a shy, lopsided grin. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about that bit.’

‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Right.’ He cleared his throat noisily and straightened. Caldason took a step back to give him room.

Kutch started some kind of low-throated chant, attended with a series of increasingly complex hand gestures. He gazed at the pyre intently, brow creased. At first his utterances and movements were uncertain, then his confidence visibly grew and his voice rose.

All at once the wood stack and corpse were bathed in dazzling white light. Flames erupted, burning with unnatural, magic-fuelled intensity. The pyre blazed.

‘Well done,’ Caldason said.

They stood together for some time, watching the fire do its work.

Then Caldason gently tugged at Kutch’s arm. The youth turned and looked to where Reeth was pointing.

On the top of an adjacent hill stood a lone figure, staring down at them. The distance was too great to make out much detail, but they could see he was an older, distinguished looking man. His tailored white robe was of a quality denoting rank. The wind ruffled his three-quarter length cape. His posture was straight and proud, his expression sombre.

‘Any idea who that is?’ Caldason wanted to know.

Kutch blinked at the stranger. ‘No, I don’t think I’ve seen him before. Perhaps he’s someone who owed Domex a debt of gratitude.’

‘It seems your master wasn’t forgotten after all.’

They watched the figure for a while, then returned their attention to the blaze, its heat stinging their faces. When Caldason looked again a moment later, the stranger was gone.

The pyre roared and crackled, belching thick, inky smoke.

Mesmerised by the sight, Kutch fell into a reflective mood. ‘You know, if my master had lived I really think he might have been able to help you.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I’ll never forgive myself for my cowardice, Reeth.’

‘I thought we agreed you weren’t to blame,’ Caldason replied firmly. ‘There’s no way you could have stood against his killers, get that into your head.’

‘I’m trying to. It isn’t easy. I keep thinking that if only I’d -’

Caldason raised a hand to quiet him. ‘That’s enough. Don’t sully the moment with regrets. They serve no purpose, believe me.’

‘I still think he could have done something for you. He was a great man, Reeth.’

‘I have a feeling I need the kind of help I’ll never be able to find.’

‘Who’s being a doubter now?’

They both wrapped themselves in their own thoughts then.

The warmth sent ash and cinders billowing above the pyre. Orange sparks danced in the smoke.

‘Phoenix,’

Kutch whispered, half in reverie.

‘What was that?’

‘Phoenix,’ he repeated, as though it were some kind of epiphany.

‘I don’t -’

‘Why didn’t I think of it before?’

‘What the hell are you talking about, Kutch?’

‘Covenant, of course. Don’t you see? If anybody can help you, they can!’

‘Covenant’s a myth. A story mothers tell to frighten their sucklings.’

‘My master didn’t think so.’

‘He was wrong. They don’t exist.’

A succession of noisy pops and cracks issued from the pyre as it consumed wood and bone.

‘They do, Reeth,’ Kutch insisted, eyes shining, ‘and I’m going to prove it to you.’