LoC1-2: The Genius

It was cold.

One would think Cassian would have gotten used to the cold at the White Tower, the edge of the north, where cold bites like a pack of wolves. But he was Ascadian by birth, and from the Strand, where it never freezes even in winter.

"Master," he whispered, so as not to interrupt the proceedings. "Must I attend this? Work remains undone, and the prattle of nobles is beneath our kind."

Wizard Borsyr answered him only with a swat at his wrist. The old medicus could hurt as well as heal, it seemed; with barely the strength to swat a fly, he sent pain up through his apprentice's wrist. Cassian would have cried out, had his breath not fled him at the sting of it. The old magus had explained once the nexus points of the body, where flows of vital energy gather. They were crucial to the working of magic, but were also vulnerabilities if not protected. The way of the Brothers of St. Kord, among others, could exploit this knowledge, so a man unarmed could easily fell the strongest brute with a well-placed finger. Perhaps the old man had been a monk in another life. That alone might explain his resolve, standing for hours unmoving in the cold, despite his frailty, while his boy shivered to his core.

Honorius Cassianus Belisarius was not made for such things. His father may have wished to conjure the spirit of a great warrior from his ancestry, but what he got was a bookish and meek thing. Nevermind that the boy's intellect went unmatched by any of the tutors his family could afford. The House of Cassianus is old and proud, his father would say, disapprovingly, as he led him through the room of faces. The death masks of every Cassian past were arrayed before him, and he would be quizzed on their names and deeds. His mind was like a steel trap, and wouldn't have granted his father the satisfaction of catching him in an error, but always there was something about his manner that earned the man's ire anyway.

"Titus Cassianus Melus," he recited dispassionately. "Born 718 by the Grand Chronology. Won the Salted Isle from the seal-men of Kravos. Died age 44 in bed, of venereal disease from his whore." His father had struck him harshly, but it gave the boy some satisfaction to know how easily he could offend the man's pride.

"Your ancestors were bold and brave. Why should we have coin for your books and scrolls, if not for their deeds? Would you besmirch legacy with craven japes? Which conquests do you claim to mock them so?" His ancestors were indeed bold, the bravest of brutes and sellswords. The name Cassianus would not be found on the Seven Stones, nor on any mausoleum in the City of the Dead in old Avila. His was a house of opportunists and adventurers, who seized power and wealth from others, and had gotten enough generations of heirs to trade their history for a noble name. During the Wars of the False Kings, the realm had need of steel and men to wield it, and in the aftermath many were rewarded with noble titles and lands--lands conquered from barbarians, poor lands barely worth farming or mining. These new nobles were not of the Isles and would never so much as lick the boots of the humblest Senator, so at best they enjoy being called "my lord" by outlanders who prefer such styles.

Still, his father's pride would never relent to reason and hard truths, so he sent him away, and none too soon. In truth, Cassian never aspired to wizardry, but he saw an opportunity there that had eluded him in his other studies. Without a whit of sorcerous blood or talent, he could nonetheless master the words, and rituals, and symbols of magical power. The first "spell" he wrought was nothing more than theater and a few alchemist's tricks. He'd been hoping his father's superstitious nature would win out, and he was not disappointed. Neither cried or lingered long at their parting, when the boy was sent away to the White Tower.

And there, he found kindred spirits. Men of learning, lifelong students who adored knowledge, ever sought wisdom, and found peace in their books. There was all the time in the world, and what seemed like at least half the reading material. But his mummery had been cleverer than he knew, and he soon learned that wizardry was much as his imitation of it had been: nine parts knowledge, nine parts theater, and a pinch of real magic. He was a natural. A genius, even, were anyone to ask his own opinion.

He had come to the Tower at fourteen years, far older than most, but barely four years later, he had already undertaken the Divination of Purpose and had been stoled as a Seeker. He was certain the council would assign him to a master of the Mages Scholar--it was not as if he were suited for battle, nor showed the patience for inscriptions and enchantments, nor the stomach for healing and chirurgery. The choice was plain, it seemed to him. And so it must have seemed to the council, for in their dark humor, they had chosen him for Wizard Borsyr, Steward to House Frisjar of Menendras.

