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Word count: 8000
Kaylin pushed the pain out of his mind. The other apprentices were used to him sitting by the window, copying the texts. So long as he did not move stiffly, he could conceal his wounds, at least until someone came up from Master Sylas’ study. Kaylin could copy a dozen pages or more before that happened. He memorized Everand’s book of spells as he worked.
After a candle (and fourteen pages), two smirking older apprentices approached him.
“Heard you were caught in the Master’s study,” the bigger boy, Bensan, said.
His friend, a weasel-like boy called Nasson, snickered. “Caught and whipped,” Nasson added. Leaning in, the thin boy punched Kaylin on his right shoulder. Seeing no response, he quickly hit the opposite side, sending a shooting pain through Kaylin’s back and neck. Kaylin winced, shielding the burning lash. “Left side, eh?”
“You get caught again, and he’ll kick you back to your whore mother,” Bensan said.
“Only if he remembers to write my name down,” Kaylin replied. He sent the pain back to the depths of his mind, numbing everything. References to his mother no longer upset him. In his youth, he had defended her but then, sometime after his tenth birthday, Kaylin had realized that the other apprentices were probably right. Neither Kaylin, nor his mother knew who his father was. While she made most of her living as a seamstress now, that had not always been the case.
The word ‘whore’ was not an insult. It was a statement of fact.
Nasson squinted in thought, but Bensan was clever enough to understand. “You were messing with Master Sylas’ lists,” he realized, sounding impressed. “No wonder he hasn’t toss you out yet.”
Changing Master Sylas’ lists was the only reason Kaylin had survived, and it was a trick he would repeat.
He waited. Would it be half a text? An entire one?
“That secret’ll cost you more copy work,” Bensan said. “My next book, the entire thing.”
Kaylin tried to look disappointed. “Not the whole thing, Bensan. That’s hundreds of pages! I’ll not be able to finish my own work!”
Bensan smugly sneered at him. “And half of Nasson’s,” he insisted.
“Come on, Bensan!”
“Fine, make it the entire thing, or I tell him you’re messing with his records.”
Kaylin clenched his jaw, and put on an expression of irritation. “Alright,” he said weakly. “But I haven’t got enough ink.”
Bensan scoffed. Being the son of a Lord, he never had to worry about a simple thing like supplies. “I’ll drop some off. Just make sure it’s up to my standards.”
“Yes, Bensan,” Kaylin replied, defeated.
The two boys sauntered off, laughing. Kaylin went back to copying the pages.
As the night deepened, Kaylin set up a shielded lamp by the window, angled to point at his text without disturbing the other boys sleeping in the room. He worked long into the night, reading the work as he copied it. Everand’s Spell book was one of only a few that contained phonetic translations of the wizard cant of the spells. No one had taught him correct pronunciation. Books like this were his own way of learning it.
Bensan’s ink would allow him to copy another four books or more, and goading Bensan meant Kaylin would get to read Nasson’s entire book too. He could hope Bensan would be assigned an advanced book. Having copied the basic texts more than a dozen times each, Kaylin had memorized those already.
When his eyes would not stay open, Kaylin retreated to his lower bunk. The presence of the dozen apprentices kept the room warm, except next to the window where the chill mountain air slipped through the cracked shutters. Kaylin curled up under his coat on the far end of the bed, away from the window. No one would dare steal his assignments. They could not risk stealing Bensan’s by accident.
As he drifted off, he focussed on the distant spec of light in his mind. Like a firefly on the edge of the woods, the light danced, taunting him. Bensan surely would have boasted if he had seen the light— he must not have yet. Like everyone else, eventually he would get too old, and the Master would claim the child ‘lacked the right propensity for magic’. It would be no one’s fault. Not everyone could be taught magic.
Every single person Kaylin had met at Master Sylas’ home had suffered that fate. Even Kitable, the boy who had taught Kaylin how to read, had been sent home after only a year.
Kaylin watched the little light behind his eyes, wondering if his ability to see the magic meant he did have the ‘right propensity’, whatever those words meant.
Afraid it may not, every few quartercycles, Kaylin snuck into the study, and changed his birthday and arrival date. According to the records, Kaylin was still only ten, although in truth he was approaching his thirteenth birthday. In changing the dates, he was at no risk of being handed back to his mother for ‘lacking the right propensity’.
He stared at the flickering light in his mind. The books said it was made up of layers of magic, each their own unique colour and aura. Together, they made a sparkling white spec, like a star on the horizon.
Over the cycle since the magic had first appeared to him, Kaylin had tried commanding, requesting, and begging the magic, both in his mind and aloud. But still, the magic had remained distant. Tonight, as his mind drifted towards sleep, Kaylin stared at the light, trying to think of something from the books that could close the distance between him and that spec in the dark.
He wasn’t sure when the dream began, but Kaylin found himself walking across a smooth dark surface, his bare feet cold against the unnatural surface. The star grew larger and brighter as he advanced, until he stood under its brilliant luminescence, blinded by its colours.
The star had stretched into a spiral, every hue of light mingled in its sweeping arms. Kaylin came to a stop, marvelling at the light that cast no shadows in the darkness, and feeling, for the first time, the immense power that it embodied. His skin tingled as if he held an enchanted trinket.
He lifted his hand, pleading with the magic to come to him.
The light vanished, plunging Kaylin into darkness. He took one step forwards, seeking the spiral of magic and the surge of power he could still sense. He held his toes hovered over an edge. He staggered back, fearing he would fall from a ledge.
He awoke huddled in his coat, a cold blast of wind stinging his cheeks. The light was gone.
But the feeling of power, like the warmth of Master Sylas’ magic trinkets, stayed with him.
After a candle (and fourteen pages), two smirking older apprentices approached him.
“Heard you were caught in the Master’s study,” the bigger boy, Bensan, said.
His friend, a weasel-like boy called Nasson, snickered. “Caught and whipped,” Nasson added. Leaning in, the thin boy punched Kaylin on his right shoulder. Seeing no response, he quickly hit the opposite side, sending a shooting pain through Kaylin’s back and neck. Kaylin winced, shielding the burning lash. “Left side, eh?”
“You get caught again, and he’ll kick you back to your whore mother,” Bensan said.
“Only if he remembers to write my name down,” Kaylin replied. He sent the pain back to the depths of his mind, numbing everything. References to his mother no longer upset him. In his youth, he had defended her but then, sometime after his tenth birthday, Kaylin had realized that the other apprentices were probably right. Neither Kaylin, nor his mother knew who his father was. While she made most of her living as a seamstress now, that had not always been the case.
The word ‘whore’ was not an insult. It was a statement of fact.
Nasson squinted in thought, but Bensan was clever enough to understand. “You were messing with Master Sylas’ lists,” he realized, sounding impressed. “No wonder he hasn’t toss you out yet.”
Changing Master Sylas’ lists was the only reason Kaylin had survived, and it was a trick he would repeat.
He waited. Would it be half a text? An entire one?
“That secret’ll cost you more copy work,” Bensan said. “My next book, the entire thing.”
Kaylin tried to look disappointed. “Not the whole thing, Bensan. That’s hundreds of pages! I’ll not be able to finish my own work!”
Bensan smugly sneered at him. “And half of Nasson’s,” he insisted.
“Come on, Bensan!”
“Fine, make it the entire thing, or I tell him you’re messing with his records.”
Kaylin clenched his jaw, and put on an expression of irritation. “Alright,” he said weakly. “But I haven’t got enough ink.”
Bensan scoffed. Being the son of a Lord, he never had to worry about a simple thing like supplies. “I’ll drop some off. Just make sure it’s up to my standards.”
“Yes, Bensan,” Kaylin replied, defeated.
The two boys sauntered off, laughing. Kaylin went back to copying the pages.
As the night deepened, Kaylin set up a shielded lamp by the window, angled to point at his text without disturbing the other boys sleeping in the room. He worked long into the night, reading the work as he copied it. Everand’s Spell book was one of only a few that contained phonetic translations of the wizard cant of the spells. No one had taught him correct pronunciation. Books like this were his own way of learning it.
Bensan’s ink would allow him to copy another four books or more, and goading Bensan meant Kaylin would get to read Nasson’s entire book too. He could hope Bensan would be assigned an advanced book. Having copied the basic texts more than a dozen times each, Kaylin had memorized those already.
When his eyes would not stay open, Kaylin retreated to his lower bunk. The presence of the dozen apprentices kept the room warm, except next to the window where the chill mountain air slipped through the cracked shutters. Kaylin curled up under his coat on the far end of the bed, away from the window. No one would dare steal his assignments. They could not risk stealing Bensan’s by accident.
As he drifted off, he focussed on the distant spec of light in his mind. Like a firefly on the edge of the woods, the light danced, taunting him. Bensan surely would have boasted if he had seen the light— he must not have yet. Like everyone else, eventually he would get too old, and the Master would claim the child ‘lacked the right propensity for magic’. It would be no one’s fault. Not everyone could be taught magic.
Every single person Kaylin had met at Master Sylas’ home had suffered that fate. Even Kitable, the boy who had taught Kaylin how to read, had been sent home after only a year.
Kaylin watched the little light behind his eyes, wondering if his ability to see the magic meant he did have the ‘right propensity’, whatever those words meant.
Afraid it may not, every few quartercycles, Kaylin snuck into the study, and changed his birthday and arrival date. According to the records, Kaylin was still only ten, although in truth he was approaching his thirteenth birthday. In changing the dates, he was at no risk of being handed back to his mother for ‘lacking the right propensity’.
