The Reach Between Worlds (The Arclight Saga, Book 1) (4 page)

Taro was glad they’d brought food and water with them, as there was not an ounce of either in the wagon, and he never saw Aris eat or drink once during the four day trip.

On the last morning, Taro woke up so early that he was convinced that Aris simply didn’t sleep. When his eyes cracked open he saw the magister in the corner fiddling with his prosthetic.

“That’s mine!” Taro said. He felt like he’d just had a piece of himself stolen. He pulled towards Aris, who either didn’t notice or didn’t care how upset he was.

Aris casually tossed it back to him. “That’s an interesting use of magistry.”

“Please don’t touch it,” Taro pleaded.

“Sorry,” Aris said dismissively. He certainly didn’t sound sorry.

Taro breathed hot air into his fingers. “It just keeps getting colder.”

“Get used to it.”

“I thought Endra Edûn was the City of the Sun,” Taro said. “Y’know, where it’s always daytime every hour of every day.”

“That hasn’t been the case for over a year now.”

“How could it change so much so fast? That’s not natural.”

“Ah,” Aris said, holding up one finger. “It’s the opposite, actually. The cold is natural. The eternal-summer was artificial. The Arclight on top of the Magisterium tower acted like a second sun and kept the countryside lush and temperate for centuries. It also had great healing powers. Quite a remarkable piece of old magic.”

“What happened to it?”

“Humans happened. Give people paradise and they’ll find a way to muck it up. Big surprise. Now, Endra Edûn is miserable city of icy squalor.” Aris pointed at a tiny blip on the foggy horizon. “See that?”

Taro squinted into the flurry of snow. Faint lights were scattered in the distance, framed by ice-capped mountains.

“That’s it.”

Taro leaned back from the window. “Last night Mathan and Halric mentioned someone named Vexis. Sound familiar?”

Aris shook his head but Taro noted a slight hesitation. “Not especially.”

“They want us to break her out of the Magisterium.”

“The magisters would tear you apart before you could take two steps out the cell door.”

“Should turn around then?”

“Go back and your family is as good as dead,” Aris said flatly. “Victor shook your hand and it can’t be un-shaken. This is his game now and, like it or not, you have to play by his rules.”

“Playing by his rules might get me killed.”

“Or worse. You saw that void creature in his cellar. Beings like that only spawn from truly vicious magic.”

“What exactly was it?”

“I can’t say exactly. You may be able to find out in the Magisterium if you’re tactful.”

“Tactful?”

“If you go in yelling about void creatures you might attract unwanted attention. Like I said: tactful.”

Lower City

They passed through acres of frozen farmland as they neared Endra Edûn. Icicles hung off barns and tilling equipment, and frozen cattle carcasses huddled around their feeders as if the area had been abandoned overnight.

Passed these farms was the city. It was built like a fortress, and its smooth white walls stretched from horizon to horizon, surrounding hundreds of tall buildings. In the center was an enormous tower of a different construction than the rest; it reminded Taro of a tree with long metal roots that dug through the city and continued for miles in every direction. All other structures were built to accommodate it: roads went under its roots and bridges spanned over them, and a grand palace with high stained-glass windows wrapped around the base in a semi-circle.

The causeway from the road to the city gate was packed with warders stopping every visitor.

A warder halted their wagon and stepped inside the doorway. “Your business?” he said curtly. He looked positively miserable in the freezing weather. His face was beat red, ice crystals had overtaken his burly beard.

“We’re heading to the Magisterium,” Aris said. “New recruits.”

The guard gave Taro and Nima a significant look. “Auroms and inscribers?”

Nima fished her inscriber out. It was at this moment that Taro realized he’d never gotten one from Mathan.

Aris gave the warder his own inscriber. “This is the boy’s.”

The warder didn’t inspect either of them too thoroughly. “You’re early. Admissions has been moved to tomorrow.”

“Why’s that?” Taro asked.

“Complications.” The warder pointed his thumb at the road. “Keep her movin’.”

The design of the streets was perplexing. Down the center of the road was a frozen canal and rows of dead trees. The buildings had cloth overhands on the outsides, but most were either torn or heavy with snow. Underneath the overpasses were people, apparently homeless, huddled around fires.

The spiraling tower in the center of the city was indeed the Magisterium. This close, its intricacies were more apparent. What at first appeared to be smooth stone was in fact covered with deep flourishes and engravings that covered the entire stone and metal exterior. The panels occasionally shifted like the tower was rearranging itself from the inside out.