The Mages Steward advise the lords of the realms of Man in all matters. Their superior learning gives them wisdom and insight not to be found in any of their lieutenants or servants, and their craft gives them the ability to communicate at great distances. And with a "court wizard", as some simple folk liked to call them, the lords found a staunch defender against sorcery and witchcraft, that might otherwise be the undoing of the strongest men. The mages protected their lords from all things magical, and gave them invaluable counsel to handle threats of that nature. When Borsyr declared him ready, Cassian would undergo the Five Trials, and should he pass, he would become such a protector, to serve some lord until the end of his days.

From one noble lord's home to another. Hundreds of miles from the Tower and its vast libraries. Was this to be his life?

As if to sling salt into his wounds, the gods had decided to appoint him to a wizard who didn't even have a lord. Borsyr was aide to Jarla Mynie Frisjar, Lady of Morovall, who had been a captive of Soval's Rebellion for years. In all likelihood, she was dead, and life in Alvedon had more or less gotten on without her. Her seat was warmed by one Lord Edric Smalling, Baron of Elford and first among her bannermen. A fine vassal he turned out to be, Cassian had thought to himself upon meeting him. Your lady is gone or dead, and you sit warm in her halls. I wonder how much the Pretender paid you.

He kept such reservations to himself, and with little difficulty. Wizard Borsyr did not often trouble him to speak with his charge directly. Instead, he would delegate menial tasks--delivering a healing potion to the lady's ailing old crone of a mother, scribing a sending to the Tower (and reading the replies, when oft as not the old man's eyes failed him), or, on a particularly enlightening day, watching the Medicus' potions brew while he strained in the privy. Perhaps the old codger though his apprentice would learn through osmosis, for her rarely gave a lesson beyond some non-sequitur quip or riddle. He had hoped to unravel arcane mysteries, to puzzle out magical formulae, or at least to translate ancient texts in one of the seven languages in which he was fluent. It was that last talent that made him any use at all to his master's lord, who occasionaly had need of him to liaise with Ahrimids or Valtans, and once had him listen in on court when Lord Myriel of White Tree presented his daughter to his liege-lord's castellan. He detected no treachery from the elves as they conferred to one another, but he was no sneak or spy...they couldn't but take notice of him, and had they any dark words to whisper, they'd probably done so well out of his hearing.

Truth be told, the men of Lady Frisjar's court were a lot of boors. So many lords and ladies, sers and seras, and perhaps a brain and half to be found amidst dozens of heads. Surely, they thought themselves clever, as they puzzled at the motivations of rebel leaders, or tried to infer meaning from the diplomatic words of southron traders. Every one a schemer, yet none worthy of the game. They couldn't see the truth for being right before their eyes: theirs was a small realm, a slice of something once great, not worthy of the grand intrigues of which songs are sung and stories are written. If the goings-on of lords was ever to be a true mental challenge, it would be in the court of King Lothan of Brinn, or in the Hundred Halls of Saillonne, or perhaps amidsts the cold stone monasteries and cathedrals of the Church. That was were Cassian's wits were needed. What were the Mages Steward if not the sharpest minds in a noble's court? Let some northman with a whit of witch's blood be Lady Frisjar's Steward. If the divination showed the Old Fools such a destiny for him, it was in a court where kings were made, a fulcrum on which realms turned. Alvedon was hardly that.

And yet, his genius remained there, to fallow and atrophy amidst the dying leaves of autumn and the early snows of the northlands. Or, oft as not, the driving, freezing rains that heralded winter's coming each year.

It was in such a rain that he waited, cold, wet, and miserable. For what seemed like hours, Lord Smalling and his court--not complete without wizard and unsung genius--stood just inside the gates of Alvedon's keep, welcoming a party of soldiers. There wasn't a lord among them, let alone one worthy of such a reception. The Exiled Dwarf had sent the party, represented by one Ser Veron Stone, a Valtan "knight" (if any of their riders could be named such), and something of a lordling. Cassian knew the man to be a bastard get of Kalina Tashiney, Il-Khan of Fallen-Rock, and a close associate to Honn Brunhamr, the Dwarf-Knight. Ser Brunhamr was sent by the Old Stone, His Grace Gjor Mennos, Duke of Menendras, to aid the Sapphire Queen Ayse Aslaney in retaking her lands. He did so, but before he could return triumphant, his sire was dead, and his new lady commanded his loyalty.

