won places at the university in Pran, foremost of the schools of wizardry.
Verashe ran her index finger from one burned hole in Colrean’s breeches to another, splitting the cloth all along the leg, to completely expose the limb made of gold-banded narwhal horn. In addition to the gold, the horn was deeply etched along the whorls with scenes of ships and the sea, and set with tiny pearls and pieces of amber.
“I have only seen one such … staff … before,” mused Verashe. “A wizard called Sissishuram studied with us one summer, it must be thirty years ago now. Though her staff took the place of her left arm from the elbow, and ended in the most vicious hook.”
“Sissishuram was my master,” said Colrean. “She remembered you, and told me I was a fool to risk coming back. Verashe will brook no unbound wizard, she said. Stay with us, we who are free upon the sea.”
Verashe stood up and walked across to look down upon Naramala’s body, and the staff next to it.
“How did you go within the stone?” asked Colrean. “What spell?”
Verashe didn’t answer him, instead picking up Naramala’s fallen staff, so she held one in each hand.
“I am overcurious for a man about to die, I suppose,” said Colrean. He laughed, a short laugh that ended almost with a sob. “Stupid of me, I suppose. To want to know such a thing now.”
“Are you sure you will not come back to Pran? The oath is not so terrible for someone who has no desire for power.”
“It is not the oath alone,” replied Colrean slowly. He looked up at the sky above, so vast with stars, the moon hanging in the corner. There were clouds drifting across from the west now, doubtless bringing rain. All the small sounds had come back, and the westerly breeze that had sprung up to bring the clouds was steadily strengthening, taking away the stench of sudden death as easily as it flung barley chaff across the field. He thought of the three villages beyond the commons to north, east, and south, with their people asleep behind barred oak doors, their windowsills salted, trusting to him to keep them safe.
“It is not the oath at all,” continued Colrean. He looked up at Verashe, unsure what he could see in her face, whether it was the executioner he beheld or the messenger bringing an unexpected pardon to the very foot of the block.
“I want … I need to stay here. I cannot live in the city, any city. I do not wish to serve the Grand Mayors, I do not desire gold and servants and all that goes with such things. I want to do small magics, for ordinary folk, and be at peace. I have found … happiness … here. I will not relinquish it.”
“We permit no unbound wizards in Pran, or Huyere, or the five cities, and those who defy this order end as Naramala has done,” mused Verashe, apparently to herself. She paused and glanced across at Colrean. “Here, among barley fields and forest, the strictures are less … straitened … shall we say. And the rowan is a fine judge of what truly lies inside the hearts of people …”
She stopped talking again, and bowed her head to the tree again, her face now shadowed by her hat. Colrean watched her, wondering, hoping.
“So, Colrean. I have decided to let you live. But if you will not be bound by the oath, other bindings must be applied, other bounds set. You must swear by the rowan you will abide here, to never go more than twenty leagues from the Corner Post, without leave from the Grand Wizard and the Council.”
Colrean nodded stiffly, and reached inside his jerkin for the silver leaf the rowan had given him, a token of its trust. He held it in his hand and spoke.
“I swear by the rowan, I shall abide here, and go no farther than twenty leagues from the Corner Post, without leave from the Grand Wizard and the Council.”
The leaf shivered and crumbled, leaving only the delicate tracery of its veins behind, and these sank into Colrean’s palm, marking the skin with russet and silver lines. If he broke this oath, the ancient rowan would know, and hold him accountable.
Colrean shivered, remembering the sounds of Naramala’s death.
“Good,” said Verashe. She held Naramala’s staff out to him. “You will need this, I think, to help you hobble to the closest house, where I trust we can have an early breakfast.”
Colrean took the staff wonderingly, and slowly used it to lever himself upright. He could feel the vestige of magic within the bog-oak and the bands of gold, but the staff’s power was almost entirely spent. It would take many years to fill again.
“Naramala?” he asked, looking at the body.
“The Rannachin would also break their fast,” answered Verashe, gesturing.
Colrean looked across the barley and saw the moon shadows there. He frowned, but only for a moment. He had no strength to dig a grave or build a cairn, and in truth, it was better nothing should remain of a wizard who had practiced blood magic. The Rannachin were known to eat even bones and teeth, and they would take no scathe from any remnant magic, as a rat or other scavenger might.
“Come!” said Verashe impatiently. “I have been fasting within the stone since the last dawn, and I am too old to miss another meal!”
“We cannot go to the closest house,” said Colrean. “Two wizards in Gamel, and none calling into Seyam and Thrake? Besides, they won’t let us in until after dawn. I warned them not to admit anyone, and they would rightly be afraid. It is farther, but I have food and drink in my forest house.”
He limped past the Grand Wizard, pausing to bow once again to the rowan, leaning heavily on his new staff. A few paces along he bowed to the Corner Post as well, and turned his head back to Verashe.
“My question remains … how exactly did you inhabit the stone? What spell could overcome such power as resides there?”
Verashe laughed. She did not have a lovely voice like Naramala’s, and her laugh was like a crow’s call. But Colrean did not mind, for it was human.
“You have a true wizard’s curiosity,” she said. “But no spell would let you dwell within this stone. It was a matter of friendship, a courtesy allowed me. We have known each other a very long time, the Corner Post and I.”
Colrean nodded thoughtfully and set forth again, stumping alongside the wall. It was much darker now, half the sky clouded, and it was starting to rain. A soft drizzle that spread the soot about his face and streaked his clothes, rather than washing anything clean.
I will need a hat he thought, surprising himself that he could think of any such ordinary thing amidst pain and grief and weariness. But he could, and he was glad of it, and he grabbed at the thought as he might a lifeline aboard one of the Islanders’ ships.
I will need a hat to go with the staff. The villagers, particularly Sommie and Heln, will expect me to fully look the part, and it will keep the rain off. I suppose the brim from Gamel, the body from Thrake, the tip from Seyam—or the other way about …
Elizabeth Bear
Everyone knows that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery—but it can also be the most dangerous, especially when magic is involved.
Elizabeth Bear was born in Connecticut, and now lives in South Hadley, Massachusetts, with her husband,
