The Magician’s Apprentice

BY TRUDI CANAVAN

The Black Magician Trilogy

The Magicians’ Guild

The Novice

The High Lord

The Age of the Five

Priestess of the White

Last of the Wilds

Voice of the Gods

The Magician’s Apprentice

“History is written by the victors.”

Winston Churchill

“Found a book describing the Sachakan War written soon after the event. It is remarkable in that it portrays the Guild as the enemy – and it paints an unflattering image indeed!”

Letter from Lord Dannyl to Administrator Lorlen

“The history of magic is a tale of accidental discoveries and deliberate concealments It would be impossible to write an accurate history of magic without scraping away the dirt under which unpalatable facts have long been buried. Twenty years ago the Guild was scandalised to discover that what we know as ‘black magic’ was once called ‘higher magic’ and was practised by all magicians – who were all known as Higher Magicians. It was as much a shock to learn this as to comprehend that so much of our recorded history has been altered and destroyed. But there are stranger truths to be uncovered. I have unearthed no mention of the destruction of Imardin in the accounts of the Sachakan War, for instance. Yet it is an accepted part of our basic historical teachings. And the greatest mystery of all is how the waste-lands of Sachaka were created. The people of that land hold the Guild responsible for that terrible act. Yet no record has ever been found to explain how it was done.”

Extract from the preface of Lord Dannyl’s A Complete History of Magic

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

There was no fast and painless way to perform an amputation, Tessia knew. Not if you did it properly. A neat amputation required a flap of skin to be cut to cover the stump, and that took time.

As her father deftly began to slice into the skin around the boy’s finger, Tessia noted the expressions of the people in the room. The boy’s father stood with his arms crossed and his back straight. His scowl did not quite hide signs of worry, though whether it was sympathy for his son or anxiety about whether he’d get the harvest finished in time without his son’s help, she could not tell. Probably a bit of both.

The mother held her son’s other hand tightly while staring into his eyes. The boy’s face was flushed and beaded with sweat. His jaw was clenched and, despite her father’s warning, he watched the work being done intently. He had remained still so far, not moving his wounded hand or squirming. No sound had escaped him. Such control impressed Tessia, especially in one so young. Landworkers were said to be a tough lot, but in her experience that was not always true. She wondered if the child would be able to keep it up. Worse was to come, after all.

Her father’s face was creased with concentration. He had carefully peeled the skin of the boy’s finger back past the joint of the knuckle. At a glance from him she took the small jointer knife from the burner and handed it to him, then took the number five peeler from him, washed it and carefully set the blade over the burner so it would be seared clean.

When she looked up, the boy’s face was a mass of wrinkles, screwed up tight. Tessia’s father had begun to cut through the joint. Looking up, she noted that the boy’s father was now a pasty grey. The mother was white.

“Don’t watch,” Tessia advised in a murmur. The woman’s head turned abruptly away.

The blade met the surgery board with a clunk of finality. Taking the small jointer from her father, Tessia handed him a curved needle, already threaded with fine gut-string. The needle glided easily through the boy’s skin and Tessia felt a little glow of pride; she had sharpened it carefully in readiness for this operation, and the gut-string was the finest she had ever fashioned.

She looked at the amputated finger lying at the end of the surgery board. At one end it was a blackened, oozing mess, but there was reassuringly healthy flesh all through the cut end. It had been badly crushed in an accident during harvest some days before, but like most of the villagers and land-workers her father serviced, neither boy nor father had sought help until the wound had festered. It took time, and extreme pain, before a person could accept, let alone seek, removal of a part of their body.

If left too long, such a festering could poison the blood, causing fevers and even death. That a small wound could prove fatal fascinated Tessia. It also scared her. She had seen a man driven to insanity and self-mutilation by a mere rotten tooth, otherwise robust women bleed to death after giving birth, healthy babies that stopped breathing for no apparent reason and fevers that spread through the village, taking one or two lives but causing no more than discomfort for the rest.

Through working with her father, she had seen more wounds, illness and death in her sixteen years than most women did in their lifetimes. But she had also seen maladies remedied, chronic illness relieved and lives saved. She knew every man, woman and child in the village and the ley, and some beyond. She had knowledge of matters that few were privy to. Unlike most of the locals she could read and write, reason and—

Her father looked up and handed her the needle, then cut off the remaining thread. Neat stitches held the flap of skin closed over the stump of the boy’s finger. Knowing what came next, Tessia took some wadding and bandages from his healer’s bag and handed them to him.

“Take these,” he told the mother.

Letting the boy’s other hand go, the woman passively let Tessia’s father lay the bandage across one palm, then arrange wadding on top. He placed the boy’s hand over her palm so the stump of the finger rested in the centre of the wadding, then took hold of the pulse binder on the boy’s arm.

“When I loosen this the blood in his arm will regain its rhythm,” he told her. “His finger will begin to bleed. You must wrap the wadding around the finger and hold it firmly until the blood finds a new pulse path.”

The woman bit her lip and nodded. As Tessia’s father loosened the binder the boy’s arm and hand slowly regained a healthy pinkness. Blood welled around the stitches and the mother quickly wrapped her hand around the stump. The boy grimaced. She smoothed his hair affectionately.

Tessia suppressed a smile. Her father had taught her that it was wise to allow a family to take part in the healing process in some small way. It gave them a sense of control, and they were less likely to be suspicious or dismissive of the methods he used if they took part in them.

After a little wait, her father checked the stump then bound it up firmly, giving the family instructions on how often to replace the bandages, how to keep them clean and dry if the boy resumed work (he knew better than to tell them to keep the boy at home), when they could be discarded, and what signs of festering they should watch for.

As he listed off the medicines and extra bandages they would need, Tessia removed them from his bag and set them on the cleanest patch of the table that she could find. The amputated finger she wrapped up and set aside. Patients and their families preferred to bury or burn such things, perhaps worrying what might be done with them if they didn’t dispose of them themselves. No doubt they had heard the disturbing and ridiculous stories that went around from time to time of healers in Kyralia secretly experimenting on amputated limbs, grinding bones up into unnatural potions or somehow reanimating them.

Cleaning and then searing the needle over the burner, she packed it and the other tools away. The surgery board would have to be treated later, at home. She extinguished the burner and waited as the family began to offer their thanks.

This was also a well-practised part of their routine. Her father hated being trapped while patients poured out their gratitude. It embarrassed him. After all, he was not offering his services for free. Lord Dakon provided him and his family with a house and income in exchange for looking after the people of his ley.

But her father knew that accepting thanks with humility and patience kept him well placed in the local people’s opinions. He never accepted gifts, however. Everyone under Lord Dakon’s rule paid a tithe to their master, and so in effect had already paid Tessia’s father for his services.

Her role was to wait for the right moment to interrupt and remind her father that they had other work to do. The family would apologise. Her father would apologise. Then they would be ushered out.

But as the right moment neared the sound of hoofbeats drummed outside the house. All paused to listen. The hoofbeats stopped and were replaced by footsteps, then a pounding at the door.

“Healer Veran? Is Healer Veran there?”

The farmer and Tessia’s father started forward at the same time, then her father stopped, allowing the man to answer his own door. A well-dressed middle-aged man stood outside, his brow slick with sweat. Tessia recognised him as Lord Dakon’s house master, Keron.

“He’s here,” the farmer told him.

Keron squinted into the dimness of the farmer’s house. “Your services are required at the Residence, Healer Veran. With some urgency.”

Tessia’s father frowned, then turned to beckon to her. Grabbing his bag and the burner, she hurried after him into the daylight. One of the farmer’s older sons was waiting by the horse and cart provided by Lord Dakon for her father to use when visiting patients outside the village, and he quickly rose and removed a feedbag from the old mare’s head. Tessia’s father nodded his thanks then took his bag from Tessia and stowed it in the back of the cart.

As they climbed up onto the seat, Keron galloped past them back towards the village. Her father took up the reins and flicked them. The mare snorted and shook her head, then started forward.

Tessia glanced at her father. “Do you think...?” she began, then stopped as she realised the pointlessness of her question.

Do you think it might have something to do with the Sachakan? she had wanted to ask, but such questions were a waste of breath. They would find out when they got there.

It was hard not to imagine the worst. The villagers hadn’t stopped muttering about the foreign magician visiting Lord Dakon’s house since he had arrived, and it was hard not to be infected by their fear and awe. Though Lord Dakon was a magician, he was familiar, respected and Kyralian. If he was feared it was only because of the magic he could wield and the control over their lives he held; he was not the sort of landowner who misused either power. Sachakan magicians on the other hand had, scant centuries ago, ruled and enslaved Kyralia and by all reports liked to remind people, whenever the chance came, what things had been like before Kyralia was granted its independence.

Think like a healer, she told herself as the cart bounced down the road. Consider the information you have. Trust reason over emotion.

Neither the Sachakan nor Lord Dakon could be ill. Both were magicians and resistant to all but a few rare maladies. They weren’t immune to plagues, but rarely succumbed to them. Lord Dakon would have called on her father for help long before any disease needed urgent attention, though it was possible the Sachakan wouldn’t have mentioned being ill if he didn’t want to be tended by a Kyralian healer.

Magicians could die of wounds, she knew. Lord Dakon could have injured himself. Then an even more frightening possibility occurred to her. Had Lord Dakon and the Sachakan fought each other?

If they had, the lord’s house – and perhaps the village, too – would be ruined and smoking, she told herself, if the tales of what magical battles are like are true. The road descending from the farmer’s home gave a clear view of the houses below, lining either side of the main road this side of the river. All was as peaceful and undisturbed as it had been when they had left.

Perhaps the patient or patients they were hurrying to treat were servants in the lord’s house. Aside from Keron, six other house and stable servants kept Lord Dakon’s home in order. She and her father had treated them many times before. Landworkers living outside the village sometimes travelled to the Residence when they were sick or injured, though usually they went directly to her father.

Who else is there? Ah, of course. There’s Jayan, Lord Dakon’s apprentice, she remembered. But as far as I know he has all the same physical protections against illness as a higher magician. Perhaps he picked a fight with the Sachakan. To the Sachakan, Jayan would be the closest thing to a slave, and—.

“Tessia.”

She looked at her father expectantly. Had he anticipated who needed his services?

“I...Your mother wants you to stop assisting me.” Anticipation shrivelled into exasperation. “I know.” She grimaced. “She wants me to find a nice husband and start having babies.”

He didn’t smile, as he had in the past when the subject came up. “Is that so bad? You can’t become a healer, Tessia.”

Hearing the serious tone in his voice, she stared at him in surprise and disappointment. While her mother had expressed this opinion many times before, her father had never agreed with it. She felt something inside her turn to stone and fall down into her gut, where it lay cold and hard and uncomfortable. Which was impossible, of course. Human organs did not turn to stone and certainly could not shift into the stomach.

“The villagers won’t accept you,” he continued.

“You can’t know that,” she protested. “Not until I’ve tried and failed. What reason could they have to distrust me?”

“None. They like you well enough, but it is as hard for them to believe that a woman can heal as that a reber could sprout wings and fly. It’s not in a woman’s nature to have a steady head, they think.”

“But the birthmothers... they trust them. Why is there any difference between that and healing?”

“Because what we... what the birthmothers do is specialised and limited. Remember, they call for my help when their knowledge is insufficient. A healer has learning and experience behind him that no birthmother has access to. Most birthmothers can’t even read.”

“And yet the villagers trust them. Sometimes they trust them more than you.”

“Birthing is an entirely female activity,” he said wryly. “Healing isn’t.”

Tessia could not speak. Annoyance and frustration rose inside her but she knew angry outbursts would not help her cause. She had to be persuasive, and her father was no simple peasant who might be easily swayed. He was probably the smartest man in the village.

As the cart reached the main road she cursed silently. She had not realised how firmly he’d come to agree with her mother. I need to change his mind back again, and I need to do it carefully, she realised. He doesn’t like to go against Mother’s wishes. So I need to weaken her confidence in her arguments as much as reduce Father’s doubts about continuing to teach me. She needed to consider all the arguments for and against her becoming a healer, and how to use them to her benefit. And she needed to know every detail of her parents’ plans.

“What will you do without me assisting you?” she asked. “I’ll take on a boy from the village,” her father said.

“Which one?”

“Perhaps Miller’s youngest. He is a bright child.”

So he’d already been considering the matter. She felt a stab of hurt.

The well-maintained main road was less rutted than the farmer’s track, so her father flicked the reins and urged the mare to quicken her pace. The increased vibration of the cart robbed Tessia of the ability to think. She saw faces appear in windows as they reached the village. The few people walking about stopped, acknowledging her father with nods and smiles.

She gripped the rail as her father tugged on the reins to slow the mare and turn her through the gates at one side of the lord’s Residence. In the dim light of the building’s shadows she made out stable workers coming forward to take the reins as the cart stopped. Her father jumped down from the seat. Keron stepped forward to take her father’s bag. She leapt down to the ground and hurried after as they disappeared into the house.

Tessia caught glimpses of the kitchen, storeroom, washroom and other practical spaces through the doorways of the corridor they strode down. Their rapid footsteps echoed in the narrow stairwell as they climbed up to the floor above. A few turns later and she found herself in a part of the building she had never seen before. Tastefully decorated walls and fine furniture suggested a living area, but these were not the rooms she had seen a few years before, when her father had been summoned to tend a rather vapid young woman suffering from a fainting fit. There were a few bedrooms, and a seating room, and she guessed these were rooms for guests.

She was surprised, then, when Keron opened a door and ushered them into a small room furnished with only a plain bed and a narrow table. No windows let in light, so a tiny lamp burned in the room. It felt mean and dingy. She looked at the bed and suddenly all thought of the décor left her mind.

A man lay there, his face bruised and swollen so badly one eye was a bloodied, compressed slit. The white of the other eye was dark. She suspected it would appear red in better light. His lips did not line up properly, possibly indicating a broken jaw. His face seemed broad and strangely shaped, though that might have been an effect of the injuries.

He also cradled his right hand to his chest, and she saw instantly that the forearm bent in a way it shouldn’t. His chest, too, was dark with bruises. All he wore was a pair of short, tattered trousers that had been roughly mended in many places. His skin was deeply tanned and his build was slight. His feet were bare, and black with dirt. One ankle was badly swollen. The calf of the other leg looked slightly crooked, as if it had healed badly after a break.

The room was silent but for the man’s rapid, laboured breathing. Tessia recognised the sound and felt her stomach sink. Her father had once treated a man whose ribs had been broken, puncturing his lungs. That man had died.

Her father hadn’t moved since entering the room. He stood still, back slightly bent, gazing at the beaten, broken figure on the bed.

“Father,” she ventured.

With a jerk, he straightened and turned to look at her. As he met her eyes she felt understanding pass between them. She found herself shaking her head slightly, and realised he was doing the same. Then she smiled. Surely at moments like these, when they did not even need to speak to understand each other, he could see that she was meant to follow in his footsteps?

He frowned and looked down, then turned back to the bed. She felt a sudden, painful loss. What he should have done was smile, or nod, or give her some sign of reassurance that they would continue working together.

I must regain his confidence, she thought. She took her father’s bag from Keron, placed it on the narrow table and opened it. Taking out the burner, she lit it and adjusted the flame. Footsteps sounded outside the room.

“We need more light,” her father muttered.

Abruptly the room was filled with a dazzling white light. Tessia ducked as a ball of brightness moved past her head. She stared at it and immediately regretted doing so. It was too bright. When she looked away a circular shadow obscured her sight.

“Is that enough?” a strangely accented voice asked.

“I thank you, master,” she heard her father say respectfully.

Master? Tessia felt her stomach spasm. Only one person currently staying in the Residence would be addressed so by her father. Yet with the realisation came a feeling of rebellion. I will not show this Sachakan any fear, she decided. Though I guess there’s no risk of trembling at the sight of anyone when I can’t actually see properly. She rubbed at her eyes. The dark patch was receding as her eyes recovered. Squinting at the doorway, she realised there were two figures standing there.

“How do you rate his chances, Healer Veran?” a more familiar voice asked.

Her father hesitated before answering. “Low, my lord,” he admitted. “His lungs are pierced. Such an injury is usually fatal.”

“Do what you can,” Lord Dakon instructed.

Tessia could just make out the two magicians’ faces now. Lord Dakon’s expression was grim. His companion was smiling. She could see enough to make out his broad Sachakan features, the elaborately decorated jacket and pants he wore, and the jewelled knife in its sheath on his belt that Sachakans wore to indicate they were magicians. Lord Dakon said something quietly, and the pair moved out of sight. She heard their footsteps receding down the corridor beyond.

Abruptly, the light blinked out, leaving them in darkness. Tessia heard her father curse under his breath. Then the room brightened again, though not so fiercely. She looked up to see Keron step inside carrying two full-sized lamps.

“Ah, thank you,” Tessia’s father said. “Place them over here, and here.”

“Is there anything else you require?” the servant asked. “Water? Cloth?”

“At the moment what I need more than anything else is information. How did this happen?”

“I’m... I’m not sure. I did not witness it.”

“Did anyone? It is easy to miss an injury when there are so many. A description of where each blow fell—”

“Nobody saw,” the man said quickly. “None but Lord Dakon, this slave and his master.”

Slave? Tessia looked down at the injured man. Of course. The tanned skin and broad features were typically Sachakan. Suddenly the Sachakan magician’s interest made sense.

Her father sighed. “Then fetch us some water, and I will write a list of supplies for you to collect from my wife.”

The house master hurried away. Tessia’s father looked at her, his expression grim. “It will be a long night for you and me.” He smiled faintly. “I have to wonder, at times like these, if you are tempted by your mother’s vision of your future.”

“At times like these it never crosses my mind,” she told him. Then she added quietly, “This time we may succeed.”

His eyes widened, then his shoulders straightened a little. “Let’s get started, then.”

CHAPTER 2

Playing host to a Sachakan magician was never easy and rarely pleasant. Of all the tasks required of Lord Dakon’s servants, feeding their guest had caused the most distress. If Ashaki Takado was served a dish he recognised as one he’d eaten before he would reject it, even if he had enjoyed it. He disliked most dishes and he had a large appetite, so at each meal many, many more courses had to be prepared than were normally required to feed two people.

The reward for enduring the fussiness of this guest was a great surfeit of food, which was shared among the household afterwards. If Takado stays for many more weeks I will not be surprised to find my servants have begun to get a little rotund, Dakon mused. Still, I am sure they would much rather the Sachakan moved on.

As would I, he added to himself as his guest leaned back, patted his broad girth and belched. Preferably back to his homeland, which I presume is where he is heading since he has travelled through most of Kyralia and this is the closest Residence to the pass.

“An excellent meal,” Takado announced. “Did I detect a little bellspice in that last dish?”

Dakon nodded. “An advantage to living close to the border is that Sachakan traders occasionally pass this way.”

“I’m surprised they do. Mandryn isn’t on the direct road to Imardin.”

“No, but occasionally spring floods block the main road and the best alternative route brings traffic right through the village.” He wiped his mouth on a cloth. “Shall we retire to the seating room?”