And now, it seemed, he wished to offer some token of aid to the realm of his former master. While Cassian was not privy to the communique, he had puzzled out that Lord Smalling had sent for him, most probably in the hopes of borrowing some men to help combat the Valtan raiders constantly harrassing his eastern border. It was the Duke's final order to Brunhamr to do all he could to to keep the horselords in check, and dissuade the young queen and her bloodthirsty riders from looking west for ripe conquest. Naturally, then, it would be in his interest to lend aid to one of his lord's besieged vassals. All this Cassian had inferred on his own...it was all elementary, really.

Though for all that, he couldn't have puzzled out, for all the coffee in Saillonne, why such a meeting would have to take place out of doors, in the pouring rain, with half the castle attending. Especially him. Why him?

For all his woes, he did eventually survive until the end. The lord invited the host into his walls, to share of his food and salt, and to find some respite from the driving rain and cold. Cassian was a quick step, the first to the doors leading inside to warmth. The keep was not large, but much of it was given over to its great hall, so that at least was sizeable enough to serve. The apprentice had a favorite seat, and since evening feast would be well on its way--perhaps already cooling, given the overlong introduction outdoors--he assumed he might as well take his place at table and await whatever "grand fare" the cook had managed to tease out of squash, onions, oat bread, and mutton, the only foodstuffs in any sort of plenty this season. Cassian rarely missed home, but never more so than at dinner, where he remembered the wealth of fresh fruits, the fine vintages, and the artistry of bakers in his native cuisine. There was always somewhere warm flying Ascadian colors, and their trade network ensured it could feed the rest in any season. Mind, there would plenty of Sailleen fare, if only the north could stomach any of it, and had anything of worth to offer in trade. Coffee might as well be pure silver at today's exchange rates.

Cassian's train of thought derailed as abruptly as the rap on his head from his master's staff. He choked back an angry hiss, even as he heard the near-whispered words "come with me". He wanted to try defiance, to pretend he hadn't heard, but he could only follow sheepishly as the lord's guests filed in and began to help themselves to ale, fresh bread, and...oh gods be cruel, they even brought out the good wine. The Lady of Morovall had a few casks of fine Ascadian red, and apparently Smalling had been saving it for the right occasion. And on that occasion, Cassian was helping an old man hobble up worn stone steps into a tower, likely on some errand that would last well into the night. His stomach grumbled, but not half so much as he did, as low as he could manage, for fear of another rapping.

The stairs up the Wizard's Tower ended at a large oaken door, inlaid with runes that would only glow under wizard light. The old man needed no such light, as he had laid the runes himself, and would have traced them out thousands of times. He only did so when they left the room unguarded, or returned from such, and not so much to protect his belongings as to protect the castle and its denizens from anything be removed or toyed with by the wrong hands. The way he had told it, some score of years ago, he'd had a particularly unruly apprentice who'd thought to share potions with his young friends in the castle. The lord's son and heir drank a potion the apprentice thought would turn him into a bird and let him fly. In truth, the boy grew a beak, and part of a tail; his lord father had to kill him, and the apprentice was put to death.

A simple lesson, and one well taken to heart, though in truth Cassian couldn't claim to have any real friends outside the tower. There was no one quite of an age with him besides a few simple serving folk, who could hardly be expected to hold an intelligent conversation, much less hold his interest for long. There was Reynar Redbridge, Lord Tollar's son, just a few years younger and somewhat educated, after a very spare, western fashion. But the boy followed his master's every footstep, and like Ser Borstan Clement, the Lady's foremost knight and guard (fat lot of good that did her), dismissed Cassian as irrelevant, seeing as he didn't walk about with sword and armor and arms like a blacksmith. As if that were the point of a wizard, he would console himself, finding solace in his superior knowledge, and yet it would nag at him that the old man seemed to have far more of their respect. No matter. He wasn't Ser Clement's servant, nor Smalling's, nor even Lady Frisjar's. He served his master, and right now, the old wizard wanted help. With...something.

