The Shattered Crown

TWENTY-SEVEN

Magistra Gelredida hadn’t seemed at all perturbed by Waylian’s setbacks on the streets of Northgate. It was almost as though she’d expected it. But instead of scolding him for his incompetence, she merely gave him another task to do.

He’d told her about the orphanage and the children forced into labour by Fletcher. She’d seemed unconcerned by their plight and more interested in Milius the apothecary. Waylian had been dreading telling her what happened; that he’d fled into the night rather than be murdered by some bastard poisoner, but it was as though she knew what would happen.

‘Never mind,’ she’d said. ‘These things are to be expected.’

These things are to be expected?

A few short weeks ago, had Waylian told the Red Witch he had failed in one of her assigned errands, he would have been on privy duty for a month. He was beginning to wonder who this woman was he’d found on his return from the Kriega Mountains. She showed tolerance, understanding, and was even measured in her assessment of him.

But then, Waylian had changed as well. He was stronger, more determined … brave even? With the coming of war everyone had to change. Perhaps Gelredida had changed most of all.

This was a perilous time and if she did not find some way of persuading the Archmasters to join in the fight then the city might well be lost. How Waylian was helping with any of this was a mystery, but who was he to argue with the Magistra?

He sat at his desk. It was an all too brief respite before he was to be sent out on his next task, and Waylian coveted every moment to himself. On the desk was a book and a piece of parchment. He fingered the small square of paper, looking at the addresses written there. Gelredida had told him this was his next task — travel to the Trades Quarter, find Josiah Klumm and take him to the safe house written on the reverse of the note.

What could be simpler?

Waylian had a feeling anything could be bloody simpler. The tasks given by his mistress were never as straightforward as they first seemed and often put him in grave peril. If he admitted it to himself though, Waylian was starting to quite enjoy the danger.

Yes, he’d whined and moaned when he thought he was going to be eaten alive by some mountain beast, but who wouldn’t? Looking back on it, he had felt no small thrill in those mountains. A thrill at least the equal of that day in the Chapel of Ghouls.

Waylian was important now. He mattered and he was doing something good, something valuable. Even if he didn’t exactly know how or why.

He looked back at his desk and the thick tome that lay open on it. The script written on the pages in thick black ink was neat, some of its syntax archaic, but Waylian found himself understanding the gist more readily than any other book he’d had to read. Authority of the Voice it was called. No esoteric title, not even the name of its writer emblazoned on the front in silver leaf.

It contained entire chapters on how to break the Veil and tap into the magick that could unleash vast cosmic power with a word. Waylian was only too interested in what it could teach him. By unveiling the secrets of this tome he could turn men’s minds. Shatter their sanity. Bend their will to his every whim. With a word he would be able to wither plants, change the weather or send messages with the birds.

The thought excited him more than he could express, but Waylian didn’t think for a moment that he was close to being able to bring down the heavens with a whisper. For now he would have to satisfy himself with something easy.

In front of him on his desk was a little mirror. Waylian had never been a huge fan of his reflection, though in recent days he wasn’t quite as dissatisfied as he used to be. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop him trying to shatter it with a word.

Since the Chapel of Ghouls, since the day he had defeated Rembram Thule, he had wanted to recapture the power he’d felt. A single word, a word he couldn’t remember, had saved his life that day.

Gelredida had suggested he read up on the talent, rather than practise it, but Waylian knew that soon he might need the powers of magick once more. His life might depend upon it. He couldn’t very well face the Khurtas with nothing more than a frown and garlic-flavoured breath.

After much study, Waylian had found the word he wanted in the book. Avaggdu was the destroying word. It was used to trick the Veil into transforming inanimate objects. Into smashing them or twisting them or turning them into something else. Considering the potential dangers, Waylian thought it best to start with something small.

He said the word, while staring into the mirror.

‘Avaggdu!’

All the mirror did was stare back.

Well, what were you expecting on the first go?

‘Avaggdu,’ he said again. This time more forcefully. This time with a different inflection.

Still nothing.

The instructions within the book had said it was nothing to do with emotion or need, but proficiency with the Channeller’s Art, whatever that bloody meant. Clearly he needed more practice, but then how had he managed to manifest the ability when he’d been about to die? It couldn’t have just been coincidence, could it? Surely there must have been some emotional connection, something to do with his fear?

He stared at his reflection again. ‘Avaggdu,’ he repeated, this time trying to do it without thought or feeling.

Still nothing, but this time on saying the word there was a strange feeling of nausea in his stomach. Rather than fight it, Waylian let it grow in his belly. It was uncomfortable for sure, yet not wholly unpleasant.

‘Avaggdu,’ he said again.

This time as he stared at his reflection a bead of blood blossomed from his eye. The mirror bowed, bending his image, twisting it into something foul.

There was a bang at his chamber door.