As Takado nodded, Dakon heard a faint sigh of relief from Cannia, who was on duty in the dining room tonight. At leastthe servants’ trials are over for the evening, Dakon thought wearily as he stood up. Mine don’t end until the man sleeps.

Takado rose and stepped away from the table. He was a full head taller than Dakon, and his broad shoulders and wide face added to the impression of bulk. Beneath a layer of soft fat was the frame of a typical Sachakan – strong and big. Next to Takado, Dakon knew he must appear pathetically thin and small. And pale. While not as dark as the Lonmars of the north, Sachakan skin was a healthy brown that Kyralian women had been trying to achieve with paints for centuries.

Which they still did, despite otherwise loathing and fearing the Sachakans. Dakon led the way out of the room. They should be proud of their complexion, but centuries of believing our pallor is evidence that we are a weak, barbaric race can’t be turned around easily.

He entered the seating room, Takado following and dropping into the chair he’d claimed as his own for the duration of his stay. The room was illuminated by two lamps. Though he could easily have lit the room with a magical light, Dakon preferred the warm glow of lamplight. It reminded him of his mother, who’d had no magical talent and preferred to do things “the old-fashioned way”. She’d also decorated and furnished the seating room. After another Sachakan visitor, impressed with the library, had decided that Dakon’s father would gift him with several valuable books, she had decreed that such visitors be entertained in a room that appeared full of priceless treasures, but actually contained copies, fakes or inexpensive knick-knacks.

Takado stretched his legs and watched Dakon pour wine from a jug the servants had left for them. “So, Lord Dakon, do you think your healer can save my slave?”

Dakon detected no concern in the man’s voice. He hadn’t expected care for the slave’s well-being – just the sort of interest a man has in a belonging that has broken and is being repaired. “Healer Veran will do the best he can.”

“And if he fails, how will you punish him?”

Dakon handed Takado a goblet. “I won’t.”

Takado’s eyebrows rose. “How do you know he will do his best, then?”

“Because I trust him. He is a man of honour.”

“He is a Kyralian. My slave is valuable to me, and I am Sachakan. How do I know he won’t hasten the man’s death to spite me?”

Dakon sat down and took a sip of the wine. It wasn’t a good vintage. His ley didn’t enjoy a climate favourable for winemaking. But it was strong, and would speed the Sachakan towards retiring for the night. Dakon doubted it would loosen the man’s tongue, though. It hadn’t on any of the previous evenings.

“Because he is a man of honour,” Dakon repeated.

The Sachakan snorted. “Honour! Among servants? If I were you, I’d take the daughter. She’s not so ugly, for a Kyralian. She’ll have picked up a few healing tricks, so she’d be a useful slave, too.”

Dakon smiled. “Surely you have noticed during your journeying that slavery is outlawed in Kyralia.”

Takado’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, I couldn’t help but notice. Nobody could fail to see how badly your servants attend to their masters. Surly. Stupid. Clumsy. It wasn’t always that way, you know. Your people once embraced slavery as if it was their own idea. They could again, too. You might regain the prosperity your great-grandfathers enjoyed.” He downed the wine in a few gulps and then sighed appreciatively.

“We’ve enjoyed greater prosperity since outlawing slavery than we ever had before,” Dakon told his guest as he rose to refill the Sachakan’s goblet and top up his own. “Keeping slaves isn’t profitable. Treat them badly and they die before they become useful, or else rebel or run away. Treat them well and they cost as much to feed and control as free servants, yet have no motivation to work well.”

“No motivation but fear of punishment or death.”

“An injured or dead slave is of no use to anyone. I can’t see how beating a slave to death for stepping on your foot is going to encourage him to be careful in the future. His death won’t even be an example to others, since there are no other slaves here to learn from it.”

Takado swirled the wine in his goblet, his expression unreadable. “I probably went a bit too far. Trouble is, after travelling with him for months I’ve grown utterly sick of his company. You would, too, if you were restricted to one servant when you visited a country. I’m sure whichever of your kings came up with that law only wanted to punish Sachakans.”

“Happy servants make better companions,” Dakon said. “I enjoy conversing and dealing with my people, and they don’t seem to mind talking to and working for me. If they didn’t like me, they wouldn’t alert me to potential problems in the ley, or suggest ways to increase crop yield.”

“If my slaves didn’t alert me to problems in my domain or get the best out of my crops, I’d have them killed.”

“And then their skills would be lost. My people live longer and so gain proficiency in their work. They take pride in it, and are more likely to be innovative and inventive – like the healer tending your slave.”

“But not like his daughter,” Takado said. “Her skill will be wasted, won’t it? She is a woman and in Kyralia women do not become healers. In my country her skills would be utilised.” He leaned towards Dakon. “If you let me buy her off you, I’ll make sure she gets to use them. I suspect she’d welcome the chance.” He took a swig of the wine, watching Dakon over the rim of the goblet.

For a greedy, cruel man with too much power and too little self-restraint, Takado can be disturbingly perceptive, Dakon noted. “Even if I would not be breaking a law, and she agreed to such a thing, I don’t think it’s her healing skills you’re interested in.”

Takado laughed and relaxed in his chair. “You’ve seen through me once again, Lord Dakon. I expect you haven’t tasted that dish – or have you?”

“Of course not. She is half my age.”

“Which only makes her more appealing.”

Takado was goading him again, Dakon knew. “And more likely that such a liaison would make me look a fool.”

“There’s no shame in seeking a little entertainment while looking for a suitable wife,” Takado said. “I’m surprised you haven’t found yourself one yet – a wife, that is. I suppose there aren’t any females in Aylen ley worthy of your status. You should visit Imardin more often. Looks like everything worth being a part of happens there.”

“It has been too long since I visited,” Dakon agreed. He sipped the wine. “Did you enjoy your stay there?”

Takado shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d use the word ‘enjoy’. It was as barbaric a place as I expected.”

“If you didn’t expect to enjoy it, why did you go?”

The Sachakan’s eyes gleamed and he held out his empty goblet again. “To satisfy my curiosity.”

Dakon rose to refill it. Every time they came close to discussing why Takado had toured Kyralia the Sachakan became flippant or changed the subject. It had made some magicians nervous, especially since rumours had reached them that some of the younger Sachakan magicians had met in Arvice, the capital of Sachaka, to discuss whether regaining the empire’s former colonies was possible. The Kyralian king had sent secret requests to all landowners that any lord or lady Takado stayed with seek the reason for his visit.

“So has your curiosity been satisfied?” Dakon asked as he returned to his seat.

Takado shrugged. “There’s more I’d like to see, but without a slave...? No.”

“Your slave might yet live.”

“Much as I have appreciated your hospitality, I’m not going to stay here only to see whether a slave I’m tired of recovers. I’ve probably been too great a drain on your resources already.” He paused to drink. “No, if he lives, keep him. He’ll probably be crippled and useless.”

Dakon blinked in surprise. “So if he lives and I allow him to stay, you grant him his freedom?”

“Yes. Of course.” Takado waved a hand dismissively. “Can’t have you breaking your own laws because of me.”

“I thank you for your consideration. So where will you go next? Home?”

The Sachakan nodded, then grinned. “Can’t let the slaves back in my domain get any foolish ideas about who is in control, can I?”

“Absence, as they say, tempers the bonds of affection.”

Takado laughed. “You have some strange sayings here in Kyralia. Like ‘Sleep is the cheapest tonic’.” He stood and, as Dakon followed suit, handed over his empty wine goblet. “You haven’t finished yours,” he noted.

“As you are no doubt aware, small bodies make for quick drunks.” Dakon set his half-empty goblet next to the empty one on the tray. “And while there is an injured man in my house I feel a responsibility to remain sober, even when that man is only a lowly Sachakan slave.”

Takado’s stare was somewhere between blank and amused. “You Kyralians are truly a strange people.” He turned away. “No need to escort me to my room. I remember the way.” He swayed slightly. “At least, I think I remember. Good night, Lord Dakon, as you strange Kyralians say.”

“Good night, Ashaki Takado,” Dakon replied.

He watched the Sachakan stroll down the corridor, and listened to the man’s footsteps receding. Then he followed as silently as he could manage. Not to make sure that his guest went where he intended, but because he wanted to check on Veran’s progress. The slave’s room was, naturally, not far from his master’s and Dakon did not want the Sachakan noticing where he was going, and deciding to accompany him.

A few corridors and a stairway later Dakon watched as Takado walked past the door to his slave’s room without glancing at it, and disappeared into his own chamber. Muffled sounds came from within the slave’s room. The light spilling under the door flickered. Dakon paused, reconsidering whether he should interrupt.

The slave will either live or he won’t, he told himself; it won’t make any difference whether you visit or not. But he could not find the cold practicality with which Takado regarded all but the most powerful of humans. Memories of the slave pinned to a wall, recoiling from relentless invisible blows dealt by the Sachakan magician, made Dakon shudder. He could still hear the crunch of breaking bones, the slap of impacts upon vulnerable flesh.

Turning away, he headed towards his own apartments, trying not to hope that Veran would fail.

Because what in the name of higher magic was he going to do with a freed Sachakan slave?

Early morning light illuminated the village when Tessia and her father emerged from Lord Dakon’s house. It was a thin, cold glow, but when she turned to look at her father she knew the greyness of his face was not just a trick of the light. He was exhausted.

Their home was across the road and along it for hundred steps or so, yet the distance seemed enormous. It would have been ridiculous to ask the stable workers to hitch a horse to the cart for such a short journey, but she was so tired she wished someone had. Her father’s shoe clipped a stone and she tucked an arm round his to steady him, her other hand gripping the handle of his bag. It felt heavier than it ever had before, even though most of the bandages and a substantial amount of the medicines usually contained within it were now wrapped around or applied to various parts of the Sachakan slave’s body.

That poor man. Her father had cut him open in order to remove the broken piece of rib from his lung and sew up the hole. Such drastic surgery should have killed the fellow, but somehow he had continued to breathe and live. Her father had said it was pure luck the incision he’d made hadn’t severed a major pulse path.

He’d made the cut as small as possible, and worked mostly by feel, his fingers deep within the man’s body. It had been incredible to watch.

Coming to the door of their house, Tessia stepped forward to open it. But as she reached out for the handle, the door swung inward. Her mother drew them inside, her face lined with worry.

“Cannia said you were treating a Sachakan. I thought at first she meant him. I thought, “How could a magician be that badly injured?” but she told me it was the slave. Is he alive?”

“Yes,” Tessia’s father said.

“Will he stay so?”

“It’s unlikely. He’s a tough one, though.”

“Didn’t hardly yell at all,” Tessia agreed. “Though I suspect that’s because he was afraid of attracting his master’s attention.”

Her mother turned to regard her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head.

“Did they feed you?” she asked.

Her father looked thoughtful.

“Keron brought some food,” Tessia answered for him, “but we didn’t have time to eat it.”

“I’ll heat up some soup.” The woman ushered them into the kitchen. Tessia and her father dropped into two chairs by the cooking table. Stirring up the coals in the fire, her mother persuaded some fresh wood to catch then hitched a small pan over the flames.

“We’ll have to check on him regularly,” Tessia’s father murmured, more to himself than to Tessia or her mother. “Change his bandages. Watch for signs of fever.”

“Did Cannia say why he was beaten?” Tessia asked her mother. The woman shook her head. “What reason do those Sachakan brutes need? Most likely he did it for fun, but put a bit more force into it than he intended.”

“Lord Yerven always said that not all Sachakans are cruel,” her father said.

“Just most of them,” Tessia finished. She smiled. Lord Dakon’s father had died when she was a child. Her memories of him were of a kindly, vague old man who always carried sweetdrops to give to the village children.

“Well, this is clearly one of the cruel ones.” Tessia’s mother looked at her husband and her frown returned. “I wish you didn’t have to go back there.”

He smiled grimly. “Lord Dakon will not allow anything to happen to us.”

The woman looked from him to Tessia and back. Her frown deepened and her expression changed from concern to annoyance. Turning back to the fire, she tested the soup with the tip of a finger, and nodded to herself. She brought out the pan and poured its contents into two mugs. Tessia took both and handed one to her father. The broth was warm and delicious, and she felt herself growing rapidly sleepier as she drank it. Her father’s eyelids drooped.

“Off to bed now, the both of you,” her mother said as soon as they had finished. Neither of them argued as she ordered them upstairs to their rooms. Intense weariness washed over Tessia as she changed into nightclothes. Climbing under the covers, she sighed contentedly.

Just as she began to drift into sleep the sound of voices roused her again.

The sound was coming from across the corridor. From her parents’ bedroom. Remembering her conversation with her father the previous day, she felt a twinge of anxiety. She pushed herself into a sitting position, then swung her feet down to the floor.

Her door made only a thin, quiet squeak as she opened it. The last time she had listened in on a late night conversation between her parents had been many years before, when she was only a child. Padding slowly and silently to their door, she pressed her ear to the wood.

“You want them too,” her mother said. “Of course. But I would never expect that of Tessia if she didn’t want them,” her father replied.

“You’d be disappointed, though.”

“And relieved. It is always a risk. I’ve seen too many healthy women die.”

“It is a risk we must all take. To not have children out of fear is wrong. Yes, it is a risk, but the rewards are so great. She could deny herself great joy. And who will look after her when she is old?”

Silence followed.

“If she had a son, you could train the boy,” her mother added.

“It is too late for that. When I have grown too old to work the boy would still be too young and inexperienced to take on the responsibility.”

“So you train Tessia instead? She can’t replace you. You know that.”

“She might, if she shared the task with another healer. She could be...I don’t know what to call it... something between a healer and a birthmother. A...a ‘carer’, perhaps. Or at least an assistant.”

Tessia wanted to interrupt, to tell them that she could be more than half a healer, but she kept silent and still. Bursting into the room, after having obviously eavesdropped, would hardly do anything to change her mother’s mind.

“You have to take on a village boy,” her mother said firmly.

“And you must stop training her. It has filled her head with impossible ideas. She will not even consider marriage or raising a family until she stops trying to be a healer.”

“If I am to employ a new apprentice he will take time to train. I will need Tessia’s assistance in the meantime. The village is growing larger, and will keep growing. By the time I have trained this boy we may need two healers here. Tessia could continue her work – perhaps marry as well.”

“Her husband would not allow it.”

“He might, if she chose the right man. An intelligent man...”

“A tolerant man. A man who does not mind gossip and breaking tradition. Where is she going to find such a one?”

Tessia’s father was silent a long time.

“I’m tired. I need to sleep,” he said eventually.

“We both do. I was up most of the night worrying about you two. Especially with Tessia being in the same house as that Sachakan brute.”

“We were in no danger. Lord Dakon is a good man.”

The few words that followed were muffled. Tessia waited until the pair had not spoken for some time, then carefully crept back to her bed.

Last night I proved my worth to him, she thought smugly. He can’t ask me to stop assisting him now. He knows no foolish village boy would have had the nerve or knowledge to deal with that slave’s injuries.

But I did.

CHAPTER 3

At the soft tap on the door, Apprentice Jayan smiled. He turned and sent out a small surge and twist of magic to the handle. With a click the door swung inward. Beyond the doorway, a young woman bowed as best she could, laden as she was with a large tray.

“Greetings, Apprentice Jayan,” she chimed as she entered the room. Carrying her burden over to him, she set it on one ample hip and began transferring bowls, plates and cups onto the desk.

“Greetings to you, Malia,” he replied. “You’re looking particularly cheerful today.”

“I am,” she said. “The lord’s guest is leaving today.”

He straightened. “He is? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. I guess he can’t cope without a slave tending to his every need.” She sent him a sidelong, thoughtful look. “I wonder, could you get by without me?”

Jayan ignored her question and the obvious hook for a compliment. “Why hasn’t he got a slave? What happened to the slave he arrived with?”

Malia’s eyes rounded. “Of course. You wouldn’t know. And you wouldn’t have heard anything, hidden here in the back of the Residence. Takado beat his slave almost to death yesterday afternoon. Healer Veran worked on him the full night.” Despite her matter-of-fact tone, her quick gestures betrayed her uneasiness. He guessed all the servants would be unnerved by the Sachakan’s behaviour. They knew that, to him, there was little difference between them and a slave.

But Malia’s smile had quickly returned, and it was a sly one. She knew what the Sachakan’s departure would mean for him. He looked at her expectantly.

“And?”

The smile widened. “And what?”

“Did he live or die?”

“Oh.” She frowned, then shrugged. “I assume he’s still alive, or we’d have heard something.”

Jayan stood up and moved to the window. He wanted to seek Dakon and discover more, but his master had ordered him to remain in his room while the Sachakan was staying in the Residence. Looking out of the window, down at the closed stable doors and empty yard, he chewed his lip.

If I can’t find out myself, Malia will be more than willing to get information for me.

Trouble was, she always wanted a little more than thanks in return for her favours. While she was pretty enough, Dakon had long ago warned him that young female house servants had a habit of taking a fancy to young male apprentice magicians – or their influence and fortunes – and he was not to take advantage of them, or allow himself to be taken advantage of by them. While Jayan knew his master was forgiving of the occasional mistake or misbehaviour, he had also learned over the last four years that the magician had subtle and unpleasant ways to punish unacceptable conduct. He did not believe Dakon would resort to the ultimate punishment for such misconduct – send an apprentice back to his family with his education unfinished and without the knowledge of higher magic that marked him as an independent magician – but he didn’t fancy Malia enough to test that belief. Or any young woman of Mandryn, for that matter.

The trick with Malia was never to actually ask for anything. Only express a wish to know something. If she provided information he’d asked for, she considered he owed her something in return.

“I wonder when the Sachakan will leave,” he murmured.

“Oh, probably not till dusk,” Malia said lightly. “

Dusk? Why would he travel at night?”

She smiled and slipped the tray under her arm. “I don’t know, but I like the thought of you stuck here, all by yourself, for another whole day. After all, you don’t want to risk he’ll take a fancy to you, and take you home with him in place of his slave, do you? Enjoy your day.”

Chuckling, she left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. Jayan stared at the back of the door, not sure if she’d seen through his ploy or was merely seizing an opportunity to tease him.

Then he sighed, returned to his desk and began his morning meal.

At first Jayan hadn’t minded Dakon’s decision that he must stay in his room for the duration of the Sachakan’s visit. He had plenty of books to read and study, and didn’t mind being alone. He wasn’t worried that Takado would attempt to kidnap him, as Malia had suggested, since Sachakans didn’t make slaves of anyone who had access to their magical abilities. They preferred slaves with powerful latent talent, who could not use magic yet would provide their master with plenty of magical strength to absorb.

No, if any conflict arose between Takado and Dakon it was more likely the Sachakan would try to kill Jayan. Part of an apprentice’s role was to provide his master with a source of extra magical strength, just as a slave did, except that apprentices gained magical knowledge in return. And were free men, or women.

Conflict between Takado and Dakon was unlikely, though. It would have diplomatic repercussions in Sachaka and Kyralia that neither magician would want to face. Still, it was possible Takado might stir up some minor trouble, knowing he was little over a day’s journey from his homeland, only to make a point about Sachakan superiority and power.

Like beating his own slave to death?

I guess he has made his point already. He’s shown us he still has power over other human lives, and he’s done so without breaking any Kyralian laws.

