The Phoenix Unchained (22 page)

At the end of the service, he went up to the front of the Temple to speak to the Light Priest. He didn’t have to wait long; it was Second Afternoon Bells and the Temple had been fairly empty. He waited until the Golden Bowl had been put away and the incense had been quenched.

“Can I help you?” the Light Priest asked.

“I . . . I don’t know,” Tiercel said.

Suddenly he felt a terrible urge to just run out of the Temple. He’d been fine for
days
—since they’d left the Three Trees—and fine coming into Sentarshadeen, and into the Guesthouse, and into the Temple, but suddenly he felt his old sick dizziness return.

The Light Priest put an arm around his shoulders. “Come into my robing chamber. We’ll talk there.”

THE Light Priest’s robing chamber was a small room just behind the altar. The walls were hung with robes, but there was a desk and chairs as well. He urged Tiercel into a seat, and quickly poured him a small glass of a bright green cordial. “Sometimes the service is quite long, and I come in here to rest for a bit. The Light does not ask more of a person than he or she is capable of. Drink this. I warn you, it has a vile taste, but it will soon set you right.”

Quickly, Tiercel did as he was bidden. The Light Priest had spoken no more than the truth—the liquid tasted like bitter grass—but his sick weakness quickly faded.

“I am Preceptor Maelgwn. It is an Elven name; outlandish, I know; I was much-teased as a child, but here in Sentarshadeen they
are still sometimes given. I think you are a visitor to our city, for I have never seen you at service before,” Maelgwyn said, taking the decanter and setting it aside. “This is a decoction I brew in my own stillroom to refresh those who have traveled hard and far. But as I say, it does not have a very pleasant taste. Now, how may the Light ease your way?”

Tiercel took a deep breath. After so long, he barely knew how to begin. “My name is Tiercel Rolfort. I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago. My parents brought me. I need . . . I was wondering . . . There was a Wildmage here, then, and you see . . .”

Preceptor Maelgwn pursed his lips. “You know that we are taught that the Wildmages seek out those whom the Wild Magic believes need their help.”

“Yes, I know. But . . . this is different.”

“Is it something that you think you could explain to me, my son?”

“I told them in Armethalieh. I told everyone. My tutors. The doctors. My Preceptor. No one listened.” The bitterness in his voice surprised Tiercel. But it was true. He’d asked for help and everyone had said he didn’t have a problem at all.

“Armethalieh . . . a lovely city, I took my training there. And ‘Rolfort’ is an old Armethaliehan name, of course. Did you tell your parents?”

“Not . . . everything,” Tiercel admitted, blushing. “But it wouldn’t have helped. It’s . . . magic, Preceptor. I have a problem with . . . magic. I swear this to you by the Light.”

Preceptor Maelgwn sat in silence for a moment.

“Many young people just your age come to me every year, Master Rolfort, convinced they have been Called to be Wildmages, and asking me to provide them with the Three Books,” he said quietly. “The Books come as they will. They are not mine—or any Priest’s—to provide.”

Tiercel shook his head. “It’s not that. I can prove it to you, if . . . if you have a candle.”

Preceptor Maelgwn’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. He merely opened a drawer of his desk and removed a fat white candle, silently setting it in the middle of his desk.

Once Tiercel would have been uncertain of his ability to do this, or afraid he would set the entire room on fire. But he had practiced it over and over on the journey here—as much to reassure himself that he wasn’t simply losing his mind as because, well, it was so
convenient
to be able to make a fire quickly whenever you wished. Though it took more effort than it usually did—he was tired, he supposed, just as Maelgwyn had said—he set the candle alight with nothing more than a thought.

Maelgwn took a deep breath. “So you are already a Wildmage.”

“No,” Tiercel said. “I’m something else. There used to be—a long time ago—another kind of magic. A good magic called the High Magick. I don’t know much about it, but I can do, well, this. I don’t really want to try anything else, because all I can find out says that it’s dangerous if you aren’t trained by another High Mage, and they’re all dead. But I need . . . I was hoping . . . I have to find a Wildmage. I need to understand why this has happened to me. I just . . . I’m afraid that something bad will happen. Or maybe it already has.”

Haltingly at first, and then with increasing fluency, Tiercel told his story once again, leaving nothing out. The first spell he had cast. The Lake of Fire. The Fire Woman. The terrible cold at the Three Trees. The sense of being watched. “I don’t know what to do,” he finished.

“You are doing, I believe, all that you can,” Preceptor Maelgwn said quietly. “And it grieves me deeply not to be able to offer you help. But so far as we of the Temple know, no Wildmage has come to Sentarshadeen in many years. You will have to continue north, and hope one comes to you.”

“But—” Tiercel said. He’d been so sure that there’d be a Wildmage in Sentarshadeen!

“You may stay here in Sentarshadeen as long as you wish, of course. But from all you have said, I think it would be best if you slept in the Temple itself. I shall have a bed prepared here in this room. We will hope that the sanctity of the Eternal Light will protect you.”

Tiercel nodded reluctantly. “Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer.”

