"People don't see the history behind an act, but only the act itself."
Davon Mere, Mage of Faol
"I am called Davon Mere."
"Davon. And you say that you are a practitioner?"
"Yes."
"That is against the King's Mandate."
Davon was still for a moment. Then he nodded.
"I realize that."
"And do you realize that you could be hanged for admitting to me what you just did?"
Davon was silent.
"Lord Mere. I suggest that you leave here, and if you insist on practicing, find yourself a new home. Magic is the province of those trained under the King's Mage, and none other."
"Yes, my lord."
"Good." The grey eyes looked back down to the book they had been studying a moment before.
Davon hesitated a moment more, wondering if he should pursue the matter deeper. But only a moment. With a sigh he turned and made for the door.
"Lord Mere."
He turned. A thin smile moved over the features of the grey-eyed mage.
"Who taught you your magic?"
Davon parted his lips, an answer half formed. Careful, he thought.
"Books," he said at last, and with a smile he stepped away through the door and made his way out to the street.
Books, he thought. Likely the King's Mage was having a laugh at that one. He smiled. Often the truth made for the best lie.
He paused before a window, ignoring what lay beyond it in lieu of observing his reflection. He threw his deep burgundy cloak over one shoulder and brushed his wild, black hair back from hazel eyes.
Do I not look the part? he wondered. Of course I do. How often have I been called by names which mark me too well a subject of curiosity and even, perhaps, fear? Sorcerer, wise one, healer, delver. But never mage.
He stepped from the window and took his way down the street, back toward his home.
Never mage. That title, which my heart longs so strongly to hear, is spoken only by one. And that is Rennin, my apprentice. The only one who knows the true extent of my powers.
He walked with purpose, with long strides, giving nothing but nods to the hails he received. Up Feather Hill street, winding down along Old Ravine way. And up to the round-topped door of his stone-block home.
The door flung itself open at his approach.
"Davon! What did they. . . oh."
Davon smiled wanly. "You too easily read my features, Rennin. Am I that plain?"
"To me, my lord, who sees you every day? What reason did they give?"
Davon shook his head and sat upon the front steps.
"Reason? What reason do they need?"
Rennin sat beside him, his tousled red hair sparkling over brilliant sky-blue eyes. "Well, considering that you're twenty years old and already master over them all . . ."
"Perhaps, Rennin. Perhaps."
"No 'perhaps'. You're adept at necromancy and transmogrification, and not unskilled at enchantment. I'm not even bringing up the elder magics. . ."
Davon couldn't help but smile. "And now I'm held at a standstill. I've exhausted all my old texts, devoured every grimoire I own. Without access to a teacher, or further knowledge, I fear that I'm at my learning's end."
Rennin slouched down, resting his chin in his hands. "I don't see why they won't take you in."
"It's old Masallan law, my friend. Magic is too dangerous to be wielded by the common class. It's restricted to those deemed responsible enough by those higher of name than ourselves."
"Like Janon?"
"Yes, like Janon. He's the King's Mage."
"Tell me, Davon. Why do you like that word so much?"
"'Mage'?" Davon reached into the pouch at his side and fished out his small, wooden pipe and a pinch of eyebright to light in it. He packed the herb inside, murmured a soft word, and a sudden flare lit the bowl, dying quickly away into a thick, twisting swirl of smoke. He drew on the pipe and sat back.
"A mage is a master of the powers he wields. He stands within them as if in the center of a storm, forming and twisting the very elements of the earth into his desires and effects. The other titles have. . . implications. People call me a sorcerer and they think me dark, at the mercy of unbridled passions and greed."
"Surely no one thinks of you like that, Davon."
"I'm not so sure."
Rennin gestured out with a small hand, his bitten fingernails giving his fingers a young, round look. "They love you, Davon. The King gives magical aid only to those of high birth. But you. . . you heal the sick, change stone into gold for the poor. . . you help people. You love people."
"Aye, and little good it's doing me."
Rennin sighed and shook his head. "It's never enough, is it?"
Davon gave a little laugh and looked over. "Thirteen years old, and already a counselor, eh?"
"It is just that you have so much, teacher. A rich home, much wealth, even a bit of land. With the adoration of the city-folk to your name as well. . . it is just difficult to see sometimes why you still hold desires."
"Power, my young friend. I'd be lying if I said it was anything else. As much as I can shift and change all that lies about me, I find myself always flirting at the edges of my abilities. I am too conscious of what I can't do."
"But why more?"
