The Unwelcome Warlock

half-dozen most southerly mountains from the rest of the range. Sterren was fairly sure that marked the boundary between Calimor and Eknissamor; those cliffs made it impossible to cross directly from one nation to the other without using magic. To the east a kingdom called Yaroia extended from the foothills out onto the plain, and there were roads from Yaroia to both Calimor and Eknissamor, while to the west were similar routes through Gajamor, one of the largest of the Small Kingdoms. Up in the mountains, though, there was no non-magical way across that rift.

Calimor was a very small country, and it was only moments before Vond and Sterren were across the border valley and into Eknissamor. The mountains to the west grew steadily higher, blocking more and more of the sunset and subsequent twilight; the foothills to the east were larger, as well. There was no broad, fertile plain here, as there was back in southern Lumeth or in Thanoria; there were rocky uplands where sheep grazed between stony outcroppings.

Then, as full night should have been falling, Sterren noticed a glow in the sky — but not to due east, as the sunrise should be, nor due west, where the sun had set; it was to the northeast. A few minutes later they came in sight of the source.

“The Tower of Flame,” Sterren said.

It was a column of bright orange flame roaring upward into the night sky, easily a hundred and fifty feet high; as they neared it the mountain air lost its chill, and when they stopped about fifty yards away Sterren could feel its warmth on his face, as if he were standing right beside an ordinary fire.

This was no ordinary fire, though; quite aside from its size, it was burning on solid rock, with no visible fuel. The pillar of flame rose from a patch of bare stone perhaps a dozen yards down from the summit of a good-sized mountain — good-sized, but not particularly steep; the long-ago wizard who lit the fire could have reached the site on foot, without any magical assistance.

The entire peak was bare stone. They were well above the timberline, and had left the grazing sheep behind; nothing of any size lived this far up. This was the central ridge of the Southern Mountains, not far from the highest peaks.

Those highest mountains were faintly visible in the darkness to the northwest, where they formed a virtually impassable barrier between Ansumor to the west and Swezmor to the east; Vond and Sterren were close enough that the mountains would have been plainly visible in daylight, towering over them. Even by night, they could be made out as black shapes, darker than the sky and untroubled by stars.

Here in northern Eknissamor the peaks were lower, and the slopes were still gentle enough to be climbed without any magic or special equipment, and according to legend some wizard, long ago, had stopped here for the night. He or she had used a trivial little spell to light a campfire on the eastern slope of a mountain.

The spell had gone spectacularly wrong, though, and the immense fire was still burning, centuries later. The dozen sticks of firewood the wizard had brought had been consumed in the first few seconds, and the magical flame had been burning without fuel ever since.

It was famous. People came from far away to see it — as Vond and Sterren were seeing it now. There were roads leading down to the capital towns of Eknissamor in the east, Ansumor in the west, and Luvannion to the southwest, and sometimes those roads were almost crowded.

Sightseers generally did not come here this time of year, though; the risk of being caught in a winter storm was too great. Spring was a much safer season for a visit. Visitors would come up in tens and twenties and set up camp around the Tower of Flame, observing it throughout the day, so they could see it against the daylit sky, could compare it to sunrise and sunset, and could see how it lit up the night sky.

There were few signs of those camps, though; the guides generally tried to keep the area clean, and of course, there were no ashes or scorch-marks from campfires — why bother to build any lesser fire when that was available? Cooking one’s dinner in it was part of the experience, and required nothing but the food and a very long stick.

Vond and Sterren hung in the air, staring at the flames and feeling the heat wash over them.

“It’s impressive,” Sterren said.

“It is,” Vond agreed.

After a long moment of silence, Vond added, “It takes a lot of energy to do that. It’s been burning for a century?”

“Eight hundred years,” Sterren said.

“That long?”

“So they say.”

“A wizard did it?”

“Yes.”

Vond fell silent again, but eventually said, “I’m not afraid of the Wizards’ Guild.”

Sterren resisted the impulse to glance at his companion or show any sign of surprise or concern. Vond’s comment hardly followed directly from anything they had said, but its roots were plain enough. “So I understand,” Sterren said.

“I’m not afraid of them,” Vond repeated, “but they do have some powerful magic. They did that.” He pointed toward the flame.

“Yes,” Sterren said.

“I don’t think they could kill me as easily as they think, but there’s no reason to anger them if I don’t need to.”

“Of course not.”

“They banned warlocks from the empire?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Including me?”

Sterren hesitated. “I do not recall whether you were mentioned specifically,” he said. “After all, you had been Called; we didn’t think your return would be an issue.”

Vond nodded. “I could fight them — but why should I? I only went to Semma in the first place to avoid the Calling; I never wanted to stay there, not if I had a choice. If the Guild doesn’t want me there, why should I argue?”

“I don’t know,” Sterren said helplessly.

“They don’t frighten me, and I don’t believe they’re anywhere near as powerful as they pretend to be, but what’s the point of antagonizing them?” He was staring at the Tower of Flame as he spoke, and Sterren thought there was something odd in his tone, as if he were trying to convince himself of something.

The question didn’t seem to need an answer, so Sterren said nothing.

“Sterren, do you have a warlock’s sight?” Vond asked.

“Do...” Sterren hesitated, trying to guess what answer Vond wanted to hear, but could not decide what would be safest. He settled for the truth. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Not really.”

Vond glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

Sterren felt trapped, but he still saw no reason not to be honest. “I don’t see all the little bits of everything, the way some warlocks say they do, but sometimes I can...I don’t know how to describe it. I can tell how something is moving, and where the strains are.”

Vond nodded. “That’s how it starts,” he said. “But you can’t see heat?”

“Not any more than anyone else. If the air ripples, I can see that.”

“No, that’s the air. I meant the heat itself.”

“No, I can’t see that.”

“You’ve been a warlock for fifteen years, and you haven’t learned to see energy?”

“I never tried to,” Sterren protested. “I never wanted to. I didn’t want to be Called.”

Vond glanced at him curiously. “You didn’t want to be a warlock?”

“Why would I? I was your regent! Who needed dangerous magic on top of that?”

“So you’re a coward?”

Sterren’s head jerked back, but then he relaxed. There was no reason to let Vond’s words upset him. No one had dared to call him a coward in a very long time, but when one looked at it realistically, there was some truth in the accusation.