The Testing (4 page)

“A pity about your brother,” said Luthair.

Corthain shrugged. “He was a fool.” 

They seemed surprised at that.

“He was,” said Corthain. “I loved him, of course. But he should have listened to me. He shouldn’t have ordered the attack. If he had…perhaps he would still be alive. And all those other men. But he did not.” 

“You’ve…no other family?” said Rikon.

“A sister,” said Corthain. “If she’s still alive. But she was an Initiate when I left. She’d be a full Adept now, assuming she survived the Testing…that’s the trial Initiates undergo to become full Adepts. It kills about half of the Initiates. But she blamed me for Solthain’s death, and I doubt she’s changed her mind in the last twelve years.” 

“So you won’t see them at all?” said Rikon.

“No,” said Corthain. “My father already hates me, and the fact that I’m a Callian domn now would only enrage him. And my sister…no, I’m only here for business. Not to dig up the ghosts of the past. Speaking of which, we ought to get to work. Luthair. Tell me more about the seneschals.”

Luthair rubbed his hands together, and began to speak.

It was the future that concerned Corthain now. Not the past. And his family was part of the past. 

Chapter 5 - The Summons

“Well, then,” said Corthain, lifting his goblet. “To…opportunities, shall we say?”

He sat at a table in the Great Market, where the foreign merchants came to do business, and where the Conclave's seneschals came to sell the enchanted objects manufactured the Ring's foundries. Stalls and booths crammed the vast square, and the hubbub of a thousand negotiations filled the air. It was said that you could buy and sell anything under the sun in the Great Market. Corthain had passed a man selling spelllamps, another selling scrolls, and another selling virgin girls who had never known the touch of a man, or so he claimed. 

In Callia, Corthain would have hung him for that.

The man on the other side of the table lifted his own goblet. He wore a fur-lined black coat and a golden chain of office around his neck, and his gray hair and neat-trimmed goatee gave him a look of shrewd respectability. He was Salorin, the chief seneschal of the Ring, the man responsible for clothing, housing, and feeding the Adepts.

And provided them with wine.

Salorin drank, swished the wine around his mouth for a moment, and sighed. “This is indeed very fine, my lord. Very fine. Where did you say your domnium was?”

“Moiria,” said Corthain. “In the hill country of southwestern Callia. Quite a lovely place.”

“Rather different from Araspan, I imagine,” said Salorin. 

“Easier to grow grapes, for one,” said Corthain.

Salorin laughed. “A source of constant vexation to me, my lord. The Adepts have an insatiable thirst for wine, yet the Isle’s climate is ill-suited to the growing of grapes. So we must import wine from Orlanon and Saranor. The expense, as I’m sure you can imagine, is considerable.” 

“Perhaps the vintners of my domnium may be of service in that matter,” said Corthain. 

Salorin gave a thin smile and set aside the goblet. “I will be frank with you, my lord. I am here mostly out of curiosity. Everyone in the city knows the story of your banishment. You should have died in obscurity on some distant shore. Instead, you rallied the armies of the West to victory at the Battle of Dark River, and you’ve become a renowned hero. And now you are here, selling wine.”

Corthain shrugged. “It’s hardly remarkable. When I was banished, I had to make my own fortune. And captaining one’s own mercenary company can be quite lucrative. As for Dark River…I was in the right place at the right time. I did what was necessary. After all, if the Jurgurs had won at Dark River, they would have sacked Callia and Orlanon and Saranor and every other nation of the West. You’d have a rather difficult time purchasing wine then.” 

“True enough,” said Salorin, taking another sip of wine. 

“As for selling wine, the King of Callia rewarded me with a title and lands after the battle,” said Corthain. “And that may be an honor, but it comes with responsibilities. The people of my domnium require a domn who will look after their interests.”

“A strange attitude from an Araspani nobleman,” said Salorin.

“I was banished, remember,” said Corthain. “Now I am a Callian domn. And in Callia they do things differently. The individual freeholders expect their domn to defend them and see to their interests, and may withdraw their support if he fails." 

“What a curious notion,” said Salorin. “Here the Adepts claim to protect us from demons, and therefore have the right to do whatever they wish.” He sighed and set down the goblet. “This is indeed very fine wine. However, there are some...difficulties in purchasing it.”

Corthain smiled. He had been expecting this.

“Oh?” he said.

“We already have contracts with vintners in Orlanon and Saranor,” said Salorin.

“For wines of inferior quality, I am sure,” said Corthain. “When I was still a mercenary, they said if you had a choice between drinking horse piss or Orlanish wine, go with the horse piss.”

Salorin gave a brief smile. “Indeed. And the Orlanish wine must be mixed to be palatable in any case. But it is cheap, and plentiful. As for fine wines, for special occasions…Saranian wine is the finest in the world, no question.” 