He stared at the flickering light in his mind. The books said it was made up of layers of magic, each their own unique colour and aura. Together, they made a sparkling white spec, like a star on the horizon.
Over the cycle since the magic had first appeared to him, Kaylin had tried commanding, requesting, and begging the magic, both in his mind and aloud. But still, the magic had remained distant. Tonight, as his mind drifted towards sleep, Kaylin stared at the light, trying to think of something from the books that could close the distance between him and that spec in the dark.
He wasn’t sure when the dream began, but Kaylin found himself walking across a smooth dark surface, his bare feet cold against the unnatural surface. The star grew larger and brighter as he advanced, until he stood under its brilliant luminescence, blinded by its colours.
The star had stretched into a spiral, every hue of light mingled in its sweeping arms. Kaylin came to a stop, marvelling at the light that cast no shadows in the darkness, and feeling, for the first time, the immense power that it embodied. His skin tingled as if he held an enchanted trinket.
He lifted his hand, pleading with the magic to come to him.
The light vanished, plunging Kaylin into darkness. He took one step forwards, seeking the spiral of magic and the surge of power he could still sense. He held his toes hovered over an edge. He staggered back, fearing he would fall from a ledge.
He awoke huddled in his coat, a cold blast of wind stinging his cheeks. The light was gone.
But the feeling of power, like the warmth of Master Sylas’ magic trinkets, stayed with him.
###
Pretending he had been assigned the task of cleaning the study, Kaylin swapped between polishing the floor, and reading the papers on the Master’s desk. Most of the papers were stock lists or trading agreements, but he occasionally found a letter from another wizard asking for conference or advice.
In cleaning the shelves, Kaylin found Master Sylas’ lockbox. In cleaning the desk, he found the key.
Perhaps something Master Sylas had hidden in the box would help him unlock magic.
Kaylin pocketed the key. If he did not use it before leaving, he would replace it. Would the lockbox be warded? It hadn’t felt magic, but Kaylin still did not know how reliable his sense of magic was.
He went back to the letters, trying to decide, but was sent scrambling for the bookcases when Master Sylas himself stormed into the room.
Kaylin chose a magic trinket to dust. The presence of magic in the trinkets tingled under his finger tips.
“Those louts are underestimating who they are dealing with!” the Master declared. Bensan’s father, a prominent Lord in the Prince’s court, followed behind him.
Lord Darmac had earned his post through military service, and wore the mark of rank over his plate-mailed chest. As a Seven-shard soldier, he had only one fewer shards than the Prince himself, and the shards clattered when he moved. His sword was ornate, but practical, and matched his armour. His helm was missing, leaving his grizzled face open.
“That may well be,” Lord Darmac replied calmly, “but then make them regret it. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Of course I can!” Master Sylas snapped, his bright robes flaring around him as he spun to face the soldier.
“You approached us with this,” Lord Darmac said, like a father repeating a chore, “If you cannot handle Brocton and his wizards—“
“They aren’t wizards!” Master Sylas barked, his voice familiarly strident to Kaylin. “Casters, at best. Unless you can list their Masters? No? Then not a wizard! I am worth three times any one of them!”
“Good,” Lord Darmac replied. “There are three of them.”
“Novices!”
Kaylin wondered how the word ‘novice’ was any different than ‘caster’.
“So prove it,” Lord Darmac tersely countered. “Be rid of them before—“
Suddenly noticing Kaylin, the soldier cut short his words.
Master Sylas followed Lord Darmac’s stare. “What are you doing here, boy?” he demanded when he spotted Kaylin.
Kaylin made his voice tremble in fear. It was not hard to do: he just had to remember how he had once sounded. After three years of repeating the performance, it felt less sincere, but more believable.
He held up the cleaning rag. “Dusting duty,” he stammered. “I’ll go,” he offered, suddenly feeling foolish for having taken the Master’s lockbox key. Once Master Sylas noticed it was missing, it would be a simple thing for the Master Wizard to locate. If he found it on Kaylin, no justification, real or invented, would save him.
“Get out, boy,” Master Sylas said. “There’ll be no supper for you. What’s your name?”
“Everand, Master,” he lied.
“I’ll tell the cook,” the Master said. “Now go.”
Scooping up his bucket and cloth, Kaylin scampered from the study.
He did not stop running until he was back in his room, and had collected Everand’s book of spells from under the bed. Since the room was crowded, he found a storage cupboard a floor down and hid there.
Placing the key on a crate, Kaylin flipped through the spell book until he found Ratch’s Obscurity. The description said it could block scrys, the type of spell the Master was likely to use to find his key. The key itself did not feel magic. It was not defended.
Kaylin read the wizard’s cant on the right page, using the Girran translation on the left page to guide pronunciation. He repeated it three times, feeling confident he had the pattern of syllables correct by the third repetition.
Ready, Kaylin closed his eyes, and felt for the presence of magic that had followed him through the day. In the darkness between his eyes, he walked towards the spiral of light.
As he stood in the presence of the magic, Kaylin tried to speak the spell, but he could make no sound. He recited the words in his mind, focusing on each syllable in turn.
Nothing happened.
He reached out to touch the spiral of light he saw before him, but when he moved, he felt the ground end, a great drop before him. He stood on his toes, leaning forwards as far as he dared from the ledge, but the spiral remained just beyond his fingertips.
Rough hands grabbed at him, jarring Kaylin’s attention. The dark world vanished, and he was suddenly back in the cupboard, being dragged out of his hiding place, and into a crowd of apprentices.
Getting his bearings, Kaylin finally recognized Bensan as the one dragging him into the stone corridor. Flailing, he knocked loose the older boy’s hold.
Master Sylas stood among the apprentices, glowering in a manner even Kaylin had never seen before. Instead of exploding outwards, the Master appeared to be sinking into fury.
“Everand,” the Master said. “A bold lie, boy, to compare yourself to a wizard of that standing.”
Kaylin stayed on his knees before his Master, trying to cower suitably. He knew Master Sylas would be most appeased by fear, but being small did not seem to placate the man this time. He would be beaten again. He could handle that.
Bensan handed the Master his lockbox key like a dog retrieving a bird, but Master Sylas’ eyes were on Kaylin alone.
“Your name, boy,” the Master demanded again, his words sharp as talons.
“Kaylin Granger,” Kaylin replied, knowing the apprentices would catch him should he lie now.
“The whore’s son,” Master Sylas surprised Kaylin by saying. “You are done, Kaylin. The rest of you, go back to your room. It’s time for Kaylin to go home.”
As if he was a child first confronted by bullies, the bottom fell out of Kaylin’s stomach, and his fear solidified in him. Going back to Woodcutter’s Retreat would have been bad enough, but the way Master Sylas said the word ‘home’ made Kaylin doubt that was his fate at all.
The silence of the Master as he marched Kaylin back to the study hung heavily around him, cutting off his air. The warmth of magic, still teasing the edges of his consciousness, mocked him.
In cleaning the shelves, Kaylin found Master Sylas’ lockbox. In cleaning the desk, he found the key.
Perhaps something Master Sylas had hidden in the box would help him unlock magic.
Kaylin pocketed the key. If he did not use it before leaving, he would replace it. Would the lockbox be warded? It hadn’t felt magic, but Kaylin still did not know how reliable his sense of magic was.
He went back to the letters, trying to decide, but was sent scrambling for the bookcases when Master Sylas himself stormed into the room.
Kaylin chose a magic trinket to dust. The presence of magic in the trinkets tingled under his finger tips.
“Those louts are underestimating who they are dealing with!” the Master declared. Bensan’s father, a prominent Lord in the Prince’s court, followed behind him.
Lord Darmac had earned his post through military service, and wore the mark of rank over his plate-mailed chest. As a Seven-shard soldier, he had only one fewer shards than the Prince himself, and the shards clattered when he moved. His sword was ornate, but practical, and matched his armour. His helm was missing, leaving his grizzled face open.
“That may well be,” Lord Darmac replied calmly, “but then make them regret it. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Of course I can!” Master Sylas snapped, his bright robes flaring around him as he spun to face the soldier.
“You approached us with this,” Lord Darmac said, like a father repeating a chore, “If you cannot handle Brocton and his wizards—“
“They aren’t wizards!” Master Sylas barked, his voice familiarly strident to Kaylin. “Casters, at best. Unless you can list their Masters? No? Then not a wizard! I am worth three times any one of them!”
“Good,” Lord Darmac replied. “There are three of them.”
“Novices!”
Kaylin wondered how the word ‘novice’ was any different than ‘caster’.
“So prove it,” Lord Darmac tersely countered. “Be rid of them before—“
Suddenly noticing Kaylin, the soldier cut short his words.
Master Sylas followed Lord Darmac’s stare. “What are you doing here, boy?” he demanded when he spotted Kaylin.
Kaylin made his voice tremble in fear. It was not hard to do: he just had to remember how he had once sounded. After three years of repeating the performance, it felt less sincere, but more believable.
He held up the cleaning rag. “Dusting duty,” he stammered. “I’ll go,” he offered, suddenly feeling foolish for having taken the Master’s lockbox key. Once Master Sylas noticed it was missing, it would be a simple thing for the Master Wizard to locate. If he found it on Kaylin, no justification, real or invented, would save him.
“Get out, boy,” Master Sylas said. “There’ll be no supper for you. What’s your name?”
“Everand, Master,” he lied.
“I’ll tell the cook,” the Master said. “Now go.”
Scooping up his bucket and cloth, Kaylin scampered from the study.