For now, it was finding his seat. He had surprising strength in his legs, ably (if slowly) climbing half a hundred steps, but he was less keen on bending them, and always needed help easing into his favorite chair after a climb. Why the old, hard chair would be a favorite was a mystery to Cassian; it rocked only slightly, and it wasn't as if its distance to the hearth was a factor of its design. He could imagine a hundred chairs more suitable for the old man, perhaps even with bars to help him ascend and descend without leaning so heavily on a young apprentice. He was no carpenter, yet the physics of it seemed plain to him, and he wondered how it could take a boy ten years to call himself "journeyman" at such a simple trade. Then, he chided himself inwardly for comparing himself to such. He must remember to be humble, after all; it is no good for man to compare his intelligence to a dog and find the dog wanting, for it speaks of vanity. He was secure in his genius.

He had to ask several times, the last time almost certainly coming out half as annoyed as he felt but twice as much as he meant it, but eventually the old man heard, and dashed his hopes away by refusing his apprentice's offer to fetch him (and himself) some supper and wine. He asked only tea--hot and black as ever--and Cassian went through the motions. Even before he'd finished setting the kettle to boil, the old man spoke, and immediately it struck him as unusual. He never spoke anything of import until he'd had a chance to recline, to sip through half if not all of his tea, and settle into his plain, scratchy old wool blanket. Never, that is, but for the most important matters.

"What did you sense?"

The question came from the cold and blue, and Cassian was unprepared. For a few moments, his thoughts were a jumble, like a column of men all trying to march in opposite directions. Then, he wondered, ''was I supposed to be sensing something? Had the master warned me of treachery? Or commanded me to prepare a censer or candle? How would I have used a scrying device without attracting suspicion? Or even at all, in the rain? Perhaps with a crystal ball, or looking glass, or any such baubles, but he's taught me nothing of glasswork, I know only the basics from the tower. Was I meant to study divinations? Or has he just gotten confused? Did he forget to tell me something? Or is beginning to lose his wits in general? Is he even talking to me? What should I say?''

"Apprentice," he coughed, following it with a cascade of grunts and rumbles as he cleared the dust from his throat. "You needn't wait for the water to boil to answer."

"I...master, I do not understand...or rather I..."

"What did you make of the prisoner? Did you take his measure?" The old man's words echoed in his mind, as it raced to recall the details of the conversation outside. The prisoner? he wondered with mounting panic. Had there been a prisoner? Had there been someone of such note as to be the obvious topic of conversation? Horror paralyzed him as he realized he hadn't pait a whit of attention to the meeting outside. After the first few minutes, his mind had wandered, and he'd scarcely made note of any of the men with Veron Stone. Five men, and four horses. Was one in chains? he wracked his brain. There had been a silent moment, a pause his subconscious had noticed and called attention to. Had Lord Smalling ridden forth to inspect someone? To speak quietly to Stone, perhaps outside of the man's hearing? The images were coming back now, and the impressions his mind had dutifully made while its master was out and about. Yes, there was a man. His hands were bound, and his mouth gagged. That was plain even beneath his cloak and hood. The man behind him seemed reluctant, trying to distance himself, as if it could be done while sharing a horse. They must not have trusted him with his own horse, even bound such as he was. But why?

Like a steel trap it was, but even a trap must be opened and its contents removed. It took time, but he pieced it together quickly enough. The man had tattoos on his face, barely visible behind the hood and his long, unkempt locks. He was dark of hair and eye, and his skin was dusky, moreso than the Valtans. He'd had an odd look to him, not easy to place; perhaps if he'd heard him speak--but then it came to him. The sign, he thought, as his memory snapped to and showed him what his eyes had captured unawares. Even so bound, the man could move his fingers, having perhaps worked them free. Two fingers traced lazy arcs, moving in counterpoint, a motion that would be missed by almost anyone.