"Why are you here learning from me? You yourself learn the arcane arts because you are not satisfied with the limits imposed upon you by your body and your relationship with the world. Where will you stop learning, young Rennin?"
"I don't know."
"Your potential is great, Rennin. Perhaps greater than mine. It is a decision you will have to make yourself one day."
Together, they sat in silence for some time, Davon watching as each draw upon his pipe moved the coal to brighten in the bowl. The heat was close enough to make his eyes water.
"Tell me something, master mage."
"Yes, Rennin?"
"If you are restless here, if you feel bound, why do you stay? A six-day sail would bring you to the Old World. Magic is no longer taboo there, under Queen Lillian. There is even a school, north of Aranor. You could learn there. I even hear that women are practicing!"
"Majae? Yes. It is true. How different from the days when every wise woman was called a witch and brought to trial before the 'justice' of the Goddards." Davon smiled and turned his pipe upside down, tapping the last of the coal onto the stone steps. Orange embers drifted down and faded to darkness upon the cool rock.
"Faol is my home, Rennin. My parents left me this house, the street names are all imprinted on my mind more firmly than any incantation, the faces are all familiar. This is my heart, my soul. My love. With magic, nothing is solid in my life. Nothing is real. Out there," and he gestured to the streets where lamplighters set their torches to wicks as twilight deepened the shadows, "out there is the whole city of Faol. That is real. That is solid. I couldn't change it even if I desired. Faol is my foundation. It is what lets me sleep at night."
"You? Sleep? Now that is one thing I'd like to see!"
Davon smiled. "With sleep on our tongues, I think that you should tend to getting some. You've lessons on the morrow."
"Aye, I've felt the fetch of it since the sun set behind the mountains. In the morn then?"
"In the morn."
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Davon blinked his eyes open, open to blackness. Clouds tonight, he thought.
He sat up, running his hands through his hair. What has stirred me tonight, he wondered? For though his sleep was always light, he seldom awoke without cause.
There it was, a premonition creeping through his mind. A presence approaching.
He reached over the edge of his bed and pulled on silken pants, then drew a shirt over his head. From a peg on the wall near his bed he took a shortsword, the scabbard marked with a long, twisted dragon, silvery-white on black.
Without pause he made for the front door.
The first knock came when he reached it, and he opened it with one hand on the handle of his blade.
Wide, terror-struck eyes looked into his, one hand held up to knock a second time. It was a girl, her brown hair tumbling over dirty features. Davon saw blood on her fingers.
He bent and took her shoulders in his hands.
"Sanya. What is the matter? Speak."
"My papa," she cried. "The mines. . ."
"Say no more. Have you a horse saddled?"
"Aye, my lord sorcerer."
Davon grimaced. "Hold," he said, and he ducked within to pull his boots over his feet. "Now. Take me."
Young as she was, she rode like she had been doing it all her life, and Davon kept his hands firmly about her small waist. The hooves and wind were too loud for talk, so he could only ride behind her and wait to see what lay at the journey's end.
The mines. Outside the city, at the edge of the mountain, lay many small mining towns, most owned by high merchants in the city. From underground pockets came the famous garnets of Faol, as well as other stones, and, on occasion, metals. It was not a dangerous breed of mining, he knew. Open pits, usually, digging across an embankment in search of gem-pockets. But when one pocket led to another, the miners sometimes ventured deeper into the earth, and if the market demanded it, they would sometimes risk exploiting a vein that ran even deeper. He had heard, once or twice, of cave-ins. More likely a small avalanche, though. More common. Perhaps her father had been injured by one. Then again, there were predators to be considered. . .
She took them on a birch-lined path out of the city and then broke into grasslands that led down to Revit Lur, one of the nearest mining towns to Faol. Her father, Davon knew, was well respected there.
They rode into empty streets. He saw no one among the small stone houses, and he searched the night, puzzled. Then they were free of the houses, and he saw light ahead, shining on the cliffs that surrounded the mines. Bright light, and the shadows of many figures dancing eerily on the cliff faces.
She rode into the mass of people and finally pulled the reins on her exhausted steed.
"Sorcerer!" cried a man, running up. "She found you! Bless Kalahn!"
Davon swung down off the saddle, taking in all about him. A huge, milling crowd. All the village, he would wager, gathered round balefires. Above, on the horse, he could see Sanya standing in the stirrups, looking out toward the cliffs with fret-filled eyes.
"What is your name?" he asked the man.
"Ellion, sorcerer. Please, can you help us?"
Others, now, were pouring toward him, and the air filled with urgent voices, pleas and weeping.