“You mentioned difficulties,” said Corthain. “There are others?”

“Well…forgive me for mentioning what may be a sensitive matter, but there is your father, the Magister Arthain,” said Salorin. “I assume that you and he are not…amicable?”

“We haven’t spoken in twelve years,” said Corthain. 

“I suspect he would not be pleased if he found the Conclave purchasing wines from you,” said Salorin.

“Indeed?   Have you ever spoken with my father?” said Corthain. “When has he ever concerned himself with the management of a household? That is the business of slaves and seneschals, not of a lord and Magister.”

“True enough,” said Salorin. “But this almost certainly the finest wine you have to offer, and the Saranian wines are better. Which means that your common wine is little better than the Orlanish horse piss you mentioned. So, alas, my lord, I fear that we have little to discuss.” 

“Your cleverness does your credit,” said Corthain. “Still, there is one other thing I would like you to taste before we conclude. Consider it a parting gift.”

Salorin gave him an indulgent smile. “If you wish.”

“Luthair.” Luthair stepped out from behind Rikon and the other guards, bearing another goblet of wine. Salorin took it and peered into its depths.

“What’s this?” he said at last. “Another wine?”

“Taste for yourself,” said Corthain, leaning back in his chair. 

Salorin shrugged and took a sip.

At once his eyes grew wide. He sloshed the wine around in his mouth for a moment, and then swallowed. 

“This…” he said. 

He took another sip, tasted it, swallowed.

“This is exquisite,” he said at last. “Where did you get it?”

“Why, from my domnium, of course,” said Corthain, smiling. “I fear I may not have been entirely clear. The wines you tasted earlier were the common ones from my freeholders. They drink those wines every day. This wine…this wine is the choice wine, the rare wine. Saved for special occasions only.” 

Salorin stared at him, blinking.

“I should point out,” said Corthain, “that I can offer the common wine, the wine you thought almost as good as the Saranian vintages, for the same price as that Orlanish horse piss. Perhaps for even slightly cheaper, if you are particularly persuasive.” 

Salorin laughed, and lifted the goblet in salute. “My lord. Shall we turn our discussion to more…substantive matters?”

They got down to business.

###

“The look on his face,” crowed Luthair, walking next to Rikon. “I thought his eyes were going to pop right out of his head. I swear it was all I could do not to laugh.”

“It’s just as well you didn’t,” said Corthain, stopping next to the wagon. Two more of his guards stood watch over the casks. Corthain would not have put it past some of Araspan's bolder thieves to snatch the entire wagon, horses and all. “It would have rather ruined the effect.”

“My lord domn!” said Luthair with an air of injured pride. “You wound me. I was swindling noblemen out of their money when you were still learning which end of the sword was the pointy one, begging your pardon.” His grin returned. “Though that was cleverly done.” 

“It will help,” said Corthain. “Noble-born Adepts are the most influential men and women in Araspan. If they take a liking to our wines, the other Adepts and lords will follow suit, sure as night follows days.”

“Or as stink follows shit,” grumbled Rikon. The more he saw of Araspan, the less he liked it. Corthain could hardly blame him. 

“Come,” said Corthain. “We’ve more meetings yet today.” 

###

Corthain spent most of the day talking to seneschals. Some ignored him altogether. Some wanted bribes, which Corthain refused to pay. Some were resistant, and some simply enjoyed elaborate verbal fencing. Fortunately, the contract with Salorin gave Corthain a strong bargaining chip. By the end of the day, out of twenty-three separate meetings, he had secured eleven contracts, all of them lucrative. And he might yet secure more. When Salorin's decision became public, more seneschals might change their mind and decide to purchase wine from Moiria, just to hedge their bets. 

“A successful day, my lord domn,” said Rikon as they walked alongside the wagon. “Truly, I did not think we would do so well.”

“Bah,” said Luthair. “You forget. Our lord domn is almost quite as clever as I am.” 

“Now there’s a compliment,” said Corthain. The last visit of the day had taken them to the wealthiest district of Araspan, located at the foot of the mountain spur supporting the Ring. Dozens of towers crowded the space, each more ornate and ostentatious than the last. The sun was slipping down behind the mountain, and shadows lay thick across the entire district. Orange-clad slaves hurried back and forth, doing their masters’ errands. 

Quite a few Jurgur slaves, come to think of it. Not surprising, given how the slave traders had descended upon the shattered remnants of the Jurgur horde after Dark River…

“Huh,” said Rikon, looking to the side. “You’d think they would clean up the rubble.”

“Rubble?” said Corthain, snapping out of his reverie. 