Anyone who hasn't read all thirty-six volumes of The Ways of Magic in Men and Monsters, with the original annotations by Grand Magus Albur Schweiss, and accompanying volumes translated from the original Auld Tirrish. Anyone who can't recognize Al-Jivre when they see it. The Sign of Sand, or of Shadows, the commons call it, but the native Ahrimin named it "the Script", for it is a form of sacred geometry, at least to their ancient traditions. He signed with grace, if not practice or especial knowledge. The sign was close enough, and--''freedom, was it? Or some sort of unbinding? He must have meant to escape. But obviously, he didn't. Did his magic fail? Does he have any at all, or does he just repeat some trick he saw someone else do, someone with true knowledge of the art? It seemed unlikely one of the Al-Beydiin'' would show his secrets to an outlander willingly. Either the man was one of them--an unlikely prospect in every manner of his appearance and bearing--or...

"He's a bastard. A half-breed. And a warlock to boot." His words almost preceded his understanding, but before he could doubt them, the old man nodded sagely. The rest came to him. "Kurnish blood, in evidence; he sat the horse like it was a sedan chair, while the others were squirming and half-ready to collapse, and him in fetters. Also Ahrimin..." he trailed off, diving into thought. The old man raised an eyebrow, but before he could speak, Cassian had it. "By way of a captive mother. The magic is taught on the maternal line, and he would know a few tricks, if not the whole of it. The raider would as like be one from the Ten-Crown raids, when the Grand Caliph was still weak, and the low tide let the Kurns into his lands. He's got the look of it--he could easily be in his early thirties, and not much older. He would have made an unruly slave, and his tattoos attest to that. The blade mark on his cheek means he isn't to be trusted with weapons, and the broken chain on the other means he escape bondage before. The Order wouldn't have had him, and more's the pity, for he might have learned to control his talent. As it was, he learned enough to free himself once, after trying the old-fashioned way, and was put in chains again, probably to be worked to death, before mastering enough to push further. I'd wager he killed his masters, and might have even sought to settle the score with whoever took his dear mother in the first place. After that, Valte would seem a good place to flee from slavers, and with the war on, the looting would have been prime. Until the Sapphire Queen restored order, and then he was adrift. I don't expect he picked up Obrin or Brinnish in the south, so his prospects in the north weren't excellent. He lingered, keeping to his old ways, until someone finally got the better of him. Capturing an untrained warlock is no easy task, and anyone of the Tower or the Order wouldn't have let him live. Still, they had the sense to gag him and bind each finger separately, so they had some inkling of it, but they ought to have known he could curse with his eyes, and they left them uncovered. And yet, he didn't seem to wield the Malocchio. Strange, but perhaps he didn't acquire the talent..." he trailed off again. The old man was impressed, but also smug, a look he'd managed a few times. He wondered if there was some joke to which he was not privy. Had the master let him spin himself into a web, and make himself a fool? Was the answer so simple? Did he seem to be stammering some nonsense to cover his ignorance? There were a few inconsistencies in his logic, to be sure, but the core concept was solid, if only he-

The old man stared, eyes raised, as if expecting something. What have I missed? What does the old fool think is so plainly obvious? Am I some demigod, ominscient enough to read the minds and hearts of a dozen people while standing in the freezing rain for hours- And then it came.

"It was an opportunity. Ample time to make good his escape. To try something. He would know of thresholds, of guest right. Standing outside, he could have used whatever magic he wished. If he were quick--and a twice-escaped slave and likely thief ought to be--he might have had that horse to himself and been gone in a flash. He might even have obscured his way, or have spooked the other horses long enough to win clear. With all the fog, he had half a chance, and he's proven no love for bondage. And yet..."

"Yet..." echoed the old man.

"He knew. He knew it would mark him warlock. He puzzled it all out. He knew the Lord had no great cause to soak himself to the bone, save for his sake. He'd have wondered at the game, and tried to note the players. We were obvious enough. Perhaps too obvious? A thief among southerners would expect treachery and deceit, and would refuse to recognize something so obvious. And yet, even so..."