Around the base was a perimeter of runes etched into the ground. The lettered glowed a soft blue, and was pointedly avoided by anyone walking nearby.

While the roads to and from the Magisterium were in pristine condition, shoveled and salted, the further they went, the more the wagon struggled through the slush and ice that caked the streets.

Aris road with the door opened and peered out. “We’ve got to be close by now,” he murmured to himself.

“Close to what?” Taro asked.

“The lower city.”

The wagon dipped into a dark tunnel. The closer they got to the end of this tunnel, the warmer it became. They exited into a wide underground plaza buzzing with life. Heat rose from the soil beneath and wires lined with red lights hung from the rusted grates above.

There were three kinds of people in the lower city. The first kind were the destitute; they huddled around lit trash cans and wandered between merchants begging.

The second kind were a step up. They were obviously poor, but not so much as they had to beg. Their clothes were sewn together a half-dozen times, but at least they were clean. These people browsed the merchant wagons to shop with what little they had.

The third kind were people only someone like Taro could identify, as they did their best to blend in with the first two. These were the quick-fingered cutpurses, thieves, and dredges of society that with a mere bump could clear a man of everything in his pockets.

These boys were experts, and they worked in packs. It was like watching theater in action. One would bump into a person from the left, while the other cut the victim’s purse strings. If the victim realized their money was gone, they’d assume it had been the boy who’d bumped into them.

Taro absentmindedly placed his satchel of coins into his shirt and buttoned it up. The wagon came to a stop beside several others in a row of carts beside an inn.

Aris changed into his tattered, smelly rags.

Nima pinched her nose. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Aris fished a nub of coal out of a drawer and smeared it across his face. “It’s my cloak of invisibility.” He strung the pack of junk over his shoulders and ruffled his dark hair into a mess. “Ancient magic. Watch closely.”

They followed Aris out and he made a big show of going up to the first woman he saw. “Excuse me, ma’am...” She hurried away from him with her son in tow.

“Not even a glance,” Aris said. “Truly this is a magic beyond words. I’ll be back in an hour. Use the time to get a room.”

“Can’t we stay with you?” Nima asked.

“Despite the lavish amenities and helpful guest service, my wagon isn’t a hotel. Get moving or sleep in the snow.”

Aris left without another word. Taro and Nima decided to have a look around as they made their way towards the inn adjacent to the carts.

The first cart was owned by a red-haired bard plucking at a six-stringed lute and singing a rather scandalous song. Beside him sat a bowl that listeners tossed iron pennies into.

The next wagon was uncovered and filled to with books. Not scrolls or sheets of parchment on twine loops (both of which were far more common and much less expensive). These were real books, bound in leather and quite valuable. The sign hanging over the side of the cart said, with no apparent sarcasm, ‘damage a book, lose a finger.’ Beside this was a jar of severed fingers floating in thick clear syrup.

The greasy shopkeeper’s eyes scanned his stock like a searchlight, and when they met Taro he slithered towards him. Taro was flipping through a first edition copy of
The Witch of the Well
that had been curiously propped up beside much less valuable books.

“I always thought Dad made that story up,” Nima said.

The shopkeeper placed a boney hand on their shoulders. “You have great taste.”

Taro peered up. “This always scared the living hell out of me.”

“A fiendish curse, a deal with the Old Gods. Not for children, and very expensive. I’d be willing to part with it for three crowns.”

Three crowns was a week’s wages for most men, but this book not only appeared to be an original, the silver bindings on the cover were worth more than that by themselves. Knowing the value of things was something Taro was good at, and the man’s offer was suspicious.

Taro looked at Nima and knew they were both thinking the same thing. He placed the book back on the shelf. “No, thank you.”

The shopkeeper’s voice turned sour. “You’re passing up quite an offer.”

They retreated to a safe distance beside the red-haired lutist and kept an eye on the book cart.

“He was trying to work us,” Nima said as they crouched.

“Without a doubt.”

They waited and a well-dressed woman with her hair in a bun appeared and examined the books until she found the same copy of
The Witch of the Well
. From her expression, it was like stumbling upon a king’s tomb. She leafed through the pages delicately and ran her fingers along the binding.

“Is that my favorite customer?” the shopkeeper said, pretending like he’d only just noticed her. “Moira, I was beginning to think you’d stopped making rounds, things as they are.”

She held up the book and tapped the cover. “How much, Rashkal?”

“For an esteemed customer such as yourself, I could let it go for a paltry twenty crowns.”