He did not stop running until he was back in his room, and had collected Everand’s book of spells from under the bed. Since the room was crowded, he found a storage cupboard a floor down and hid there.
Placing the key on a crate, Kaylin flipped through the spell book until he found Ratch’s Obscurity. The description said it could block scrys, the type of spell the Master was likely to use to find his key. The key itself did not feel magic. It was not defended.
Kaylin read the wizard’s cant on the right page, using the Girran translation on the left page to guide pronunciation. He repeated it three times, feeling confident he had the pattern of syllables correct by the third repetition.
Ready, Kaylin closed his eyes, and felt for the presence of magic that had followed him through the day. In the darkness between his eyes, he walked towards the spiral of light.
As he stood in the presence of the magic, Kaylin tried to speak the spell, but he could make no sound. He recited the words in his mind, focusing on each syllable in turn.
Nothing happened.
He reached out to touch the spiral of light he saw before him, but when he moved, he felt the ground end, a great drop before him. He stood on his toes, leaning forwards as far as he dared from the ledge, but the spiral remained just beyond his fingertips.
Rough hands grabbed at him, jarring Kaylin’s attention. The dark world vanished, and he was suddenly back in the cupboard, being dragged out of his hiding place, and into a crowd of apprentices.
Getting his bearings, Kaylin finally recognized Bensan as the one dragging him into the stone corridor. Flailing, he knocked loose the older boy’s hold.
Master Sylas stood among the apprentices, glowering in a manner even Kaylin had never seen before. Instead of exploding outwards, the Master appeared to be sinking into fury.
“Everand,” the Master said. “A bold lie, boy, to compare yourself to a wizard of that standing.”
Kaylin stayed on his knees before his Master, trying to cower suitably. He knew Master Sylas would be most appeased by fear, but being small did not seem to placate the man this time. He would be beaten again. He could handle that.
Bensan handed the Master his lockbox key like a dog retrieving a bird, but Master Sylas’ eyes were on Kaylin alone.
“Your name, boy,” the Master demanded again, his words sharp as talons.
“Kaylin Granger,” Kaylin replied, knowing the apprentices would catch him should he lie now.
“The whore’s son,” Master Sylas surprised Kaylin by saying. “You are done, Kaylin. The rest of you, go back to your room. It’s time for Kaylin to go home.”
As if he was a child first confronted by bullies, the bottom fell out of Kaylin’s stomach, and his fear solidified in him. Going back to Woodcutter’s Retreat would have been bad enough, but the way Master Sylas said the word ‘home’ made Kaylin doubt that was his fate at all.
The silence of the Master as he marched Kaylin back to the study hung heavily around him, cutting off his air. The warmth of magic, still teasing the edges of his consciousness, mocked him.
###
Kaylin had been whipped before. Although he could not see it, he knew his back was crisscrossed by scars. The fresh wound on his left shoulder still stung. That pain was weak with familiarity.
But the Master did not reach for his whip. That terrified Kaylin.
Once in the study, the Master closed the door, his anger still visibly percolating within him. At the desk, he placed the key in its place in the drawer. Clearly, the Master Wizard feared no repetition of this theft from Kaylin.
“You got cocky, boy,” Master Sylas said. He went to his bookcase, searching the shelves until he located a wand. Holding the short stick like a dagger, he faced Kaylin.
“I don’t know anything,” Kaylin objected, holding his hands out in front of him but knowing it was useless. The cant on that particular wand read destruction, the kind that could make a person completely vanish.
“You were going through my papers,” the Master said. “I can’t take chances.”
“Just trading lists,” Kaylin said. “Just—“
The truth of it hit Kaylin; the lists had detailed trades in and out of Stonetop Peak. He had not recognized much of the material and few of the names, but Brocton’s name had been on at least two pages.
Lord Darmac had said they were in conflict with Brocton. The lists implied a long-standing cooperation between Brocton and Master Sylas.
Was the wizard working with or against Brocton and his smugglers? Perhaps both?
“Oh demons…” Kaylin cursed, realizing the depth of Master Sylas’ anger. Sylas stood to make enemies on every side should his ploy be exposed.
The Master Wizard smiled cooly. “Troublesome boy,” he said. “Never—“
The door to the study blasted off its hinges, filling the room with rubble. Kaylin lunged out of the way. Once behind the desk, he peeked out.
With admirable calm, Master Sylas waited for the dust to settle. A willowy man in green caster robes entered boldly through the crumbling doorway. Master Sylas did not flinch; he activated the wand, and Kaylin felt magic shoot across the room. A pulse of power answered. The destruction spell had hit a shield.
Not wasting time, Master Sylas snatched up another magic item from the shelf, and activated it. A opalescent shield burst into existence around the Master, just in time to stop an attacking spell. That spell, Kaylin sensed, had come from someone outside the room.
The first wizard began casting, and Kaylin recognized the words as Nahon’s Lock, a powerful restraining spell that would stop a man from moving. Master Sylas’ spell finished first. When the minor creation spell flashed in front of the wizard, the man dodged his head back, and lost the flow of his spell.
The second wizard joined the duel, a woman equally thin and tall as her companion. She threw her arm wide as she passed through the doors, but her spell struck Master Sylas’ shield.
Master Sylas retaliated with a burst of fire. Like dragon’s flame, it engulfed the woman from head to toe in a blink. Her shrieking rose above the howl of fires for only an instant. When the light vanished, the burnt husk crumpled to the floor.
With the smell of burnt flesh, nausea struck Kaylin, but he choked it back. He had to escape. Buried in the mountain, Master Sylas’ study had no windows. The doors to the wizard tower would be guarded. There was a window in Kaylin’s room, but the tower backed into the mountains themselves, and the drop from that window was a hundred paces. It wasn’t sheer. He could maybe climb it.
In the cold? There had been snow again that morning.
The icy mountain peak was safer than being between duelling wizards.
Kaylin saw anguish on the remaining wizard’s face upon seeing his companion die. They had been similar enough to be siblings.
The attacking wizard’s spell was long and complicated, giving Master Sylas enough time to search for another trinket. He picked up one that Kaylin remembered had been inscribed with cant regarding thought magic.
But when the wisp of orange magic reached out to the wizard, curling like the approach of a venomous snake, the intruder stared it down. Even when it entered through his eyes, the man kept casting.
Kaylin sorted through the casting as it went, trying to recognize the intruder’s spell. It sounded like Nahon’s Lock initially, but then changed to something closer to Hyan’s bandage, and ended with something entirely unknown.
Hearing the spell aloud made the concepts come together. The earlier parts were defining elements and domains, and giving them visual components. Like Nahon’s Lock, this was a force and binding creation spell. The second part was the action, which targeted the elements of the body. The last part was harder to interpret, until he saw the effect.
Like a tunnel cloud, magic poured down over Master Sylas. The force magic was tiny shards, like a thousand teeth trapped in a tornado. It tore through the Master’s shield, then into the man himself.
There was no sound, but the effect was clear. By the time the magic was finished, only a pile of gore and fabric scraps remained of Kaylin’s Master.
The last of the thought magic entered the attacking wizard’s mind. Kaylin saw the man’s head jerk backwards. The wizard collapsed onto the stone floor.
Kaylin took a slow, unsteady breath. Master Sylas was dead. All that remained of him was the spoon-shaped trinket he had grabbed from the shelf.
Losing control of his stomach, Kaylin vomited behind the desk.
His head slowly cleared. Certainly, the death of his master ended his apprenticeship. He would leave now that it was quiet. He could probably even get out before anyone else heard about what had happened.
But as he rose from hiding, Kaylin again spotted the lockbox.
Master Sylas owed him something for the three years of neglect.
He retrieved the key from the desk, and opened the lockbox. Within it, he found Master Sylas’ personal notes, from how to reduce the words required for certain spells, to new concoctions of his own. The pages contained all the things the other wizards had begged Sylas to reveal.
Kaylin stuffed the papers into a bag, threw the sac over his good shoulder, and hastily left. He had to step over the wizard who had been struck by thought magic. The man was still breathing.
He paused, wondering who the man was. Lord Darmac had said Master Sylas would face three of Brocton’s wizards for crossing them. Were these casters two of those three?
“Stop!”
The voice came at Kaylin from the far end of the corridor the moment he stepped outside the room. A glance was all he needed; the man was not an apprentice, or a guard. He had a broad face with thick red-blond hair braided down his back, and a moustache like a fishing line. The robes were fine enough to be made by the weaving guilds of a capital city, but were embellished with gold and silver jewellery more likely to belong to a showman.
Wizard.
Kaylin bolted, feeling magic chase him down the hall. When it felt too close, he dodged. He was not known to this man. The man did not have a definition of him. He couldn’t be anchored directly, not yet at least.
Instead of heading down the floors into the arms of the guards of the tower, Kaylin went up.
In his room, he found the same handful of people who had attended his trial at the storage cupboard. First among them, Bensan jumped to his feet, deliberately blocking Kaylin’s path to his bed.
“You can’t have gotten off so easily,” Bensan objected, side stepping to remain in Kaylin’s way as he tried to get around the boy. “Not even a lashing?” Kaylin dodged Bensan’s attempt to grab him. “Bet the Master’ll be happy to have you back!”
Kaylin punched Bensan squarely in the jaw. The older boy fell, and the path was clear.
Leaving Bensan to curse and swear revenge, Kaylin grabbed his coat, slung the bag over his back, and climbed out the window.
He was looking back into the room when he saw the wizard burst into the room. The apprentices ran for cover.