"Have you forgotten what the knight said, when he presented the prisoner to our lord?" The old man's look was pleased, more or less. He knew he was on the right track, but this question reminded him that he really ought to have paid more attention. The newcomer was a practitioner, and that much had aroused his unconscious mind, but Lord Smalling was anything but, and little of what he did or said ever seemed worthy of Cassian's notice. But he was not without his gifts, and his memory soon served, in its time.

"She had him. He was bound, somehow. And she passed the debt onto him. But she...that is, her Majesty the Queen, she is no pratitioner, nor he a servant from Beyond, to...well then perhaps he served willing, but then why in chains? Her people do not enslave, not as such, but then they..." He was stumped. Mayhaps the horselords' queen owned some sort of marker on this man, but what? Surely a thief and slave had no secret yet more shameful. Nor did it seem likely she had claim to a hostage of his, anyone worthy of such care. Maybe he served her for a time, but what of it? Like as not, it was a ploy to buy his life, a mummer's farce meant to last until he could make good his escape. Cassian supposed that this situation was a perfect fit, so far from her grasp, with only four of her men--not even hers, in truth--to stop him. But then, why not take the opportunity? There were half a hundred moments he could have slipped free and ran. And why not? He was a warlock, and marked for death in any case. It wouldn't do to stay in the sight of wizards, and to render himself powerless as a prisoner beneath a threshold. He would have had to feign powerlessness, and hope to be invited as a guest, not seen as a threat. But then why try the spell? And why should it fail? Could the sign have served some other purpose? It was a queer rendition of the form, to be sure, although Cassian was no expert. Merely an interested scholar. Someone of native blood would know better. He probably might have used the sign with none the wiser. Was it not a secret art, after all?

His mind raced in circles, going nowhere. After long, silent minutes, he was forced to concede. "Cursed be, I give. I cannot puzzle it, master". He hated the feeling of abandoning a riddle, of admitting defeat in this, his greatest of strengths. The master had lured him into a trap. There wasn't nearly enough information to solve this man's identity, to know his will, all from watching him for a brief while at a distance, saying nothing and giving away less with his bearing. "Why shouldn't he escape, master? He must have known he was dead to rights. Escape was his only choice. He couldn't have missed your presence. I...I am at a loss."

"You know all you need to know of this man, do you not?"

"He is a warlock! A southron thief. A slave. A halfbreed, taught the ancient ways one moment, and discarding them when it suits him. He is one more warlock for the Tower to bury, one more cautionary tale for the Learners, and what of it? Why do we speak of him now, instead of putting him to the sword, or calling upon the Wardens at once?" The words echoed in the hollow chamber, and Cassian regretted them at once. It wasn't his place to presume on his master's duties, of course, nor could he imagine from whence his sudden fury had come. Why should he hate this man? Why should he care one way or the other? He wasn't some crusader for the laws of magic, no Warden to deal the Tower's justice with sword and spell. He was a Steward's apprentice, and unhappily. He would rather be studying. The puzzle of the man's motive was more his like than matters of justice, so why shouldn't he be content to match wits with the old man? It was as close to true instruction as he was like to get, so why not harness a rare opporunity?

"Forgive me master, he is only..."

"A man. And a man may steal, or learn dark arts, or break his bondage without being named Warlock. Are you not bound to seek the truth in all things? Shine the light upon the darkness, unveil that which you would rather leave veiled. Think as you have not thought." The old man's words were a puzzle, but the first two made all the difference. A Warlock is condemned to die, and will do anything to survive--his punishment is assured regardless of other wrongdoings, so he may as well murder, and steal, and practice the darkest of arts, for only escape will save him. But a man...a man can make promises, and perhaps keep them, should he have honor enough. Could it be? A thief with honor? Surely not, what sort of thief...

Clarity.