"Shane!" Davon shouted, pointing through the chaos. It was the only other person he recognized among the faces, and a man, he knew, who had more of a calm about him.
His voice was strong enough to quiet the people a bit, and Shane pushed forward, his blond hair framing dark eyes that were well tainted with a look of horror.
"Sorcerer," he panted, and he pointed back toward the cliffs. "There's been an accident in the mines. Eight men are missing."
"Take me."
Davon stepped forward, and the crowd parted, the pleas dying away into hushed whispers of awe. Shane walked beside.
"We dug up a cave, Lord Mere. A big one, studded with pockets. Eight of the men were exploring it, and they must have tapped loose an underground river. When we realized that they were late, we went in search, but all we could find was a mud-filled passage."
"They are likely all dead, then, don't you think?"
"No, my lord. There is. . . screaming."
Davon looked over, his eyes fixing on Shane's as the man swallowed hard.
"Others have been summoned?"
"We've sent to Saenon, the next mining village, for more men. But it's mud, sorcerer. If we remove it, more comes to take its place."
Davon nodded. "Show me."
A lantern was handed to them as they came to the entrance, and he ducked within, breathing of the stale, smoke-laced air. His heart was loud, audible in his ears, and he ran his tongue over dry lips. Too well did he know the faith these people placed in him. Faith, he thought, that I hardly hold for myself. In their eyes I wield power. In their eyes I must have nothing to fear.
He smiled wryly, wiping sweat from his eyes. How little they know, he thought.
It was the darkness, the heaviness of the stone. The realization, sudden and complete, of how soft and tender his body was. How easily it would yield to the crushing of rock.
"These caverns haunt me," he whispered, intending the words to be so soft that only his own ears would hear. But Shane heard.
"There is death in them, my lord. They haunt us all, now."
Shane walked quickly, lantern held aloft, the light giving Davon quick, dim glimpses of side passages leading off, the sharp teeth of stalactites and stalagmites promising to devour all who entered within. He shuddered.
Shane was swift and sure, turning down this passage, then another, all of them cleared and marked here and there with small pockets of glittering crystals.
Then came a sound to Davon's ears -- a low, deep growl. He set his hand to the hilt of his sword. But Shane did not pause, and Davon followed him round a corner and into light.
Three men, squatting on the stone with lanterns nearby, beyond which lay a slowly writhing mass of glistening darkness.
Davon stopped and stared. "What is it?"
Shane urged him forward, nodding to the men. "We think a river, you see? Above the passage, probably. They must have tapped into a pocket and broke through to it. It's thick mud, mostly, and chunks of rock that are breaking loose up above. The whole of it is going away down the passage."
"We've tried everything," said another of the men, walking up with lantern held high. Davon could see almost nothing of his flesh, for he was coated with mud. "Which isn't much," he went on. "I think all we can do is wait until it clears itself. Really, there isn't any way anyone could have survived. . ."
Davon took a deep breath. The smoke and closed-in space were quickly sapping at his composure.
"The screams," he spoke.
"They stopped a bit ago," said the new one. "Though I can't figure where they could have been coming from."
Davon looked about himself, took one more breath to steady himself, and walked forward.
"No," he said. "Nor can I. That mud is loud. And speech doesn't travel well through such obstacles. You should have heard no screaming."
The man shrugged.
"It was real," Shane said. "I heard it. A man. I swear it."
"I believe you." Davon stepped into the light surrounding the last two men, who sat crouched. One of them shook his head.
It is almost alive, Davon thought. Its dark flesh shone brilliant and wet in the lanternlight as great gobules of its body lurched out of one wall and away down the passage. Chunks of mud-slickened stone moved by in its half-liquid body, lighted for a moment by the lantern light before they were carried forever away into the deep, insatiable darkness.
He closed his eyes as a vision of pale, broken bodies came into his head, carried slowly, inevitably along as the plodding river carried them into the heart of the earth.
He reached out with one hand and steadied himself against the cavern wall.
"Is there anything you can do, sorcerer?"
"Perhaps." He closed his eyes. The sound, the weight of the darkness and the stone, the image of the bodies -- all churned in his mind, urging him to turn and flee into the wide, open world above.
Screaming. Why had they heard screaming? Surely the mud would have carried them all away. Unless some had found shelter, further down the passage. But surely their voices could not have been heard. . .
"Might you all aid me?" he asked.
The men stood, nodding.
"Search these walls for any small holes. Perhaps hidden in one of the pockets. The screaming must have come through a small passage, one too small for us to easily see, but large enough for the sounds to find their way through.
"Aye!" one of them said. "That would account for it!"