Kaylin’s hand slipped, and he tumbled down the mountain’s side.
The fall was his first enemy.
Kaylin tried to slow his fall, but bounced from stone to stone down the frozen slope. He eventually came to a stop near the base of the mountain, only a dozen paces from the first of the city’s houses.
The stones had cut his skin in places, but bruised him from scalp to shins. He had cracked a rib, and it stung when he tried to breathe. Knowing the wizard was behind him, Kaylin dragged himself to his feet, and hobbled into the cover of the streets and sturdy buildings of the slope side of Stonetop Peak.
If the wizard could uniquely define him, Kaylin could be used as an anchor. As soon as that happened, he could be the target for a relocation, or, worse, a destruction spell from a distance.
Finding a corner of street cleared of snow, Kaylin sank to his knees. He was dead if he could not hide himself from magic.
He sought the darkness in his mind, following the feeling of magic. Soon he stood on the ledge before the spiral once more.
Kaylin stared at the powers in his mind and, with every ounce of desperation, commanded them to come to him. Into the perfect silence of the blackness surrounding the impossible spiral, he screamed his demand.
The first wisp of light spun off the spiral, touching onto his hand.
Surprised, Kaylin looked at his hand. A faint red and blue aura now circled his hand, dancing like flames over his skin.
He needed more that that. To hide himself, he would need the four elements of flesh. Fire and water were only the first.
He called again, not making a polite request, but giving a powerful command.
Another piece of the spiral came to him, larger and carrying white wind and black earth.
Holding the powers, Kaylin recited the words of the spell.
Upon the last syllable, the magic shot up through his arms, coating his skin. He felt it lock in place around him as his consciousness returned to his body and the frozen streets of the mountain city.
When Kaylin let out a staggering breath of relief, it was not only his rib that pained him.
His muscles burned, from the bones within his limbs to his enchanted skin, feeling as if he was the one caught in dragon fire. His lungs refused to fill, he saw stars, and he collapsed onto the cold road.
He awoke in the evening, fresh snow falling on him, and melting against his skin. The scorching feeling in his body had reduced to aching, like a sprinter after a race, but still made him move slowly. The presence of active magic comforted him. His spell was still in place.
To put his mind from the pain, Kaylin found a corner by an inn’s window, and read the papers from his bag. He put them quickly to memory.
Along with his coat, the papers were stolen from him the next morning.
The cold became his second enemy. Without a coat, he moved from hovel to hovel, trying to allow his wounds to heal, but the chill froze them instead.
Hunger was his third enemy, as food was found only for a price, and his skills at copying texts or reading wizard cant were no longer of value. He stole scraps where he could, but never enough to fill his stomach.
Every day, he recast his defensive magic, learning by trial and error how much magic the spell required. If too much power remained after the spell, the fire attacked his bones again. He had read about it; Spell Burn. A Master was meant to help students understand how much magic they had to channel for each spell. Without being taught, Kaylin could only practice until it hurt too much to try again, then wait for the feeling to dim, and try again.
Despite his efforts, on the fourth day, the northerner wizard found him. Kaylin spotted him moving through an alley just below his hiding place.
Kaylin ran once more. Despite it being midnight, he left Stonetop Peak by moonlight. He struck out south, stopping only to collapse in nightmare-filled sleep or steal another scrap of food.
But the Master did not reach for his whip. That terrified Kaylin.
Once in the study, the Master closed the door, his anger still visibly percolating within him. At the desk, he placed the key in its place in the drawer. Clearly, the Master Wizard feared no repetition of this theft from Kaylin.
“You got cocky, boy,” Master Sylas said. He went to his bookcase, searching the shelves until he located a wand. Holding the short stick like a dagger, he faced Kaylin.
“I don’t know anything,” Kaylin objected, holding his hands out in front of him but knowing it was useless. The cant on that particular wand read destruction, the kind that could make a person completely vanish.
“You were going through my papers,” the Master said. “I can’t take chances.”
“Just trading lists,” Kaylin said. “Just—“
The truth of it hit Kaylin; the lists had detailed trades in and out of Stonetop Peak. He had not recognized much of the material and few of the names, but Brocton’s name had been on at least two pages.
Lord Darmac had said they were in conflict with Brocton. The lists implied a long-standing cooperation between Brocton and Master Sylas.
Was the wizard working with or against Brocton and his smugglers? Perhaps both?
“Oh demons…” Kaylin cursed, realizing the depth of Master Sylas’ anger. Sylas stood to make enemies on every side should his ploy be exposed.
The Master Wizard smiled cooly. “Troublesome boy,” he said. “Never—“
The door to the study blasted off its hinges, filling the room with rubble. Kaylin lunged out of the way. Once behind the desk, he peeked out.
With admirable calm, Master Sylas waited for the dust to settle. A willowy man in green caster robes entered boldly through the crumbling doorway. Master Sylas did not flinch; he activated the wand, and Kaylin felt magic shoot across the room. A pulse of power answered. The destruction spell had hit a shield.
Not wasting time, Master Sylas snatched up another magic item from the shelf, and activated it. A opalescent shield burst into existence around the Master, just in time to stop an attacking spell. That spell, Kaylin sensed, had come from someone outside the room.
The first wizard began casting, and Kaylin recognized the words as Nahon’s Lock, a powerful restraining spell that would stop a man from moving. Master Sylas’ spell finished first. When the minor creation spell flashed in front of the wizard, the man dodged his head back, and lost the flow of his spell.
The second wizard joined the duel, a woman equally thin and tall as her companion. She threw her arm wide as she passed through the doors, but her spell struck Master Sylas’ shield.
Master Sylas retaliated with a burst of fire. Like dragon’s flame, it engulfed the woman from head to toe in a blink. Her shrieking rose above the howl of fires for only an instant. When the light vanished, the burnt husk crumpled to the floor.
With the smell of burnt flesh, nausea struck Kaylin, but he choked it back. He had to escape. Buried in the mountain, Master Sylas’ study had no windows. The doors to the wizard tower would be guarded. There was a window in Kaylin’s room, but the tower backed into the mountains themselves, and the drop from that window was a hundred paces. It wasn’t sheer. He could maybe climb it.
In the cold? There had been snow again that morning.
The icy mountain peak was safer than being between duelling wizards.
Kaylin saw anguish on the remaining wizard’s face upon seeing his companion die. They had been similar enough to be siblings.
The attacking wizard’s spell was long and complicated, giving Master Sylas enough time to search for another trinket. He picked up one that Kaylin remembered had been inscribed with cant regarding thought magic.
But when the wisp of orange magic reached out to the wizard, curling like the approach of a venomous snake, the intruder stared it down. Even when it entered through his eyes, the man kept casting.
Kaylin sorted through the casting as it went, trying to recognize the intruder’s spell. It sounded like Nahon’s Lock initially, but then changed to something closer to Hyan’s bandage, and ended with something entirely unknown.
Hearing the spell aloud made the concepts come together. The earlier parts were defining elements and domains, and giving them visual components. Like Nahon’s Lock, this was a force and binding creation spell. The second part was the action, which targeted the elements of the body. The last part was harder to interpret, until he saw the effect.
Like a tunnel cloud, magic poured down over Master Sylas. The force magic was tiny shards, like a thousand teeth trapped in a tornado. It tore through the Master’s shield, then into the man himself.
There was no sound, but the effect was clear. By the time the magic was finished, only a pile of gore and fabric scraps remained of Kaylin’s Master.
The last of the thought magic entered the attacking wizard’s mind. Kaylin saw the man’s head jerk backwards. The wizard collapsed onto the stone floor.
Kaylin took a slow, unsteady breath. Master Sylas was dead. All that remained of him was the spoon-shaped trinket he had grabbed from the shelf.
Losing control of his stomach, Kaylin vomited behind the desk.
His head slowly cleared. Certainly, the death of his master ended his apprenticeship. He would leave now that it was quiet. He could probably even get out before anyone else heard about what had happened.
But as he rose from hiding, Kaylin again spotted the lockbox.
Master Sylas owed him something for the three years of neglect.
He retrieved the key from the desk, and opened the lockbox. Within it, he found Master Sylas’ personal notes, from how to reduce the words required for certain spells, to new concoctions of his own. The pages contained all the things the other wizards had begged Sylas to reveal.
Kaylin stuffed the papers into a bag, threw the sac over his good shoulder, and hastily left. He had to step over the wizard who had been struck by thought magic. The man was still breathing.
He paused, wondering who the man was. Lord Darmac had said Master Sylas would face three of Brocton’s wizards for crossing them. Were these casters two of those three?
“Stop!”
The voice came at Kaylin from the far end of the corridor the moment he stepped outside the room. A glance was all he needed; the man was not an apprentice, or a guard. He had a broad face with thick red-blond hair braided down his back, and a moustache like a fishing line. The robes were fine enough to be made by the weaving guilds of a capital city, but were embellished with gold and silver jewellery more likely to belong to a showman.
Wizard.
Kaylin bolted, feeling magic chase him down the hall. When it felt too close, he dodged. He was not known to this man. The man did not have a definition of him. He couldn’t be anchored directly, not yet at least.
Instead of heading down the floors into the arms of the guards of the tower, Kaylin went up.
In his room, he found the same handful of people who had attended his trial at the storage cupboard. First among them, Bensan jumped to his feet, deliberately blocking Kaylin’s path to his bed.
“You can’t have gotten off so easily,” Bensan objected, side stepping to remain in Kaylin’s way as he tried to get around the boy. “Not even a lashing?” Kaylin dodged Bensan’s attempt to grab him. “Bet the Master’ll be happy to have you back!”