That thought made Jayan feel oddly relieved. Now that the Sachakan had made his point he would leave – was leaving – and soon Jayan would be out of danger. He could leave the room. And the Residence, if he wished. Life would return to normal.

Jayan felt his mood lighten. He had never thought he would get sick of his own company or of reading. It turned out he could reach a point where he began to long for sunlight and fresh air. He’d passed that point a few days ago, and since then he’d been restless.

Only so much of magic could be learned from reading. To gain any skill took practice. It had been weeks since he’d had a lesson from Lord Dakon. Each day that passed was a lesson delayed. Each delayed lesson meant it would be longer before the day Lord Dakon taught him higher magic and Jayan became a magician in his own right.

Then Jayan would enjoy the respect and power due him as a higher magician, and begin to earn his own fortune. He, like his older brother, Lord Velan, would have a title, though “Magician” would never surpass “Lord” in importance. Nothing was more respected in Kyralia than ownership of land, even if all it encompassed was one of the city’s grand old houses.

But ownership of a ley was rated more highly than ownership of a house, which was ironic since magicians who lived in the country were considered backward-thinking and out of touch. If Jayan stayed on good terms with his master, and Dakon did not marry and sire an heir, there was a chance the lord would nominate him as his successor. It was not unheard of for a magician to favour a former apprentice in this way.

It was not just the thought of surpassing his brother in land ownership that appealed to Jayan, though. The idea of retiring to Mandryn some day was also very attractive. He had found he liked this quiet existence, far from the social games of the city he’d once enjoyed watching, and far from the influence of his father and brother.

But Dakon isn’t too old to marry and have children, he thought. His father did both quite late in life. Even if Dakon doesn’t, he’s got several years in him yet, so I have plenty of time to explore the world first. And the sooner I learn what I need to become a higher magician, the sooner I’ll be free to travel wherever I want.

The light spilling around the window screens of Tessia’s bedroom was all wrong. Then she remembered the work of the night before, and how she and her parents had gone to bed in the morning. Of course the light was wrong. It was midday.

For a while she lay there, expecting to fall asleep again, but she didn’t. Despite having slept only a few hours, and still feeling a cloying weariness, she remained awake. Her stomach growled. Perhaps it was hunger keeping her from sleep. She climbed out of bed, dressed, and tidied her hair. Stepping quietly out of her room, she saw that her parents’ door was still closed. She could hear faint snoring.

At the bottom of the stairs she turned into the kitchen. The hearth was cold, the fire of the morning having burned itself out. She helped herself to some pachi fruit in a bowl on the table. Then she noticed her father’s bag on the floor.

The slave, she thought. Father said the first day of care after treatment was the most important. Bandages will need changing. Wounds will need cleaning. And the pain cures will be wearing off.

Looking up at the ceiling, toward her parents’ room, she considered whether to rouse her father. Not yet, she decided. He needs sleep more than I do, at his age.

So she waited. She considered trying to cook something, but doubted she could do so without rousing her parents. Instead she went through her father’s bag. Slipping into his workroom, she topped up and replaced medicines, thread and bandages. Then she carefully cleaned and sharpened all his tools, while the sunlight streaming through the windows crept slowly across the room.

Her work kept her busy for a few hours. When she could not think of any new task to do, she returned to the kitchen, leaving her father’s bag by the front door. Creeping up the staircase, she listened to the sound of snoring and deliberated.

We must check on the slave soon, she thought. I should wake Father up – which will wake Mother up in the process. Or I could go myself.

The last thought sent a thrill of excitement through her. If she tended to the slave by herself – if the servants at Lord Dakon’s house allowed her to – wouldn’t that prove that the villagers did have confidence in her as a healer? Wouldn’t it show that she might, given time, replace her father?

She backed down the stairs and moved to the front door. Looking at her father’s bag, she felt a twinge of doubt.

It could make Father angry. Doing something he didn’t ask me to do isn’t as bad as disobeying an order, though. And it’s not as if I’m doing anything more than the simple routine of care after treatment. She smiled to herself. And if I get one of the Residence servants to stay with me, I can show I at least took Mother’s worries about my safety into consideration.

Taking the bag’s handles, she lifted it, opened the front door as quietly as possible, then slipped outside.

Several of the villagers were about, she saw. The baker’s two sons were slouching against the wall of their house, enjoying the sunny afternoon. They nodded to her and she smiled back. Are they on my mother’s list of prospective husbands? she wondered. Neither of them interested her. Though they were polite enough now, she could not help remembering how annoying they’d been as boys, calling her names and pulling her hair.

The former metal worker’s widow was walking with slow, deliberate steps down the main road, steadying herself with two canes. She’d walked the length of the village and back every sunny day for as long as Tessia could remember. When Tessia was a child, and the widow less withered, other older women of the village had joined her and much gossiping had transpired during their circuit. Now the other women said they were too old to venture out, and feared they would trip or be knocked over by the village children.

Faint childish screams and laughter drew Tessia’s attention to the river, where small figures swarmed around the broad, flat curve of the waterway where she had played as a child. Then she heard her name spoken, and turned in time to see a local farmer nod at her as he passed.

He had come from the direction of Lord Dakon’s house, now only a few dozen steps away. Entering the alley beside the Residence, she walked up to the side door she and her father had entered the previous day, and knocked.

The door was opened by Cannia. The woman smiled at Tessia, then glanced around the alley.

“Father is still resting,” Tessia explained. “I’m to check on the slave and report back.”

Cannia nodded and beckoned Tessia inside. “Took him some broth this morning. Tried to feed it to him, since he can’t in the state he’s in. Didn’t take more than a few mouthfuls, I reckon.”

“So he’s awake.”

“Sure is, though I dare say he wishes he wasn’t.”

“Could you or someone else assist while I tend to him?”

“Of course.” She lit a lamp and gave it to Tessia. “Go on ahead and I’ll send someone to help you.”

Tessia felt her skin prickle slightly as she climbed the stairs to the slave’s room. She could not help wondering where the Sachakan was, and hoping she wouldn’t encounter him. When she reached the slave’s room and found it empty but for her patient, she sighed with relief.

The man stared at her, his pupils wide. She could not tell if it was from fear or surprise. Nobody had told her his name, she realised.

“Greetings again,” she said. “I’m here to change your bandages and check if you’re healing properly.”

He said nothing, and continued to stare. Well, she could hardly expect him to speak, since his jaw had been broken and his head was bound up to prevent it from moving. This was going to be a one-sided conversation.

“You must be in a lot of pain,” she continued. “I can give you medicine to dull it. Would you like that?”

The man blinked, then nodded once.

Smiling, Tessia turned to her father’s bag and brought out a syrup her father used to treat children. The slave would have trouble swallowing, and a draught of powder mixed in water was likely to leave bitter-tasting grit in his mouth if he couldn’t drink it easily. She would have to thin out the syrup with some water, too, and dribble it through a siphon inserted between his lips.

As the medication ran into the man’s mouth he stiffened, then swallowed. But he didn’t relax again and his eyes were wide as he stared over her shoulder.

He looks terrified, she thought.

A small gust of air told her that the door was open.

Pulling the siphon out, she stepped back and looked up to see who Cannia had sent to her. The man who gazed back at her was tall, bulky and wearing exotic-looking clothing.

Her heart froze in horror.

“I see you’ve come back to check on Hanara,” the Sachakan said, with a smile that lacked any genuine gratitude. “How good of you. Is he going to live?”

She drew in a breath and somehow found her voice. “I do not know... master.”

“It won’t matter if he doesn’t,” he told her in a reassuring tone.

She could not think of anything to say to that, so she said nothing. Where is the servant Cannia said she’d send? she thought. Where’s Lord Dakon, for that matter? Surely he doesn’t let the Sachakan roam the house unsupervised...

“I suppose he’s a good patient to experiment on,” the Sachakan said, looking at his slave. “Perhaps you’ll learn something new.” The slave avoided his master’s gaze. The Sachakan looked at her again. “Enjoy yourself.”

He backed out of the doorway and closed the door. Tessia let out a sigh of relief, and heard another exhalation follow her own. She looked at the slave and smiled crookedly.

“Your master has a strange idea of fun,” she murmured. Then she set to work replacing his bandages.

He made no noise as she worked, only occasionally catching his breath as those bandages that had stuck a little to the wounds came away. His injuries were looking remarkably good – minimal swelling and redness, and no festering ooze. She wiped all carefully with a purifier and replaced the soiled bandages with clean ones.

When she had finished at last, the Sachakan’s visit was a distant, unpleasant memory. She packed her father’s bag and picked it up. Pausing at the door, she nodded at the slave.

“Rest well, Hanara.”

The skin around his eyes crinkled slightly, the closest he could get to a smile. Feeling pleased with her work, she stepped out of the room and started down the corridor to the servants’ stairs, wondering if her parents were awake yet.

From one of the doorways drifted a voice that sent her heart sinking to her knees.

“Have you finished, Tessia?”

The Sachakan. She stopped, then cursed herself for doing so. If she hadn’t, she could have pretended not to have heard him, but now that it was obvious she had she could not ignore him without being rude. Drawing a deep breath, she took two steps back and looked into the room. It was a seating room, furnished with comfortable chairs and small tables on which a guest could rest a drink or a book. The Sachakan was sitting in a large wooden chair.

“I have, master,” she replied.

“Come here.”

His request was spoken quietly, but in the steely tone of a man who expected to be obeyed. With heart racing, Tessia moved to the doorway. The Sachakan smiled and waved a hand.

“All the way here,” he said.

Stepping inside the room, she stopped a few paces away from him and concentrated on keeping her face as expressionless as possible.

From behind her came the sound of the door closing firmly. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat. Then she cursed, because she knew she had let fear show on her face. Let’s hope he thought it was surprise, she told herself. She realised she was breathing too fast, and tried to slow her breaths.

The Sachakan rose and walked towards her, all the while staring into her eyes. Someone had told her once that meeting a Sachakan’s eyes was to show him you thought yourself his equal. Unless you were a powerful magician, he might decide to teach you otherwise. She looked down.

“There is a private matter I wish to discuss with you,” he told her quietly.

She nodded. “Your slave. He is—”

“No. Something else. I’ve been watching you. You’ve got some unique qualities, for a Kyralian. I’ve noticed nobody here knows your true worth. Am I right? I could change that.”

He moved a little closer. Too close. She took a step back. What game is he playing? she thought. Does he think he’s so powerful that he can change the way we live here in Kyralia? Or does he think I’d fall for something as stupid as an offer of a better life in Sachaka?

“If I can’t convince anyone here that I can be a healer, I doubt it’ll be any different elsewhere, where people don’t know me,” she told him.

He paused, then chuckled. “Oh, the healing is only part of your worth. The rest of you is being wasted even more. Look at you...”

Coming closer again, he reached out and touched the side of her face. She flinched away.

“. . . those fine bones. That sleek hair and such pale skin. When I first came here I thought Kyralian women were ugly, but now and then I’d see one that changed my mind. Like you. Your foolish men . . .” His voice had been growing quieter and more intense, and she found herself backing away from hands reaching out to touch her hair . . . snaking round her waist.

“Stop it!” she said, dropping the bag and pushing his hands away.

He paused, then his expression darkened. “Nobody wants what you have, girl. So nobody is going to care if I take it.”

Something began to squeeze her from all sides. Looking around, she could not see any sign of the force pressing against her. A relentless pressure at her back pushed her forward. It forced her against the Sachakan, who laughed.

“Lord Dakon,” she coughed out. “He won’t let you—”

“He’s not here. And what’s he going to do when he finds out? Punish me? I’ll be halfway home by then. How many people do you want knowing, anyway?”

As he plucked at the front of her tunic she tried to move her arms, but some invisible force held them still. She could not move her legs, either. She could not move anything. Not even her head. And as she opened her mouth to yell she felt something invisible envelop it and force her jaw closed again. The Sachakan’s grinning, leering face loomed over her. Her skin crawled. Her skull throbbed as if it would burst.

Is he inside my head? She closed her eyes, concentrated on the feeling and tried to push it away.

Get off get off get off GET OFF!

Suddenly the force holding her melted away and she fell backwards. At the same time she felt a sensation of something pouring out of her. A bright, bright light behind her eyelids was followed by a resounding crash.

Tessia felt her back meet the floor. The impact hurt, and her eyes flew open. She scrambled up into a sitting position and then froze as she took in the scene before her. One corner of the room was now a mess of broken furniture. The walls were cracked. Black marks radiated away from her, and she smelled the acrid scent of smoke.

Rapid footsteps echoed from the corridor outside the room. The Sachakan rose from among the broken mess in the corner. He looked at her, scowling, then down at himself. His clothes were as scorched as the walls, the stitchwork and beading blackened. After brushing at the marks with no effect, his face twisted into a snarl.

The door to the room flew open. Tessia jumped as Lord Dakon stepped inside. He stopped, looking from her to the Sachakan, then at the damage.

“What happened?” he demanded.

The Sachakan said nothing. He smiled, stepped over a broken chair, and strode from the room.

Lord Dakon turned to her. His eyes slid from her face to her chest. Looking down, she realised the front of her dress was unbuttoned to the waist, exposing her undershift. Hastily, she sat up and turned away so he could not see her buttoning it up again.

“What happened?” he asked again, this time more gently.

Tessia drew in a breath to answer, but the words would not come out. Your guest tried to force himself on me, she silently told him. But she found the Sachakan had been right. She didn’t want anyone to know. Not if there were the slightest chance her mother might hear of it. As her father had always said, there was no such thing as a secret in this tiny community.

And nothing had happened. Well, nothing like what the Sachakan appeared to intend, she thought. She stood up and glanced at the scorched walls. I have no idea why he did that.

Turning back to Dakon, she did not meet his eyes. “I ...I was rude. He took offence. I’m sorry... about the mess, Lord Dakon.” She picked up her father’s bag and began to turn away, then stopped to add: “The slave is healing well.”

He watched her as she walked past him into the corridor, and said nothing. Though she did not risk looking too closely at him for fear of meeting his eyes, there was something odd in the way he stared at her. She hurried to the servants’ stairs, and down them. Cannia was in the doorway to the kitchen. The woman said something as Tessia left, but Tessia did not hear properly and did not want to stop.

The late afternoon sunlight was too bright now. Suddenly all Tessia felt was an immense weariness. She hurried along the road to her home, paused to gather her courage before she entered, then opened the door.

Her parents were in the kitchen. They looked up as she entered. Her mother frowned, and her father appeared to suppress a smile as she dropped the bag at his feet.

“The slave is doing well. I’m going to take a nap,” she told them, and before they could say anything in reply she strode out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Nobody pursued her. She heard low voices from the kitchen but didn’t pause to try to make them out. Entering her room, she threw herself on her bed and, to her surprise, a sob escaped her.

What am I doing? Am I going to cry like a child? She rolled over and took a deep breath, forcing tears away. Nothing happened.

But something could have. Her mind veered away from that possibility to a memory of blackened walls. Something else had happened. Not what the Sachakan had intended. Something powerful and destructive. But what?

Magic?

Suddenly it all made sense. Lord Dakon. He must have heard something and come to rescue her.

But he didn’t arrive until after it happened.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t have reached out from wherever he had been. It would explain the destruction. The magician would not have made such a mess of the room if he’d been able to see where he directed his power. He’d been working blindly.

I owe him gratitude for doing so, she thought. He broke a lot of expensive things to save me. No wonder he stared at me so strangely. He was expecting thanks, and all I did was rush off home.

After drawing in a deep breath, she let it out slowly. At least she had managed to treat the slave first. Next time she would not be going to the Residence alone. She would stay by her father’s side, every moment she was there. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to exhaustion and slept.

CHAPTER 4

Now that the pain had receded a little, Hanara was able to think, though his thoughts were slow and sluggish from the drug the healer woman had given him. He was not sure being able to think was to his advantage, though. There was no direction in which he could set his mind without finding fear and pain.

He never liked to look backwards. The past was stuffed with bad memories, and the good ones left him full of bitterness. His current situation was hardly one he could find pleasant distractions from. Even if moving didn’t send agonising pain through his body he couldn’t have got out of bed. He was so trussed up with bandages, he might as well have been tied up and gagged.

Considering the future was even more unpleasant. The servant woman who fed him had told him during her last visit that his master had left. Takado was gone, she’d said, declaring he was headed for Sachaka and home.

She had told Hanara he was safe now.

She has no idea, he thought. None of these Kyralians do, except perhaps the magician, Lord Dakon. Takado will come back. He has to.

Sachakan magicians never freed ordinary slaves, let alone source slaves. They never left them behind in enemy territory. Not alive, at least.

When he comes back, he’ll either take me with him, or kill me.

If Hanara hadn’t healed enough by then to be useful to Takado, then the latter was more likely. No Sachakan magician was going to waste time tending to the wounds of a slave, or wait while that slave struggled to keep up, or put up with a slave too weak or crippled to serve their master properly.

Would the healers have worked so hard, if they knew there was a chance their efforts would be wasted?

Remembering the young woman, Hanara felt a strange constriction inside. Her touch had been gentle, her words kind. A person like her could not exist in his homeland. Only in this country was it possible for a woman her age to be so lacking in guile and bitterness.

She was like all the other good things he had seen in this land, which filled him with longing even as he despised them. He wished Takado had never visited Kyralia. The healer woman and Kyralia were the same: young, free, blissfully unaware of how lucky they were. It was hard to imagine she could ever defend herself against the cruel power of Sachakan magic, yet even his master had admitted that Kyralians could be “annoyingly feisty” when faced with a threat.

Takado. He will be back.

While slaves of Hanara’s value weren’t common, they were not impossible to replace either. Takado would test all his slaves when he returned home, and would probably find one with enough latent ability to be his new main source of magic. After all, once the man had discovered Hanara’s latent ability, he’d made sure his source slave had sired plenty of offspring.

Hanara felt only a faint pity for whichever of his progeny would be chosen. He’d never had the chance to know any of them. He was not even sure which of the child slaves were his. A working slave’s life had as many disadvantages as that of a source slave. All slaves’ lives were equally likely to end abruptly, whether by accident, overwork, the cruelty of a slave controller or the whim or violent mood swing of their master.

Why should I care who replaces me, anyway? When you’re dead, you’re dead, he thought. And if Takado finds another source slave, he’ll be more likely to kill me when he returns, if I haven’t healed fast or well enough.

But he couldn’t prevent that from happening. He could barely even move. All he could do was lie still and wonder, as he had all his life, if he would survive the next day.

The miniature paintings were quite amazing. Jayan peered at them closely, wondering why he hadn’t noticed them before. The woman’s tiny eyes even had eyelashes and he wondered what sort of brush could have produced such impossibly thin lines. There was a subtle blush to her cheek. She was quite pretty, he decided.

Where did Lord Dakon find the time to purchase art while entertaining Takado? Or has this always been here, and I’ve never noticed it?

He nudged a frame with one finger, swinging it slightly across the wall. Beneath was a faint dark shadow where the paint hadn’t faded as much as the exposed area around the miniature.

