The Magician’s Apprentice

sweet and fermented.

As the men began to voice their farewells, she forced her gaze to the ground. What she had learned about the other men made her want to stare at them. Then she noticed Chavori. The women had said nothing about the young man, except that he had recently returned from a journey to the mountains and would talk for hours about it if allowed to. He looked very drunk, she noticed. Even leaning against the wall he seemed unable to keep his balance easily.

She felt Kachiro stir. “What do you think of our young friend?” he murmured.

“I haven’t spoken to him.”

“But he is good-looking, don’t you think?”

She glanced up at Kachiro. Was this a poorly disguised test of her loyalty?

“He might be, if he wasn’t completely drunk.”

He laughed. “Indeed.” Looking up at Chavori, his eyes narrowed in assessment and approval. “I do not mind if you find him attractive,” he said, very quietly. He looked down at her again.

She looked back at him. His expression was expectant and curious. And, if she was reading him correctly, hopeful.

“I could never find him as handsome as you,” she told him.

His smile broadened and he turned away as Motara spoke his name.

What is he up to? she wondered. Is he testing me, or looking for a way for me to become pregnant? Does he have a reason to avoid siring a child?

She pondered this through the last of the farewells, on the way through the house to their wagon, and all the way home. During the journey she was acutely conscious of Vora clinging on to the wagon behind her. She itched to discuss everything with the slave. When she finally extracted herself from Kachiro’s company and retired to the bedroom, the information she’d planned to give spilled out too quickly and all jumbled together.

“Wait!” Vora exclaimed. “Are you saying he’s picked out a lover for you?”

“Not... exactly. He just said he didn’t mind if I found Chavori attractive.”

Vora nodded. “Ah,” was all she said.

“You don’t look surprised,” Stara observed.

“I have learned a great deal about your new husband’s friends and their wives.”

“About Sharina’s husband beating her, and Dashina’s having a taste for diseased pleasure slaves?” Stara asked.

“Yes.” Vora nodded. “And it’s no secret among the slaves that Vikaro wants to get rid of Aranira. They don’t like Chiara’s chances of living through this pregnancy, either.”

Stara sighed and nodded. “I thought my situation was bad, but now I can see that other Sachakan women have far worse lives.”

“They’re still better off than female slaves,” Vora reminded her. She looked away. “Cursed to be used for pleasure if beautiful, bred like animals if not. Their children taken and set to work too young. Girl children killed if there are too many already. Beaten, whipped, or mutilated as punishment, with no effort taken to find out if they committed the crime or not. Worked to death . . .” Vora drew in a deep breath and let it out, then straightened and turned to face Stara. “Or, worse still, handed over as a wedding gift to tend to the whims of a magician’s wife with no idea of Sachakan manners or her proper place in society.”

Stara made a rude noise. “You enjoy it. Admit it.” She paused. “How are your hands? I hope you weren’t stung too badly.”

Vora’s lips thinned, but Stara could tell she was pleased. “My hands will be a little stiff tomorrow. I have a paste for the stings.”

Yet Vora did not seem at all pained. Her movements suggested a repressed excitement. Stara watched the woman move about the room, restless and efficient.

“You seem unusually pleased with yourself tonight,” she remarked.

Vora stopped and looked up in surprise. “I do?”

Stara considered the woman’s expression. Was that surprise, or dismay? She couldn’t tell.

She shook her head. “So what should I do?” she asked. “If my husband does want me to bed pretty Chavori, should I?”

Vora’s expression became thoughtful. As the woman began to list the possibilities aloud, and their consequences, Stara felt an unexpected surge of affection and gratitude.

One day, she thought, I am going to repay her for all her help. I’m not sure how yet. I’d give her her freedom, but I’m not sure she’d take it. And besides, I need her with me.

She smiled. The best I can do for now is consider all her advice, and treat her as little like a slave as possible.

To Jayan it felt as if they had been travelling in circles. The last day had been a repeat of the same scene, over and over.

The army had risen at dawn, packed and waited while the leaders deliberated. Then a message spread that they would retreat further south-east towards Imardin. Magicians, apprentices and servants travelled west until they reached the main road, then continued on towards Imardin, setting a pace that always seemed both excruciatingly slow and immorally fast. Slow, because all were conscious of the Sachakan army following. Fast, because every step they took meant giving up land to the enemy.

Each time they passed through a village or a town, the occupants came out to greet them, awed at the number of magicians visiting their home but anxious about what it meant. They did not always take kindly to orders that they leave their homes and flee the advancing army. But most understood warnings that every person who stayed behind would not only be killed, but add to the enemy’s strength. People had begun to regard avoiding evacuation as an act of treachery, as bad as returning to steal from abandoned homes. More than a few times, Jayan observed villagers chasing down those who refused to leave, tying them up and throwing them into carts.

The magicians encouraged the villagers to collect what food and livestock could be gathered quickly and take it with them. They didn’t want to leave the enemy anything that could be eaten or provide magical strength. More important, we’ll need supplies to feed our people, Jayan thought. The Sachakans don’t have increasing numbers of ordinary folk to care for. They’ll probably manage to scrounge up enough food, but we aren’t going to make it easy for them.

Hearing a smothered sound, Jayan turned to look at Mikken. A glint of light reflected out of the corners of the apprentice’s eyes.

“Are you all right?” Jayan asked.

Mikken glanced at him. “Yes.” His jaw tightened, then he sighed. “We just passed the place my family used to visit in summer, when I was a boy. How much more are we going to let them burn and wreck?”

“As much as we have to,” Jayan replied.

“I can’t help wishing the king would hurry up.”

Jayan nodded in agreement. Dakon had told him the army would have to keep retreating until it met the king, who was bringing the last of Kyralia’s magicians with him. Jayan suspected they might also retreat further in order to give the Elyne magicians, travelling down from the north to offer their assistance, time to reach them.

Looking ahead, Jayan saw that Tessia was riding beside Lord Dakon, as she had these last few days. It was to be expected: she was Dakon’s sole apprentice now. Jayan felt a tiny thrill. I am a higher magician now. Independent. In charge of my own life. Able to earn money in exchange for magical tasks.

A pity it had to happen in the middle of a war.

A new weight rested against his chest, within his tunic. He had no idea where Dakon had found the decorated knife he’d presented to Jayan as part of the ceremony. Blades of that style, with fine scrollwork along the handle, were usually made solely for the use of higher magicians, but where would Dakon have found a craftsman to do it, or the time? Had he been carrying it all along, anticipating that he would grant Jayan his independence soon?

Jayan considered the information Dakon had given him. Higher magic had been surprisingly simple to learn, once he’d stopped trying to work it out intellectually and consciously, and simply felt how it was done. But it would take some practice before he could use it efficiently.

Mikken had volunteered to be the source for Dakon’s demonstration of higher magic. Jayan had been glad it was not Tessia, as the thought of taking power from her had made him strangely uncomfortable. Yet he also found