Waylian jumped, quickly raising his sleeve to dab away the blood on his face. The feeling of nausea abated only to be replaced by one of revulsion at what he had done. This wasn’t right. There was an overwhelming sense of wrongness about the whole thing, but then wasn’t that what magick was all about?

Another rap at the door. Someone was insistent.

‘Coming,’ he said, rising from his desk and moving to the door.

He opened it, half expecting Gelredida come with another task for him, so the two men who stood there were something of a surprise.

The first one Waylian recognised. He was short, with a mop of grey curly hair. Nero Laius had an open and friendly smile, so unlike most of the other Archmasters.

‘Hello, Waylian,’ said the Master Diviner. ‘May we come in?’

‘Yes,’ Waylian replied, stepping aside and allowing the two men to enter his chamber.

The second figure had to stoop below the lintel as he entered, his black armoured shoulders almost touching each side of the doorframe. He held his helmet in the crook of his arm, revealing a stern face topped with a shock of short white hair. As he strode by his eyes surveyed Waylian, then the desk, his bed, the window, the ceiling — scanning the room as though for any sign of danger.

‘You’ve met Marshal Ferenz, of course.’

Waylian tried to swallow but he found his throat was drying up with each passing moment. ‘Er … no, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.’ The man didn’t offer a hand to shake, and Waylian wasn’t about to offer his own. Of course he had heard of the Marshal of the Raven Knights, but thankfully never had the need to speak with him.

‘Please sit down, Waylian,’ Nero said, sitting himself in the chair beside Waylian’s desk.

The only place left was his bed, and Waylian obediently sat on it. His feather mattress had never felt so uncomfortable. For his part, Marshal Ferenz stood in front of the door and glared.

‘Er … what can I do for you, Archmaster?’

Nero smiled at that, as though Waylian had just made a joke. Ferenz didn’t seem to find it particularly funny.

‘It’s more about what I can do for you, Waylian,’ Nero replied.

Waylian’s eyes flitted from Nero to Ferenz, from the amiable to the imposing. ‘I don’t understand, Archmaster.’

‘Oh, come now, young Waylian. Surely Magistra Gelredida has told you what an interest the Crucible had taken in you? It’s common knowledge you’re a student with great potential. A talented prospect for the future.’

‘Er … no. She’s not mentioned it.’

Nero looked shocked. ‘I can’t believe she would keep such a thing to herself. But then she’s never really seen eye to eye with the Crucible, has she Ferenz?’ The Marshal of the Raven Knights shook his granite head. ‘Well, if she’s not told you what promise you’ve shown these past weeks, please allow me to rectify the situation. Word is you’re a student of great diligence, admired by your peers and tutors alike. You helped defeat a great evil at the Chapel of Ghouls, one that might have destroyed us all. You’ve travelled north to the Kriega Mountains taking word to the Wyvern Guard so that they might travel in defence of the city, at great risk to your person. Overcome much adversity, risked your life for the innocent citizens of the Free States. You’re a hero, Waylian, and it’s about time you were recognised as such.’

‘Thank you,’ said Waylian, doubtfully. ‘But I’m sure Magistra Gelredida appreciates me in her own way.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she does. That’s why she’s got you traipsing halfway across the city on this errand or that.’

How could he know about that? Waylian’s tasks for the Magistra were supposed to be kept secret.

‘They’re not so much errands …’ said Waylian, desperate to cover his tracks.

‘Come now, Waylian.’ Nero sat forward in his chair, those little eyes of his holding Waylian in their steely glare. ‘I am the Keeper of the Ravens. Master of Divination. There is nothing that happens in the Tower of Magisters, or indeed the city, which I do not know about. Isn’t that right, Ferenz?’

The Marshal of the Raven Knights nodded his head, his eyes glaring at Waylian all the while.

‘I can assure you, Archmaster, there is nothing untoward-’

Nero held up his hands, and Waylian stopped.

‘I’m sure there isn’t, Waylian. I’m sure it’s all completely innocent. Harmless chores for your mistress. But then … what if it isn’t?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Waylian said. But part of him did understand. Part of him knew exactly what Nero was talking about.

‘You’re loyal, and that’s to be admired. In fact it’s one of the reasons you’re so well thought of amongst the Archmasters. But sometimes blind loyalty can be used against you. Isn’t that right, Ferenz?’ The Marshal made no move to reply. ‘Sometimes you lose focus. Sometimes by the time you realise what has happened you’re in far too deep to get yourself out again. Do you get my meaning?’

Waylian nodded, even though he wasn’t exactly sure he did. Was Nero suggesting Gelredida was putting him in danger? He already knew that, but it was for the good of the city. Wasn’t it?

‘I understand, Archmaster. But I can assure you I’ve just been sent out on a few harmless tasks. Nothing that need concern you or the other Archmasters.’