Kaylin punched Bensan squarely in the jaw. The older boy fell, and the path was clear.
Leaving Bensan to curse and swear revenge, Kaylin grabbed his coat, slung the bag over his back, and climbed out the window.
He was looking back into the room when he saw the wizard burst into the room. The apprentices ran for cover.
Kaylin’s hand slipped, and he tumbled down the mountain’s side.
The fall was his first enemy.
Kaylin tried to slow his fall, but bounced from stone to stone down the frozen slope. He eventually came to a stop near the base of the mountain, only a dozen paces from the first of the city’s houses.
The stones had cut his skin in places, but bruised him from scalp to shins. He had cracked a rib, and it stung when he tried to breathe. Knowing the wizard was behind him, Kaylin dragged himself to his feet, and hobbled into the cover of the streets and sturdy buildings of the slope side of Stonetop Peak.
If the wizard could uniquely define him, Kaylin could be used as an anchor. As soon as that happened, he could be the target for a relocation, or, worse, a destruction spell from a distance.
Finding a corner of street cleared of snow, Kaylin sank to his knees. He was dead if he could not hide himself from magic.
He sought the darkness in his mind, following the feeling of magic. Soon he stood on the ledge before the spiral once more.
Kaylin stared at the powers in his mind and, with every ounce of desperation, commanded them to come to him. Into the perfect silence of the blackness surrounding the impossible spiral, he screamed his demand.
The first wisp of light spun off the spiral, touching onto his hand.
Surprised, Kaylin looked at his hand. A faint red and blue aura now circled his hand, dancing like flames over his skin.
He needed more that that. To hide himself, he would need the four elements of flesh. Fire and water were only the first.
He called again, not making a polite request, but giving a powerful command.
Another piece of the spiral came to him, larger and carrying white wind and black earth.
Holding the powers, Kaylin recited the words of the spell.
Upon the last syllable, the magic shot up through his arms, coating his skin. He felt it lock in place around him as his consciousness returned to his body and the frozen streets of the mountain city.
When Kaylin let out a staggering breath of relief, it was not only his rib that pained him.
His muscles burned, from the bones within his limbs to his enchanted skin, feeling as if he was the one caught in dragon fire. His lungs refused to fill, he saw stars, and he collapsed onto the cold road.
He awoke in the evening, fresh snow falling on him, and melting against his skin. The scorching feeling in his body had reduced to aching, like a sprinter after a race, but still made him move slowly. The presence of active magic comforted him. His spell was still in place.
To put his mind from the pain, Kaylin found a corner by an inn’s window, and read the papers from his bag. He put them quickly to memory.
Along with his coat, the papers were stolen from him the next morning.
The cold became his second enemy. Without a coat, he moved from hovel to hovel, trying to allow his wounds to heal, but the chill froze them instead.
Hunger was his third enemy, as food was found only for a price, and his skills at copying texts or reading wizard cant were no longer of value. He stole scraps where he could, but never enough to fill his stomach.
Every day, he recast his defensive magic, learning by trial and error how much magic the spell required. If too much power remained after the spell, the fire attacked his bones again. He had read about it; Spell Burn. A Master was meant to help students understand how much magic they had to channel for each spell. Without being taught, Kaylin could only practice until it hurt too much to try again, then wait for the feeling to dim, and try again.
Despite his efforts, on the fourth day, the northerner wizard found him. Kaylin spotted him moving through an alley just below his hiding place.
Kaylin ran once more. Despite it being midnight, he left Stonetop Peak by moonlight. He struck out south, stopping only to collapse in nightmare-filled sleep or steal another scrap of food.
###
Kaylin leaned back against the warm stone of the cell. His bones were obvious now, having little muscle or fat to hide them. The most recent lashing wound was a new pink scar, but his skin was burned raw by the sun over it. It was warm here, for once. He didn’t need to steal a coat, or blanket, for the night. It was dry too, although it stank.
It would do. He closed his eyes, and followed the feeling of magic into the place of darkness. His mind found the way easily after a cycle of practice. To avoid the pain of Spell Burn, he was cautious in collecting magic. It took three tries, to create water in his hands. The amount of magic left over was small, although it still burned in his bones in dull ache.
Should he need to escape, he could destroy part of the wall behind him. He would have to use a scry first. It would be no good walking out of one cell, into another. A major earth destruction spell was simple enough. He had the components for it buried in Geraldin’s Dig spell, and had already performed it once.
But the cell was quiet, and he was, for the moment, safe from thieves or thugs after nearly a cycle of running. He decided to wait another day. They would probably feed him. That would be better than another hungry night.
His rest was interrupted by the cell door opening.
A burly man wearing a green tabard entered in. Unlike the other soldiers Kaylin had seen manning the border, this man’s tabard had a black tree embroidered upon it, matching the black of the rank rope looped over his right shoulder. The man wore a sword like it had always been there. He left the door open, and a dozen tense soldiers peered in through it, their eyes on Kaylin.
Kaylin wondered what they thought of him, with his sunburned shoulders and scarred back. He had been striped of belongings, left only in a pair of baggy breeches.
Kaylin did not rise.
“Do you know what this means?” the man asked, stopping in front of Kaylin and pointing to the rank rope. His voice bore a southern accent, but was warmer than Kaylin had expected from a soldier.
Kaylin glanced at the black rope, then back to the man’s face far above him. He held the man’s stare evenly.
“Means I am in Galanth,” he replied. In Lour, the rank of the soldier was the count of sword shards on their chest. In Damoria, where he had just left, they used metal bands. Galanth used ropes.
The man smiled under his red-tinged beard, looking surprised. “I suppose it does,” he said, crouching in front of Kaylin, and meeting his stare. Even crouched, Kaylin had to look up to meet the stare. "The colours tell us the rank. What do you think black means?”
“By the way they are all staring at me,” Kaylin guessed, thinking of the many soldiers at the door, “I assume high.”
“Yes, high,” the man answered. “I am Prince Habal. What is your name?”
Kaylin leaned back, feeling his heart skip. A Prince? He had never met a Prince. Even living in the capital of Lour, he had never so much as seen Prince Loritat.
The word they used — Prince — was a fallacy. The Princes were warlords over Girr. Each commanded thousands of soldiers, pitting them against other Princes to claim land or resources as it suited them. Some Princes claimed to defend their people from bandits, while others were little better than those same bandits. Whatever their morals, they were the most powerful men in Girr.
What name could Kaylin possibly give?
“What do you want me to call you then?” the Prince asked when Kaylin failed to reply. “Boy?”
Kaylin winced, hearing too much of Master Sylas’ stern voice in the word. “Call me Everand, if you must call me something.”
“When did you last eat, Everand?” the Prince asked, rising from his crouch.
Kaylin flinched at the mention of food. Water was elemental and easy to create. Food had to be summoned, and that required targeting Kaylin had not yet mastered.
“Three days,” he answered with a hand on his stomach. He closed his eyes against hunger pangs, but opened them quickly when he heard someone approaching. Seeing the green and black dressed servant carrying a tray, he sat forwards. He could smell food, and even the lingering scent of offal in the cell did not diminish its quality.
The Prince gestured for the tray to be put in front of Kaylin. “Then eat very slowly,” he advised.
There was a single bowl of thin soup and a chunk of bread on the tray. Kaylin stared at the meal without moving until the servant withdrew.
“While you eat, let me tell you about your current situation, Everand,” the Prince said.
As Prince Habal continued, Kaylin cautiously picked up the bowl. He kept his action well controlled, afraid of showing how much the sight of food had robbed him of his wits. He knew the Prince’s generosity would come with a cost, but he was almost too weak to cast.
“My men,” the Prince began, “tell me you tried to pass into Galanth without papers, refused to give your name, and will not say where you are from or where you are going.”
Kaylin sipped the watery soup, savouring it while trying to eat as fast as his body would allow. The Prince may change his mind at any moment.
“I do not think you are Damorian, however,” the Prince said. “My spies say that Damorian guards caught you sneaking through the Lour border nine days ago, only you escaped.”
Having half-finished the soup, Kaylin held the bowl in two hands, and rested against the wall once more with his eyes closed. Nothing unexpected had been said.The words were simply stating known facts.
“All of this,” the Prince of Galanth continued, “would hardly warrant my attention, if it were not for the stories coming out of Lour at the moment.”
Kaylin opened one weary, wary eye.
“Apparently,” the Prince went on, “they are searching for a killer to go with the four murders they had in the capital.”
“Four?” Kaylin snapped. He quickly closed his mouth, cursing his reaction.
“Even that would not interest me overly, except that three of the dead were wizards and, more importantly, the murderer was said to be a wizard as well.”
“I am no wizard,” Kaylin insisted.
The Prince frowned. “Pity,” he said, “because I would hire you if you were.”
It could be a trick to get a confession. Would the wizard who had chased him pay for his death? Was there a bounty? It didn’t matter if it was Darmac or Brocton’s men. Either side would want Kaylin dead for killing their men.
Kaylin took a piece off the bread, and chewed it consciously.
Why send a Prince?
“You are a caster, Everand,” the Prince said. “Your escape from Damoria proves that. Wizards are hard to find and harder still to keep. Galanth has none. I want one.”
Trying to conceal his interest, Kaylin sipped his soup once more, watching the Prince from over the edge of the bowl. A Prince without a wizard would be crippled compared to his peers. It was lunacy to assume a wizard could defeat an army, but one could certainly make the difference between victory and defeat.