They’ve been here for years, he mused. It’s as if I’ve been away for a while. I’m noticing things I’ve become so accustomed to that I don’t see them any more.

But he hadn’t been travelling the country, he’d been stuck in his room. Now, according to Malia, the reason for his imprisonment had ended. The Sachakan magician, Takado, had packed up his few belongings, ordered his horse saddled and his pack horse loaded, and left.

As soon as Jayan had received the news, he had gone in search of Lord Dakon. Moving through the house, he noticed the excited chatter of the servants, adding to the impression that an oppressive force had been lifted from the place. In one room he saw silver tableware being packed away in an ornate cabinet; outside another on the guest floor he passed house servants carrying bedding away to be cleaned.

One of them nodded to a closed door and mouthed a word. Slave.

Jayan had looked at the door. So there was still one grim shadow remaining in the Residence. He had been surprised to hear the Sachakan had left his man behind. Perhaps Malia’s reports that the slave was healing well were wrong.

He had left searching the guest floor until last. It was possible Malia had been wrong about the Sachakan’s leaving. It was also possible Takado had come back, having forgotten something.

I won’t feel completely at ease until Dakon confirms Takado is well and truly gone.

The smell of something burnt reached his nose as he continued down the corridor, adding to his growing anxiety. He peered through an open door – and stopped.

“What...?” he muttered.

One corner of the room was a mess. The walls were cracked, and the floor and furniture scorched. He moved to the threshold and stared at the destruction.

“What would you say did this?”

Recognising the voice, Jayan turned to see that Lord Dakon was sitting in a chair facing the mess, his head resting on one hand and his elbow on the arm of the chair. His expression was one of absorbed thoughtfulness.

That side of the room, Jayan noted, hadn’t suffered any damage at all. He turned back to examine the damage critically.

“Takado,” Jayan replied. The destruction must have a magical cause, and Dakon wouldn’t have asked the question if he’d done it himself.

“I thought so too, at first. But it doesn’t make sense.”

“No? You weren’t here at the time, then?”

“No.” Dakon rose and looked down at the floor rug. One corner of it had been scorched. He stepped onto the burnt patch and turned round. Then he pointed to the floor a few steps away. “Stand there.”

Mystified, Jayan obeyed.

“That’s where Tessia was lying.”

“Tessia?” Jayan asked. “The healer’s daughter?” Then he added. “Lying?”

“Yes.” Dakon backed away, looking over his shoulder as he stepped over a broken chair. When he was nearly in the corner of the room where the scorching was the worst, he stopped. “This is where Takado was standing when I arrived.”

Jayan raised his eyebrows. “What was Tessia doing in the room with Takado?”

“She had come to tend to Hanara.”

“Hanara?”

“The slave.”

“The slave was in here?”

“No – a few doors down, in the servant’s closet.”

“So why was she in here, on the floor? Or... why was Takado in here with her?” Jayan looked down at his feet, then over at Lord Dakon, and felt a shiver run across his skin as he realised which direction all the scorch marks ran in. “Oh.”

Dakon smiled and stepped back over the chair. “Yes. The answer to those questions may be less relevant than their consequences. Whatever the reason those two were in here alone together, with the door closed, the result was something neither expected.”

“It left her on the floor and . . .” Jayan look pointedly over Dakon’s shoulder, “did that. From the looks of it, I’d say she didn’t much like Takado’s company.”

Which meant Tessia used magic, he thought. Surely not...

The magician sighed. “We can’t dismiss the possibility that the Sachakan arranged this to look that way, so we would jump to conclusions about her. I can’t see why – except as a joke. But if he didn’t . . .” He shrugged and let the sentence hang.

If he didn’t, then Tessia is a natural.

Jayan watched his master closely, trying to judge what the man felt about this unexpected turn of events. By law, Kyralian magicians had to train naturals, no matter who they were, or what social status they had. Dakon did not look dismayed, but he didn’t look particularly pleased, either. Instead, he seemed worried. Lines Jayan hadn’t noticed before marked his forehead and each side of his mouth. That bothered the apprentice on another level. He had always been smugly relieved to have a teacher young enough to still be active and, well, not a boring, lecturing old man. Though Dakon was eighteen years older than Jayan, his mind was still youthful enough to be interesting, while knowledgeable enough to be a good resource. Jayan enjoyed Dakon’s company as much as his lessons.

And what do I think of Tessia joining us? He tried to imagine having the same sorts of conversations with a woman – and commoner – in the room, and couldn’t.

Tessia was by no means Dakon’s social equal, so perhaps she would not always be a part of their social evenings. No, he decided. She will have lessons separately, too, because they’ll be so basic there won’t be much point my being there. But she’ll demand a lot of Dakon’s time.

Abruptly, Jayan realised there was much he disliked about this turn of events. If Dakon had two apprentices, his time would have to be split between them. Unless...

“You don’t have to take her on,” Jayan said, making his tone reassuring. “You could send her to someone else.”

Dakon looked up at Jayan and smiled crookedly. “And send her away from her family? No, she stays here,” he said firmly. “But her family may not like it. The news must be delivered with some delicacy. Her father is obviously attached to her. To frighten her would be disastrous. Above all we must not give them high hopes then dash them. I have to test her, to be sure she is what she appears to be.”

Jayan nodded and turned away to hide his dismay. I suppose if anyone in the village must turn out to be a natural, at least it’s someone who doesn’t have to be taught to read and write. He moved to the chair Dakon had occupied and sat down. Then he smiled. “I wish I could have seen his face.”

“Veran’s?”

“No, Takado’s.”

Dakon chuckled and moved to another, slightly scorched, chair. “He wasn’t pleased. No, he looked disgusted.”

Sachakans hated naturals, Jayan knew. They didn’t fit into Sachakan social structure, a problem which was usually more dangerous for the natural than for the master. A person’s powers had to be particularly strong to surface on their own, yet no ordinary magician, no matter how powerful, could hope to match the strength of a higher magician, who had taken and stored magic numerous times from their slaves or apprentices. But a trained magician was much more dangerous to keep as a slave than an untrained latent. Sachakan naturals were too much trouble, and therefore doomed to die, if not killed by a magician then when they eventually lost control of their powers.

“It’s fortunate that I discovered them when I did,” Dakon added. “I suspect he would have killed her, and expected me to thank him for doing me a favour.”

Jayan shuddered. “And risk the uncontrolled release of her power when she died?”

“No risk if he drained her of power first.” Dakon sighed. “Takado knows I would have dealt with her before now if she had already shown signs of natural ability, so he could safely assume her power must only just be surfacing, and not be particularly dangerous.”

Jayan looked at the scorched and cracked wall. “That’s not dangerous?”

“It would be to a non-magician,” Dakon agreed. “It’s mostly cosmetic, though. Not much force behind it, or she’d have blown a hole in the wall.”

“How much damage would she have done if she’d been at the point of losing control completely?”

“The whole house. Maybe the village. Naturals are usually stronger than the average magician. Some have even suggested that those of us who would never have gained access to our power without help from our masters were never meant to be magicians.”

“The whole village.” Jayan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “When are you going to test her?”

Dakon sighed, then rose to his feet. “The sooner the better. I’ll give her a little time to get over the shock of what happened, then pay her family a visit, probably after dinner. I suspect she’d think me neglectful if I didn’t at least check to see if she was all right.” He strode to the door.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.” Dakon smiled in gratitude. “The fewer scary magicians in her house the better.”

Then he turned and headed down the corridor.

CHAPTER 5

The house in which Healer Veran lived with his family was one of three that Dakon’s father had ordered constructed over thirty years before, to attract skilled men to the village. Looking at the simple, sturdy building with a critical eye, Dakon was happy to see it was showing no outward signs of decay. He relied on the occupants to tell him when repairs were needed. Sometimes villagers were too shy, proud, or even ignorant to ask for work to be done and as a result some of the houses hadn’t been as well maintained as they ought to have been.

Dakon’s and Veran’s fathers had been close friends for many years. Lord Yerven had met the opinionated Healer Berin in Imardin, and been so impressed by him that he offered him a position in his ley. Dakon had grown up not realising that their friendship was unusual for two men of different status and age. The twelve years’ difference in age was the lesser barrier since both men were in their middle to later years, but a close friendship that lasted when one was a subordinate and the other the local magician and lord was rare.

Dakon’s father had died five years ago, at the age of seventy-seven, and Berin had passed away less than a year later. Though Yerven had children late in life, and the difference in age between Dakon and Veran was smaller than that between their fathers, they had never been more than acquaintances.

We may not be close friends but we have a respect for each other, Dakon thought now. At least, I hope he knows how much I value him. He lifted a hand to knock on the door, then froze. Should I tell him what I suspect brought about Tessia’s possible use of magic?

No, he decided. I can’t be sure what she and Takado were doing, although I doubt Tessia initiated or welcomed it. Even so, I should leave it to Tessia to decide how much anyone learns of the matter. And I might be wrong. It’s always possible, though highly unlikely, she approached him.

He knocked, and after a short wait the door opened. Tessia’s mother, Lasia, answered. She lifted a small lamp.

“Lord Dakon,” she said. “Would you like to come in?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied. Stepping inside, he looked through an open door to the right and saw a homely kitchen with freshly washed dishes on the table. The door opposite was closed, but he knew from past visits that Veran’s workroom was beyond. Berin had used the room for the same purpose. Lasia knocked on the door and called out to her husband. A muffled reply came from within.

“Come into the seating room, Lord Dakon,” she urged, leading him to the end of the short corridor, where she opened another door and stepped back to let him pass through. He entered a small, slightly musty-smelling room containing a few old chairs and some sturdy wooden chests and tables. Following him in, Lasia bade him take a chair, then lit another lamp. Footsteps in the corridor heralded Veran’s arrival.

“Is Tessia here?” Dakon asked.

Lasia nodded. “She’s asleep. I looked in on her before dinner, but she didn’t wake up. She’s clearly exhausted.”

Dakon nodded. Should I ask them to rouse her? If I tell them without her, I’ll have to explain it all again to Tessia. But she probably needed the sleep, after all the work of the night before, and the surprises of the day.

“Tessia came to the Residence earlier,” he began.

“Yes. We’re sorry about that,” Lasia interrupted. “She should have waited for her father, but we were asleep and I expect she thought she was doing Veran a favour. Sometimes I think she has no grasp of proper manners, or, worse, she knows but chooses to—”

“I have no problem with her coming alone to the Residence,” Dakon assured her. “That is not why I am here.”

Veran had laid a hand on his wife’s arm during her outburst. Now he looked at Dakon, his eyebrows rising.

“Is it the slave? Has his condition worsened?”

“No.” Dakon shook his head. “He is awake and has managed to eat some broth. Tessia said he was healing well.” He paused. “It is what happened afterwards that I must talk to you about.”

The couple exchanged a glance, then looked at Dakon expectantly.

“On her way out of the Residence Tessia was... surprised by my guest,” Dakon continued. “The Sachakan. I think he gave her a fright. She may or may not have done something quite extraordinary in reaction.”

Lasia’s eye widened. Veran frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think she used magic.”

For a long moment the couple stared at him, then as realisation came a grin broke out on Veran’s face. Lasia had turned pale, but suddenly she flushed a bright red and her eyes brightened with excitement. By then, Veran had smothered his smile and become serious.

“You’re not sure, are you?” he asked.

Dakon shook his head. “No. It is possible Takado made it appear she had used magic, as some kind of strange joke. But it is—”

“I thought you did it!”

Everybody jumped. The voice, female and full of surprise, came from the doorway. They all turned to find Tessia standing there. She stared at Lord Dakon. “So it was him?”

“Tessia!” Lasia exclaimed. “Use Lord Dakon’s name when you address him.”

The young woman glanced at her mother, then gave Dakon an apologetic look. “Sorry, Lord Dakon.”

He chuckled. “Apology accepted. Actually, I’m here to establish whether or not you used magic this morning.”

She looked suddenly uncomfortable. “It wasn’t me... was it?”

“It is possible. We’ll know for sure if I test you.”

“How... how do you do that?”

“An untrained natural magician cannot prevent magic from straying from their mind. I should be able to detect it with a light search.”

“Mind-reading?” Her eyes widened.

“No, there’s no need for me to enter your mind, just sit at the edges and look for leakage.”

“Leakage?” Veran looked at his daughter. “You magicians have some interesting terms. Not particularly reassuring ones.”

“They shouldn’t be, in this case,” Dakon told him. “There is another way to learn whether Tessia can use magic: wait until she uses it again. It tends to lead to expensive house repairs and redecoration costs, so I don’t recommend it.”

Tessia looked at the floor. “Sorry about that – if it was me.”

Dakon smiled at her. “I never liked the colours in that room, anyway. The pink was too... orange.” She did not smile, and he realised she was too nervous to find any humour in the situation.

“So... what do I do?” she asked.

He looked around, then with magic drew one of the smaller chairs round to face his. Veran chuckled and gave Dakon a knowing look. The small reminder of what Tessia might be able to do if she co-operated wasn’t lost on the healer.

“You’ll find it more comfortable if you sit,” Dakon invited. Tessia obeyed. “Close your eyes and try to still and calm your mind. That’s probably not easy right now, but you must try. It helps if you breathe slowly.”

She did as he suggested. Aware of her parents watching, he placed his fingers gently on either side of her brow and closed his own eyes. He sent his mind forth.

It took only a moment to find what he sought. Magic was flowing from her, gently but with occasional small bursts suggesting greater power within. Truly the term “leakage” was a good one to describe what he sensed. It wasn’t meant to suggest the drip from a small vessel, but instead the escaping water from cracks in a dam. Cracks that warned of imminent failure, and of flooding and destruction of all in its path.

Releasing Tessia, he opened his eyes. Her own flew open and she stared at him expectantly. As always, it amazed him that a mere person, a human, could contain such power. Like all new apprentices, she had no grasp of her own potential. Not even the most educated, ambitious apprentice truly appreciated the limitless possibilities it offered, or the inescapable limitations it imposed.

“Yes, you have magical ability,” he told her. “Plenty of it, from what I saw.”

Her parents both let out the breaths they’d been holding, then Lasia burst into chatter.

“Of all the things... what amazing luck! This couldn’t have come at a better time. She’s not ready to marry, sweet thing, and this will give her the time to – and what a husband she might attract now. Oh! But how long until she can marry? I expect she has to become a magician first. What—”

“Mother!” burst from Tessia. “Stop talking about me as if I’m not here!”

Lasia paused, then patted her daughter’s hand apologetically. “Sorry, dear. But I’m excited for you. No more . . .” She looked at her husband. “No more silly ideas about you becoming a healer.”

Veran frowned, then turned to Dakon. “I expect Tessia will have to move into the Residence.”

Dakon considered, then nodded. “It would be better if she did. Especially at the beginning, when she has little control over her power. If I’m there when she uses it, I can minimise the damage.”

“Of course,” Veran said. “I would ask a favour, though. I was considering taking a boy of the village to be my apprentice. It seems I must, now. But it will take time to train him to even half of Tessia’s level of skill, knowledge and experience. Might I borrow her now and then?”

Dakon smiled. “Of course. After all the good work you’ve done, I can hardly begrudge you that.”

“Could...?” Tessia began, then faltered at a stern look from her mother. When she didn’t continue, Dakon gestured that she should. She sighed. “Can a magician still study and practise healing?”

“No, Tessia, it’s—” her mother began.

“Of course,” Dakon replied. “Most magicians have personal interests, and pet projects. But,” he added, “your first priority at this point is to learn to control that power of yours. It is what we magicians call the price of magic. You must learn control because if you don’t, your magic will eventually kill you. And when it does it will destroy not only you, but a great deal of whatever surrounds you. With the strength of your power, it’s unlikely it would be just a room.”

Tessia’s eyes went wide. Her parents exchanged a grim look. She swallowed and nodded. “Then I had better learn fast.”

Dakon smiled. “I’m sure you will. But I’m afraid you won’t have many chances to indulge interests or pet projects fully until you are an actual magician, and that usually takes years of study.”

Her shoulders dropped a little, but her lips compressed into a smile of determination. “I’m good at study,” she told him. “And fast. Aren’t I, Father?”

Veran laughed. “You do well enough, though I think if you saw how much study an entrant to the healing university had to do, you wouldn’t be so sure of yourself. I don’t know if a magician’s apprentice faces as much hard work?” He looked at Dakon questioningly.

“I doubt it,” Dakon admitted. “We prefer a steady pace. It’s vital to ensure every lesson is well understood before proceeding to the next. Hasty learning can lead to mistakes, and magical mistakes tend to be more spectacular than healing mistakes. My father used to use that reasoning to explain why apprentices of magic drink far less than the students of healing.”

Veran grinned. “‘Healers wake up with a sore head,” he used to say; ‘magicians wake up with a sore head, our toes burned black and the roof on the floor.’”

“Oh dear,” Lasia said, rolling her eyes. “Here they go. Just like their fathers.”

Tessia was looking from Dakon to her father and back with a bemused expression. Dakon sobered. The girl was probably still stunned by the news she was going to be a magician. She needed time to think about her future, and would probably appreciate some time with her family before stepping into her new life.

“So, when do you want to take my daughter off my hands?” Veran asked, his thoughts obviously following the same track.

“Tomorrow?” Dakon suggested. Veran looked at Lasia, who nodded.

“Any particular time?”

“No. Whenever it suits you all.” Dakon paused. “Though it would be a fine excuse for a celebratory meal, I think. Why don’t you bring her over a few hours before dusk? Tessia can settle into her new home, then you can all join Jayan and me for a meal.”

Lasia’s eyes brightened and she looked eagerly at Veran. The healer nodded. “We would be honoured.”

Dakon rose. “I’ll leave you to make your arrangements, then. I must let the servants know there’ll be a new pupil in the Residence tomorrow, and Cannia will probably want plenty of notice to plan the meal.” As the others stood up, he smiled. “It’s an unexpected turn of events, but a pleasant one for all, I hope. Don’t worry about Tessia’s gaining control of her powers. It’s a part of the training that we all begin with, whether our powers develop naturally or with help.” He looked at Tessia. “You’ll have mastered it in no time.”

Sitting in the window casement, Tessia watched her mother carefully folding clothes and arranging them with numerous other things in a trunk. The room smelled of the trunk’s fragrant, resinous wood, which was not unpleasant but still alien, like a stranger come into her private space.

Her mother straightened and regarded her handiwork, then huffed and waved her hands as a thought struck her. Without an explanation, she bustled out of the room.

Tessia looked outside. The world glistened as afternoon sunshine set droplets from the recent rain shower alight. Below, the vegetable patch looked near empty, but if she looked closely she could see that the beds containing winter crops had a thin green pelt of new shoots, the plants within them happy to get a regular soaking.

Hearing footsteps coming up the stairs, Tessia looked towards the doorway. Her father smiled and came into the room. She noted the wrinkles round his eyes and mouth, and the slight stoop of his shoulders. It wasn’t the first time she’d noticed them, and as always they roused a wistful sadness. He isn’t growing any younger. But neither is anyone, really.

His gaze moved to the trunk. “Are you ready, do you think?” She shrugged. “Only Mother could tell you that.”