“Aye,” said Rikon. “That tower, over there. It’s fallen to pieces.”

“Not fallen,” said Corthain, memories welling up. “Blasted.”

The broken tower stood some distance away, jutting from the earth like a lightning-struck tree. Most of the towers had lush grounds, with bushes and trimmed gardens circling their base. This tower had gardens of blackened rubble, twisted steel, and scorched ground. It had been twelve years, Corthain thought. Twelve years, and still no living thing grew on the broken rubble of Paulus’s tower. It was as if his magic had blighted the very ground itself. 

Luthair frowned. “Is that…”

“It is,” said Corthain. “That was Paulus’s tower.” 

Corthain noted that the slaves took care to avoid the place. No doubt it still had an evil reputation, even after all these years.

“Right there,” said Corthain, pointing at the street. “I tried to dissuade Solthain. He wouldn’t listen. And there.” He pointed at the steps leading to the rubble-choked archway. “Solthain called for Paulus to come out and surrender himself. Paulus answered by loosing his ghouls upon us. We fought our way into the tower. The balcony…there…” Corthain frowned. The balcony was gone. No doubt it had been destroyed with the top two-thirds of the tower. “When I woke up, I was lying on the ground, over there. The Magisters struck then. They ripped the tower to pieces. It would have killed me, if that boulder hadn’t landed just so.” He gestured at a boulder jutting from the barren ground. The side facing the ruined tower looked as if it had melted. “It shielded me from the fire.” 

The memories tore at him, sharp as any knife. The screams of his men as the ghouls and Paulus’s spells ripped them apart. Solthain shouting in defiant challenge, his voice disappearing in the roar of magical flames. Lying in agony amidst the rubble, waiting for a death that never came. His father’s rage and contempt, and the tribunal before the Magisters. And the Swords escorting him to a ship. 

“My lord?” 

Corthain blinked. “What?”

“Perhaps we should move on,” said Luthair. “I’m sure you have better things to do than to stare at some old ruins.” 

“Yes…you’re right,” said Corthain. “Let’s go.”

The wagons rumbled back into motion, and Corthain walked alongside them, hand squeezed into a fist. It had been twelve years. He had seen a lot of things since then, some of it worse than the horrors Paulus had unleashed. Yet sometimes, when he thought of Solthain, the grief came anew. If only he had gotten Solthain to listen. If only. 

He thought of Thalia then. They had been close, once, though she blamed him for Solthain’s death. But what had happened to her?   Had she died in the Testing?

He made a decision.

“Rikon,” said Corthain. “Take the wagons back to the warehouse. I’ll be along shortly. Luthair, come with me. The streets of Araspan aren’t safe at night for one man alone.”

Luthair grinned. “More memories, my lord?”

“Something like that,” said Corthain.

###

He came to the tower of House Kalarien as the twilight became night. Spelllamps lit the street, at least here in the wealthier parts of Araspan, and illuminated House Kalarien’s ancestral tower. It was one of the oldest in the city, two hundred feet of polished red granite. Statues stood in niches in the walls, depicting Kalariens who had done great things in centuries past. Acres of trimmed gardens surrounded the tower, and Swords in Kalarien cloaks of green and black patrolled the grounds. 

“So,” said Luthair. “We’re just going to drop in for a visit with your father?”

“No,” said Corthain. “I’d prefer not to see my father at all. I…merely want to know what become of my sister.”

“To pay her a visit?” said Luthair.

“No,” said Corthain. “She blamed me for Solthain’s death. I doubt she wants to see me. Besides, if she became an Adept, no doubt she is as cruel and arrogant as the rest of them. And if she didn’t survive the Testing…I simply want to know what happened to her.”

He stopped before the gates to the grounds. A Sword stood there, hand hovering just near the sheathed blade in his belt.

“Aye?” said the Sword, eyes glinting behind his helm. “You have business here?”

“This is the tower of House Kalarien?” said Corthain.

“So you’re new to the city, then?” said the Sword. He seemed to puff up a little. “Aye, this is the tower of Arthain Kalarien, Magister of the Conclave and Lord Governor of the city. You must indeed be new, if you don’t know the name.” 

“Does Lord Arthain have any children?” said Corthain.

“He does, two sons…or he did, I suppose,” said the Sword. “The eldest fell in battle some twelve years ago. The second was banished for cowardice…but have you heard the name of Corthain Kalarien?” 

Luthair's lips twitched. “You know, I think I have.”

“I was at the Battle of Dark River,” said the Sword. “Part of the deputation the Conclave sent to fight the barbarians. The Jurgur scum smashed our host, and would have won, but Lord Corthain took command, and won a great victory.” The Sword shrugged. “Hard to see how such a man could be a coward.”