“I was training as a caster. That does not make me a wizard. And I’m no killer,” Kaylin said. He felt no need to go into details about his lax Master. The only person to help him had been Kitable, and even he had only taught Kaylin enough letters to let him read. Everything else he had learned himself. He could continue learning that way.
“And what would it take to turn you from 'caster' to 'wizard'?” the Prince asked.
Kaylin’s heart skipped. “Words. Books.”
Crouching again in front of him, the Prince smiled broadly. “I will gladly provide you with a place to stay, and all the supplies you need, including any book that is in my power to give. In return, I want you to swear patronage to me.”
Kaylin made a point of finishing his soup as the Prince warned, “Patronage is for life, Everand, so think it over. But as far as I can see, you’re in trouble. Lour wants you dead, justified or not. I can help you.”
Words stuck on Kaylin’s tongue. It was possible, just possible, he could vanish forever. If he could get to a place where he could create defences, he would no longer have to cast daily spells. He could find the right spell to block his pursuer. He could change his name. No one here knew where he was from, or why he had fled. The Prince, even if he suspected, had no reason to tell anyone else. Doing so would cost him a valuable asset.
“I need to think about it,” Kaylin said. He clutched his bread, wondering if the man would take it away.
“Come morning, I will want an answer.”
Just long enough to get hungry again, Kaylin thought.
Nodding to himself as he headed out, the Prince warned finally, “It might take a bit to get all the books, so be patient. If I grab too many, someone will get suspicious.”
“Make sure you get Everand’s Spell Book then,” Kaylin said. “It’s the most useful.”
“I take it Everand was a great wizard,” Prince Habal said, one thick eyebrow lifted. "Very well, Everand.”
###
Kaylin spent the night thinking. They had provided a second meal, this time including meat in the soup. He felt some strength returning to him, although he was still out of breath if he started pacing.
It was so easy to sleep. He was, for a moment, safe.
But holding still was dangerous. Brocton’s wizard could be tracking him. He cast the obscuring spell again in the morning, knowing his defences were not insurmountable, not for a proper wizard. He had to get moving again.
Going to the capital of Galanth in the company of a host of soldiers seemed like a good option.
The next morning, the Prince returned to the cell. Again, he entered alone, but the door out of the cell stayed open, and the soldiers watched Kaylin. Kaylin stood near the back wall, and tried to look unassuming.
But as the door swung open, Kaylin felt the touch of magic in his cell. His heart dropped into his stomach.
"You've had time to think," the Prince said, stopping inside the cell by a single stride. "What is your—?”
“We have to go, now,” Kaylin said, trying to come forwards in a manner that would not seem threatening, but still obviously urgent. “Now.”
The Prince cocked his head, his weight shifting just enough to make his stance defensive. Leery of the many soldiers outside, Kaylin stoped advancing. “So you agree?” the Prince asked.
“I—”
A wave of magic swept over Kaylin. The door to the cell slammed shut, and a green light sealed it.
Outside, shouts of outrage made it through the stone. Something or someone slammed into the door repeatedly. The green light flashed with each impact, but it did not give.
A force wall, Kaylin identified. A small one, but effective.
“You are making a terrible mistake,“ the Prince warned, placing a hand on his sword's hilt as he faced Kaylin. "If you dare—“
“That wasn’t me!” Kaylin objected. “It was…”
Sensing magic enter in the room, he pointed towards it.
The layered auras of a relocation spell formed, anchored to a place between the Prince and Kaylin. The northerner wizard from Stonetop Peak appeared.
The stranger held a wand loosely in one hand. His moustache had been cut short, but his cheeks were thick with new stubble. His robes were no longer proudly jewelled, but dull and dust-covered. To Kaylin, he radiated magic from his many trinkets, the gems suspended from his belt most of all. He had seen similar ones on Master Sylas’ shelves; shield stones. The man was well defended.
His wide red-brown brow furled deeply as he glowered at the Prince first.
"You weren't here a moment ago," the stranger grumbled, his accent broad. “No witnesses."
The Prince drew his sword, but had only managed to position it before himself before the stranger pointed the wand at him. With a word, he activated it.
The burst of green magic wrapped around the Prince, setting every muscle, except those in his chest and mouth. It would not kill, but it would stop him from doing anything besides speaking and breathing.
Physical strength could not defeat magic. The Prince struggled, his face flushing with effort. Nothing moved.
The stranger smiled bitterly. "It's called Nahon's Lock," he said. "Makes for an easy—"
"I wouldn't do that," Kaylin interrupted.
The stranger turned his glower onto him.
Kaylin stepped back, his arms out to show he was unarmed. He kept his voice level, drawing on his experience with the bullies in Stonetop Peak. His words were calm, nothing more than facts.
But while he spoke, like writing one thing while saying another, he drew his mind into the blackness, and began pulling in magic from the spiral. He did not yet know what he was going to cast, but he knew he would require magic, and probably a lot of it. He knew any magic not used up would be Spell Burn, but so long as that did not kill him, he would still be better off.
"Oh?" the stranger asked, arching one huge incredulous eyebrow at him.
“He's a Prince," Kaylin said, carrying the conversation while his mind worked on gathering magic. “His soldiers will never let you get out of here alive. They’re all just outside, you see. Already rather angry, I expect.”
The stranger glanced, scoffing, over his shoulder to where Prince Habal fought the spell holding him. "Prince? Even if I believe you, I won’t be going out that way.” The smile darkened. "He's here, where he should not be. No witnesses.” The words grew heavier. “No evidence,” the man added.
The wizard began casting a long complicated spell Kaylin did not understand. He knew it was being built to kill them both, and that it used at least four elements, but he could not tell which one would be the important one to block.
If he could not block the right one, he could maybe block them all.
"You are a caster, Kaylin!" the Prince shouted. "Cast!"
The snide grin on the unknown wizard's face made it clear he thought the proposition preposterous. Kaylin had been one of Sylas’ apprentices. He certainly would not have learned magic from his Master.
The voice of the stranger rose, the words now harsh and staccato.
Unsure if he had enough magic, but knowing he could not contain any more, Kaylin rattled off the eight-layered dispel as if it was a single long word. Just as the other wizard brought up his hand in final gesture, Kaylin flicked his wrist, throwing the dispel.
The rising fury of magic surrounding the wizard winked out of existence, as did the magic of all his trinkets. The buzz of magic nearby went instantly silent.
The wizard started, his eyes wide enough to show the whites. "How—"
Pushing through the raging fires in his bones, Kaylin stepped up and punched the wizard in the gut. Immediately ready when the wizard bent double, Kaylin brought his left fist up next, colliding with the wizard's chin. The stranger careened into the wall behind him. Kaylin saw the wizard's head crack against the stone.
A good wizard, Kaylin remembered reading, did not use magic for everything.
For a moment, his spirits lifted enough to let the pain of his Spell Burn in.
But instead of going down, the wizard launched himself from the wall, catching Kaylin under his arms and slamming him into the wall on the far side of the cell.
His head swam, and Kaylin collapsed onto the dry ground, unable to breathe.
Unable to breathe because a foot was pressing down on his chest.
He flailed, trying in vain to push off the crushing foot. For a moment he thought he had succeeded, only to feel the heel of the foot slam down on his sternum. His cracked rib, almost a forgotten injury, broke. When he tried to draw breath, pain stole all remaining reason from him.
Another kick to the side. He choked on a cough. A spell over his throat squeezed down. No, it was a hand. Someone screamed.
It wasn’t him.
A haze of green flew by, followed by darkness and another scream.
Burning oil fell on him, spattering over his exposed, bruised and broken chest.
Not oil. Blood.
Silence for a heartbeat.
The weight lifted off his chest. A thump vibrated through the floor. Kaylin’s chest spasmed, stretching out to draw in breath. Pain cut the gasp short, but his mind refocused enough to recognize that the pressure was gone from his throat too. He could breathe, although it was agony to do so.
At length, Kaylin opened his eyes. His body shook, his bones feeling like they were burning under the searing pain of his chest. He could only breathe shallowly, but it was enough. Spell Burn raged through his entire body, now melding with every other agony.
A person came into view over him, helping him to roll to his side and spit the blood from his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.
Prince Habal’s voice was soft. “Nice spell,” he said dryly. “Any chance you can open the door?”
Kaylin glared up at the man, still having troubles focusing. He remembered casting the eight-layered dispel, but could not, for a long moment, figure out how that meant the Prince was freed from Nahon’s Lock.
Unable to target the wizard directly, Kaylin had aimed his spell to hit the area around him. It must have had a wide enough burst to hit the Prince, releasing him. The man had already drawn his sword, and Kaylin’s dispel had neutralized the wizard’s defences.
The smell of blood and the presence of a body on the edge of Kaylin’s vision made it into his awareness. The wizard had been cut down.
And after all that, the Prince wanted another spell.
“Do… I…. look… able… right… now?” Kaylin wheezed out between pants.
“I can’t get you a healer if you can’t get out of here,” the Prince replied. “And you need one, now.”
Heeding the urgency in the Prince’s voice, Kaylin squinted at the door, feeling as if it was a league away, instead of merely three paces. His chest was tight on his left side. Although it hurt like breaking the rib anew every time, he had to breathe with greater effort just to keep from passing out.
He was bleeding still. The Prince was right.
Kaylin stared at the force wall. He just needed a simple destruction spell. There had to be one somewhere in Everand’s Spell Book, somewhere in Kaylin’s memory.