He smiled crookedly. “Indeed. But are you ready? Have you got used to the idea of becoming a magician yet?”

Sighing, she moved from the casement to the bed.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Must I move into the Residence?” He looked at her silently for a moment before answering. “Yes. If your magic is as dangerous as Lord Dakon says, he probably wants to put you somewhere others aren’t at risk. It will be easier for him to protect everyone if you’re close by.”

“But I won’t be coming back after I’ve learned to control it,” she said.

He met her eyes and shook his head. “I doubt it. You have much to learn.”

“I could still live here and visit the Residence for lessons.”

“You’re a magician’s apprentice now,” another voice replied. Tessia looked up at her mother, who stood in the doorway of the room. “It’s appropriate to your status that you move into the Residence.”

Tessia looked away. She didn’t care about status, but there was no point arguing. Other people did, so it had to be taken into account. Instead she turned to her father again. “You will send for me if you need me, won’t you? You won’t hesitate because you’re worried about interrupting lessons or something?”

“Of course not,” he assured her. Then he smiled. “I promise to send for you when I need you so long as you trust me to judge whether I truly need you – and you promise not to skip lessons.”

“Father!” Tessia protested. “I am not a child any more.”

“No, but I know you’ll find perfectly adult reasons to place higher priority on helping people than on learning magic.” His expression became serious. “There are other ways to help the village, Tessia, and magic is one of them. It is more important because it is rare, and because we live so close to the border. You may one day save more locals by defending us than by healing us.”

“I doubt it,” she scoffed. “The Sachakans wouldn’t bother conquering Kyralia again.”

“Not if there are powerful magicians protecting our borders.”

Tessia grimaced. “I don’t think any amount of training would make me a fighter, Father. It’s not what I’m good at.”

I’m good at healing, she wanted to say. But though she would have expected to be dismayed at discovering she must become a magician, she wasn’t. Maybe because it doesn’t mean all my hopes of becoming a healer must end, she thought. They’ve been delayed, that’s all. All I have to do is learn everything I need to know to become a magician, then I’ll be free to become a healer. Much freer than I was before, because magicians can do whatever they like. Well, so long as they’re not breaking laws.

Perhaps learning magic would show her other ways to help people. Perhaps magic could be used to heal. The possibilities were exciting.

“It’s not up to you to decide what you’re good at now,” her mother said sternly. “Lord Dakon could hardly have planned to end up with another apprentice. You are not to waste his time or resources, you hear?”

Tessia smiled. “Yes, Mother.”

Her father cleared his throat. “Time to carry this downstairs yet?”

“No.” Her mother’s frown disappeared. “There’s this to go in.” In her hand was a flat box, the size of a thin book. Instead of putting it in the trunk, she handed it to Tessia.

As Tessia took it she felt a shock of recognition. “Your necklace? Why? For safe-keeping?”

“For you to wear,” her mother corrected her. “I was going to wait until you showed some interest in attracting a husband before giving it to you... but it looks as if that will have to wait. You’ll be needing something to wear now that you’ll be associating with rich and influential people.”

“But...it’s yours. Father gave it to you.” She glanced at her father and saw that he had an approving, almost smug, look on his face.

“And now it’s yours,” her mother said firmly. “Besides, it looks ridiculous on me now. It suits a younger face.” She took the box from Tessia and placed it in the trunk, then shut the lid.

Tessia opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She knew she would not win this argument. Perhaps another time, when her mother was in a different mood, she would persuade her to take back the necklace. It was ridiculous, this idea that she would need it to impress rich and influential people. Nobody in the village could be considered that way except one person: Lord Dakon.

Then an uncomfortable feeling came over her.

Surely Mother isn’t . . . she couldn’t be . . . there’s no way she would... the age difference is...

But she knew her mother all too well.

It’s too obvious to deny. She closed her eyes and cursed silently. Mother is hoping I’ll marry Lord Dakon.

CHAPTER 6

Well, don’t you look fancy.”

Jayan turned to find Malia standing in the doorway of his room. She looked down at his clothes and her eyebrows rose. “Is that the latest fashion in Imardin, then?”

He chuckled and smoothed his clothing. The robe was nearly long enough to touch the floor and all but covered the matching trousers he wore underneath. Both were dark green and the fine material they were made from had a slight shine to it.

“It’s what’s been worn there for the last twenty years,” he told Malia. “Hardly the latest fashion.”

“By both men and women?”

“No, just men.”

Her eyebrows managed to rise even higher. “I’d love to see what the women wear, then.”

“You wouldn’t believe what your eyes were seeing – and don’t ask me to describe it. I’d have to learn a whole new vocabulary first.”

Her brows finally came back to a normal level as she grinned. “If I hadn’t seen Lord Dakon wearing much the same thing, I’d have wondered about you, Apprentice Jayan. Don’t go walking out in the village like that or people will be talking about you from here to the mountains. As for your guests... they hid their surprise very well when they saw Lord Dakon.” She paused. “They’re all in the dining room, by the way.”

In other words, “You’re late’, he thought. “I was about to join them,” he said. “Until I was delayed by a nosy servant, that is.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, then took the hint and strode away.

Looking down at himself, he adjusted the sash, tugged a few creases out of the robe, then followed her down the corridor. He eyed the doorway at the end. Earlier that morning the servants had opened up the unused room beyond, cleaned it and moved furniture in and out. Later in the day Jayan had heard voices through his own closed door. He hadn’t gone out to greet Tessia and her family. They had more immediate things to be concerned about than meeting Dakon’s apprentice. Dakon’s other apprentice.

The truth was, Jayan hadn’t wanted to go out and meet them. He was not sure why. I don’t dislike Tessia or her family personally. Nor do I particularly like them, or want to gain their favour. It was more important, he had decided, that he spend his time studying than being sociable. The sooner he became a magician the more time Tessia would have from Dakon, after all.

It wasn’t as if she was from some important and powerful family that he might want to establish and maintain friendly relations with. She wasn’t a land servant or crafter’s daughter, thankfully, but she wasn’t a woman of influence or connections either. Becoming a magician would elevate her, but it wouldn’t make her the equal of other magicians.

Which is why this is unfair on Dakon. He won’t be gaining any of the good connections or favours owed from training her as he did by taking on my training... except, perhaps, respect for what might be seen as an admirable act of charity. If not that, then sympathy for having to obey the law on naturals.

Would people be as sympathetic towards Tessia? With no influential or wealthy family behind her, she would hardly attract much favour among the powerful men and women of Kyralia. It was unlikely that the king or anyone else would give her any important position or task to perform. Without such a wage or work she’d never make much of an income. All this would not make her a desirable wife, so she wasn’t going to attract a husband of influence or wealth either.

She might, with hard work and time, gain a few allies and friends, and slowly prove herself worthy of work with a decent income. And someone might marry her hoping her offspring would prove magically strong.

But neither would ever happen if she stayed in isolated Mandryn.

Another option came to Jayan’s mind, then. There were cases in history of apprentices who did not become higher magicians. She could choose to remain in service to Dakon, giving him magical strength, and in return he would give her a place to live and possibly a small sum to live on after he died.

Jayan felt an unexpected sympathy for her then. She probably had no idea where her natural powers were going to lead her. She could become trapped in a social limbo, caught between the advantages of magic and its inescapable limitations.

At the bottom of the stairs it was a short walk down a corridor to the dining room. Entering, Jayan was amused at the relief he felt on seeing Lord Dakon wearing the same style of dress as he. Dakon’s robe was black with fine stitchwork. The magician was standing with his guests. He looked up and acknowledged Jayan with a nod as he finished what he was saying to Veran’s family.

Healer Veran wore a simple tunic and trousers typical of the local men, but made of a finer cloth. His wife – what is her name? – wore a plain dark blue tunic dress that did nothing to make her look womanly. Tessia’s dress was almost as ugly, its severity tempered only because it was a more appealing dark red. The young woman’s necklace, though simple, also relieved some of the unflattering impact of her garb.

Dakon now gestured to Jayan. “This is my apprentice, Jayan of Drayn. Jayan, you know Healer Veran. This is his wife, Lasia. And this is Tessia, your new fellow apprentice.”

Jayan made a short, polite bow. “Welcome, Apprentice Tessia,” he said. “Healer Veran, Lasia. A pleasure to have your company tonight.”

Dakon smiled approvingly then directed the guests to their seats. Lasia and Tessia started in surprise as a gong positioned on a side table rang.

Soon the room filled with servants carrying plates and bowls, jugs and glasses. A generous spread of food covered the table. Dakon picked up a pair of carving knives and began to slice the meat for his guests.

The kitchen servants had done a fine job, Jayan noted. As Dakon sliced through a glistening roll of roasted, golden skin he revealed many-layered circles of different meats and vegetables. Once he had finished he urged his guests to help themselves, then turned to a larger haunch of enka. Ribbons of dark marin fruit syrup oozed from within the rare meat. Next, he expertly chopped up cakes made of different root vegetables, layered to form decorative patterns when cut, and quartered juicy yellow and green cabbas stuffed with a frothy herbed mix of bread and eggs.

This is such a strange tradition, Jayan mused. I wonder if it was introduced by the Sachakans, or harks back to an earlier age in Kyralia. It’s supposed to be a demonstration of humility from the host, but I suspect it’s really meant to show off his prowess with knives.

Dakon certainly gave the impression of being well practised, which was surprising considering how rarely he gave formal dinners. Watching his master closely, Jayan decided the man actually enjoyed the task. He wondered if this love of chopping things up would surface should Dakon ever find himself in a fight.

At last Dakon had finished. Conversation as they ate was sporadic and concerned the quality of local and imported produce, the weather and other general topics. Jayan glanced at Tessia now and then. She was not pretty, he decided, but neither was she ugly. Young women in the ley were likely to be either slim and hard-muscled from work, or buxom and generous like some of the Residence’s house servants or crafters’ wives. Tessia was neither skinny or curvaceous, as far as he could tell.

She did not speak, just listened and watched Lord Dakon with obvious restrained curiosity. The magician might have noticed this, as he began to ask her direct questions.

“If there is anything any of you wish to know,” he said as the meal ended, “be it about magic or magicians or apprenticeship, please ask. I will do my best to answer.”

The healer and his family exchanged glances. Veran opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and looked at Tessia.

“I think my daughter’s questions should come first, since she is the one who is to learn magic.”

Tessia smiled faintly at her father, then frowned as she gathered her thoughts.

“Where does the body generate magic?” she asked. “Is it stored in the brain or the heart?”

Dakon chuckled. “Ah, that is a question asked often and never properly answered. I believe the source is the brain, but there are some who are convinced it comes from the heart. Since the brain generates thoughts, and the heart emotions, it makes more sense that magic comes from the brain. Magic responds to our mental command and control. We have little control of what we feel – though we can control how we act in response to our feelings. If magic responded to emotion we’d have no control of it at all.”

Tessia leaned forward. “So... how does the body generate magic?”

“An even greater mystery,” Dakon told her. “Some believe that it is the result of friction caused by all the rhythms in the body: blood pulsing through pulse paths, breath through the lungs.”

Tessia frowned. “Does that mean people with magical ability have a faster pulse and breathing rate?”

“No,” Veran answered for Dakon. “But since some substances create friction more easily than others, perhaps a magician’s blood is different somehow and more able to create friction.” He shrugged. “It is a strange idea, and one my father didn’t think much of.”

“Nor of the theory of the stars,” Dakon said, smiling. “

Even less so,” Veran agreed, chuckling. “Which almost lost him his membership of the Healers’ Guild.”

“How so?” Jayan asked, noticing that everyone wore the same knowing smile. Either losing membership of the Healers’ Guild wasn’t as grave a downfall as he’d thought, or there was more to this story.

Dakon looked at Jayan. “Healer Berin declared that the timing of the stars and seasons had no bearing on health, illness and death, but was only useful as an excuse for healers to fall back on when incompetent.”

“I can see how that might upset a few people,” Jayan said.

“It did, and a few of them made life so difficult for Berin that when my father offered him a position here he was happy to take it.”

“It also helped that they were friends,” Veran added.

Lasia cleared her throat. “There is something I’d like to know.” Dakon turned to regard her. “What is that?”

“Is there any difference between a natural magician and a normal one?”

“Other than the natural’s power developing spontaneously, and that it is usually stronger than the average magician’s, there is no difference. Most magicians’ ability is discovered when they are tested at a young age, then developed with the help of another magician. If any of those magicians are naturals, we’d never know because their power never gets the chance to develop without assistance. For magical ability to surface with no intervention, it must be strong, but ultimately that strength will not matter much. Higher magic adds to a magician’s natural ability, so in the end it’s how many apprentices a magician has taken power from, and how many times, that dictates his strength, not his natural ability.”

“So you don’t usually know a person has magical ability until you test them?” Veran asked.

Dakon shook his head. “And magic does not favour rich or poor, powerful or humble. Anybody you pass on the road could be a latent magician.”

“So why don’t you teach them?” Lasia asked. “Surely having more magicians would make Kyralia better able to defend itself.”

“Who would teach them? There aren’t enough magicians to teach all the latent magicians among the rich, let alone commoners as well.”

“You might not want to teach all of them, anyway,” Veran added, his expression thoughtful. “I’m sure you consider character when you select an apprentice, even if he or she is from a powerful family.” He glanced at Tessia. “When you have a choice, of course.”

Dakon smiled. “You are right. Fortunately Tessia is of excellent character and I’m sure will be a pleasure to teach.”

Everyone looked at Tessia. Jayan saw her face flush and she dropped her gaze.

“I’m sure she will be,” Lasia said. “She has been a great help to her father.” She looked at Dakon. “What does being a source for a magician involve?”

Watching Dakon, Jayan saw the humour in the magician’s eyes vanish, though he remained smiling.

“I can’t give you details, of course, as higher magic is a secret shared only between magicians. I can tell you it is a quick, cooperative ritual. Magic is transferred from apprentice to magician, and stored by the magician.”

“This giving of power is the only payment Tessia makes in exchange for apprenticeship?”

“Yes, and as you can imagine it is more than payment enough. By the time an apprentice is ready to become a magician, he or she will have made their master many hundreds of times stronger than he would be without their help. Of course, we aren’t usually hundreds of times stronger by then, because we will have used that power in the meantime, but it does allow us to do many things.”

“Why don’t magicians have several apprentices?” Tessia asked.

“Then they would have even more power.”

“Because it would take even longer to train each of them,” Dakon replied. “One magician has only so much time to spend teaching, and we have an obligation to instruct our apprentices well and thoroughly. Remember, most of our apprentices come from powerful families who can influence whether or not we are given well-paid work to do, or remain the lords of our leys. We don’t usually want to annoy them.” He paused and grimaced. “And I think having several apprentices, no matter how well I taught them, would make me feel too much like a Sachakan magician, with a crowd of slaves to abuse.” He looked at Jayan. “No, I much prefer the Kyralian method of mutual respect and benefits.”

The others nodded in agreement. Dakon looked at each of them in turn. “Any more questions?”

Tessia shifted in her seat, attracting his attention.

“Yes?” he asked.

She looked at her father, then flushed again. “Can magic be used to heal?”

Dakon gave her a knowing smile. “Only by helping in the physical tasks of healing work. It can move, hold, warm or sear. It can provide constriction in place of a pulse binder and I’ve even heard of it being used to jolt a heart into beating after it stopped. But it cannot assist the body to actually heal. The body must do that itself.”

Tessia nodded, and Jayan thought he detected disappointment in her eyes. I’m surprised she’s still interested in healing, now that she has magic to learn.

“On the other hand, it might be possible and we just haven’t discovered how yet,” Dakon added. Tessia looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t think we should ever stop trying.”

Jayan looked at Dakon in surprise. He’s actually encouraging her. What point is there in that?

As he watched, Tessia’s shoulders relaxed and she gave Dakon a smile of gratitude. It occurred to Jayan then that Dakon might only be making the transition easier for her by holding out the promise of something familiar in the strange new world she was entering. Something to interest her.

But surely he didn’t have to. Surely she was as excited to be learning magic as any new apprentice. The thought that she might not be sent a thin ripple of anger through him. That would be incredibly ungrateful, both to the natural luck that has given her such a chance, and to Lord Dakon for taking her on. He found himself scowling and quickly relaxed his face. Once she begins to use magic, and realises how wonderful it is, she’ll soon put her old life behind her. Healing will be nothing in comparison.

Immensely tall trees surrounded Hanara. He looked up. The straight, narrow trunks swayed, slow and heavy, in winds high above their heads. A warning cry. One began to fall. Someone screamed as it broke through the branches of neighbouring trees and slammed onto the forest floor, splinters from where the axes hadn’t quite cut through the trunk flying through the air. The screaming continued. He rushed in. Branches parted, and he saw. A slave – his friend – pinned to the ground, his legs crushed. The other slaves ignored the injured man and his screams, and set to work cutting.

Hanara jolted awake. For a moment he blinked at the darkness. The air smelled wrong.

Kyralia, he remembered. I’m in Kyralia, in the house of a magician. I’m hurt. Must heal quickly so Takado doesn’t kill me when he comes back. He closed his eyes.

He was cutting and shaping wood. He loved how it peeled away under the blade. Once you understood the patterns of the grain, how it resisted some cuts and welcomed others, it was easy work. All the information you needed was there, written in the grain. He imagined reading was the same.

He heard the timber master come up behind him to watch. He couldn’t see the man, but he knew who it was. If he stopped to look, the man would whip him, so he kept working. Perhaps if Hanara demonstrated how he could read the wood, the man would teach him how to do the decorative work on the mansion rather than making palings for the slave-house fences.

A few more cuts and the paling was done. It was perfect, too good for a mere slave fence. He turned to show the timber master.

It wasn’t the timber master standing behind him. It was Ashaki Takado. Hanara froze, his heart suddenly beating wildly, then dropped to the ground. The magician, owner of the house and slaves and forest and fields, stepped close and ordered Hanara to stand up, then stared into his face. Hanara lowered his eyes. The magician grabbed his jaw and lifted it, his gaze boring into Hanara’s. But the magician’s gaze didn’t meet Hanara’s. It went beyond. Inside. Takado’s eyes blazed.

Then the master was gone. The plank was removed from Hanara’s hand and he was taken away from the slave yard. His arms hurt. The world whirled around him. Looking down, he saw that his skin was criss-crossed by countless scars and new bleeding cuts. Takado was looming over him, laughing.

Are you a good slave? he asked. Are you? He raised an arm, in his hands a glittering curved blade...

Hanara jolted awake again, but this time he found himself stiff, in pain and breathing hard. Kyralia. House of a magician. Hurt. Must heal before Takado— He heard voices and a shiver ran down his spine. The voices came closer. Stopped outside the door to his room.

He took slow, deep breaths and willed his heart to stop racing.

It refused.

The door creaked open and light spilled in. Hanara recognised the healer, the young woman who assisted him, and Lord Dakon. He sank into the bed with relief.

“Sorry for waking you, Hanara,” the healer said. “Since I was here, I thought I’d check on you. How are you feeling?”

Hanara looked at all the expectant faces, then reluctantly croaked an answer.

“Better.”