He found Harrier in the Refectory at one of the long tables. Harrier was eating as if his last meal had been days before and his next one was likely to be days away, but he stopped as soon as he saw Tiercel’s face.

“No Wildmages,” he said, guessing.

“No,” Tiercel said levelly. “I talked to Preceptor Maelgwn. He thinks I should ride north and hope one of them finds me.”

“North?” Harrier said blankly. “That would be . . .”

“North,” Tiercel finished. “And that means not going home.”

“Have some cheese,” Harrier said.

“SO what do you want to do?” Harrier asked.

The two of them had left the Temple grounds and were walking through the streets of Sentarshadeen. Neither of them had any particular destination in mind, but it was a warm late afternoon in an unfamiliar city, and with nothing else to do, Harrier had suggested they might as well see the sights.

“I guess I’ll go north,” Tiercel said, after a long pause. “At least there aren’t any people there.”

“Well, I
did
want to see Fort Halacira and Kellen’s Bridge,” Harrier said. “And then . . . what? Ondoladeshiron? Ysterialpoerin? How far are you going to go?”

“Until I find a Wildmage who can explain all of this to me,” Tiercel said evenly. “Or I die.”

“Die?”
Harrier said blankly. He stared at Tiercel for a moment,
then grabbed his friend’s arm and dragged him back against a building, out of the flow of traffic along the busy street. “You’re not going to die. You’ve been lots better since we left Armethalieh, and—”

“And all the books I read about High Mages were from the time of the High Mages, and just
assumed
I knew the whole story. They left a lot out. But there’s one thing they all hint at. The Magegift starts like a fever; that’s how it was recognized in the old days. After that, it either had to be trained, or destroyed. Or—” He stopped.

“Or?”

“Or whoever had it died.”

Harrier stared at him for a long moment, his hazel eyes wide. Then he blew out a deep breath. “Okay. We find a Wildmage. And maybe you can train yourself. I mean, there had to be a first High Mage, didn’t there? Who trained him?”

“Train myself
how
?”

“Well, you’ve got all those notes . . .” Harrier’s voice trailed off to a stop. “You’re not going to die,” he said firmly. “I won’t let you.”

Tiercel smiled, just a little. If sheer stubbornness could solve the problem, Harrier would solve it.

“So what are we going to tell our parents?” Harrier added. “Because we obviously aren’t going to be home at the end of the moon-turn. And don’t tell me
I
can go back. I’m not going back without you to explain things to your mother. Or mine.”

Tiercel sighed. “I’ll think of something before we leave.”

IT was nearly Evensong by the time they’d reached the horse-market. They’d come to an agreement that even though they were going on, they would return the mules to Armethalieh just as they’d planned; their journey would go faster on horseback, anyway.

Tiercel wasn’t sure how much horses cost, but even if he didn’t have enough money left in his purse to cover the cost, there was a bank here, and he was sure he could get an advance on his allowance there. And maybe Simera would know what they’d need to buy for an extended trip to . . . nowhere.

It was summer, so the horse-market would not close until First Night Bells: the Second Hour of Night, as it was otherwise reckoned, though in summer it would be only an hour or so after sunset, and the sky would still be light. They had a little time to look around before going to meet Simera for the evening meal at the Temple Guesthouse.

As they walked, Tiercel asked the prices of riding horses, and realized that a Golden Sun—he had two left—would be more than enough to buy two of most of the animals here.

“These look good,” Harrier said uncertainly.

They were stopped before a line of horses whose coats all gleamed. Knots of ribbon were braided into their manes and tails, and they wore halters of brightly-dyed leather. As Harrier stepped forward, the nearest animal tossed his head and stepped back.

“The finest animals in all Sentarshadeen, young sir,” the horse-seller said, coming forward and placing a hand on the skittish animal’s neck. He was a burly Centaur of middle years, with a full russet beard as elaborately-braided as any of his charges’ tails.

“In fact, I venture to say, you could find no faster nor more spirited beast were you to venture to Vardirvoshanon itself! You seek a fine riding horse?”

“Two horses, actually,” Tiercel said.

“And not these horses, Garan,” a familiar voice said behind them.

“Simera,” Garan said. He sounded disappointed.

“ ‘Simera,’ you old horse-leech,” she agreed, stepping forward. “Still glossying up wind-broken nags and attempting to pass them off as prime stock, I see?”

“Now, Simera,” Garan said coaxingly, “you know I would never—”

“Oh, certainly not,” she agreed. She glanced at the horse Harrier had first approached, the one who was still sidling and tossing his head. “Sometimes you offer up half-wild beasts with no manners at all. Of course, their new owners don’t realize that until whatever potion you’ve given the poor beast has worn off. But that’s hardly your fault, is it? Come on, boys. There are other dealers in the market to buy from.”

“But isn’t that
dishonest
?” Tiercel asked, when they were walking back the other way.

Simera shrugged. “Only a fool goes to the horse-market to buy without knowing anything about horses. And Garan’s reputation is well-known.” She glanced sideways at Tiercel, raising her eyebrows in a silent question.