Unable to stabilize his mind, Kaylin ignored his scattered, panicked thoughts, and dismissed the terror of encroaching suffocation. Letting his mind go as if drifting to sleep, he found the magic and the darkness.
But before sleep could set in, he screamed in his mind, ripping the light from the spiral to build his spell. He lacked the focus to define it well, although the words came out, one by one, perfectly.
Feeling the last of his energy bleed out of him, Kaylin threw his spell against the door.
He remembered the sound of breaking stone and wood, and a lot of shouting.
Then silence.
It would do. He closed his eyes, and followed the feeling of magic into the place of darkness. His mind found the way easily after a cycle of practice. To avoid the pain of Spell Burn, he was cautious in collecting magic. It took three tries, to create water in his hands. The amount of magic left over was small, although it still burned in his bones in dull ache.
Should he need to escape, he could destroy part of the wall behind him. He would have to use a scry first. It would be no good walking out of one cell, into another. A major earth destruction spell was simple enough. He had the components for it buried in Geraldin’s Dig spell, and had already performed it once.
But the cell was quiet, and he was, for the moment, safe from thieves or thugs after nearly a cycle of running. He decided to wait another day. They would probably feed him. That would be better than another hungry night.
His rest was interrupted by the cell door opening.
A burly man wearing a green tabard entered in. Unlike the other soldiers Kaylin had seen manning the border, this man’s tabard had a black tree embroidered upon it, matching the black of the rank rope looped over his right shoulder. The man wore a sword like it had always been there. He left the door open, and a dozen tense soldiers peered in through it, their eyes on Kaylin.
Kaylin wondered what they thought of him, with his sunburned shoulders and scarred back. He had been striped of belongings, left only in a pair of baggy breeches.
Kaylin did not rise.
“Do you know what this means?” the man asked, stopping in front of Kaylin and pointing to the rank rope. His voice bore a southern accent, but was warmer than Kaylin had expected from a soldier.
Kaylin glanced at the black rope, then back to the man’s face far above him. He held the man’s stare evenly.
“Means I am in Galanth,” he replied. In Lour, the rank of the soldier was the count of sword shards on their chest. In Damoria, where he had just left, they used metal bands. Galanth used ropes.
The man smiled under his red-tinged beard, looking surprised. “I suppose it does,” he said, crouching in front of Kaylin, and meeting his stare. Even crouched, Kaylin had to look up to meet the stare. "The colours tell us the rank. What do you think black means?”
“By the way they are all staring at me,” Kaylin guessed, thinking of the many soldiers at the door, “I assume high.”
“Yes, high,” the man answered. “I am Prince Habal. What is your name?”
Kaylin leaned back, feeling his heart skip. A Prince? He had never met a Prince. Even living in the capital of Lour, he had never so much as seen Prince Loritat.
The word they used — Prince — was a fallacy. The Princes were warlords over Girr. Each commanded thousands of soldiers, pitting them against other Princes to claim land or resources as it suited them. Some Princes claimed to defend their people from bandits, while others were little better than those same bandits. Whatever their morals, they were the most powerful men in Girr.
What name could Kaylin possibly give?
“What do you want me to call you then?” the Prince asked when Kaylin failed to reply. “Boy?”
Kaylin winced, hearing too much of Master Sylas’ stern voice in the word. “Call me Everand, if you must call me something.”
“When did you last eat, Everand?” the Prince asked, rising from his crouch.
Kaylin flinched at the mention of food. Water was elemental and easy to create. Food had to be summoned, and that required targeting Kaylin had not yet mastered.
“Three days,” he answered with a hand on his stomach. He closed his eyes against hunger pangs, but opened them quickly when he heard someone approaching. Seeing the green and black dressed servant carrying a tray, he sat forwards. He could smell food, and even the lingering scent of offal in the cell did not diminish its quality.
The Prince gestured for the tray to be put in front of Kaylin. “Then eat very slowly,” he advised.
There was a single bowl of thin soup and a chunk of bread on the tray. Kaylin stared at the meal without moving until the servant withdrew.
“While you eat, let me tell you about your current situation, Everand,” the Prince said.
As Prince Habal continued, Kaylin cautiously picked up the bowl. He kept his action well controlled, afraid of showing how much the sight of food had robbed him of his wits. He knew the Prince’s generosity would come with a cost, but he was almost too weak to cast.
“My men,” the Prince began, “tell me you tried to pass into Galanth without papers, refused to give your name, and will not say where you are from or where you are going.”
Kaylin sipped the watery soup, savouring it while trying to eat as fast as his body would allow. The Prince may change his mind at any moment.
“I do not think you are Damorian, however,” the Prince said. “My spies say that Damorian guards caught you sneaking through the Lour border nine days ago, only you escaped.”
Having half-finished the soup, Kaylin held the bowl in two hands, and rested against the wall once more with his eyes closed. Nothing unexpected had been said.The words were simply stating known facts.
“All of this,” the Prince of Galanth continued, “would hardly warrant my attention, if it were not for the stories coming out of Lour at the moment.”
Kaylin opened one weary, wary eye.
“Apparently,” the Prince went on, “they are searching for a killer to go with the four murders they had in the capital.”
“Four?” Kaylin snapped. He quickly closed his mouth, cursing his reaction.
“Even that would not interest me overly, except that three of the dead were wizards and, more importantly, the murderer was said to be a wizard as well.”
“I am no wizard,” Kaylin insisted.
The Prince frowned. “Pity,” he said, “because I would hire you if you were.”
It could be a trick to get a confession. Would the wizard who had chased him pay for his death? Was there a bounty? It didn’t matter if it was Darmac or Brocton’s men. Either side would want Kaylin dead for killing their men.
Kaylin took a piece off the bread, and chewed it consciously.
Why send a Prince?
“You are a caster, Everand,” the Prince said. “Your escape from Damoria proves that. Wizards are hard to find and harder still to keep. Galanth has none. I want one.”
Trying to conceal his interest, Kaylin sipped his soup once more, watching the Prince from over the edge of the bowl. A Prince without a wizard would be crippled compared to his peers. It was lunacy to assume a wizard could defeat an army, but one could certainly make the difference between victory and defeat.
“I was training as a caster. That does not make me a wizard. And I’m no killer,” Kaylin said. He felt no need to go into details about his lax Master. The only person to help him had been Kitable, and even he had only taught Kaylin enough letters to let him read. Everything else he had learned himself. He could continue learning that way.
“And what would it take to turn you from 'caster' to 'wizard'?” the Prince asked.
Kaylin’s heart skipped. “Words. Books.”
Crouching again in front of him, the Prince smiled broadly. “I will gladly provide you with a place to stay, and all the supplies you need, including any book that is in my power to give. In return, I want you to swear patronage to me.”
Kaylin made a point of finishing his soup as the Prince warned, “Patronage is for life, Everand, so think it over. But as far as I can see, you’re in trouble. Lour wants you dead, justified or not. I can help you.”
Words stuck on Kaylin’s tongue. It was possible, just possible, he could vanish forever. If he could get to a place where he could create defences, he would no longer have to cast daily spells. He could find the right spell to block his pursuer. He could change his name. No one here knew where he was from, or why he had fled. The Prince, even if he suspected, had no reason to tell anyone else. Doing so would cost him a valuable asset.
“I need to think about it,” Kaylin said. He clutched his bread, wondering if the man would take it away.
“Come morning, I will want an answer.”
Just long enough to get hungry again, Kaylin thought.
Nodding to himself as he headed out, the Prince warned finally, “It might take a bit to get all the books, so be patient. If I grab too many, someone will get suspicious.”
“Make sure you get Everand’s Spell Book then,” Kaylin said. “It’s the most useful.”
“I take it Everand was a great wizard,” Prince Habal said, one thick eyebrow lifted. "Very well, Everand.”
###
Kaylin spent the night thinking. They had provided a second meal, this time including meat in the soup. He felt some strength returning to him, although he was still out of breath if he started pacing.
It was so easy to sleep. He was, for a moment, safe.
But holding still was dangerous. Brocton’s wizard could be tracking him. He cast the obscuring spell again in the morning, knowing his defences were not insurmountable, not for a proper wizard. He had to get moving again.
Going to the capital of Galanth in the company of a host of soldiers seemed like a good option.
The next morning, the Prince returned to the cell. Again, he entered alone, but the door out of the cell stayed open, and the soldiers watched Kaylin. Kaylin stood near the back wall, and tried to look unassuming.
But as the door swung open, Kaylin felt the touch of magic in his cell. His heart dropped into his stomach.
"You've had time to think," the Prince said, stopping inside the cell by a single stride. "What is your—?”
“We have to go, now,” Kaylin said, trying to come forwards in a manner that would not seem threatening, but still obviously urgent. “Now.”
The Prince cocked his head, his weight shifting just enough to make his stance defensive. Leery of the many soldiers outside, Kaylin stoped advancing. “So you agree?” the Prince asked.
“I—”
A wave of magic swept over Kaylin. The door to the cell slammed shut, and a green light sealed it.
Outside, shouts of outrage made it through the stone. Something or someone slammed into the door repeatedly. The green light flashed with each impact, but it did not give.
A force wall, Kaylin identified. A small one, but effective.
“You are making a terrible mistake,“ the Prince warned, placing a hand on his sword's hilt as he faced Kaylin. "If you dare—“
“That wasn’t me!” Kaylin objected. “It was…”
Sensing magic enter in the room, he pointed towards it.
The layered auras of a relocation spell formed, anchored to a place between the Prince and Kaylin. The northerner wizard from Stonetop Peak appeared.