The healer nodded. His daughter smiled. Seeing the warmth in her eyes, Hanara felt his heart constrict again. Looking at her was not unlike watching a newborn slave child, vulnerable and ignorant. But when looking at the slave child, he also felt sympathy and sadness. He knew the hardship and pain it would face and hoped that it would be strong enough, and lucky enough, to achieve a feeling of long-life.

Hanara did not yet feel he’d reached long-life. It was a state, slaves said, where you felt satisfied you had lived long enough. Where you didn’t feel cheated if you died. You might not have had an easy life, or a happy one, but you’d had your measure. Or you had made a difference to the world, even a small one, because you had existed.

He’d known slaves who had said they’d reached that state in under twenty years, and old slaves who still didn’t feel they’d achieved it yet. Some said it came when they’d sired or birthed a child. Some said it happened when they had completed the best work they’d ever done. Some said it was an unexpected benefit of helping another slave. Some even said it came from serving their master well and loyally.

It was said most slaves never felt it. Hanara hadn’t felt it even when a child he suspected he’d fathered had been born. He’d never had a chance to make his best work with wood. He’d helped other slaves in only minor ways, which didn’t give him any great feeling of satisfaction. Serving Takado was probably the only chance he’d have of feeling long-life. Ironically, it was also likely to lead to his dying before he had that chance.

And what chance was there now that he was stuck in Kyralia?

As the healer fussed and poked at Hanara he asked many questions. Hanara said as little as possible. Though none of the questions were about anything but his wounds and his health, he could never be sure whether he was revealing anything he shouldn’t. Takado had warned him of that, before they came to Kyralia.

Eventually the healer turned to the magician. “

He’s healing fast. Better than I expected. I have no doubts now that he’ll recover. It’s quite extraordinary.”

The magician’s lips thinned into a wry smile. “Hanara was Takado’s source slave. Though he cannot use his magic, it still gives him the same advantages of fast healing and resilience that all magicians enjoy.”

The healer nodded. “Lucky man.”

“So this healing is automatic?” the young woman asked. “Unconscious?”

The magician smiled at her. “Yes. You have this ability, too. Have you not always healed quickly, and rarely sickened?”

She paused at that, as if it had only just occurred to her, then nodded. “So if we could find a way to consciously heal, could we apply it to others?”

“Maybe,” the magician replied. “Magicians must have tried it before, but with no success, so I doubt it is easy – if it is possible at all.”

Her eyes shifted to Hanara. He could tell her attention was more on whatever thoughts this discussion had stirred than on himself. The magician followed her gaze, then met Hanara’s eyes.

“Sounds like you’ll be up and about soon, Hanara,” he said. “Takado said that if you recovered I could do whatever I wished with you. Since slavery is outlawed here, that means you can no longer be a slave.” He smiled. “You are free.”

A thrill ran through Hanara. Free? Could he really stay here, in this dream-like land of gentle people? Would he be given reward in return for work, and choose what to do with it – to travel, to learn to read, to form bonds with people... have friends, a woman who wasn’t indifferent to him, children he could raise in kindness and have some hope of protecting from—

No. A wave of sickening realisation brought him back to reality. Takado only said Lord Dakon could do whatever he wanted with me because if he had revealed he was coming back for me, Lord Dakon might have tried to hide me away.

He might still, if Hanara told him the truth.

He wouldn’t do it well enough, because he doesn’t know Takado. Takado loves a hunt. He will track me down. He’ll find me. He’ll read my mind and find out I ran away from him. Then he’ll kill me. No. I’m better off waiting until he returns.

And enjoying what freedom he could have in the meantime.

But at that thought his stomach sank again.

Or does he expect me to go home as soon as I’m able to? Will he only return here if I don’t? Only punish me if I stay here?

The visitors were leaving now. Hanara watched them go, envying them their freedom, yet at the same time despising them for their ignorance. They knew nothing. They were fools. Takado would return.

CHAPTER 7

After opening her eyes the next morning, Tessia spent a long moment lying in bed gazing at the room she had slept in.

She could not quite believe it was hers.

The walls were painted the colour of a summer sky. A night-wood screen covered the enormous window. The large chests, cupboards, desk, chair and bed were made of the same rare and expensive timber. The covering on her bed was quilted and made of the softest cloth she had ever touched, and the mattress beneath was even and slightly spongy.

Framed paintings hung from the walls. All were landscapes, and she recognised most of the settings as local. A small vase contained some field herbs, their zesty fragrance lightening the air.

The fireplace was as large as the one in the kitchen of her home.

This is my home now. That she should have to remind herself of this now seemed terribly predictable, but also incredible. I bet I have to say that to myself many, many more mornings before this place starts to feel like home.

She sat up. Nobody had told her what routine she should follow or expect. Lord Dakon hadn’t even told her when she should present herself for her first lesson.

Lying in bed was not her habit so she got up and wandered around the room in her nightshift examining its furnishings and unpacking some of her belongings from her trunk. One of the room’s chests held books, a folder of parchment and writing tools. The books were histories, magical texts and even a few of the novels written for entertainment that her father had once described to her.

He’d had a low opinion of the latter. She’d never read one, so she picked up the first and started to read.

When the knock came at the door she found she was already a quarter of the way through the book. It was as frivolous as her father had described, yet she was enjoying it. While the escapades of the characters were unbelievable, she found the minor details of life in the city of Imardin fascinating. The lives of these men and women did not hang on the success of crops or the health of livestock, but on wise alliances with honourable men and women, the favour of the king, and a good marriage.

Replacing the book in the chest, Tessia rose to answer the door. She opened it a crack to see who was there. A buxom young serving woman smiled and stepped inside as Tessia opened the door for her.

“A good morning to you, Apprentice Tessia,” she said. “My name’s Malia. I’ve been looking after your new friend down the other end of the corridor for a few years now, so I’m used to the ways and needs of young apprentices. Here’s your wash water.”

Malia had a large jug in one hand and a broad basin in the other, and bundles of cloth wedged under one arm. She set all down on the top of one of the chests.

“I’ll bring your morning meal up for you in a bit,” she continued. “Is there anything you would like?”

“What do you usually have?”

From a long list of foods, some of which she had never heard of anyone eating first thing in the morning, Tessia chose something simple and the servant left. Tessia washed and dressed, then combed and plaited her hair.

“Lord Dakon will see you in the library when you’re done,” Malia said when she returned with a tray laden with food. “No hurry. He’s always in there in the mornings, reading.”

At the thought of this impending meeting, perhaps her first lesson, Tessia’s appetite lagged, but she forced herself to eat the food the servant had brought, knowing she’d feel guilty about wasting it if she didn’t. Picking up the tray, she carried it out of the room, encountering Malia in the corridor outside.

“Oh, you should just leave that there,” the servant exclaimed.

“Bringing it down is my job.” She took the tray from Tessia.

“Where is—” Tessia began.

“Down the main stairs to the first floor, turn to your right,” Malia answered. “Can’t miss it.”

Following the servant’s instructions, Tessia found herself standing in an open doorway, gaping. Inside was a room twice the size of the Residence’s dining room – which was almost the size of her father’s entire house. This room was lined with shelving crammed with books. Lord Dakon was sitting in a large cushioned chair, his eyes scanning the pages of a large, leather-bound tome. He looked up at her and smiled.

“A good morning to you, Tessia,” he said. “Come in. This is my library.”

“I see that, Lord Dakon,” she murmured, staring around the room as she entered.

“I thought we could start your control exercises today,” he said. “The sooner you attain it the sooner we can avoid any more unintentional magical strayings – and get to more interesting lessons. We’ll work in the mornings, then I’ll give you books to read in the afternoon.”

She felt her stomach flutter. “Yes, Lord Dakon.”

He nodded to the chair next to his. “Take a seat. Learning is always easier when you’re comfortable and relaxed.” He paused. “Well, as relaxed as you can be when confronted with something new and strange.”

Moving to the chair, she sat down and took a deep, calming breath. Lord Dakon put aside his book and looked at her thoughtfully.

“I haven’t taught a natural before,” he told her. “But nothing I’ve read or been told indicates the lessons need to be done any differently, which suggests to me that if we do encounter something unusual it will be small and easily worked around. Are you ready?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know what ‘ready’ is when it comes to magic. But I don’t feel unready, I suppose.”

He chuckled. “That sounds good enough to me. Now, lean back in your chair, close your eyes and breathe slowly.”

She did as he asked. The broad back of the chair had a slight backward tilt, encouraging her to rest against it. She let her hands lie on the chair’s arms and her feet sit flat on the floor.

“Let your thoughts wander,” Dakon murmured. “Don’t be too anxious for the lesson to work. It’ll happen when it happens. One week, two, perhaps three, and you’ll be ready to learn to use magic.”

He kept talking, his voice gentle and unhurried.

“Now I’m going to put my hand over yours. This will enable my mind to communicate with yours with less effort.”

She felt fingers gently press on top of hers. They were neither hot nor cold, the touch neither too firm nor too light. It was a little odd and personal having the ley’s magician touching her hand like this. For a moment a memory of a Sachakan face leering over her flashed through her mind. She pushed it aside, annoyed. This is nothing like that. Lord Dakon is nothing like Takado.

Then she remembered her suspicion that her mother wanted her to marry Lord Dakon. She couldn’t imagine he would ever consider her as a potential wife. Surely he’d rather marry someone more important than a commoner like herself. She was nowhere near pretty enough to make up for her low status, either. No matter what her mother thought, she was not going to try to seduce the magician. For a start, she had no idea how. But more important, she didn’t even know if she—

“Think about what you can see,” Dakon instructed, his voice calm. “Nothing, am I right? Just darkness behind your eyes. Imagine you are standing in a place with no walls or floor or ceiling. It may be dark, but it is comfortable. You are standing within it.”

She felt something then. A sensation that was not physical. A feeling of personality...of Lord Dakon’s personality. It seemed to emanate reassurance and encouragement. And certainly not romantic interest. She was surprised at the relief she felt. She didn’t need such distractions when she was trying to learn something this important.

“I am standing behind you. Turn round.”

Whether she had turned round, or the dark place in her imagination had revolved, she couldn’t tell. Lord Dakon was there, a few paces away. Yet he wasn’t completely distinct. Only where she looked did he come into focus completely: his face, his feet, his hands. His smile.

– Good, Tessia.

She understood that he had spoken into her mind. Could she do the same in return?

– Lord Dakon?

– Yes. You are doing well.

– Oh. Good. What next?

– Can you see what I’m carrying? It is a box.

His arms lifted, and she saw that there was something in his hands. As he said box it immediately resolved into a small night-wood container with gold corners and latch.

– Yes.

– This contains my magic. If I want to use it, I open the box. All other times I keep it closed. You, too, have a box. Look down at your hands and let the box take shape.

Looking down, she realised she could see her hands. Holding them palm up, she thought box.

A slim, flat box appeared. It was old and plain, and a little dusty. It looked just like the one that held her mother’s necklace.

– Open it, Dakon bade her.

She undid the latch and lifted the lid. Inside was the necklace, glittering softly in the dim light. For some reason this filled her with disappointment. She looked up at him, confused.

– My mother’s necklace is my magic?

The magician frowned.

– I doubt it, he said slowly. More likely this box was recent in your thoughts. Put it behind you. Let’s try this again.

She did as he said, laying the box down on the invisible ground behind her. Straightening, she looked down at her hands again.

– Try to imagine a box worthy of magic. Your magic.

Magic was special. It was power and influence. And wealth. It was grand. A large box formed. The whole box was gold, glittering brightly. Its sides were thick and it was very heavy. She looked up at Dakon. He looked amused.

– Better. I don’t think either of us will mistake that for anything but a box of magic, he said. Now open it.

A thrill of expectation and trepidation ran through her as she unlatched the lid. What would she find inside? Power? Uncontrolled power, most likely. As the lid hinged up a dazzling white light assailed her eyes.

It was too bright. She felt a force pour out, knocking the box from her hands. A crashing noise shocked her back into an awareness of her real surroundings and she opened her eyes. She blinked as she searched the room for the source of the disturbance. Then she saw the broken glass shards covering a nearby table.

“Oh.”

Lord Dakon stirred, opened his eyes and turned to look at the broken... whatever it had been.

“Sorry,” she said.

He frowned. “I think maybe we should conduct these lessons somewhere less... vulnerable.”

“I’m very sorry,” she repeated.

“Don’t apologise,” he told her firmly. “I should have realised there was a possibility of stray magic being loosed. I guess I did, but didn’t take it seriously enough. I’ve never taught a natural before. Why don’t we—?”

A knock came at the door. His eyes moved to the doorway. Following his gaze, Tessia saw Keron peering through the opening.

“Lord Dakon,” the servant said. “Lord Narvelan of Loran ley has arrived.”

Dakon’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then he stood up. He turned to Tessia. “That will do for today. Practise entering that mental state when you can, and visualising the box, but do not open it.”

She smiled. “Not a chance of that.”

“The books on that table by the door are for you to read.” He pointed. “Let me know if anything doesn’t make sense.”

She nodded.

Turning away, he strode out of the library. Noting his haste, she could not help feeling an intense curiosity stirring. Was it a habit of the Lord Narvelan to come visiting Lord Dakon without warning? She had rarely seen the magician of the neigh-bouring ley, and then only at a distance. It was said, in the village, that he was a handsome man. Maybe he would be at dinner tonight.

I suspect that if I keep my eyes and ears open, I may learn more here than how to use magic. I might learn a lot more about the world of magicians and of wealthy and influential people.

Which was something she had half expected anyway. She just hadn’t expected to do so straight away.

Dakon envied the man pacing the library his youth. Having received Dakon’s message that Takado had left late the day before, Lord Narvelan had ridden through the night to Mandryn, yet he was still alert and restless. But then, politics always energised the magician. If Dakon hadn’t known better, he might have dismissed Narvelan’s interest in the Sachakan as that of a bored young man living in the relatively unexciting countryside. But he did know better.

Three years before, Dakon had been amused and surprised to find himself being “recruited” by his neighbour. Narvelan and several other country ley owners, and a few sympathetic city lords, had agreed to meet a few times a year to discuss issues that affected country leys. It had begun as an informal arrangement, meant as much to strengthen relations between magicians living in their isolated leys as to reach any binding agreement. They called themselves the Circle of Friends.

As it was informal, and not entirely secret, King Errik had learned of it within a few months. Narvelan had been among the members who had travelled to the city to reassure the king that their intentions did not conflict with the interests of the crown. Dakon didn’t know what had been said or agreed to. Sometimes Narvelan referred jokingly to the group as the king’s favourite country gossips.

But their group and its purpose had evolved into something else when news and rumours began to reach them suggesting that young Sachakan magicians wanted to reconquer Kyralia. Dakon hadn’t shared their worries until he had received an order from the king, some weeks back, to seek from Ashaki Takado his purpose for visiting Kyralia if he should pass through Mandryn. Narvelan had received a similar command.

The young magician had ridden all night for nothing, unfortunately. Dakon had no information to relay, as he’d indicated in his message.

“I know, I know,” Narvelan said when Dakon reminded him of this. “I want to hear all about him anyway. Has the slave survived?”

“Yes... and not a slave any longer,” Dakon pointed out. “Takado acknowledged that I must free Hanara once he left the country.”

“Did you read his mind?”

“No. It would hardly be a convincing introduction to freedom.” The younger magician turned away from the window and frowned at Dakon. “Surely you don’t trust him?”

Dakon shrugged. “As much as any man I don’t know.”

“He is more than that. More than just a stranger. He is Sachakan and an ex-slave. Loyalty is bred into him, if not loyalty for his master then for his country.”

“I’m not going to lock him up or read his mind unless there is a strong reason to.”

Narvelan pursed his lips, then nodded. “I guess not. But if I were you I’d keep a close eye on him, for fear of him harming himself as much as others. It can’t be an easy adjustment, changing from a source slave to a free man.”

“I won’t be forcing him out of my house before he’s ready,” Dakon assured him. “But it would not be appropriate to keep him here as a guest for ever. I’ll find employment for him somewhere I can keep an eye on him.”

The other magician nodded. “Do you think Takado had a reason other than curiosity for visiting Kyralia?”

“I can’t say.” Dakon grimaced. “I don’t know if it was something in his manner that betrayed him, or merely the slyness of his nature giving me the wrong impression, but it’s hard not to suspect he had ill intentions. Will we receive confirmation when he has left the country?”

“I don’t know.” Narvelan frowned, then shook his head. “The king should have a few guards at the pass, keeping watch on who comes and goes.”

“If it’s any consolation, I doubt Takado will want to spend a day more than necessary without a slave to serve him.” Dakon chuckled, then made his expression sober. “He did attempt some mischief before he left, however. Tried to force himself on a woman, but was interrupted before he could do anything more than frighten her.”

Narvelan’s expression darkened. “Was that why he left?”

Dakon shook his head. “No, it happened after he decided to leave. I think he wanted to remind us that the Sachakans once had such power over us – as if beating his slave near to death hadn’t already.”

“I don’t know why we have to allow any of them into the country,” Narvelan muttered. Then he sighed and sat down. “No, I do understand why. Diplomacy and good relations, trade and all that. I just wish we didn’t have to. Especially not when...” He looked at Dakon, his young face suddenly creased with the lines of an older man. “I suppose I should get on with telling you the gossip.”

Dakon smiled crookedly. “Please do.”

Narvelan put his elbows on the arms of the chair and pressed his fingertips together. “Where to start? Lord Ruskel’s story, I think. Ruskel had heard several reports of strangers being seen in the southern end of the mountains. Usually small groups of young men. He investigated and found a group of three Sachakan magicians and their slaves camping within our border. They claimed to have become lost in the mountains.”

Dakon couldn’t help feeling a chill run down his spine. Stumbling alone upon three Sachakan magicians would not be pleasant for any Kyralian magician, if they had mischief in mind.

“They apologised and returned the way they came,” Narvelan continued. “Lord Ruskel called on a few neighbours for support and followed a few days later. He found a path that at first was natural and probably used by hunters, but as they moved deeper into the mountains it was clear some magical effort had gone into extending the path. As obvious as cutting a shelf into a sheer cliff face, and moving immense boulders into place to form a bridge.”

“So, a path for non-magicians. Or magicians who don’t want to use up too much of their power,” Dakon said.

“Yes. Hunters and their families also approached Lord Ruskel and his companions, telling them of men who had hunted for decades in the mountains disappearing, on days of fine weather.”

“Have the Sachakans been seen since?”

“No, and there have been no more reports of missing people either. Perhaps the young drumbloods have been put off.” Narvelan smiled grimly. “Which brings me to the next subject: what’s going on in Sachaka. Our friend over there managed to contact us again.”

Dakon smiled. He had no idea whether this “friend” was Kyralian or Sachakan, but Narvelan had vouched for the honesty of the man – or woman – and the quality of their information.

“Our friend says there is a split forming between the younger and older Sachakan magicians. There are too many young magicians without land, relying on the sibling their father chose as heir to support them. The number of landless magicians has been slowly growing for years, but only now have they begun to unite and cause trouble. Emperor Vochira doesn’t seem able to do much about them.