She examined it further, checking every ruffled page and frayed corner.

“You’ll find it’s genuine,” Rashkal said.

“Should I find otherwise, I’ll be paying you another visit.” Moira placed twenty silver crowns in the shop keep’s hand.

“You wound me. I’d never dream of cheating you.” He grinned, showing off his long, white teeth.

Taro and Nima watched and waited, following behind Moira as she hurried towards the lower city exit. She placed the book in a large sack (heavy with other books) flung over her shoulder. Then the show began. A boy walked into her and when she fell, he apologized a dozen times. At the same time, another boy casually walked passed. Taro never saw his hands move, but he knew what’d happened.

“Stay here,” Taro said. He charged off and seized the boy just a few feet from where Moira was dusting herself off.

“Let me go!” the boy shouted and struggled.

He was no more than twelve, and Taro was able to hold him without much effort. Tucked under his right arm was the book, and Taro shook it out of his arm.

He pushed him along and the boy ran off. Taro handed the book to Moira. “You should be more careful.”

Moira searched through her bag, utterly dumbfounded that they’d managed to get without her noticing.

“Thank you,” she said graciously.

“It’s an old trick,” Nima said, just catching up.

Taro brushed the dirt off the cover. “Those boys work for the shopkeep. He sells a book for well under its value, and they steal it back.”

“That’s quite an eye you have,” the woman said. “Twenty crowns was too good to be true.”

“It’s worth at least a full sovereign,” Taro said.

“Maybe a sov and a half,” Nima added.

Moira tilted her glasses down and sized the children up. “You know books?”

“I’ve got some experience.” Taro stopped short of mentioning that his experience involved trading stolen ones.

Moira went to grab her purse, but it wasn’t there. She went from red with anger to an exasperated laugh. “There was a time when even the poorest person wouldn’t dare rob a member of the Magisterium.”

“You’re a magister?” Taro said.

“No, I just work there. I catalogue and archive books in the Librarium. Sometimes I visit shops around town looking for new works to add to the collection, but with the Arclight situation it’s become much more difficult.”

“So it will be available there soon?” Taro said.

“As soon as I find a place for it.”

“We’ll be the first to check it out then.”

“I’m afraid the Librarium is only open to members of the Magisterium.”

“We’re doing admissions tomorrow,” Nima said.

Moira looked genuinely surprised. “Both of you?”

“Yes,” Nima said, slightly offended. She flashed her iron aurom. “Is that a problem?”

“Of course not.” She peered down at her book. “Tell you what, hold onto this for me.”

Taro pushed the book away. “I couldn’t.”

“I insist. Bring it to me in the Librarium after you’ve had a chance to read it.”

She dropped the book into Taro’s arms. It was like being trusted with a brick of solid gold. When it became clear that Moira wouldn’t take no for an answer, he thanked her a dozen times and stashed it in Aris’ wagon. Taro ached to take a few minutes to read through the first chapter, but it’d already been over a half-hour since Aris left and they still needed to book a room.

Taro and Nima hurried towards the inn, keeping a fair distance from the Rashkal’s wagon. The shopkeeper looked like he was going to beat the boys senseless.

“I’m going to stay out here and watch the show,” Nima said.

“Stay out of trouble.”

The brass bell on the door jingled as Taro entered. Even inside, he heard Rashkal hurling vulgar insults.

The inside was much more upscale than the outside suggested. Yes, it was very old; the floor beams creaked underfoot and the ceiling sagged like the weight of the top floors was too much for it to handle, but at least it was clean, and the girl at the desk looked friendly.

She was a few years older than Taro, and much too pretty to be working in a place like this. Her hair was bright blonde and cut short like a boy’s. She had two books in her hand, one wedged inside the other. The one on the outside was pulp fiction from some penny-bin, but the book on the inside rode up and its title was visible: Gravidic Magistry: Revised Edition. When she saw Taro, she straightened the books out so that the second one was covered.

“May I help you?” She sounded as though he’d interrupted her.

“I’m looking for a room.”

She set her books face-down. Beside her were small square shelves, each with a different number and a hook inside. Half had room keys dangling from them.

Taro realized he’d been staring at her and snapped his glanced towards her books. “Are you studying for the term?” he asked hastily.

“Term?”

“For the Magisterium. I saw you reading—"

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Taro gave his best smile. “Ah, that’s too bad. I thought you could give me some pointers for admissions.”

“You’re going through admissions?” she said in a hushed voice, though they were the only two in the room.

Taro nodded.

“You’re not from around here are you?”