The stranger held a wand loosely in one hand. His moustache had been cut short, but his cheeks were thick with new stubble. His robes were no longer proudly jewelled, but dull and dust-covered. To Kaylin, he radiated magic from his many trinkets, the gems suspended from his belt most of all. He had seen similar ones on Master Sylas’ shelves; shield stones. The man was well defended.
His wide red-brown brow furled deeply as he glowered at the Prince first.
"You weren't here a moment ago," the stranger grumbled, his accent broad. “No witnesses."
The Prince drew his sword, but had only managed to position it before himself before the stranger pointed the wand at him. With a word, he activated it.
The burst of green magic wrapped around the Prince, setting every muscle, except those in his chest and mouth. It would not kill, but it would stop him from doing anything besides speaking and breathing.
Physical strength could not defeat magic. The Prince struggled, his face flushing with effort. Nothing moved.
The stranger smiled bitterly. "It's called Nahon's Lock," he said. "Makes for an easy—"
"I wouldn't do that," Kaylin interrupted.
The stranger turned his glower onto him.
Kaylin stepped back, his arms out to show he was unarmed. He kept his voice level, drawing on his experience with the bullies in Stonetop Peak. His words were calm, nothing more than facts.
But while he spoke, like writing one thing while saying another, he drew his mind into the blackness, and began pulling in magic from the spiral. He did not yet know what he was going to cast, but he knew he would require magic, and probably a lot of it. He knew any magic not used up would be Spell Burn, but so long as that did not kill him, he would still be better off.
"Oh?" the stranger asked, arching one huge incredulous eyebrow at him.
“He's a Prince," Kaylin said, carrying the conversation while his mind worked on gathering magic. “His soldiers will never let you get out of here alive. They’re all just outside, you see. Already rather angry, I expect.”
The stranger glanced, scoffing, over his shoulder to where Prince Habal fought the spell holding him. "Prince? Even if I believe you, I won’t be going out that way.” The smile darkened. "He's here, where he should not be. No witnesses.” The words grew heavier. “No evidence,” the man added.
The wizard began casting a long complicated spell Kaylin did not understand. He knew it was being built to kill them both, and that it used at least four elements, but he could not tell which one would be the important one to block.
If he could not block the right one, he could maybe block them all.
"You are a caster, Kaylin!" the Prince shouted. "Cast!"
The snide grin on the unknown wizard's face made it clear he thought the proposition preposterous. Kaylin had been one of Sylas’ apprentices. He certainly would not have learned magic from his Master.
The voice of the stranger rose, the words now harsh and staccato.
Unsure if he had enough magic, but knowing he could not contain any more, Kaylin rattled off the eight-layered dispel as if it was a single long word. Just as the other wizard brought up his hand in final gesture, Kaylin flicked his wrist, throwing the dispel.
The rising fury of magic surrounding the wizard winked out of existence, as did the magic of all his trinkets. The buzz of magic nearby went instantly silent.
The wizard started, his eyes wide enough to show the whites. "How—"
Pushing through the raging fires in his bones, Kaylin stepped up and punched the wizard in the gut. Immediately ready when the wizard bent double, Kaylin brought his left fist up next, colliding with the wizard's chin. The stranger careened into the wall behind him. Kaylin saw the wizard's head crack against the stone.
A good wizard, Kaylin remembered reading, did not use magic for everything.
For a moment, his spirits lifted enough to let the pain of his Spell Burn in.
But instead of going down, the wizard launched himself from the wall, catching Kaylin under his arms and slamming him into the wall on the far side of the cell.
His head swam, and Kaylin collapsed onto the dry ground, unable to breathe.
Unable to breathe because a foot was pressing down on his chest.
He flailed, trying in vain to push off the crushing foot. For a moment he thought he had succeeded, only to feel the heel of the foot slam down on his sternum. His cracked rib, almost a forgotten injury, broke. When he tried to draw breath, pain stole all remaining reason from him.
Another kick to the side. He choked on a cough. A spell over his throat squeezed down. No, it was a hand. Someone screamed.
It wasn’t him.
A haze of green flew by, followed by darkness and another scream.
Burning oil fell on him, spattering over his exposed, bruised and broken chest.
Not oil. Blood.
Silence for a heartbeat.
The weight lifted off his chest. A thump vibrated through the floor. Kaylin’s chest spasmed, stretching out to draw in breath. Pain cut the gasp short, but his mind refocused enough to recognize that the pressure was gone from his throat too. He could breathe, although it was agony to do so.
At length, Kaylin opened his eyes. His body shook, his bones feeling like they were burning under the searing pain of his chest. He could only breathe shallowly, but it was enough. Spell Burn raged through his entire body, now melding with every other agony.
A person came into view over him, helping him to roll to his side and spit the blood from his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.
Prince Habal’s voice was soft. “Nice spell,” he said dryly. “Any chance you can open the door?”
Kaylin glared up at the man, still having troubles focusing. He remembered casting the eight-layered dispel, but could not, for a long moment, figure out how that meant the Prince was freed from Nahon’s Lock.
Unable to target the wizard directly, Kaylin had aimed his spell to hit the area around him. It must have had a wide enough burst to hit the Prince, releasing him. The man had already drawn his sword, and Kaylin’s dispel had neutralized the wizard’s defences.
The smell of blood and the presence of a body on the edge of Kaylin’s vision made it into his awareness. The wizard had been cut down.
And after all that, the Prince wanted another spell.
“Do… I…. look… able… right… now?” Kaylin wheezed out between pants.
“I can’t get you a healer if you can’t get out of here,” the Prince replied. “And you need one, now.”
Heeding the urgency in the Prince’s voice, Kaylin squinted at the door, feeling as if it was a league away, instead of merely three paces. His chest was tight on his left side. Although it hurt like breaking the rib anew every time, he had to breathe with greater effort just to keep from passing out.
He was bleeding still. The Prince was right.
Kaylin stared at the force wall. He just needed a simple destruction spell. There had to be one somewhere in Everand’s Spell Book, somewhere in Kaylin’s memory.
Unable to stabilize his mind, Kaylin ignored his scattered, panicked thoughts, and dismissed the terror of encroaching suffocation. Letting his mind go as if drifting to sleep, he found the magic and the darkness.
But before sleep could set in, he screamed in his mind, ripping the light from the spiral to build his spell. He lacked the focus to define it well, although the words came out, one by one, perfectly.
Feeling the last of his energy bleed out of him, Kaylin threw his spell against the door.
He remembered the sound of breaking stone and wood, and a lot of shouting.
Then silence.
###
Killer.
Murderer.
Fugitive.
Wizard.
Kaylin’s mind spun, the words coming and going on a lilting tide in the darkness. He knew this darkness, this smooth ground. The spiral of magic would be nearby, ready to defend him.
Freedom.
Promises.
Patronage.
“You awake, Everand?”
Kaylin opened his eyes, an opulent canopy coming into view above him. He was lying in the softest bed he had ever known, his body supported on every side. Every breath still ached, but his left side no longer felt blunted or thick.
“You look awake.”
Turning his head, Kaylin found Prince Habal’s bearded face looking back at him. The light in the room— it appeared to be midday— hurt Kaylin’s eyes, but he kept them open. This kind of pain was good. This kind of pain meant he was alive.
“It hurts,” Kaylin wheezed out.
“That’s what my protectors said about the wall you blasted into them,” the Prince replied, patting Kaylin’s knee. “I am pleased you have joined our side.” The hand on his knee paused. “At least I assume you are.”
Since he was not in a cell, Kaylin had to assume the Prince had gotten the healer to him, and move him to the capital. If his blurry eyes could be believed, Kaylin was lying in a huge room. The walls were lined with filled bookcases.
Kaylin nodded, but his head throbbed too much do so more than once. “Books,” he said. “Words.”
“As you requested, Everand.”
Knowing the name would forever remind him of Master Sylas and the life in Stonetop Peak, Kaylin replied, “Call me Kitable."
It seemed a suitable tribute to the boy who had taught him how to read words.
Murderer.
Fugitive.
Wizard.
Kaylin’s mind spun, the words coming and going on a lilting tide in the darkness. He knew this darkness, this smooth ground. The spiral of magic would be nearby, ready to defend him.
Freedom.
Promises.
Patronage.
“You awake, Everand?”
Kaylin opened his eyes, an opulent canopy coming into view above him. He was lying in the softest bed he had ever known, his body supported on every side. Every breath still ached, but his left side no longer felt blunted or thick.
“You look awake.”
Turning his head, Kaylin found Prince Habal’s bearded face looking back at him. The light in the room— it appeared to be midday— hurt Kaylin’s eyes, but he kept them open. This kind of pain was good. This kind of pain meant he was alive.
“It hurts,” Kaylin wheezed out.
“That’s what my protectors said about the wall you blasted into them,” the Prince replied, patting Kaylin’s knee. “I am pleased you have joined our side.” The hand on his knee paused. “At least I assume you are.”
Since he was not in a cell, Kaylin had to assume the Prince had gotten the healer to him, and move him to the capital. If his blurry eyes could be believed, Kaylin was lying in a huge room. The walls were lined with filled bookcases.
Kaylin nodded, but his head throbbed too much do so more than once. “Books,” he said. “Words.”
“As you requested, Everand.”
Knowing the name would forever remind him of Master Sylas and the life in Stonetop Peak, Kaylin replied, “Call me Kitable."
It seemed a suitable tribute to the boy who had taught him how to read words.
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