“There are reports of landless magicians tormenting and killing slaves that don’t belong to them. This in itself isn’t remarkable, so they must be causing a lot of economic damage for their actions to be protested against. Some have turned to thievery, occasionally daring to attack and rob other magicians. Others have even raided the homes of landed magicians, attacking their families and killing slaves.

“The worst offenders have been banished and declared ‘ichani’ – outlaws. A few were hunted down and killed, but not enough to make a difference because the emperor needs assistance to overcome the offenders, and too few of the older magicians can risk losing alliances with the families the offenders are related to.” Narvelan sighed and shook his head. “There is some satisfaction in knowing the Sachakans have as much trouble getting magicians to unite with and support each other as we do.”

Dakon chuckled, knowing that the young man referred to the habit of some magicians to hoard magical knowledge to themselves. Like Lord Jilden, who had discovered a way to harden stone with magic, but refused to share the knowledge with anyone else. He claimed it was only useful for his small sculptures – which were exquisite and fragile – and that like most artisans he had a right to keep his methods secret. King Errik could not risk ordering Lord Jilden to reveal his secret, because most magicians would not support it. Though they wanted the knowledge, their freedom to do as they wished, so long as it did no harm to the country, was more valuable to them. The king could only force Lord Jilden to divulge his secret if he could prove withholding it was harmful.

“Our Sachakan friend says that the younger magicians talk of the past,” Narvelan added. “They glorify the days when the Sachakan empire spread from coast to coast, bringing in wealth from other lands. They feel the empire is declining and believe they could revive it by reconquering the lost territories.”

Dakon frowned. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

Narvelan smiled. “Ah, but the older magicians call the young ones fools and dreamers. They recall that the empire relinquished Elyne and Kyralia because the two countries were no longer bringing in the wealth they once had. Which is what happens, when you rob a land,” Narvelan added darkly. “They also say that Kyralia would cost too much to conquer now, and isn’t worth the trouble.”

“But the young magicians want land,” Dakon guessed. “The lack of it drives them to see Kyralia as a greater prize than it is. They tell themselves they aren’t going to rob and run, but stay and rule.”

The younger magician’s gaze became thoughtful. “I fear you may be right. The question is, will the older magicians convince and control their younger opponents, or will they let them invade Kyralia?”

“It always seems easier to do nothing, when the harm is done elsewhere,” Dakon said. “They know their young ones will either learn a lesson and limp home – or die and stop being a problem – or prove successful. The worst that could happen is a bit of a diplomatic hiccup in history.”

“Are the youngsters right?” Narvelan asked, though more to himself than to Dakon. “Are we as weak as they think we are? Would we win or lose such a war?”

Dakon considered. “The king’s war masters would know better than we do.” He looked at the young man. “But your friends are already trying to find out for themselves, aren’t they?”

Narvelan grinned. “Trying to. There is one more question to be answered, though. One as important as those two. “

“Yes?”

“Would we unite against them?”

“Of course. We managed it a few centuries ago, in order to force the emperor to grant us independence.”

“But how long would it take? What would it take? How much land could the Sachakans overrun before the city magicians decided it was time to act? One ley? Two or three?”

“Only if the Sachakans moved quickly.”

Narvelan shook his head. “You don’t know the city magicians as I do. They fear confrontation far more than they care for some remote leys at the edge of the country.” He looked towards the window and frowned. “We are close to the main pass – you closer than me. Even if you are right, our land and people will still be the first to go.”

Dakon felt his skin chill, as if he had been sitting outside and a cloud had just blocked the sunlight. He could not argue against what Narvelan said. He could only hope that the Sachakans never managed to convince themselves Kyralia was worth invading, or that their attempts to organise and form alliances failed.

And if my hopes are in vain, that I can evacuate the villages of Aylen ley in time, and get my people to safety. Surely Narvelan is wrong about the city magicians. Beside, such decisions are not theirs to make.

“The king would not allow the city magicians to delay,” he said, feeling his mood lighten a fraction. “He won’t want to lose one handful of his land to Sachaka, let alone a few leys.”

Narvelan looked at him and nodded. “I hope you are right. I think... and our circle of friends believe... that we can better our chances. That the king is more likely to act promptly if he has met and reassured us he will. He should know the people most in danger if such a crisis should occur. People like you. It’s much harder to let people die if you’ve met and liked them, and promised to help them.”

“You want me to meet the king?” Dakon exclaimed. He laughed. “Why would he agree to meet me? I doubt he’ll do so just to ease my mind. More likely he’ll think I’m a nervous rassook jumping at every suggestion of a threat and most likely inventing half of them.”

“He won’t,” Narvelan said, with a shrug and a glint of amusement in his eye. “Not with your reputation. And once he meets you, he’ll know you’re not easily frightened.”

“Reputation?” Dakon stared at the young man. “What reputation?”

Narvelan’s gaze began to roam around the room. “Is it too early for wine, do you think?”

“Only for those who mention a man’s reputation and fail to supply the details.”

The young man grinned. “Is that a bribe or a punishment?”

“That depends entirely on how it affects my reputation.”

Narvelan laughed. “Very well. We’ve made sure you’re known as a sturdy sort of man who is unimpressed by frivolity. Which is why you have no wife – or so the assorted wives and daughters of our circle of friends have concluded.”

Dakon opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I do hope this reputation you have arranged for me will not prevent my marrying at some point in the future.”

The young magician smiled. “I’m sure it won’t.” Abruptly his eyes widened and he laughed. “You can tell people your reason for visiting the city was to find a wife. That would provide plenty of distraction from—”

“No,” Dakon said firmly.

“Why not? We magicians often marry late, but you’re leaving it a bit later than most.”

“It’s not a matter of leaving it,” Dakon said, shrugging. “Or of meeting appropriate women. While I have met women I would have liked to marry – and the feeling was reciprocated more than once – I have not yet met a woman who liked the idea enough to leave the city and her friends and family, and live in Mandryn. You haven’t discovered this for yourself, having married before you moved here. Young women of the country are desperate to move to the city, and those in the city are not keen to leave it. Your idea is hardly going to cause the distraction you hope for. They’re more likely to make a point of ignoring me.”

“Oh.” Narvelan looked disappointed. “Now that you mention it, Celia does often complain about how boring it is in the country.”

“I travel to the city every year to visit friends and deal with trade issues. There is no need for anyone to suspect another agenda.”

Narvelan nodded. “So, when do you think you’ll leave?”

“Not for a few weeks.” As the young magician opened his mouth to protest, Dakon raised a hand to stall him. “Something else happened this last week. I have a new apprentice.”

“Ah. An apprentice. I suppose I shall have to think about taking one on soon. Should I approach a likely family? Is that how you found yours?”

“No, this one is special. A natural.”

Understanding entered the magician’s gaze. “A natural! How exciting!”

“It certainly has been.”

Narvelan nodded. “You are stuck here. You can’t leave him behind untrained and taking him with you would be unfair on the people you stayed with. So, will I get to meet him?”

“You’ll get to meet her at dinner, if you are planning to stay.”

“Her?” Narvelan’s eyebrows rose. “Yes. My healer’s daughter.”

“Well then, I’m definitely going to stay for dinner.”

“Hopefully it will be her charming personality that provides the entertainment, not a stray bit of magic. I don’t mind having to repair and redecorate one of the seating rooms, but the dining room could be a touch expensive.”

Narvelan’s eyes widened. “Repair a seating room?”

“Yes. The signs of her first use of magic are rather hard to miss.”

“Can you show me, or has the work already been done?”

Dakon smiled. “Not completely. It’s still fairly impressive. I’ll show you later tonight.”

CHAPTER 8

While most people say the law allows magicians to do whatever they like, the truth is we are still restricted in what we can do,” Lord Dakon said.

Tessia watched him pace the library, as he usually did when lecturing. Her lessons for the last few weeks had consisted of short attempts at control, much like her first lesson, and these longer ones in which he taught her about the laws of Kyralia, some history which she had already learned from her father but was interested to hear from the perspective of magicians, and how her learning would be structured over the years to come. He often diverged from the chosen subject, moving into Sachakan culture and politics, or telling her about trading his ley’s goods with other landowners in the country or the city, and the convoluted world of Kyralia’s most powerful families.

“The first restriction is that nothing we do harms Kyralia,” he continued. “Now, what is harmful and what is not can be subjective. Building a dam may solve water storage problems, but it also floods land above it and restricts how much water flows below it. A mine, kiln or forge upstream may bring prosperity there, but it may foul the water and poison fish, crops, livestock and people downstream.” Dakon stopped pacing to regard her.

“Ultimately the king decides what is classed as harmful. But before the matter can be brought to his attention, a long and formal process must be carried out and mediation between the complainant and the magician attempted. Without this process he would face an impossible number of cases to decide.” He grimaced. “I won’t go into detail on the process right now, or we’ll be stuck on the subject for the rest of the afternoon. Do you have any questions?”

Tessia was ready for the enquiry. If she didn’t ask questions, Dakon would lecture her on how necessary it was for her to do so. No question was too silly or irrelevant, he had assured her.

But Apprentice Jayan clearly didn’t agree. Whenever she had lessons with him in the afternoon to make up for being called out to help her father in the morning – fortunately only three times so far – she would return cheerful only to spend an uncomfortable afternoon conscious of Jayan’s half-hidden snickers, sighs and disdainful looks.

It made her reluctant to ask questions, and determined to only ask ones that didn’t sound foolish.

“The king is a magician,” she said. “Does he face the same restrictions? Who decides whether what he does is harmful or not?”

Dakon smiled. “He is, indeed, a magician and he does face the same restrictions. If he is ever accused of harming his kingdom, the lords of Kyralia must decide if the accusation is correct – and we must all agree, if action is to be taken.”

“What action would you take?”

“Whatever is appropriate for the crime, I imagine. There is no set action or punishment scribed in law.”

“The king isn’t a strong magician, is he?”

She heard a snort from where Jayan was sitting, but resisted turning to look at him.

“That is a rumour and is incorrect,” Dakon said. “A magician’s natural ability may be small or large, but that is irrelevant once higher magic is learned. Then his or her strength is based entirely on how much magic has been taken from apprentices. Of course, a magician may choose to not have an apprentice and to rely entirely on natural strength – not every magician has the time or inclination to teach. The king does not have time to train apprentices because his prime responsibility is the state of the country. He is allowed to receive magic given by other magicians – usually from a small group of loyal friends, sometimes as payment for a debt or favour.”

Tessia considered this quietly. Sometimes the city sounded like a completely different world rather than the capital of her country.

A soft cough from Jayan caught Dakon’s attention. He smiled crookedly. “I will tell you more another time. Now, I think we’ve covered enough law and history. It is time we tested your control again. No, stay where you are.”

She stopped, having half risen from her seat. “We’re not going out into the fields?”

He nodded. “You are past the most dangerous stage, I think. Can you recall using magic unintentionally at all in the last week?”

She thought back, then shook her head.

“Good. Now, let’s get into a more comfortable position.”

He took a seat beside her, and the two of them turned their chairs so they faced each other. She could see Jayan now, sitting in the corner of the room. He was watching them, his brow creased by a faint frown.

She held out her hands to Lord Dakon. As the magician took them in a light grip, she closed her eyes. Then she opened them again, looking at Jayan, and caught an undisguised curl to his lips – a sneer of disdain or displeasure that was quickly hidden. She felt a stab of dismay, followed by curiosity.

He really doesn’t like me, she thought. I wonder why.

Possible reasons ran through her mind, upsetting her ability to calm it and focus. Was it her humbler upbringing? Was it because she was a woman? Did she have some habit that disgusted or irritated him?

Or, she suddenly thought, was it resentment? Had he lost something when she had become Dakon’s apprentice? Status? No, her presence here wouldn’t prevent him from becoming a magician or endanger any connections or influence he or his family had.

Whatever it was, it must concern Dakon. The magician was the only person in Mandryn that Jayan might want something from. Then a solution finally dawned on Tessia. Dakon did not have children. She had assumed that if he never did, the ley would go to another relative, as had been the case for Narvelan’s predecessor, Lord Gempel. But maybe apprentices could inherit leys.

Even so, surely Jayan, being older and from good bloodlines, would be chosen over her. The possibility that she could inherit a ley was so strange and ridiculous, she almost laughed aloud. That can’t be it, she thought. It must be something else.

She would have to think about it later. For now all she could do was ignore him. Though not if he was openly obnoxious, she decided. Then she would stand up to him. After all, she had faced a Sachakan magician. She had dealt with grown men made difficult by pain and sickness. No mere Kyralian apprentice was going to cow her.

That decided, she was able to clear her thoughts and concentrate on Dakon’s control lesson. As always, she visualised a box and nervously opened it. Inside lay her power, a swirling, bright ball of light. She touched it, held it in her hand, even gave it a squeeze, then put it back and closed the lid.

When she opened her eyes, Dakon sat back and smiled at her. Then he stood up, walked to a shelf and took down a heavy stone bowl that had been wedged between two rows of books. He put it on the floor in front of her, then tore up a scrap of paper and dropped it into the bowl.

“Look at the paper,” he told her. “I want you to remember what it felt like to hold your power. Then I want you to take a tiny bit of it – just a pinch – and direct it at the paper. At the same time, think about heat. Think about fire.”

This was nothing like the lessons she’d had before. She looked at him questioningly, but he just nodded at the bowl.

Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward and stared at the paper. She recalled how it had felt to hold and squeeze her magic. The sensation was still there, even though she had her eyes open.

It was not unlike the feeling she had experienced when her magic loosed itself without her meaning it but... not as slippery.

She dared not blink.

Still staring at the stone vessel, she plucked at the magic she sensed and felt it respond. Scared that if she waited too long the bit of magic she had taken would slip from her grasp, she directed it towards the torn paper.

Her forehead burned as the air before her suddenly grew hot.

The vessel slid away from her a few strides, then flames began to flicker from within.

“You did it!” Dakon exclaimed. His tone was half surprised, half pleased. “I thought you might be ready.”

“So she has.”

Tessia jumped as she realised Jayan was standing beside her chair, peering over her shoulder at the burning paper. The smell of smoke stung her nose. Jayan grimaced and made a small gesture with one finger.

Looking back at the bowl, she saw that the smoke was now contained within it by an invisible shield. After a few moments the flames shrank and disappeared. She felt a vague disappointment as the result of her first controlled use of magic was extinguished.

Dakon, she noted, was looking at Jayan with a thoughtful expression. The young apprentice shrugged and walked back to his seat, picking up the book he had been reading. Dakon said nothing and turned back to Tessia.

“So, I think I can officially say you have gained control of your power, Tessia,” he said. “We need not fear any further destruction, though I must say the room we had to refurnish is looking a lot better than it did before.”

She felt her face warm and looked away. “What happens now?”

“We celebrate,” he told her. Across the room a small gong set within an alcove in the wall rang. “After all, I’ve never heard of any magician gaining control in just two weeks. I took three. Jayan took four.”

“Three and a half,” Jayan corrected, not looking up from his book. “And we lost three days when Lord Gempel dropped in for a chat and decided to hang around and deplete your wine store.”

Dakon chuckled. “He was old. How could I deny him a rest and a little company now and then?”

Jayan didn’t answer. At a tap on the door, Dakon turned to look at it. Tessia noted the way his gaze intensified as he used magic. The door swung open. Cannia stepped into the room.

“Bring us a bottle of wine, Cannia. A good one, too. Now that Tessia’s control lessons are over she had best start learning something all respectable Kyralians must know: which of our wines are better than others.”

As the servant smiled and left, Tessia drew her attention back to her own magic. This new awareness she had of something within her, discovered during her first lessons and reinforced by numerous exercises, reminded her of something. Then she remembered how she had become acutely conscious of the position and rhythms of her heart and lungs after her father had shown her sketches of those organs within a body and started teaching her about them.

But her magic was different. She did not need to be in control of her heart and lungs. She could forget about them and trust that they kept working. Though Dakon had assured her she would eventually stop noticing that she was exerting control over her power, that control must always remain.

Now, for the first time, the prospect no longer scared her.

Jayan yawned as he crossed the yard to the stables. The grass in the surrounding fields was white with frost, and his breath misted in the air. As the cold penetrated his clothes he created a shield about himself and warmed the air within it.

Magic could do something about the cold, but it couldn’t fix the early hour. Why had Dakon sent for him? Malia hadn’t been able or willing to tell him anything except that he’d find Dakon in the stables.

A man leading a roan horse emerged from the blackness behind the open stable door and Jayan felt his mood darken further. Dakon had given Hanara a job in the stables, which Jayan had to admit was a wise move. It kept the former slave out of the house but not out of sight. But it did mean Jayan had to deal with the man whenever he wanted or needed to go for a ride.

Hanara kept his eyes to the ground, his shoulders hunched. The apparent meekness only made Jayan more uneasy.

“For you, master,” the man said.

Jayan bit back a reminder that the title was not appropriate. He should not be called “master” until he was a magician, and then only by his own apprentice. The one time he had tried to explain this Hanara had stared at the ground, saying nothing, and later resumed using the term.

Hanara turned the mare to the side ready for mounting, then positioned himself at her head. Jayan paused, then took the reins from the man and held them as he swung up onto the horse’s back. Hoofbeats to his right heralded the emergence of Dakon from the stable, leading his favourite gelding, Sleet.

“A good morning to you, Apprentice Jayan,” Dakon said. “Care for a ride?”

“Do I have a choice? Can I get down and go back inside to study?” Jayan asked, a touch snappier than he intended.

Dakon’s mouth twitched into a smile. “That would be a pity, when Hanara spent so much time readying Ember for you.”

“Wouldn’t it just,” Jayan replied sarcastically. “So where are we heading so early in the morning?”

“The usual circuit of the village,” Dakon said, placing a foot in Sleet’s stirrup. He swung up and settled into the grey’s saddle, then nudged the horse into motion. Jayan sighed and urged his mount after them.

As they emerged from the Residence’s gates Jayan saw that a few villagers were already out and about. The baker, of course, was doing his usual early deliveries. A few young boys carried bundles of firewood from a cart to the doors of the houses, leaving them beside the doorstep.

It did not take Dakon and Jayan long to reach the edge of the village. Crossing the bridge, they headed southward.

“You don’t trust Hanara, do you?” Dakon asked.

Jayan shook his head. “No. I don’t think you should, either.”

“I don’t, but perhaps not as little as you.” He turned to regard Jayan. “I may not expect his loyalty, or trust him with secret information – not that I have any – but I do trust him to hold the head of my horse when I mount. It would be petty and stupid of him to try to spook a horse we were mounting. He knows I would cast him out of the village if I thought it was deliberate.”

“And if you weren’t sure?” Jayan asked.

“I’d give him another chance. And probably another. Once is a mistake, twice is bad luck or a coincidence, three times is either deliberate or a bad habit and would at least prove him incapable of the job I’ve given him.”

“Even if someone was hurt?”

“That would force me to read his mind.”

Jayan frowned. “You haven’t already?”

“No. I’m no Sachakan ashaki.” Dakon lifted one eyebrow. “Do you feel no sympathy for the man?”