‘Of course,’ Nero replied. ‘But how long do you think these “tasks” will remain harmless? You’re not the first apprentice Gelredida has sent running off to do her bidding. She’s had apprentices do her dirty work before and it rarely ends well for them, does it, Ferenz?’ The Marshal shook his huge head. ‘I’m only thinking of you, Waylian. Which is why I’d like us to be friends. It’s why I’d like you to work for me.’

‘I … I don’t … I can’t …’

‘Oh, but you can.’ That smile again. A smile that seemed to put Waylian at his ease. What was it with this man? ‘Gelredida is in her twilight years. Her sky is darkening, whereas mine is just beginning to grow bright. Do you want to align yourself with the future, or be dragged down by the past?’

‘I … er …’

‘You have great things ahead of you, Waylian. You will have powerful friends. Don’t be blinded by your loyalty to one old woman. She is a danger to you. A danger to us, to everyone. You must not let her destroy you as she has done so many others.

‘No … I can’t …’

‘Yes, you can, Waylian. You must.’ He was locked in that gaze now. Those eyes boring into him. Soothing him yet compelling him all at once.

Nero was right — Gelredida was the past. If Waylian ever wanted to make anything of himself he had to side with the Archmasters.

You’re being used, Grimmy. By Gelredida, by Nero, by everyone. You’re a useless pawn in a shitty game. Stand up for yourself for once you spineless son of a …

‘No,’ Waylian replied. ‘I’m sorry, Archmaster, but I just can’t help you.’

Nero sat back in the chair, a look of dissatisfaction clouding his once-smiling face. ‘That’s unsatisfactory, Waylian. Very unsatisfactory indeed. I thought we could be friends. I thought we could help one another, but obviously that’s not the case. Marshal, please explain how important it is that Waylian does as we ask.’

Ferenz took a clanking step forward, massive in his black armour; each plate intricately crafted to resemble a raven’s wing. He stared down at Waylian, his face looking as if it had been hewn from stone with a daemonic chisel.

‘Listen here, you little shit,’ he said, as though barking at soldiers on the parade ground. ‘We don’t have time to fuck around with the likes of you.’ He leaned over Waylian, his chin jutting forward, the veins in his neck straining against the muscular flesh. ‘The Archmaster has made you a very generous offer. More generous than I’d ever give you. It would serve you well to accept it.’

‘I … er … yes but …’

Nero had come to stand beside Ferenz now. The Raven Knight towered over him, but Waylian was somehow more afraid of the Archmaster than he was of the imposing warrior.

‘Don’t make this difficult, Waylian. There is only one way this will end if you do. Don’t make me have to force you.’

That strange feeling was creeping back into Waylian’s gut. The feeling he’d had whilst trying out his words of power. A wave of nausea engulfed him.

Was this fear? Was he even gaining some kind of masochistic thrill from this? What the fuck was wrong with him? Something was boiling inside. Something was stirring like molten iron in the pit of his stomach.

‘No!’ he bellowed, rising to his feet.

To his surprise, Ferenz and Nero each stepped back, the Raven Knight almost backing up to the chamber door. Nero regarded him with a furrowed brow, but he seemed more confused than angered.

The two men glanced at one another, unsure what to do next since it was clear their attempts at intimidation had failed.

‘That’s most disappointing, Waylian,’ Nero said finally. His voice was quiet, almost weak sounding. ‘But if that’s how you feel, there’s nothing we can do, is there Marshal?’

Ferenz shook his head, his confidence clearly reduced.

Waylian didn’t quite know what to say as Nero fumbled at the door handle. Ferenz just looked on with confusion as Nero finally opened the door and they both left, slamming it behind them.

As soon as they’d gone Waylian walked to his desk and sat down. His heart was drumming against his chest and he looked down to see his hands were shaking.

Should he tell the Magistra about this? That he’d been approached by one of the Archmasters and told to betray her? She had enough on her plate to deal with right now. The last thing she needed was Waylian burdening her with yet more problems. And he’d handled it well enough, hadn’t he? Told those two exactly where he stood?

That creeping sense of nausea was still filling his stomach and Waylian looked down at the book.

Authority of the Voice.

Had he just manifested some kind of magick?

That was an Archmaster and the marshal of the Raven Knights. If they’d wanted to beat you around your bedchamber until you bled and then make you thank them for it, they could have done.

Couldn’t they?

Waylian looked into his little mirror. What he saw made him cry out in shock and stagger back, tipping his chair over.

The glass in the frame was cracked, the mirror now resembling a spider’s web.

No, this couldn’t be. Was he finally getting it? Was he beginning to learn his Art?

His stomach turned. The knotted feeling in his belly twisted. Waylian was struck with the sudden and uncontrollable urge to shit.

He barely managed to unlace his britches and grab his bedpan before his back end opened up in a flood. Waylian squatted, holding his arse cheeks open as the watery contents of his stomach splashed the pan. By the time he was done it was all he could do to lie on his chamber floor surrounded by stinking brown water.

As Waylian lay there, one thing seemed to be quite evident — if he was beginning to learn his Art, he was more than suffering for it.