He felt a fool. He ought to know his signs, he read the book backwards and front. "Unbound." And with a single word, Cassian seemed to please the old man, who nodded sagely. "The Free Path. The old Kurnish magic. He learned it from a Zakony witch, and she would have taught him the old rites. He..."--it all flowed so easily now--"he has a life debt. He owes the queen a life, and must repay, lest the Malevolence come down on him. And she has transferred that debt to our lord, as a repayment of her debt to the Duke's men. He would no sooner break truce as curse his own blood. His kind are..." he choked on the words "honorable...sorts of thieves, as it were. It isn't against their own code to steal from non-Zakony, nor to cheat them, nor to win free of bondage. By his code, he hasn't broken faith. And if, by some chance, he has never broken our laws, then he would claim to be no warlock." He locked eyes with the old man. "He proved it with that show. He knew you arranged it. You probably didn't even explain to Smalling why it must be done. He was half as cold as me. It was all theater, to make it clear to him."

Wizard Borsyr was satisfied.

But Seeker Cassian was not.

"Master...why shouldn't he deceive you? If he wins freedom for this, well, why not buy freedom and your trust with a mummer's show? Why not put his craft to purpose and presume upon your laws? You are no Zakony, he is not bound to speak truth to you. If he is half as clever as you think, then we have no reason to trust him. Do you mean to take him at his word?" He felt wise pointing out the danger, but the old man was not amused.

"Do you imagine I have not considered such? Am I so old, so addled that I cannot see the snake amongst the grass? Has Wizard Borsyr gone senile at least? Do you presume to rescue me from my infirmity? To protect me from my own folly?" He had risen, and seemed almost terrible, frail form and shaky knees and all. Cassian shrunk, and fear gripped his heart, cold and stark.

"M-master, I'm..."

"Unwise? Young? Brash? This I know, child, but you lack something far more crucial." He leaned in close, the malice gone, but not forgotten. He poked his apprentice hard in the chest with his bony finger. The sensation seemed to linger. "Trust."

"Trust?"

"Trust your instincts. Trust your mind. But also learn to trust your fellow man. You cannot sail these seas alone." Borsyr began to pace away, unbothered by the cold stone on his bare feet, or by the draft that seemed to creep in from between the shutters.

"Trust, master? Is that the secret? We must simply choose to trust him? Forgive my young student's ignorance, but I do not understanding why we should trust such a man. Who should vouch for him? What can be gained from him? Are there not enough wizards in Alvedon already?" Cassian rose as well, stepping to the windows to block the chill with thick woolen curtains. But the wizard's next words frozen him, more even than the early frost.

"Soon enough, there should be one less."

Cassian turned slowly around. A building despair crept in, and already began to morph into solemn acceptance. He was surprised to feel sorrow, true loss, for the death of a companion so little known, and so often resented. The old man's death would be a tragedy for wizard-kind, yes, but it was hardly unexpected, and he could he have asked for more years? And though he would have to fill Borsyr's shoes for a time, it would not be long before the Tower recalled him and sent a proper Steward in his place. Cassian himself wasn't so bold as to pretend he was ready to take up the mantle of Wizard and become Steward in his own right, and even if he were, the Tower would likely change his post in any case, as was their custom. The old man's death was an opportunity for a better assignment, perhaps to a master with more time and energy to teach such a young, bright, and eager student. He found it hard to resent his master now, but had he not wished this? Not directly, of course, he was no monster, but...well, if the gods should choose this moment, who was he to argue?

The old man was watching him with keen, healthy eyes.

"Are you going to take measures for new drapes? The tower isn't yours yet, youngling, not by a longshot. You're the one leaving."

The words paralyzed him. It was as if the chill wind had frozen him solid. His lips didn't even twitch with the pressure of words unsaid. His busy mind hadn't even managed to compile thoughts into words yet, much less put them to order.

"I'm sure the lord will want to send knights, of course. He must have his swords. I'll insist on only one other, one who I'm sure will be of far more use to you. But you must go, and you must take this Unbound thief with you, for only he will know the way."

He finally found enough wind to speak. "The way...? To where?"

The old man's expression was blank, as if speaking the time and the weather.

"Why, to find our Lady, of course, and bring her back from her captors safe and sound."

Her captors. In the Kurland Steppes, a thousand miles away. In the onset of winter, amidst uncounted thousands of barbarian raiders, rebels, and dragon-lords.

A lump formed in Cassian's throat. He swallowed.