Looking away, Jayan let out a sigh. “A little. Well, I suppose more than a little. But that doesn’t mean I trust him. If Takado turned up I’m sure Hanara would scurry back to his master’s side without hesitation.”

“Would he? He’s a free man now. Takado said I could do what I wished with his man. Hanara knows that. Would he willingly go back to the life of a slave?”

“If he has known nothing else. If he feared to do otherwise.”

“Nobody is forcing him to stay. He could leave and return to Sachaka if he wanted to.” Dakon smiled. “He is trying out a different life now. The longer he has his freedom, the more he may like it. And he will like it even more if he is not treated with distrust by every Kyralian he meets.”

Jayan nodded reluctantly. “But that will count for nothing if he does not respect you,” he pointed out. “Should Hanara face Takado again, his reaction will depend on who he fears and respects the most, you or Takado.”

“True.”

“And he may never respect a man he doesn’t fear, if that’s the only way he knows how to judge. Fear may mean a lot more than trust to him.”

Dakon frowned and fell into a thoughtful silence. They turned off the road onto a cart track which climbed steadily up and along a ridge overlooking the village. Jayan stared down at the double line of houses extending from the river to the end of the little valley. Dakon’s house was a storey higher and several times larger than the rest of the buildings. Whenever Jayan looked at the village from this viewpoint, he wondered how the villagers managed to live and work in their tiny homes.

“Your distrust of Hanara is reasonable,” Dakon said. Jayan resisted the urge to sigh with exasperation. Isn’t he finished with this subject yet? he thought impatiently. “But I don’t quite understand the issue you have with Tessia.”

Jayan’s stomach lurched disconcertingly. “Tessia? I have no issue with her.”

Dakon laughed quietly. “Oh, it’s clear you do. Your dislike of her is as obvious as your distrust of Hanara. I’m afraid you aren’t good enough at hiding your feelings, Jayan.”

I ought to turn and meet his eyes, and state that I am happy that Tessia has joined us and look forward to many years of her company, Jayan thought. But not yet. He wasn’t ready. Dakon had surprised him.

“If I’m so bad at hiding my feelings, then shouldn’t it be obvious what my ‘issue’ is?” he countered. “Maybe you don’t understand because there’s nothing to understand.”

“Then explain to me why you sigh or scowl at half her questions, and listen to her lessons when you say you want to read, and ignore her unless she speaks to you directly, then give her the shortest and often least helpful response?” Dakon chuckled. “From the look on your face when she’s present, anyone would think she gave you a stomach ache.”

Jayan glanced at Dakon then looked away again, thinking hard. What possible explanation could he give? He certainly couldn’t tell Dakon that he resented every moment of time Tessia took away from his own training.

“She’s just so...so ignorant,” he said. “So slow – I know she’s learning fast but it doesn’t feel like it.” He grimaced, sure that his answer wasn’t clever or evasive enough. Make it sound as if you actually want her around for some reason. “It’s going to be a long time before we can have a conversation about magic, or practise together, or play a game, or... something.” Now look at him. He turned to face Dakon, meeting the magician’s eyes and shrugging helplessly.

Dakon smiled and turned to regard the track ahead of them, which was leading to a fence and a gate.

“Watching her must remind you of your own beginnings, of the awkward questions and failed attempts at magic, of mistakes and difficulties. You know,” he looked at Jayan again, “I’m sure she’d welcome your help. You’ve put her a bit on edge, but a little assistance now and then would reassure her. Not that you should try to teach her anything new entirely on your own.” Dakon grew serious. “Apprentices are not supposed to be teachers. It’s seen as an abuse of the magician–apprentice exchange of duties.”

Jayan nodded, hoping it looked like agreement and not a commitment. Their conversation ceased as they navigated the gate. Then, as they continued on their way, Dakon looked at Jayan expectantly.

“Promise me you’ll be nicer to Tessia.”

Jayan suppressed the urge to sigh in relief. It could have been worse. Dakon could have asked him to dedicate time to assisting Tessia.

“I promise,” he said. “I’ll be nicer to her. And try not to ‘put her on edge’, as you say.”

“Good.” Apparently satisfied, Dakon nudged Sleet into a trot. Watching his master moving away, Jayan surrendered to the sigh. Then he grimaced and urged Ember to follow.

If I am so easy to read, then I need to work on changing that. Perhaps I should think of Tessia as an opportunity to gain some skill in this area. After all, what’s a minor fault here in Mandryn could be a fatal weakness in Imardin.

He might as well try to gain some advantage out of the situation. It didn’t look as if Dakon was going to send her to another teacher. Tessia was here to stay, and he would just have to get used to it.

CHAPTER 9

Tessia stared at the bowl of water and reached for magic. She felt her power respond, obediently, flowing out to take the form she wanted and going where she directed it. Bubbles welled up and burst, droplets splashing her. She flinched and rubbed her skin. Too hot.

Dakon had suggested she practise turning magic into heat by warming her washing water each morning. Using magic for everyday tasks was good practice and kept a magician’s mind sharp, he told her. Nevertheless, she could not help thinking that magicians were a lazy lot every time she saw him or Jayan using magic to open doors, or to fetch something from across a room.

She knew better now than to warm the water before washing, however. Her most common mistake in any magical task was to employ too much magic, and to begin with there had been a few mornings she’d had to wait for some time before the water cooled enough to use.

A knock at the door attracted her attention.

“Come in,” she called.

The servant, Malia, strode in, and glanced from the steaming bowl to the empty dishes from Tessia’s morning meal stacked on the desk. She moved towards the latter, taking the tray she was nearly always carrying out from under her arm. “Good morning, Tessia.”

Tessia rose and stretched. “Good morning, Malia.”

“Practising again?”

“Yes. Give the bowl a moment to cool down before you take it.”

“I will.” Malia chuckled ruefully. “Believe me, I won’t be ignoring your warning a second time. What are your plans for today?”

“Stables first.” Tessia picked up the small bag of bandages and salves her father had left for her to use when tending Hanara.

“Then lessons.”

Tessia headed to the door, then paused to look back at Malia. She had expected the servant to ask how Hanara was, but the woman said nothing.

“Malia, do you know how well Hanara is fitting in? What do the stable servants think of him? What about the villagers?”

Malia straightened from tidying the bedcovers and looked thoughtful. “Well, people generally find him a bit strange, but that’s expected, right? It would be weird if he behaved like a Kyralian.”

Tessia smiled. “Yes, it would be. And the stable servants?”

“They say he works hard enough – more than what he’s supposed to what with the mending he still has to do. They say he’s tough. Almost admiringly.” Malia hesitated. “But he keeps to himself and doesn’t always answer questions.” She shrugged, indicating that was all she had to convey.

“Thank you.” Tessia smiled and continued on her way. Thinking about what Malia had said, she decided things were going as well as anyone could expect for the former slave. He probably wasn’t used to friendly chatter, and it would take time for him to learn how to befriend people.

Leaving the house, Tessia crossed to the stables and slipped through the open door. Then she stopped, surprised by the scene before her.

Two of the stable servants were peeing into a bucket.

Before she could look away, the young men glanced up. Expressions of horror crossed their faces, and streams of urine veered from their intended paths – one across the trousers of the other – as they hastily covered themselves.

“Having a good look?” Birren jeered, recovering from his embarrassment enough to try to joke about it.

“Yeah.” Ullan followed. “Looked to me like she was checking us out. Impressed, were you, Tess? Want a closer look?”

She suppressed a laugh. The banter was typical of young men their age, and what she’d have expected in this situation – before she’d become an apprentice. She didn’t have the heart to increase their discomfort by reminding them she wasn’t Tessia the healer’s daughter any more. “I was wondering if it’s true that all boys get bigger when they get older. Didn’t look like you’d grown much since that time my father and I treated you two for... what was it again? Warts?”

They winced.

“We can make them get bigger,” Birren told her, grinning.

“You’d be scared.”

She snorted derisively. “I’ve seen much scarier things helping my father. Where’s Hanara?”

Ullan began a cheeky reply, but Birren stopped him with a low hiss, then nodded towards the end of the building. Hanara was sitting at a table, cleaning and polishing a saddle. She walked towards him. Harnesses and tools were lying nearby, waiting to be mended or cleaned. He looked up as she approached, and his frown faded a little.

Though the man’s face was typically Sachakan, broad and brown-skinned, it was quite different from his master’s. It was finer and more angled, youthful but scarred. She was glad of this, because while it was impossible not to think of Takado whenever she thought of Hanara, at least looking at the former slave did not stir unpleasant memories of his master’s face leering at her.

“I’m here to change your bandages,” she told him.

He nodded. “You’ve not seen anything scary,” he told her, standing up and taking off his tunic. “Nothing truly scary.”

Realising he had overheard the youths, she sighed and began removing the bandages around his chest and shoulder. “Probably not, but don’t be too quick to judge. I’ve seen more of the insides of people than most Kyralians have. Some nasty injuries and a few fatal ones that I doubt I’ll ever forget.”

“The dead are not scary. They cannot do anything to you.”

“But they smell almost as bad as those two back there.”

He smiled faintly, then grew serious again. “You should not let them speak to you like that. You are a magician now.”

“Apprentice,” she corrected. “You’re probably right. But then, I should have knocked or called out, not just walked in on them.”

“You should not have to knock.”

She gave him a level look. “This is Kyralia. Even magicians are expected to have good manners.”

He met her eyes for the briefest moment, then quickly looked down.

The wounds he’d suffered, even the cut her father had made to reach his broken ribs, had sealed into red, raised scars. She probed where the breaks in his bones had been, asking if he felt pain. He shook his head each time, and didn’t look as if he was trying to hide any reaction.

“You look completely healed to me,” she told him. “I don’t think you need any more bandages. Be careful not to pick up anything heavy, or strain bones that were broken.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing how fast you heal. I’m not sure you even needed our help.”

“I would have healed badly – crooked. Your father stopped that happening.” He paused. “Thank you.”

Tessia smiled, her heart lifting. “I’ll pass your thanks on to my father.”

“You, too,” he said, pointing to the discarded bandages.

“You’re . . .” He frowned, and gestured vaguely towards the stable door. “Not like...”

Was he talking about the stable boys, or had his gesture been meant to encompass more? The village, perhaps. She felt a stab of concern.

“Are the villagers treating you well?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am a stranger.”

“Yes, but that is no excuse for... bad behaviour. Hanara.” She waited until he looked up and met her gaze. “If someone does anything mean to you – anything, ah, un-Kyralian – you tell me. It’s important. Just as you must live like a Kyralian now, by our laws and ideals, they must not start behaving like...like Sachakans. Do you understand? You mustn’t put up with it because you did before.”

He gazed back at her.

“You do understand me, don’t you?”

He nodded.

Letting out a sigh of relief, she gathered the old bandages into a bundle. “I must go. I have lessons to learn.”

He nodded again and suddenly seemed glum.

“I’ll come here to talk to you now and then, if you like,” she offered.

Though his expression did not change, a warmth entered his gaze. As she left the stable, she imagined she could feel his eyes on her back.

I hope I’m not giving him romantic notions, she thought. I can imagine Mother’s horror. She’ll barely forgive me for not trying to get Lord Dakon to fall in love with me, but if I end up with a Sachakan former slave writing me poetry she’ll disown me.

She considered the likelihood of Hanara’s writing poetry for her as she re-entered the house and headed back to her room to drop off the bandages and her bag. He probably couldn’t even write. But if he could, would she welcome it?

He’s quite attractive, in an exotic way, she decided. Now that the swelling has gone. But... no. I don’t think I know him well enough yet to even decide I like him. There’s too much about him that is secretive. Then she chuckled. I guess those novels in my room have it all wrong. Secretive men with mysterious pasts aren’t irresistibly attractive at all.

Reaching the stairs, she heard her name called and turned to see Malia hurrying towards her.

“Your father’s here, Apprentice Tessia,” the servant said. “Says he needs your help this morning – something urgent in the village.” Her brow furrowed. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there. And could you tell Lord Dakon?”

“Of course.”

Hurrying upstairs, Tessia quickly deposited her burden in her room then backed out again. She checked her stride as she nearly collided with Jayan at the top of the stairs. The young man paused and looked at her, the annoyance in his expression changing to the smooth politeness he had adopted around her of late.

“You look eager for your lessons this morning,” he said.

“I’ll have to miss them today,” she said, wishing he’d move aside and let her past. “Father’s here and it’s urgent.”

“Ah, skipping classes again, are we?” He smiled and shook his head with mock disapproval – or was it really mocking? Was that a hint of true disdain she detected in his tone? She felt anger rising.

“At least I’m doing something useful with what I know,” she snapped, meeting his gaze and silently daring him to object.

His eyes widened in surprise. Stepping back, he let her pass, and watched her hurry down the stairs. She heard him mutter something, catching the word “idiot”.

So he thinks I’m an idiot, she mused. Arrogant fool. I bet he doesn’t know more than a handful of the people in the village, let alone care about whether they live or die, are sick or in pain. So long as they do the work of the ley he’s not interested. He’s no better than a Sachakan.

She resolved to put him out of her mind.

No matter how many times Dakon urged her father otherwise, Veran always came to the servants’ door and today was no exception. She found him pacing in the corridor outside the kitchen. When he saw her he frowned and she realised she was still scowling at her encounter with Jayan.

“Are you missing a particularly important lesson today?” he asked, picking up his bag.

She shook her head and smiled. “No. Don’t worry. It’s nothing to do with Dakon or magic or lessons. Just a petty annoyance. Where’s Aran?” She had grown used to the presence of her father’s new assistant, a quiet boy with a missing lower leg who had grown up on one of the more distant farms. The boy’s deformity prevented him from joining in with more robust tasks in the field, despite being remarkably agile on the wooden leg his father had made for him, but he had a quick mind and, she grudgingly admitted to herself, was proving a good choice for assistant.

“Visiting his grandmother,” her father replied. “She’s broken her arm and he’s helping her out.”

“Ah. So who are we treating today?”

He led her out of the Residence before he answered.

“Yaden, Jornen’s son. Pains in the belly early this morning. Worse now. I suspect an inflamed appendix.”

Tessia nodded. A dangerous condition. Her father might have to attempt surgery to remove the organ and the chances of infection were high. The boy could easily die.

Reaching the main road, they strode down to one of the last houses in the village, belonging to Jornen the metal worker. The man’s workshop was a small distance from the rear of his home, down by one of the streams that flowed into the river. On most days the smoke from his forge blew away from the houses, but occasionally what was known locally as “the smoke wind” gusted distinctly metallic-smelling clouds over the village.

Tessia’s father stepped up to the door and knocked. The sound of running feet echoed inside the house, then the door opened and two small children stared up at them; a girl and a boy. The girl ran back into the house, crying: “They’re here! They’re here!” while the boy took Veran’s hand and led him upstairs to where Jornen and his wife, Possa, were waiting. A baby in the woman’s arms quietly snuffled its displeasure.

“He’s in here,” the metal worker said, gesturing to a bedroom.

It was a tiny room filled with a metal-framed three-tier bunk bed. Yaden, a boy of about twelve, was curled up on the bottom mattress, moaning loudly.

Tessia watched her father inspect Yaden, prodding his abdomen gently, timing the rhythm of his heart and breathing and asking questions. The two children who had greeted them at the door appeared, with two older boys in tow. One of the newcomers was leading the other by a rope around his neck.

“What’s this?” Possa said, her voice strained. “What are you doing with that rope?”

“We’re playing master and slave,” one of the boys said.

Tessia and the mother exchanged a look of dismay.

“Take it off,” Possa ordered. “We’re not Sachakans. We don’t enslave people. It’s wrong.”

To Tessia’s amusement, both boys looked disappointed as they removed the rope.

“What about the slave Lord Dakon has?” the one who’d worn the rope asked.

“He’s not a slave any more,” Tessia told him gently. “He’s free now.”

“But he still acts weird,” the other boy said.

“That’s because he’s not used to being free. And he doesn’t know our ways yet. But he’ll learn them. He’s actually nice, when you get to know him.”

The children looked thoughtful. Hearing a sniff, Tessia turned to see a doubtful look on Possa’s face. The woman quickly looked away. Veran made a low noise of concern. He straightened, knocking his head on the middle bunk.

“There’s not enough room for me to work here. Can we move him somewhere with more space?”

“The kitchen?” the metal worker suggested, looking at his wife. She shook her head.

“Too dirty. The cellar’s got more room.”

Her husband entered the bedroom, lifted his son and carried him down the stairs, the small crowd of family following. Tessia and Veran trailed behind them down to the lower floor and along the corridor towards the back of the house.

Glancing through an open door, Tessia glimpsed a kitchen table overflowing with utensils, vessels and baskets filled with the familiar shapes of edible fungi. She nodded to herself, approving of Possa’s reluctance to take Yaden to a place covered in dirt and manure. Perhaps her father’s and grandfather’s efforts to instil a respect for hygiene in the villagers hadn’t been as futile as they had often suspected.

More likely she doesn’t want to disturb her work when there’s an alternative place to take her son.

The long column of bodies descended another staircase. They reached a cold room smelling of damp and mould, with a time-darkened old wooden table covered in grime in the middle, and Tessia felt her heart sink. This was barely healthier than the dirty kitchen table.

“Get the lamp,” the metal worker ordered, but to which child Tessia couldn’t guess in the dimness. She felt someone smaller than her trip over her shoe and heard an exclamation of pain. Backing away, she heard a protest as she stepped on someone else’s foot.

Argh! We need light now! she thought, exasperated. Well, I can fix that...

She concentrated and abruptly the room filled with brilliance. All sounds ceased. Guessing the family and her father were all as dazzled as she was, Tessia reduced the ball of light floating up near the ceiling to a softer glow.

Looking around, she realised the metal worker and family were all staring at her. Even her father appeared astonished. She felt her face warming. Then Yaden groaned with pain and all eyes returned to him. Tessia sighed with relief. The boy was placed on the table. Tessia’s father handed her his bag then moved to Yaden’s side. She removed the burner and began to set it up on an old stool. The metal worker’s wife eyed Tessia warily, then gathered all the children and drew them from the room.

Almost as though she was removing them from danger rather than out of the way.

The next few hours were a mix of familiar methods and routines, and the less familiar demands of surgery. Once, her father glanced up at the globe of light and asked Tessia to bring it closer to the table. She felt heartened by his acceptance of her use of magic. The metal worker made a strangled noise as Veran made the first cut, then hurried out of the cellar.

Finally they were done. Tessia replaced the last of the tools, seared clean, in her father’s bag. Yaden was now unconscious, but the rhythm of his breathing and blood was steady and strong. Her father gave the child one last thoughtful look, then turned to Tessia.

He smiled, then glanced meaningfully at the globe of light.

“Handy trick, that one. It’s good to see you’ve been paying attention to your lessons.”

She shrugged. “It’s like learning the right way to use bandages. Once you know how, you don’t think too much about it. I’m sure there’s much harder magic to learn.”

Something shifted in his gaze, removing the humour from his smile for a moment.

“It might...I suspect it would be unsettling for the villagers if you kept surprising them like that, though.”

She nodded. “Yes. I think I might have scared them. Now I’ve seen how they react...I don’t think I’ll be drawing attention to myself like that again.”