The men began their search. Davon stood back, for, he thought, they would know the habits of the stone much better than himself.
"Here!" one of the men said. "No bigger than my finger." He put his mouth up to the stone and sealed it with his hands. "Hey! Can you hear me?" Then he traded mouth for ear, and Davon watched as his eyes grew wide.
"Voices!" he shouted. "For truth! I can hear them through here!"
"Can you understand them?" Davon asked, walking closer.
"No. Too garbled. But voices, I'm sure, shouting back at me."
Trapped, Davon thought. Further down the passage. Immediately spells came to his mind, and he processed each one, searching for some way that it might aid in this. And each he discarded.
He was left only with transmogrification. It had seemed the most obvious, but he had learned long ago that the most obvious answer was not always best. He looked dubiously at the slow, inexorable flow of mud. It would be too much for his magic to counter.
"Stand clear," he said, and the men took up their lanterns and packs in haste, stepping back and holding their lanterns aloft.
From inside a secret pocket in his shirt he took a small piece of petrified wood. Then he stepped as close as he dared to the writhing mud, his boots glistening as they picked up the slickness from the ground.
Steady, he thought. It wouldn't do to slip here.
He held the stone aloft and began his invocation.
As he did, the fear and sound and world slipped away. There was only the rushing of energy as it was called by his words. It gathered, and he kept it close with word and thought, until a moment later the magic seared through his flesh, echoed with a music only he could hear among the rocks and mud. It flowed through everything, and for a flicker, a brief moment that was lost as soon as it had come, he could feel his connection to it all, could feel the consciousness in the stone, feel the flow of water and mud, feel the sparks of life standing behind him, holding aloft beads of elemental power in the form of small flames.
Then he locked his eyes on the small piece of petrified wood and felt it release its power, its nature, almost its very soul, flooding out from a seemingly infinite source to taint and shape the raw, gathered magic with its essence of change, for deep within its heart was the truth of its being -- once wood, now stone.
Davon's eyes moved to the mud where it emerged from the wall, and with a final word and a sharp focus of intent, sent the magic to do his will.
Sharp slivers of mud turned before his eyes, grey against black, shifting and changing from softness to hard. The shift was fast -- wet mud to thick, solid stone. There were gasps behind him. But he could see the pressure of the flow heave its weight against the plug, could see it crack. And then crumble, a large chunk falling free and spurting out a glob of mud.
He wasted no time. Once more he reached into his shirt, taking forth, this time, a small bit of leather-wrapped clay. Even as the plug began to fall away, he summoned forth the power again and set his hand upon the wall.
Stone melted under his touch. In a strangely swirling wave it moved to the breach in his plug, forming it shut with a sharp, sucking sound.
Davon looked over his shoulder. "Shane, come with me and give me light. The rest of you stay. I doubt that that will hold."
Fearful tears glistened in Shane's eyes, but he came bravely forth and nodded.
"Come," Davon said, looking askance at the plug. He could see mud oozing through cracks already. Pulling up his resolve, he waded into the mud.
It lay still now, no longer pushed by its own weight. But under his feet it was treacherous. Its thickness tugged at his boots, and as he leaned forward and took another step, it came up to his knees. Each step was nearly impossible, and there was nowhere to brace his hands, for the walls were slickened, and the mud gave no purchase. As he pulled his leg up again, he felt his shin scrape against the sharp edge of a stone.
He winced and stopped. Then a movement caught his eyes. "Give me the light," he said.
Shane handed it forth, and Davon held it above his head.
A face. Shining eyes.
"Is it stopped?" came a quivering voice.
Davon nodded. "Come. As quick as you can."
"Talick's stuck. I can't move him."
Davon looked over to Shane, and together they plowed ahead through the morasse.
The two men were in a small but radiant gem-cave, just big enough to hold them. The one who had peered out sat huddled and blinking, his hand held over a deep rent in his arm. The other, Talick, lay still, his leg crushed beneath a section of stone that had fallen and pinned him firmly to where he lay. Davon nodded to the stone, and together, he and Shane pulled themselves from the mud and then heaved the stone away.
Davon looked askance from the torn and shattered leg.
"Are you alright?" Shane asked the squatting man. "Can you walk?"
"It just carried them away, Shane. I almost had Kyle. His hand was in mine. I . . ."
"Shhh," said Shane. "We've got to go."
Davon hoisted Talick's still form as best he could. Beside him, he saw Shane take the other man's arm over his shoulders. There was a numb, broken look in the man's eyes.
Together they began to drag their way back through the mud.